Page 5 of The Spirit Of My Savage
“I think trauma don’t die just ’cause people do,” she said. “And I think you still love that man so deeply, you left the door open for him.”
Not wanting to talk about it anymore, I just drove off. I dropped her off at her spot and drove home with my chest tight. The sky was darker now. Porch lights flickered. Skeletons swayed from railings. The block looked like Halloween had already arrived and brought spirits with it.
When I pulled up to the house, Rome’s car was gone. I walked inside and locked the door behind me; everything was too damn quiet. I flipped on the kitchen light. That’s when I saw the candle that vanished this morning sitting on the table, flickering. The hairs on my arm stood up as I walked closer and saw words scribbled on the napkin under the candle.
Don’t trust this nigga.
The message was written in sharp, jagged letters, just like King’s handwriting. Just like the message on the mirror. I didn’t touch it. I didn’t blow out the candle. I just stood there staring like my brain couldn’t catch up fast enough to what my eyes already knew.
I backed up a step, my stomach tightening like I was about to throw up. I grabbed my phone, hands shaking, and took a picture of the napkin. I didn’t even know why. Maybe to prove it was real or to show Justine later. I don’t know. But something told me that shit might not still be there tomorrow.
I finally forced myself to move. I slid the candle off the napkin, folded the message up like it was sacred, and tucked it deep in my purse behind an old receipt and a roll of peppermints.
I couldn’t think straight. So I did what I always did when I needed to make sense of shit. I smoked a blunt and started cleaning. I wiped down the kitchen counters that weren't dirty, stacking up cups, and re-sorting mail. I was halfway through wiping down the kitchen table when I heard the door open.
Rome walked in looking fine as always. He had on Black cargo sweats, a black hoodie, Timbs, and his gold Cuban linkdancing across his chest. Glock on his hip. Fresh line up. That same calm, heavy energy he always carried.
He looked up from his phone and did that half-nod thing. “You cleanin’ like your mama comin’ over.”
“You know how I get,” I said, moving toward the sink.
He walked over and kissed my cheek, then opened the fridge. “You eat today?”
“Not since this mornin’.”
He pulled out a carton of orange juice and drank straight from it. “You gotta stop skippin’ meals.”
“I’m not hungry.”
He leaned against the counter, watching me. His eyes dropped to the new wrap on my wrist. “What’s that?”
“Tattoo touch-up.”
His face shifted. “You touched up this nigga’s name?”
“Yeah.” He didn’t say anything. Rome just nodded slowly like he was filing that away for later. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
Rome shrugged. “Nothin’, Sky. You grown.”
But I knew that tone. That low, detached calm. It was the same tone he used the night he choked that nigga out in the alley for trying to talk slick to me. The same tone he used when he found out his little cousin had flipped to the other side and made him disappear.
I walked over to the island and leaned on it. “Where was you at?”
He tilted his head. “Since when you checkin’ in on me?”
“I’m not. I just asked a question.”
He stared at me. “Handled some shit on the Westside. Made a couple deposits. Met up with Fleek.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“So?”
“So either you handlin’ the same business twice, or you lyin’.” His jaw clenched, but he didn’t answer. I folded my arms. “You act like I’m not supposed to notice when shit feels off. You been movin’ different, Rome.”
“Nah, that’s justyoubein’ paranoid.”
“Or maybe I’m finally payin’ attention.”
