Page 28 of The Prodigy 2: Rise of a Queen

“Sliders! How can I help you?”

“Yeah, this Malika’s husband.”

There was a long silence, and then, “I’m sorry, what?”

“Malika? Who works there?”

“Uhhh…Malika doesn’t have a husband.”

Damn. So shawty hadn’t even told her coworkers about me.

“She got one. Me. And I’m callin’ to tell you she’s sick. She won’t be there tonight.”

I hung up before he could respond, because I didn’t give a fuck what he had to say.

In the kitchen, I took a glass out of the cabinet, rinsed it, and filled it with water. Wasn’t a damn thing in the pantry that I knew how to make, so I had to Door Dash some Waffle House. I wasn’t in the mood to eat, but I needed Malika to eat something.

I put her waffle and eggs on a big plate, then loaded up her butter and syrup packets on a little plate. I balanced all that in one hand and carried her silverware and water in the other. It would have been easier if I had a tray, but I made it work.

I walked around to her side of the bed. The blank stare in her eyes was creepy as fuck.

“I got you something to eat. I know you probably ain’t got a appetite, but at least take a few bites. Keep your strength up.”

She didn’t say shit, so I set the water on the nightstand. I left everything else at the foot of the bed and left her to it.

Hungry now, I scarfed down two waffles and washed them down with vodka, then I fell asleep on the couch. My new home, I guess. I woke up an hour later and went back in the room. I was surprised to see Malika’s plates were empty, but then again, I wasn’t. For somebody so little, she could eat.

She was sleep, so I collected the dirty dishes and left her alone, wondering what I was gonna do about dinner. I couldn’t cook worth a damn, but it ain’t my fault. I never had to.

My mama always threw down, so home was taken care of. When I was out in Atlanta, bitches was cookin’ for me like I was their husband, so I never had to learn there. Any other time, I was out at a restaurant or a lounge.

My daddy didn’t cook either. He could barbecue, though. Matter of fact, some of my best memories were of him with his crispy white apron and Nike slides on, flipping burgers on the grill with a smile on his face.

Shit was so fucking simple back then.

I remember when we got the pool, because my daddy raised hell about not wanting one, but he couldn’t tell my mama no. Then after it was in and me and my brothers were doing jackknifes and cannonballs into it, my daddy was still smiling by the grill like he hadn’t complained at all.

I missed him. I missed those days. But now that I was in his shoes, I realized it wasn’t easy for him.Wewere happy, and he smiled because he felt good about that, but he had to be stressed the fuck out and on edge all the time. He hid that shit from us, though.

He was a good man.

A good man who made a mistake.

We’re human, though. Not excusing it, but it is what it is. Many a man done got caught lackin’ cuz he was thinking with his dick. I woulda never took my pops for that type, but even good men get caught up. It ain’t like I ain’t never fell into some new pussy while I was still with the old.

But maybe it was different in marriage. My mama said out her own mouth that she didn’t give a fuck about side bitches. But my daddy brought one into her house. Even I gotta admit that’s some foul shit.

It all started that night. All the pain, and loss, and bullshit. It started with my daddy and Malika’s mama. It’s fuckingcrazy, now that I thought about it. Cuz how the fuck did the two of us end up married to each other?

I wouldn’t blame her for blaming me. Logically, it wasn’t my fault, but people ain’t logical when they’re grieving. And since she couldn’t confront my mama, she was probably gonna take her anger and pain out on me.

And…fuck it. I was gonna let her.

I didn’t do shit for the rest of the day except drink. When dinnertime came, I ordered a couple of pizzas for us. She didn’t eat, and she didn’t come out the room. While I was sitting on the couch eating in the dark, I heard her crying.

I wanted to go to her, but part of me felt like I didn’t have the right to do that. How do you take away somebody’s pain when you’re the one who caused it?

I didn’t even tell her all the details. The bag over the head, how mangled her face was, me dragging her to the front door…she would never know. I could never hurt her like that. So I tucked that away in the corner of my mind and prayed that one day I’d forget, and it would be like I never knew in the first place.

Some things are impossible to unsee.

The next day, I dropped off breakfast again, from Ihop this time. She ate half the stack of pancakes and none of the bacon or eggs. After I got her dirty dishes, I heard the shower water running. That felt promising.

The day after that, I got drunk and wallowed in my misery. Niggas was blowing my phone up all day but I ignored all of ‘em. I didn’t get breakfast, but I ordered Zaxby’s for lunch. She ate that, and she mumbled, “Thanks” when I collected her empty plate. Same with dinner, which was leftover pizza.

When I came in the room to shower, the tv was on. Some Real Housewives bullshit, but I was happy to see it. That was a sign of life.

After I got out, I passed through the room again. But this time, she mumbled, “Goodnight,” as I walked by. I stopped, turned to look at her, and said, “Goodnight, Malika. I’m out there if you need anything.”

Her eyes didn’t leave the tv, but I was happy when I heard her say, “I know.”

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