Page 42 of Gotta Jones For Ya
“She get it from her mama!” Keema added, popping her own hip before immediately holding her back. “Oop, lemme not play. I still got a pinched nerve from that fight a few months ago.” Everybody broke out laughing, and Mikki and Sia bounced their way over to me.
“Okayyy, baby mama! You glowing and shit,” Mikki grinned, easing up beside me with her glitter cup and a mouthful of fruit salad.
“Exactly,” Sia added, licking frosting off her cupcake. “I love this for you, boo. Everything came out beautiful.”
I snorted. “Girl, don’t you know Knuck argued medownover two shades of blue like he works for Crayola.‘Nah, baby, that’s cornflower. I said lil boy blue.’”
They both choked laughing. “Not Knuck on his interior design era.” Mikki cried.
“I swear,” I said, sipping my mocktail. “Had me looking at color swatches like we were planning the MET Gala, not a baby shower.”
“And it’slit, too,” Sia pointed out, glancing around. “The food is bomb, DJ on point, and his whole family showed up for y’all. I’m lowkey emotional.”
“So proud of you,” Mikki added, bumping my hip. “Love looks good on you.”
Spotting Knuck’s Granny coming out into the backyard holding a foil tray that I knew had some fresh baked beans, I waddled my way over to her. She rocked. “Y’all should’ve brought diapers, not more fuckin’ onesies,” she complained, peeling back the foil on the tray. “That boy gon’ shitdaily, not serve runway looks.”
I damn near cried as I piled some baked beans onto a plate. “We’ll be fine, Granny.”
She whispered, “As soon as he drop, I’m takin’ him to get gold earrings and a little nameplate chain. First great-grandson? Please. He gon’ be iced out in the crib.”
I laughed, holding my belly. “Can he be born first?”
“He can be borndripped out, is what he can be,” she said, nodding like it was final as she walked off.
Right on cue, I looked up to see Knuck pass a blunt to his boy Wock, then make his way over to me. Damn. He was so damn fine, matching my fly in powder blue. Gold chains dancing against his shirt. Fitted on his head. Beard too fresh. He hollered for the little kids to stop fighting, then kissed me on my cheek.
“I knew you was finna be on them beans soon as they came out,” he chuckled, rubbing my stomach.
“Shut up,” I asked, eating a spoonful.
“Where your mama go?”
“Inside. She’s probably going off on Carl ‘cause he ate that brownie.”
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I told him not to. My fault, baby.”
I giggled. “It’s cool, babe. Everything’s good.”
Every loud laugh. Every glitter-covered onesie. Every elegant dress and Air Force 1. It was a blend of both our worlds—messy, bold, beautiful. Just like us. And I was carrying the proof of that chaos right in my belly.
Knuck looked down at me, then out at the party, then back at me with that signature smirk that usually meant he was about to say something either reckless or romantic. Sometimes both.
“You ready?” he asked.
“For what?” He was already walking away. “Keon, what the hell are you…”
He whistled to the DJ, and the music dropped. Conversations faded. People turned. Knuck hopped up on the makeshift platform we set for the speeches and lifted a mic.
“Aye,” he said into it, the crowd reacting instantly. “We appreciate y’all comin’ out and shit. Just give a nigga moment.”He turned toward me, pulled something out of his pocket, and dropped to one knee in the middle of baby shower mayhem.
Gasps. Cheers. Granny screamed, “Oh hell yes!”
And me?
I was frozen. Staring.
“Nyomi,” he said, voice suddenly low again. “You already my home. My peace. My heart. My problem. My person. And now you the mother of my son. So this right here? This the only thing left to do, my baby.” He opened the box. The ring was big enough to set off TSA. “You been mine, but now I need the world to know it. Be my wife, baby.”
