Page 27 of Makai

“But what, Mommas?”

“Just taking some getting used to.”

“If ever it’s too much, holla at a nigga. Let me know what’s up, aight?”

With a nod, I responded, “Okay.”

Alterations. Though it was clear that he’d rather not, Makai wasn’t opposed to altering his lingo to improve the communication between us so that my comfort didn’t take a blow. Simultaneously, I wasn’t opposed to adapting so that his comfort remained intact.

Pausing momentarily to gauge the level of truth in my reply, Makai studied me. Satisfied with his findings, he pressed a few buttons on the pad in front of him, waited for the sound of sliding locks, and then twisted the knob to gain access. I was right behind him, stepping up slightly so that I wouldn’t fall flat on my face.

The space I walked into was nothing short of a dream. Neutral colors and natural fixtures covered every corner, giving a tranquil feel upon entry. It reminded me of the costal rendition of my home decor. Everything on display was gorgeous. From the arched doorframes and walkways to the wooden consoles and vinyl player, I was head over heels.

“Where are we?”

“One of three of my brother’s islands. This one is The Catherine. Named after our mother.”

He sucked the skin of his teeth with a shake of his head. The pain in his dark eyes mirrored the same in mine. I knew that feeling. I knew that hurt. Mine was still so fresh that I was still recovering from the nonstop crying that damaged my vocals and kept my face swollen for months.

“How did she die?” I asked, stepping closer to Makai.

His space was so inviting. It felt as if I belonged, so I entered. My hand caressed his arm, my palm cupping his elbow as my fingers smoothed his skin.

“Suicide, but not before taking my pops with her,” he told me, still finding himself in disbelief.

As if a knife had been shoved into his gut, he winced in pain. Not verbally, but physically. That hurt didn’t just reside inside of you. It was part of your physical being, too. Even I was gutted, my stomach knotting and my chest burning upon realizing both of us were without our parents. Orphans, as some would deem the parentless youth.

“I’m so sorry, Makai. I understand.”

“Do you?” he replied, looking down at me as if I was mistaken.

“My parents died in a car crash six years ago. I understand,” I confirmed.

Suddenly, his body whipped around, arms surrounding mine as he pulled me into a hug. The connecting pieces that meshed us together tingled. My arms. Chest. Chin. And fingers.

He said nothing, but his embrace was everything we both needed at the moment. With each passing second, his grasp was tightened as his heart rate slowed. Calm washed over him until finally, he freed me.

Come back, my inner voice screamed but I remained silent.

“You good? You straight? Did you see the people you needed to see? Go to therapy or some shit?”

His line of questioning was baffling. Not only was this Black man standing in my face, questioning my mental stability after my parents’ death, but he was also suggesting therapy was the right place to begin healing the trauma it caused. I loved and appreciated every word out of his perfectly carved mouth. I sat with my thoughts momentarily, realizing no one had ever asked, no one cared to ask if I was all right. If I was good.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, lowering my eyes as my nerve endings splintered.

I shifted my weight, a nervous habit that helped lessen the pain. When I looked back up at him, I noticed his eyes hadn’t left me.

“What about you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied with a shrug, taking off in the other direction.

I despised the distance he placed between us and needed it to disappear at once. I began to hack away at it as he continued.

“Find someone you can trust and I’ll foot the bill, Mommas. Shit ain’t sweet. Talk to someone.”

I finally made it to his side, again, in the bedroom that we’d share over the next few nights. Though excited and anxious, there was a more pressing issue at hand. Stopping Makai in his tracks, I collapsed my fingers around the inner corner of his arm, turning him in my direction.

“Who’s talking to you?” I needed to know.

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