Page 14 of You Deserve Good Things

That was when his head snapped up, and his eyes were blazing.

“Sincewhat, Chase? Huh? Say it.”

My throat locked up.

“Nah,” he said again, stepping toward me. “Say it. Say what you thinkin’. Sincewe let him die?”

I clenched my jaw, heart poundin’. “Man, c’mon?—”

“Say it!”

My fists balled. “You think I ain’t thought about that every fuckin’ night since it happened? You think I don’t hear them fuckin’ shots in my head every time I close my eyes?”

His mouth opened, but I cut him off.

“You ain’t the only one hurt, bruh. I was there. Isawhim hit the ground. Isawher face. And I ain’t do shit. So yeah, I’m carrying that! Just like you.”

Silence hit us like a punch.

His chest rose and fell fast, his knuckles still bloody, his jaw grinding.

Finally, he looked away, rubbing his hands down his face. “Man . . . I just needed more time, bruh.”

His voice cracked. Real low. Real raw.

“I just needed her to stay . . . just a little longer.”

And I felt that.

I felt every piece of that, ’cause I did too.

We were her village. Me and Jacory. We were her protectors when Silas couldn’t be there. We were supposed to be her safety net. And now? She was gone. How would we know if she was good? How could we look out for her now?

We stood there for what felt like forever, just watching the block. Same block that raised us. Same block that buried Silas. Same block that never felt like home again after that night.

Then finally, Jacory turned to me, voice low. “You staying at my spot tonight?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really.

It was a statement. A plea without begging. He didn’t wanna be alone. And truth be told, neither did I.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “I’m staying, bruh.”

He pounded his fist against mine, then turned, walking toward the house.

I followed, quiet. Heavy. Hurting. And we ain’t say another word, ’cause we didn’t need to. We were all we had left.

Houston,Texas

Houston wasn’t home. It didn’t smell like home. Didn’t sound like home. Didn’tfeellike home.

New Orleans had a rhythm—like her heartbeat was sync’d to a second line, like her streets hummed even when the city slept. The cicadas in the trees, the bounce of a hot summer bassline coming from somebody’s porch party, the smell of boiled crawfish, gasoline, and old rain? That was home.

Houston? Houston felt like the dial tone after a dropped call. Flat. Cold. Wrong. But maybe that was just me. I still hadn’t said a word since the night Silas died.

Not. One. Word. Not to Mama. Not to Daddy. Not to Jacory—especially not Jacory. Not even to myself.

Every time I tried, every time I opened my mouth like a sound was about to come out, it felt like my lungs locked up. It was as if my voice got buried right next to my brother, like it went six feet under, never to be heard from again. My soul, it was left on that corner, right there next to the chalk outline and the blood that stained the curb.

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