S1Ep1: Back on the Block

The sunset over Santa Rosa Beach never gets old. 

Sitting on the hood of my old Honda, smoking the last of the weed I stole from my now ex-boyfriend, I marvel at all the different colors the sun makes over the water.

It’s been ten years since I’ve lived this close to a beach, and I didn’t realize how much I missed it until now.

A tear builds in my lid, and I let it fall. It’s the first tear I’ve cried since I packed up my life and moved back home four days ago. I didn’t cry when I saw the news, when I packed, when I left, or at any of the rest stops from Virginia to here.

But I guess now, at the near-deserted beach parking lot, I feel safe enough for a single tear.

It trails down the swell of my cheek, down and down, curving at my chin. It’s hot enough still, that the tear evaporates before it can go any further.

No other tears come while I finish my joint. I know they won’t come by the time I get back in my car and make my way back home.

---

The block is quiet, though everyone’s lights are on. My childhood home is smack dab in the middle of Sutton Avenue, between 125th Street and 126th Place, deep in the South East. People don’t leave the block; every family has lived here for more than thirty years at least, even the people in the apartment buildings on the corner.

Except me. I left.

And now I’m back.

My brother's car, a 1999 Volvo S70 he probably loves more than me, is covered in the driveway. I pull up behind him and turn off the ignition. Leaning back, I tell myself that it’s okay. My brother may be Black in the streets, but to me, he’ll always be Obi, my older brother who thinks I’m perfect.

Besides, he has my location, so it’s not like he doesn’t know I made the cross-country trek. I knew he was tracking me around Colorado, when he began blowing down my line. I didn’t know what to say, so I never answered.

I still don’t know what to say. But maybe being back home will bring some words out.

Grabbing my purse, I finally get out of the car, not bothering to lock the door. My stuff, even the more expensive clothes, are safe. No one’s bold enough to take from a car parked at Black’s house. That much hasn’t changed in ten years.

My key slips into the lock easily, and I pull on the security door to open the wooden door my brother never remembers to lock when he’s home.

“Yeah, suck this shit.”

My eyes balloon out of my face before I begin to dry heave and cover them. “OhmiGOD, what the fuck!”

“What the–Onyx? The fuck?!”

I refuse to open my eyes, stumbling until I drop into my grandfather’s old reclining chair, as Obi directs whoever to get their shit and get the fuck out, verbatim. I shake my head, the hope that Obi would learn tact while I was away dissipating by the second.

“You can open yo eyes now,” he grunts as he closes the doors, but I don’t obey him until he’s back seated on a couch I’ll never sit on again.

When I lower my hands, I can’t help but smile at my brother. He’s four years older than me, and looks every bit of the grown man he is now at thirty-one. His deep, almost blue-hued skin is blemish free, and pairs so well with the deep waves on the top of his head. Remnants of an almost basketball career are still seen in his exposed shoulders, but I frown when I notice his new jewelry–a big, black ankle monitor.

“The fuck is that?” I ask, pointing an accusatory finger.

Obi sighs loudly, alerting me that bullshit is coming my way.

“She-she got me all the way in some bullshit… told the feds some shit that got me looking at football numbers. I’m on bail, and they not tryna take it to trial, but I told my lawyer I’m not spending my thirties up the road.”

Hot rage lashes at me as I fold my arms. She-she is a girl that ran with Obi’s crew, and had been in love with him since we were kids. For her to have turned state’s evidence, that means they had the complete drop on him. 

“What the fuck, Obi,” I grit. “When did this happen? Why didn’t you call me?”

He just shrugs, making that stupid face he always makes when he doesn’t have an answer for the dumb shit he does. “What could you have done from Virginia? I wasn’t gonna bother you until I knew how long I’d be down.”

I scrub my hands through my chin-length hair and blow out hot air. “That’s bullshit. You know you could never bother me.”

“Coulda fooled me the way you been duckin’ my ass like a bill collector,” he quips, before turning pensive. “You straight though? I seen–”

“I’m good,” I cut him off, standing up. “Will you beep if you go get my shit out my car?”

Obi stands, too, flipping me off. “Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I wave him off, walking past him toward the back of the house.

My old room is the second door on the right. It’s clean and dust-free, and when I clock the new sheets, I know for sure Obi was tracking my location this past week. 

Same full-sized bed, desk and dresser furniture that I’ve had since we first came to live here. Some maroon blinds on the window I loved the climb out of as a kid.

I open the curtains to slide up the window. My breath catches when I see the neighboring window open as well, with the light on.

A boy no older than ten is folding laundry on his bed. Brown skin, bushy brows, and a heart cut into his lining. 

Déjà vu hits me like a ton of bricks. A long time ago–

His room door opens and a man swaggers in with a basket full of clothes. His senses are way more attuned than the boy’s, because his eyes lock with mine immediately.

I close the blinds as fast as I can. But not before I see the shock take over his infuriatingly sexy face.

Not today, Satan.

---

“Aight. House rules.”

I roll my eyes, the homemade chili Obi made turning into ash in my mouth.

“No niggas in and out of here. I’m already on bail.”

“Well, no bitches in and out of here either. I’m already scarred for life.” 

“Done,” Obi shrugs. “No sitting around moping around a nigga that look funny. Getcho ass up in the morning and get a job. L can–”

“Pass. On that. I agree about the moping, and a job.” I chuck my spoon into the half-empty bowl and push it out of my way, praying I can keep my food down.

My life has done a complete one-eighty in a week. It’s a wonder I’m not in the corner balled up.

“That’s my last rule.” Obi’s face hardens, pointing his spoon at me. “No hiding. All that shit was cool when you were three thousand miles away, but you back on Sutton, and you need to show your face. People miss you.”

“Doubt it,” I whisper.

“Well, Mrs. Shirley’s having a fish fry and you need to get my plate, so you gon’ see everyone who don’t miss yo chickenhead ass.”

“You don’t have literally anyone else to get it for you?” I groan, leaning my head in my hands. Every first Friday, Mrs. Shirley had a fish fry for the block, and we could get a plate with everything for ten dollars. Everyone in a ten-block radius comes and sells her out.

I didn’t think I’d only have a day before I’d have to show my face. My ex’s “need for privacy,” which I now know was a vehicle for his infidelities, kept most people from knowing about us.

Even still, there’s a few people I wish I could postpone running into. One of them being the inhabitant of the house next door.

“Nah. You back living here, and I know you gon’ want me to buy you a plate. Plus, you can get your face time in now, and maybe somebody can get you a job since you still beefed out with–”

“Got it. I’ma turn in. Love you, bighead.” I stand and grab our bowls. Before I can get to the sink, Obi grabs my wrist.

“Real shit, the fuck happened to y’all? Is there something I need to handle?”

I stare down at my brother, into eyes that are just like mine. Dark pools nearly black, like our names. 

There are only two people in this world Obsidian “Black” Taylor trusts. Myself, and the man next door. The one whose name makes my ears bleed and my heart stop.

Obi would choose me if I asked him to. Even if at the end of the day, it was a silly crush from a foolish girl with a shattered ego, he’d still risk his freedom and friendship to beat him down. But I wouldn’t do that to him. I wouldn’t make him choose, not when the world has already taken so much from him already.

“No. He just gets on my last nerves. Kind of like you.” I pull away gently and wash our dishes.

“I know yo annoying ass ain’t talking!” He jokes, but I make the mental note to tighten up. Obi’s all fun and games until he’s not, and I didn’t come home to be in more drama.

I unpack my clothes and toiletries and take a long, much needed shower. Obi’s taken over our grandparents’ room, and I hear yelling on the game even from his closed door as I make my way from the bathroom back to my room.

Being back home has exhaustion settled in my bones. They know we can get a good night’s sleep. They know we’re safe, and can regroup, and rebuild away from society brunches, whispers, and Black family dynasties they wanted no parts of.

Though, facing the people I left behind may be even tougher than that.

I flick on my light switch before slipping into my room. My hand plastered on the door, I take a grounding breath before turning around.

The man next door. Seated on my bed, next to the open window. Bars hanging from the wall, a trick he himself taught me more than a decade ago.

Long legs barely covered by black basketball shorts. A white wife beater stretching over an inked up athletic torso, the swirls of black extending all the way to his folded hands that rest between his legs.

Brown locs thrown into a bun at the top of his head, leaning sideways when he tilts his head at me. He takes me in, in my oversized Colton University shirt that covers my boy shorts, and socked feet.

He licks those full, discolored lips of his and I swear I feel it in places I wish I didn’t.

Slowly, he stands to his full height, making the room seem so much smaller, like he used to, a long time ago. Back when there was another reason I couldn’t bear to hear his name.

Back when he meant the opposite of nothing to me.

“So, I wasn’t trippin’,” he croons, and even his voice has grown, more rich, more experienced, just more.

But no. I won’t be made a fool a third time, the second by him. I fist my hands, before folding my arms. My eyebrows pull downward, as the tips of his lips quirk, like I’m some kitten.

He wipes his bottom lip with his thumb before overtly adjusting himself in his shorts. But even shoving his hands in his pockets does nothing to hide the fact that he has a third appendage trying to make itself known.

“Lexus,” I hiss, almost like a curse.

His lips spread, finally, into a breathtaking smile that punches me in the gut.

“Waddup, Onyx.”