Page 3 of Heavy Is The Crown

A small wooden kitchen table sat just past the living room, covered in old mail, bills, and a candle that hadn’t been burned in years. The refrigerator hummed loudly, its top covered in medicine bottles, cereal boxes, and an old church program from last Easter.

This was his reality now: A grown-ass man, sleeping on his mama’s couch, with nothing to his name but a duffel bag and a record.

His mind drifted to Kaliyah, his eight-year-old daughter. She was the only thing that mattered. The only thing worth suffering through all this bullshit for.

He pulled out his phone, staring at her contact for a long moment before calling. It wasn’t even two rings before Brooke answered.

“What you want, Kenyatta?”

No “hello.” Or “how you been.” Just immediate attitude.

Brooke was the white girl that grew up in the suburbs but spent most of her time in the hood, learning the culture, the slang, and how to carry herself as if she belonged. Thick and curvy, long honey blonde hair, green eyes and plump lips that was always moving, talking shit.

She knew how to weaponize her looks and her words which was how Kenyatta had fallen for her years ago. At one point, he had been crazy about her until he started seeing straight through her. Manipulative, mouthy, and self-serving. Always looking for a come-up. All she ever did when they were together was argue, hang up on him and block his number, and call him right back because she needed something.

Kenyatta clenched his jaw. He wasn’t in the mood for her mouth today. “I’m tryna see what’s up with spending time with my daughter this weekend.”

Brooke exhaled loud as hell, like he just asked her for a kidney.

“And do what with her, Kenyatta? Huh?” She let out a bitter laugh. “You got money now? ‘Cause last time I checked, you barely got a place to sleep, so what exactly do you think you finna do with her?”

Kenyatta sucked his teeth. His patience was wearing thin already. “Man, stop playing. I just wanna see my lil girl.”

“Yeah, and I want a Benz truck.” Her tone was sharp, dismissive. “But we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

Kenyatta sat back on the couch, rubbing his temples.

“Brooke—”

“Nah,” she cut him off, clearly enjoying this shit. “You out here acting like you got options. Like you too good to get back to it. All these dudes out here making money and you out here what? Filling out applications? Come on, Yatta. You sound stupid.”

His grip on his phone tightened. Same old Brooke.

She never gave a damn about him; just what he could provide. And now that he didn’t have it, she had no use for him.

“I already told you, I’m not going back to that,” he said, voice low. “I did my time, Brooke. I ain’t tryna go back.”

She snorted. “Yeah, okay. Meanwhile, my nigga just copped a brand new Charger; fully loaded. Took Kaliyah shopping the other day, got her all types of new shit. You can’t even afford to take her for ice cream.”

Kenyatta’s chest tightened. He knew what came with the game and what type of men played it. He didn’t like the idea of some fast-talking, wannabe boss-ass nigga who always acted like he was bigger than he really was being around his daughter.

Kenyatta rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek, biting back every insult running through his head.

“Man, fuck that nigga—whoever the fuck he is,” he muttered.

Brooke laughed. Loud and fake.

“Mad, huh?” she taunted. “Mad ‘cause somebody else doing what you can’t?”

Kenyatta’s jaw clenched. “Who is this nigga anyway?”

Brooke hesitated for a split second; just long enough for Kenyatta to catch it.

“Somebody who actually handles his business,” she said, but her tone had shifted.

Kenyatta sat up. “Nah, say the name.”

Brooke clicked her tongue. “Trell.”

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