Page 24 of Falling Into Gravity

His lanky legs stepped out, locking the car behind him with one sharp click. His shoulders rolled back naturally. Loose, but still alert. The gold stud in his ear caught the sunlight and Malik’s freshly touched up braids, thanks to a stylist he found on the app. He sported his usual blue tee and dark denim jeans with Chuck Taylors on his feet. The hood uniform—but elevated.

He walked up to the side door and tapped the beat they used to do back in high school.

Three knocks. A pause. Two more knocks.

A long minute passed before the door creaked open.

Quesha kissed her teeth with a roll of her eyes, but Pharoah’s voice pulled his attention into the house.

“’Bout time, nigga,” a slow, garbled voice called from inside.

Malik smiled, but his chest pulled tight. “Shut up. I’m here, ain’t I?”

He stepped inside. It smelled like Lysol and weed. The fan rotated in the corner, doing more spinning than cooling.

Pharoah’s sister Quesha had been the one to pull the door open. Of course she had on coochie cutter shorts that left little to the imagination. Her shirt was cropped, showing her stomach that let the world know she’d given birth. It all made Malik’s head spin because once upon a time, she had held his young heart in her hands.

Pulling his eyes from her ass, Malik smiled at Pharaoh.

On the couch, slouched low in his usual spot, Pharaoh’s lips curled as best they could.

A gunshot to the spine-- his C3, had left him paralyzed since the ripe age of eighteen. Wrong place…wrong time, still – he was alive, and different. The kind of different that made people disappear, but not Malik…never Malik.

Malik owed him his life, so he’d never be able to leave his right hand behind. Malik had even taken on Pharoah’s expenses—bills, therapy, clothes, food—whatever his boy needed, he gave freely.

Pharaoh’s words came out slow, mouth half-stuck in a permanent twist, but his mind was still sharp. He wore a muscle shirt with a gold chain sitting on his chest like a trophy from a past life. His legs were tucked under a thick blanket, even though it was eighty-something degrees out.

“Whatchu…bring?” Pharaoh asked, lips fighting to form each word.

Malik dropped a small black bag on the table. “You got Pink Runtz, Blue Guava, and them Koko Cookies you was whining about.”

Pharaoh tried to laugh. It came out like a wheeze. “You the plug, not…my…bitch,” he said, straining.

Malik sat down beside him, head dropping back against the couch. “You right, but you the only client who can call me bitching and shit without catching a fade.”

They shared a moment of silence. Pharaoh sparked up one of the pre-rolls Malik brought. It took him a second, but he got it.

Malik watched the smoke curl up toward the fan, his phone back in his hand thinking about Aku’s smart mouth.

“Stylistbae,” Pharaoh said suddenly, like it slipped out his throat before he could think. He’d been peeking over into Malik’s phone.

Malik’s brow raised. “Huh?”

Pharaoh sucked his teeth slow. “You…smiling…girl text you.”

Malik smirked, shaking his head. “Nigga, you all in my business.”

“Who…is she?”

He thought about lying. But Pharaoh could keep secrets—hekepthis secrets.

“Girl I met by some weird ass chance encounter. Got a mouth on her but she bad as hell,” Malik muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I ain’t think nothin’ of it at first. Then…I saw the way she looked at me with those pretty cat eyes and button nose. It was like seeing the world for the first time.”

Pharaoh blinked hard, face twitching as he tried to form his next words. “The world,” he said—it came out like the world had become some mythical place. “You… text her?”

Malik twisted the phone towards Pharaoh to give his nosy ass a better look.

“We been messaging through the app all day today.” He read some of the messages out loud, letting Pharaoh hear her words. “I pulled up the other night to serve her and her people.”

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