Page 43 of Tyriq & Teaira
He heads to his kitchen and I sit on the sectional. The TV is on and 2K is paused on the screen. As he pours the drinks, I pull out both prerolls and fire mine. I take the first hit and damn. Like a simp with virgin lungs, I fucking cough.
“You forgot how to smoke, nigga?” Kassir clowns me.
“Nah. That shit strong as fuck.”
He hands me my drink and I take a sip. To redeem myself, I take another hit and this time when the smoke fills my lungs, I blow it out without embarrassing myself. Kassir sits on the other end of the sectional and fires up his. After his first hit, he shakes his head.
“Yeah. This shit fye. Which strain is this?”
“That new one in the black jar, Bring Da Fire.”
“Imma need a few ounces of that shit.” He takes another hit then looks at me. “What’s up with you? I know you not nervous about the draft or that combine shit. Can’t nobody see you when it comes to that ball.”
“Nah. I’m actually good with it now. It was the championship that had me stressed but I’m straight now. I just gotta show up and kill it so I can secure my first-round spot. Mick says it’s looking like the Royals or the Boars but you know where my heart is.”
“Royals all fucking day,” he says.
“All day. If we are going to bring that championship back next year, Jabari and Meyer need you.”
“I hope they see it that way. Either team, I’m good, because I did what that nigga thought I wouldn’t but my heart bleeds that blue and green.”
“His words didn’t mean shit when you were a jit and they don’t mean shit now. You are the man you are in spite of thatnigga. Don’t focus on him. You ’bout to have yo’ own family now and being a real dad requires making sacrifices and changes. I changed the game when Kassan was born. All that beef shit with bitch ass Ralph and the Bedford Boyz wasn’t worth it. My son wasn’t coming into this world in the middle of no BS…none.
“I made shit clear with his mom, stopped pushing heavy, and ended that beef. No anger or resentment is worth hurting your child or your woman. I almost lost Rebel forever but I got lucky and she came back. You don’t want to fuck around and lose Teaira either. Not every nigga is as lucky as I was to get a second chance. No beef, street or family, is worth losing your child or your woman,” he says, dropping the jewels I needed to fucking hear.
“I’m meeting my moms for dinner so I can talk this shit out with her. So, thanks bruh, for real. I needed to hear that.”
“We DP, fam. No thanks needed. It’s love till the casket,” he says and I nod in agreement.
My DP brand isn’t for looks; it represents this, being able to rely on fam when I need it. Feeling a lot better about talking with my moms, I kill my drink and hit my blunt again. Kassir starts a new game and we play 2K. By the time I leave his crib at six, I’m straight.
My mom spent her day in a chair getting her hair braided. According to Quay, our mom wants to look different when she starts classes in June. So she’s trying out new hairstyles now to see what sticks. When I’m in my ride, I text to see if she’s ready and she responds fast.
Mom:10 minutes. They are dipping my braids now.
Me: bet. On my way.
After sending my text, I start my ride and head to the braid shop, BeauTee. She’s actually standing outside when I pullup. I barely recognize her with the long ass braids hanging over her shoulders. I can’t lie; she looks good, young even, but I don’t know how I feel about her looking like this. She looks too much like Quay now.
“Tell me the truth. You like them?” she asks, smiling hard as hell when I walk over to her.
“You look so pretty, Ma.”
“Yeah, but do you like the braids?”
“They look good.”
“Thank you. Now help me up,” she says while reaching for my hand. I take it and we step over to my ride. I hold her hand steady as she gets in. “Whew,” she sighs when she sits. “I’ve been sitting too long. My butt hurts.” I just shake my head as I walk back to my side. When I get in, she has my visor down and she’s examining her new look. “I like these. They make me look young. I think I look like a college student. Don’t I?”
“You do. You actually look too much like Quay now,” I admit as I drive off.
“She looks like me,” she corrects.
The conversation in the car is typical after any blow up or issue with her husband. She reverts to the one person we both love, Quay. She talks about Quay’s grades in school, her basketball camp this summer, and her birthday in September. I just go along with it but once we are at our semi-private table, we have to talk about the subject she’s avoiding.
As soon as we are inside of Taste of Italy, thanks to my seven o’clock reservation, we are taken right to our small booth in the back corner. She slides in and I trek to the restroom. When I make it back to the table, there are two waters on it and their signature bread that she loves.
“Don’t get mad. I started without you,” she says as she dips a piece of bread into the olive oil based dipping sauce.
