Page 88 of Falling Into Gravity

She buried her face in the crook of his neck, the scent of Tom Ford cologne and peppermint gum sinking into her memory like a lullaby.

“Damn, lil’ girl,” French chuckled, his arms holding her like he wasn’t gonna let go. “You actin’ like I died.”

“Youdid,” she sniffled, lips brushing the gold rope chain around his neck. “In my heart, every time I ain’t see you, you’re missing.”

“Girl, get the fuck outta here with that.” He kissed her temple, then the top of her head, then pulled back to look at her face. “You got grown woman weight now. I almost dropped yo’ heavy ass.”

She smacked his chest and laughed, still clinging to him. “Shut up. You ain’t even miss me for real.” Aku fake pouted.

French twisted his lips. “Nah, you right. I been too busy watchin’ your lil’ stylist videos go viral. Can’t even scroll Instagram without seein’ your lil’ lip gloss poppin’ and some lame ass nigga holdin’ in your comments. Who he is, huh? Got my baby forgettin’ where she from?”

Aku slid down from his arms with a guilty smirk, brushing off her pants and grabbing her bag. “You always in my business.”

“And you always lettin’ niggas be in your face.”

They walked side by side toward the car, his arm draped around her shoulders, pulling her close every few steps like hehad to make sure she was really there. He opened the car door for her like she was a princess, because to French, she was.

Inside, the AC cooled her damp skin. A playlist was already going—nothing but old school R&B. He adjusted the rearview before peeling out smooth, his hand resting casually on the wheel, the other already pulling out another toothpick.

“You still listenin’ to the same playlist?” she asked, settling in, legs crossed, sunglasses back on.

“You still my same lil’ girl?” he shot back.

She smiled. Her daddy stayed sharp. Never missed a beat.

Minutes passed with casual talk about her flight, the turbulence, the jet snacks she didn’t eat.

French nodded along, keeping his eyes on her the whole time. His smile faded into a curious squint as he tilted his head toward her neck. “So…we doin’ neck hickeys now?”

Aku’s whole body flamed. “What?”

He sucked his teeth. “I’m askin’ a question.”

“I wear makeup, Daddy - maybe it smeared.”

He gave her a look so un-impressed it belonged on a meme. “Don’t play me, lil’ girl. I know a hickey when I see one. Nigga got you floatin’ or what?”

She turned toward the window, hiding her grin. “We not talkin’ about this.”

He barked a laugh. “You grown now, huh? Can’t tell you nothin’. That why you too busy to come home? Out there in L.A. gettin’ hickeys from God knows who?”

His teasing didn’t sting. It felt like home. Like safety. Like the one man in the world who would put anybody six feet deep behind her, but still make fun of her just enough to remind her she was loved.

“I was busy working,” she mumbled.

He shook his head with a smirk. “Mm hmm. He a Crip or a Blood?”

Aku gasped, clutching her imaginary pearls. “French!”

“What?” He grinned. “I gotta know what side to shoot first.”

“You’re a menace.

He reached over and grabbed her hand, squeezing it gently. “I’m your daddy. That’s what I am. Ain’t nobody gon’ ever love you the way I do, not even that hickey-giving ass nigga.”

She looked at him, the way the sun dipped through the windshield and danced across his faded “Aku” tattoo. The one he got the day she was born, ink still fresh by the time her Mama was being wheeled out the hospital. He had been just eighteen, already half in the streets and half in love with being a father. Her Mama used to joke that French had two addictions - tattoos and Aku.

“You and Malik got too much in common,” she murmured under her breath, not even realizing she said it out loud.

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