Page 40 of Gotta Jones For Ya
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He tugged on his beard and exhaled with a big ass smile on his face. “You just made my whole fuckin’ life.”
That broke me.
I sniffed hard. “I don’t feel ready.”
“You ain’t gotta be ready, Ny. You just gotta breathe right now. I got us. I gotchu”
I closed my eyes, letting his words wrap around me like a blanket. “But what if…” My voice cracked.
“Stop that shit. I fuckin’ love you. Ain’t nothin’ ‘accidental’ 'bout how deep I been in you either. I told you what was up months ago.”
I let out a breathy, emotional laugh through the tears. “You’re crazy.” I sniffed again. “You’re really not freaking the fuck out?”
“The fuck I’m freakin’ out for?” He softened a little. “We made somethin’ real. I’m proud of that. You hear me? Proud as fuck.”
After that, Knuck didn’t play about me. Not that he ever really had, but something shifted. For real this time. Like a whole new level of softness fused with his normal unhinged, gangsta energy. He became obsessed.
He wouldn’t let me lift heavy shit. Wouldn’t let nobody stress me. Wouldn’t let me go anywhere alone. He told me he was showing up to every appointment, even the boring ones.
“You wanna be in the room while they do the glucose test?” I’d asked, raising a brow.
“Yes, I wanna be in the fuckin’ room,” he’d snapped. “I need to make sure they doin’ they job right.”
And it wasn’t just the appointments. If I mentioned a craving out loud, he was on his phone, scrolling Yelp or calling his boys likeyo, anybody know a 24-hour spot that got fried green tomatoes with extra vinegar?
I couldn’t sneeze without him putting his blunt out and asking, “You good?”
He rubbed my feet when they swelled. Rubbed my back when I whined. Rubbed my belly like it was a genie lamp and he was wishing for a boy. Sure enough, when we found out it wasindeed a baby boy, Knuck popped some champagne. Shouted. Held me. But of course, we weren’t perfect. At all. We argued a lot, but mostly about us living in two different cities.
“I’m not leaving my clients or my studio, Keon,” I told him for the fiftieth time while sitting on my bed unpacking a delivery of new lash trays. “I built this shit. It’s my baby.”
“And you know I respect that shit,” he said, arms folded, jaw tight. “But my son ain’t finna grow up wit’ me part-time in his fuckin’ life.”
“So moveherethen.”
“Nah,youcome to East Hollis. I’ll have you a studio built from scratch. Pink floors, rose gold walls, your lil’ cart thing wit’ wheels. Whatever the fuck you want.”
I laughed even though I was mad. “You don’t even know what a lash cart is.”
“I know whatever it is, I’ll pay double for it, long as you wit’ me.”
Whew.
He wore me down. Bit by bit. With actions, not just words. Knuck started leasing a space near his second car dealership and had contractors send me mockups every other week. One night, he showed up with swatches of blush pink and satin cream tile samples, like it was HGTV. He even told me he would up the budget for me to hire at least two other lash techs so business wouldn’t all fall on me when my belly grew. He didn’t just want me to move. He wanted me tothrive.
And that’s what made me fall harder. That quiet, relentless type of love that made me feel like I was his biggest investment—emotionally, spiritually, and yes, financially too. He held my business and my belly with the same reverence.
I had never had that before.
And as much as I liked to fight him on everything, I knew without a doubt… he was all in.
I rubbed my belly and let out a slow breath, staring at the wild ass setup he’d insisted on for the baby shower. Blue LED lights lined the damn ceiling, and somehow this hood fabulous wonderland still looked like a magazine shoot. Tall white floral arrangements on crystal stands. Gold thrones for the mom and dad-to-be. A six-foot balloon arch in navy, royal blue, and gold. Personalized cookies with “Lil' Knuck” on them. A DJ playing everything from Michael Jackson to Boosie.
My mother was lowkey overwhelmed.
“This is…something else,” she whispered behind a tight smile, eyes darting around like she was trying to mentally sanitize the air. Her champagne flute trembled slightly as she sipped, watching one of Knuck’s cousins air hump to a Future lyric like he was auditioning for a hood version ofMagic Mike. “Mmm,” she hummed. “Where’s the $1600 bottle of wine I brought, Ny?”
