Page 51 of Falling Into Gravity

Aku personified that.

The shoot was in full swing now. A local basketball court had been dusted with paint from the last community mural project. Kids peeked through the fence. Crescent babies were everywhere, proud and present. Just black and beautiful, the way they were intended to be viewed. Aku loved being black and styling black people.

In the middle of it all…was Zaire, polished and always fine, but not even pretending to flirt this time.

Aku welcomed that, since she wasn’t currently in the head space for it.

“Be still,” Aku mumbled through pursed lips.

“Don’t worry, I heard,” he said with a laugh as she fussed at him for wrinkling the neckline of the Nike thermal.

“Heard what?”

“That Key is sweet on you now.” He said it like it wasn’t news. Like it was just part of the neighborhood gossip rotation. “The streets still talk. And even though I’m a golfing nigga now, I’m still a Crescent baby.”

Aku smirked but didn’t answer. She just patted his shoulder and signaled for the photographer to start rolling.

Because yeah…she’d been looking for Malik..had been since the second she pulled up on the block.

But he wasn’t there.

She didn’t see his car parked in front of his house, hadn’t heard the kids call his name.

Not in the crowd, not in the cut, not watching from the side like he always did.

Malik’s presence wasn’t felt in Crescent when she strolled on the scene.

It felt so long ago since his eyes cut through Bu like thunder, and his voice cracked from yelling and years of watching people die over colors and corners.

She ain’t heard from him since.

And she had vowed—long before Crescent Park, long before Key—that she would never run behind a man again. Not when she was raised by a daddy who never let her wonder if she was worth chasing. Not when she’d been loved right and loud by a mama who prayed over her baby’s heart every morning before sunrise.

So no…she wasn’t pressed.

But dammit if she didn’t keep glancing toward the alley every other minute anyway.

Still, she continued working ‘cause Black women do that with hearts aching and edges sweated out. No matter what, they show up and make magic happen.

“I don’t want the jersey tucked in,” she told the PA. “Let it hang, like he just came off a street run. Shoes unlaced, but not messy. Like he’s fly on accident.”

Zaire stepped back in front of the lens, and she coached him between sips of her drink, snapping gum and tossing affirmations like glitter.

“That’s it. Yeah, give ‘em that ‘I might’ve just dropped 30 but I still smell like good cologne’ look.”

Behind her, a little girl tapped her shoulder shyly, couldn’t be more than ten. “Are you the girl who styles famous people?”

Aku lowered her shades and looked at her. “I’m the girl who makes peoplefeelfamous.”

The girl giggled and ran back to her Mama, who mouthed a “thank you.”

And right there, with the sun bouncing off her cheekbones and gold rings on every other finger, Aku stood tall in her magic. Her heart might’ve been sore, but her spirit was intact.

Women like her weren’t made of fairy dust and fragile dreams. She was made of steel wrapped in honey. A walking contradiction of soft and savage.

She didn’t need Malik to feel whole.

But God… shewantedhim for a reason she couldn’t verbalize. Simply put, she liked him. He reminded her of her own daddy—handsomely wrapped in turmoil, warm hugs, gentle hood lingo, and the spark of black boy joy they didn’t know they possessed.

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