Page 258 of Not My Type
“Know’ dem say you’re like Outlaw. You’re the better version and me kno’ cause you know mi used to be him body guard, don’t be like him.”
“Nah tell yuh man. A hospital pick up my madda nuff time as a youth... sometimes mi d’evu like deh man deh dawg,” he’s pacing slowly, trying to calm down. Then he comes in the house. Joe is watching him.
“Boss?”
“Mi a bill mon,” his eyes pitch black.
“Nickoi I... ”
He walks pass me.
“Zara. Lock chat,” he puts down the key on the table, plop down in the sofa, and I start crying. He ignores me.
Awwww, stop cry Zara.
I sit across from him, tears silently falling, with Joe watching us like it’s a damn movie. My mind’s racing, and it only makes me cry harder. He doesn’t even look up—just blocks me out completely.
“C-can you help me with the bags Joe?” I sob.
“Yeah,” he nods. “Just bring them down.”
“O-okay,” I get up, watching him rock his legs, smoke curling around him like he doesn’t even care.
I walk to his room, take a shower, and spend about half an hour packing my suitcase, tears falling with each item I fold. I slip into a white blouse, black tights, and Chanel sandals. My ponytail, a mess of waves, falls down my back but still manages to look cute. I carry my bags downstairs, and Joe helps me load them into the car. I climb in, whispering a quiet thank you.
“You’re welcome,” he nods.
“Joe?” I look up.
“Yeah?”
“Is he okay?” I ask, my voice soft. “You know what I mean. You seem to know them.”
He just smiles, the kind that says it all—something’s seriously wrong with Nickoi, like he’s hiding more than he lets on. “Drive safe…” he mutters, adding, “Another time.”
I honk the horn, then drive off, tears still streaming down my face. I can’t stop thinking about where it all went wrong. I don’t know who’s at fault... Nickoi, or maybe it’s me. Am I the drama?
But then a thought hits me. Maybe it’s not just us. Maybe, just maybe... there’s a deeper problem.
69. JOKE
Zara
No one is at home when I get to the house. I sit on the chair digging through my bag for my phone. When I find it, I dial my mother’s number and the call goes to voicemail. She probably deh a church with Mama.
I call her a few more times until she finally answers. “Hey baby, mi deh a church with mommy enuh,” she says. I hear the choir singing in the background, and I can’t hold back the sobs.
She gasps. “Zara a wah happ’m to yuh?! Yuh alright?!”
“No,” I sniffle.
“Weh yuh deh?” She asks anxiously. I can tell she’s walking by the way the way her breathing pattern changes. “Michelle,” Mama whispers then it gets distant.
“Weh yuh deh?” She asks again and I sigh.
“Mi deh at the house,” I sob and hear her car door close.
“Michelle a inna the miggle of the service you a leave!?” Mama snaps.
