Page 18 of Love You Like That

I paused and my nostrils flared. This would be the first open mic she’s missed since we met. She’s always there right in the front and center now, not tucked in the back like before. Sitting pretty, melanin on full display, legs crossed, eyes on me like I was the only one in the room. Every time I said a line that cut too deep, she’d mouth,I hear you.

“You serious, Yaya?”

“I didn’t want to miss it, Ezra, I swear. But they switched my shift and my supervisor is watching like a hawk. Plus, my exam is creeping up so when I do catch a break tonight, I need to study.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand down my face. “Damn.”

“I’m so sorry, babe.”

I shook my head, forcing a smile even though I hated how empty it suddenly felt. “It’s cool. You gotta handle ya business. I get it.”

“You mad?”

“Nah.”

She was quiet for a second and then her tone came through soft and serious “You’ll still feel me, though. You’re gonna kill it tonight. Speak like the whole world is listening. Don’t hold back.”

“I won’t.”

After we hung up, I sat there a minute longer, letting the silence settle around me. Then I stood, slipped my phone into my back pocket, and stared at myself one last time in the mirror before requesting an Uber.

By the time I pulled up to the lounge, the street was alive. The block was buzzing with cars double-parked, folks draped in summertime drip, women in denim shorts and tight dresses and sundresses laughing loud while the niggas leaned on cars smoking and dapping up. Music leaked from someone’s speaker across the street, but inside? The real rhythm was happening.

I stepped through the door and the heat hit me first. The scent of liquor, hookah, body oil, and anticipation clung to the air like sweat. The crowd was deep tonight. Packed tighter than usual. People were posted on barstools, huddled in corners, lined up against the back wall. You could feel the energy before the mic even sparked.

I slid through the crowd, offering nods, daps, and half-hugs to the regulars. Folks I knew by face if not by name. But I wasn’t stopping for long. I was headed to the bar. Mekai spotted me before I got there, his gold grill flashing beneath the lights as he leaned across the counter, pouring shots.

“What’s good, superstar?” he called out, grinning. “You late.”

“Fashionably,” I smirked, dapping him up. “Crowd deep as hell.”

“They not here for the drink specials. They here for you, nigga,” he said, sliding a shot glass of Hennessy across the bar.

I took a slow sip, scanning the room. It was louder than usual, hotter, and tighter. The walls felt closer. Or maybe that was just because she wasn’t here. Normally, Yaya would alreadybe seated near the front. Her absence felt like a quiet drumbeat in the middle of chaos. That’s when I saw her.

The woman walking toward me was cool, confident, professional, but not stiff. She had on wide-leg pants, a white tank tucked cleanly, a light jacket tossed over her shoulders, gold hoops, and box braids pulled into a crown. Face beat soft like she knew she was fine but didn’t need to announce it. She stopped in front of me, and I straightened automatically.

“You’re Ezra Lowe, right?”

“That’s me,” I said, cautious but curious.

She extended her hand. “Nina Foster. I work with Meridian Verse out in New York. I’m a talent scout, mostly for spoken word and authors. I’ve heard your name three different times this month, so I had to come see what the hype was about.”

Mekai leaned in from behind the bar. “Told you you was a superstar.”

I ignored him, focusing on her. “‘Ppreciate you comin’ out. Hope I don’t disappoint you.”

She smiled, smooth and sure. “I doubt you will. I’ll be watching.”

With that, she turned and disappeared back into the crowd, sliding through the bodies with an elegance that felt like silk. I caught myself watching her a little longer than necessary but not out of lust, out of realization. Something might actually be happening.

Mekai leaned in again, eyebrows raised. “You gon’ remember us small folks when you out in Brooklyn wearin’ turtlenecks and doin’ sold-out HBO specials?”

“Shut the fuck up,” I muttered with a smirk, downing the rest of the drink in one gulp as I heard my name being called.

“Next up, y’all already know. Give it up for Ezra Lowe.”

The room erupted. Snaps, claps, whistles. People knew the name by now. Some had memorized my cadence and anticipated my rhythm. A few in the back shouted lines from old pieces I hadn’t performed in months. I stepped up onto the small stage with the mic waiting. After saying what’s up to the crowd, I spit that shit.

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