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It was a rare, sacred kind of silence that only descended after the chaotic bedtime routines of three children. Leo and Maya had crashed an hour ago, and baby Sam had finally succumbed to sleep after a noble, thirty-minute battle against his crib.
Smoke stood in the doorway of their master bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, watching his wife.
Annie was standing at the vanity, humming softly to herself as she brushed out her long, dark hair. She was wearing a thin, silk nightgown that clung to the soft curves of her body, the body that had carried his children, the body he knew better than his own. Even after fifteen years together, just the sight of the slope of her neck and the smooth, bare skin of her shoulders made his pulse completely abandon its rhythm.
He didn't just love her.
He worshipped her.
"You're staring, Mr. Moore," Annie murmured, catching his reflection in the mirror. A slow, wicked little smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
Guilty," Smoke said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly timbre that he knew worked on her every single time. He crossed the tile floor, his footsteps silent, until he was standing right behind her.
He placed his hands on her bare hips, his thumbs brushing the soft skin right above the silk. Annie let out a quiet sigh, her head tilting back automatically as he leaned down to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive spot just below her ear.
"Kids are asleep?" she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut as his lips trailed down the column of her neck.
"Out cold," Smoke murmured against her skin, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her vanilla lotion and warm skin. "Which means I finally have my wife all to myself."
He let his hands slide slowly up her sides, tracing the delicate line of her ribs before his fingers gently grazed the swell of her breasts. Annie gasped softly, the hairbrush slipping from her hand and clattering onto the vanity. She turned in his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down into a kiss that tasted like a promise.
It wasn't a frantic, desperate kiss. It was deep, slow, and devastatingly thorough. It was the kiss of a man who knew exactly what his wife liked, taking his time to savor the taste of her. Smoke’s hands tangled in her hair, holding her face steady as he poured fifteen years of adoration into the way his mouth moved against hers.
"You are so beautiful," he breathed against her lips, backing her up until her thighs hit the edge of the marble counter. He stepped into the space between her legs, pressing his hips flush against hers so she could feel exactly what she was doing to him.
Annie’s breath hitched, her dark eyes entirely dilated with desire. She reached down, her fingers boldly hooking under the edge of his towel. "Take me to bed, Daddy."
He didn't need to be told twice.
Smoke swept her up into his arms, carrying her easily into the bedroom. The only light came from the moon spilling through the blinds, casting shadows across the tangled sheets as he laid her down.
Smoke followed her down immediately, settling his heavy frame over hers. He didn't rush. He dragged his mouth down her jaw and over her collarbone, his tongue tracing the swell of her breasts before taking a hard peak into his mouth, sucking gently. Annie let out a ragged gasp, her back arching off the mattress as she tangled her fingers in his hair. The cool silver of her David Yurman cable bracelet pressed sharply against the back of his neck as her hands frantically gripped him, silently urging him higher.
He shifted his weight, parting her thighs with his knee, and settled deeply into the cradle of her hips. Annie gasped his name into the quiet room, her nails digging into the hard muscles of his back as he filled her.
"Look at me," Smoke demanded softly, his voice rough with restraint.
Annie opened her eyes, hazy with pleasure, locking onto his. He began to move, setting a slow, agonizingly deep rhythm. With every thrust, the friction built, the heat between them turning suffocating and heavy. Smoke watched her face, entirely addicted to the way her lips parted and her eyes glazed over as he drove into her. He picked up the pace, his hips snapping against hers, pushing them both closer to the edge.
"Smoke," she whimpered, her legs wrapping tight around his waist to anchor him deeper. "Please—"
"I've got you, baby," he grunted, his own control snapping. "Let go for me."
He slid a hand between their bodies, his thumb finding her center and applying a firm, rhythmic pressure. It was all it took. Annie cried out, her body bowing upward as the climax ripped through her, her inner muscles clenching tightly around him. The intense sensation sent Smoke right over the edge with her. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, letting out a harsh, guttural groan as he poured himself into her, his heart hammering against his ribs like a wild thing.
They stayed tangled together as the aftershocks slowly subsided, their bodies slick with sweat and chests heaving. Smoke eventually rolled to the side, pulling Annie tightly against his chest, pulling the cool white sheets up over them both.
"I love you," she whispered into the dark, her voice heavy with sleep.
"I love you more, Mrs. Moore," Smoke murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. "More than my own life."
He lay there for a long time, listening to the steady, peaceful rhythm of her breathing.
Life was perfect.
He had the beautiful house, the loud, messy, wonderful kids, and the woman of his dreams sleeping safely in his arms.
Smoke shifted slightly, reaching out with his left hand to grab the glass of water on his nightstand.
He never made it to the glass.
Without warning, his left hand jerked in mid-air. A violent, uncontrollable tremor seized his fingers, making them spasm fiercely against his will.
Elijah froze.
He stared at his trembling hand in the dark, his brow furrowing in confusion. He tried to clench his fingers into a fist to stop it, but the muscles refused to obey.
Then, the pain hit.
It wasn't just a headache.
It was a blinding, ice-pick agony that shot directly behind his left eye, so sharp and sudden that it stole the breath from his lungs. The room seemed to tilt violently on its axis, a loud, high-pitched ringing filling his ears. He clamped his jaw shut, swallowing back a groan of agony, his vision swimming with dark spots.
Beside him, Annie stirred, sensing his sudden tension. "Baby?" she mumbled sleepily, her hand sliding up his chest. "You okay? Your heart is racing."
Panic flared in his chest. With a massive, desperate effort of will, Smoke shoved his convulsing left hand under his pillow, pinning it down with his own weight. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his breathing to slow down, fighting through the blinding pain in his skull.
"I'm fine, baby," he lied, his voice tight but remarkably steady. He brought his good hand up to stroke her hair, hoping she couldn't feel the cold sweat suddenly breaking out on the back of his neck. "Just... shifted a little too fast. Think I pinched a nerve in my neck at the gym today."
Annie let out a sympathetic little hum, snuggling closer and pressing a kiss to his collarbone. "You need to take it easier, old man," she teased softly, already drifting back to sleep. "Remind me to massage it for you tomorrow."
"I will," he whispered. "Go to sleep."
He held her tightly against him, waiting. It took two full minutes for the violent twitching in his hand to finally subside, leaving his fingers weak and numb. The sharp pain behind his eye slowly dulled into a heavy, throbbing ache.
Smoke stared up at the ceiling in the dark bedroom, his heart pounding a frantic, terrifying rhythm against his ribs.
It’s just a migraine, he told himself, swallowing hard against the sudden, cold knot of dread forming in his stomach. Just a migraine and a pinched nerve. Nothing to worry about.
But as he held the love of his life in his arms, staring into the pitch-black shadows of the room, Smoke couldn't shake the chilling, instinctive feeling that something inside him had just fundamentally broken.
Morning arrived with the chaotic, beautiful noise that Smoke usually loved.
Sunlight poured through the sheer linen curtains of the kitchen, bouncing off the light oak floors and the white marble island. The sliding glass doors were cracked open, letting in the cool, salty breeze of the Southern Florida coast. It was a picture-perfect morning.
But Smoke felt like he was walking underwater.
He stood near the espresso machine, watching his family buzz around him. Leo and Maya were arguing over who got the blue cereal bowl, their bare feet slapping against the wood floor. Annie was bouncing baby Sam on her hip, her dark hair thrown up into a messy bun, wearing one of Smoke's oversized Ralph Lauren button-downs as she efficiently flipped pancakes with her free hand.
She looked radiant.
Effortless.
She caught his eye from across the kitchen and flashed him a warm, knowing smile that made his chest physically ache.
You're quiet this morning," Annie noted, sliding a plate of pancakes onto the counter for the kids. She walked over to him, resting her free hand on his chest. "Neck still bothering you?"
"A little," Smoke lied smoothly. In truth, his neck was fine, but a dull, persistent pressure had settled behind his left eye, like a heavy stone sitting on his optic nerve. His left hand felt strangely sluggish, wrapped tightly around his ceramic coffee mug to keep it steady.
"You should get it checked out," she murmured, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his jaw. "If you pinched a nerve lifting at the gym, you don't want to make it worse."
"I will. Actually, I told the guys I'd be late to the site today. I’m going to run by an urgent care clinic down in Carson just to make sure I didn't tear anything."
"Good," Annie said, her eyes softening with relief. She turned back to the kids. "Alright, monsters, eat up. We have fifteen minutes before the bus gets here!"
Smoke lifted his mug to take a sip of his black coffee.
Twitch.
It happened fast. His left hand seized, the fingers involuntarily springing completely open. The heavy ceramic mug slipped straight through his grip.
It hit the floor with a sharp, violent CRASH, shattering into a dozen jagged pieces, splashing scalding dark coffee across the pristine white baseboards.
The kitchen went dead silent. The kids stopped bickering. Annie whipped around, her eyes wide.
"Smoke?" she asked, immediately stepping forward. "Are you okay? Did it burn you?"
Smoke stared at his empty, trembling hand. His breath caught in his throat. Panic, cold, primal, and suffocating; clawed its way up his chest. He quickly shoved his left hand into the pocket of his jeans, clenching his jaw to maintain a mask of mild annoyance.
"I'm fine," he muttered, forcing a heavy sigh. "Damn it. Just slipped. My grip is totally shot from yesterday's workout. I’ll clean it up."
"I've got it, baby, go get dressed," Annie insisted, already grabbing a roll of paper towels. She didn't suspect a thing. Why would she? He was thirty-four, healthy, strong. Men like him didn't just break overnight.
As Smoke walked out of the sunlit kitchen, leaving his wife kneeling on the floor to clean up his mess, he realized with sickening clarity that it was a metaphor for the rest of their lives.
Four hours later, the coastal warmth of his house was replaced by the freezing, sterile air of a neurology clinic at a Level II hospital in West Palm Beach.
Smoke sat on the edge of the examination table, the thin paper crinkling beneath his jeans. He had bypassed the urgent care entirely, using a favor from a friend to get an emergency MRI after a terrifying episode in the parking lot where he had lost the ability to speak for ten straight seconds.
The door clicked open. Dr. Aris, a neurologist with tired eyes and graying temples, walked in. He didn't look at Smoke. He looked at the iPad in his hands, his expression grim and tightly controlled.
"Mr. Moore," the doctor started, pulling up a rolling stool and sitting down. He took a slow breath. "Did you come here alone today? Is your wife in the waiting room?"
Those words hit Smoke harder than a physical blow. Is your wife in the waiting room? That wasn't a question doctors asked when you had a pinched nerve. That was a question they asked right before they ruined your life.
"She's at work," Smoke said, his voice sounding hollow, like it belonged to someone else. "Tell me."
Dr. Aris tapped the screen of his tablet, syncing it to the monitor on the wall. A grayscale image of a human brain appeared. Smoke’s brain.
"You presented with unilateral tremors, acute aphasia, and severe localized headaches," the doctor explained quietly. He pointed a pen at a large, bright white mass blossoming ominously in the dark gray space of the right hemisphere. "This MRI with contrast confirms why. You have a significant mass in your right temporal and parietal lobes. It is causing severe mass effect—swelling and pressure against the surrounding healthy brain tissue."
Smoke stared at the white bloom on the screen. It looked like a storm cloud. It looked like death.
"Is it cancer?" he asked. The word tasted like ash in his mouth.
Dr. Aris lowered his pen. "Based on the aggressive growth pattern, the irregular borders, and the necrosis we are seeing in the center of the mass... I am highly confident this is a Glioblastoma Multiforme. Grade IV."
"Okay," Smoke managed to say, his chest tight. "So, cut it out. Give me the chemo. Whatever it takes."
"Elijah," the doctor said gently, using his first name for the first time. The pity in the man's eyes was absolute agony to look at. "The location of the tumor is deeply intertwined with the motor and cognitive centers of your brain. It is completely inoperable. Chemotherapy and radiation might slow it down, but the side effects will be brutal, and it will only buy you a margin of time. It won't cure you."
Silence swallowed the sterile room.
"How long?" Smoke finally asked. His voice didn't shake. He needed facts. He needed to know how long he had to secure his family's future.
"Without treatment? Three to four months," the doctor replied softly. "With aggressive treatment... maybe six to eight. But the quality of life during those final months will rapidly decline. You will lose your motor skills. Your memory. Your autonomy."
Smoke didn't hear the rest of the appointment. The doctor talked about steroids to reduce the swelling, oncology referrals, palliative care, and bringing his wife in for a family consultation. Smoke just nodded numbly, taking the printed prescriptions and walking out of the double sliding doors into the blinding afternoon.
He walked to his truck, unlocked the door, and climbed inside.
He didn't turn the key. He just sat there in the sweltering heat of the cab, staring blankly at the steering wheel.
Six months.
In six months, Annie would be a widow. In six months, Leo would have to learn how to throw a baseball without him. Maya wouldn't have him to scare away the monsters under her bed. Sam wouldn't even remember his face.
And Annie... God, Annie. She would hold his hand as he withered away in a hospital bed. She would watch the man she loved turn into a stranger who couldn't feed himself, draining their savings, destroying her own youth just to keep him comfortable while he died. She would be utterly destroyed by hope, fighting a war she was mathematically guaranteed to lose.
Smoke closed his eyes. The memory of her from that morning—radiant in his oversized shirt, smiling at him across their beautiful, light-filled kitchen—flashed behind his eyelids.
I am not letting this disease take her down with me.
He opened his eyes. The tears were gone, replaced by a cold, hardened resolve. He reached for his phone, avoiding the text from Annie asking how his appointment went, and opened a new browser tab.
With a shaking hand, he typed in the words that would officially begin the end of his life: How to file for a divorce.
The harsh, blue light of a twenty-dollar prepaid smartphone illuminated the dark cab of Smoke’s truck.
He had been parked two blocks away from his house for an hour, the engine cut, suffocating in the stifling heat of the evening. His massive hands, which had spent the last fifteen years building a home, holding his newborn children, and fiercely loving his wife, were now doing the most destructive work of his life.
He stared at the screen. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, his hand trembling so violently he had to grip his wrist to steady it. It wasn't the tumor causing the tremor this time. It was sheer, nauseating self-hatred.
He opened a text thread with his own personal number and began to type.
[Burner Phone]: I can’t stop thinking about last night.
Smoke hit send. The burner phone chimed in his left hand. Two seconds later, his real phone, sitting in the cup holder, buzzed.
He picked up his real phone, opened the message from the unknown number, and saved the contact name as Elena. Then, he forced himself to type the reply that would assassinate his marriage.
[Smoke]: Me too. It’s getting harder to pretend at home. I just want to be with you.
He hit send. He watched the message bubble turn blue. He dropped the phone onto the passenger seat as if it had physically burned him, leaning over the steering wheel and violently dry-heaving.
There was nothing in his stomach to throw up. He hadn't eaten since the diagnosis. He just stayed hunched over, gasping for air, the phantom pain of the glioblastoma throbbing behind his left eye like a sadistic metronome counting down his remaining days.
Three to four months without treatment.
Six months with it.
He sat back up, wiping a cold sweat from his forehead. He reached into the passenger seat and picked up a crumpled receipt. He had driven to a luxury boutique hotel downtown earlier that afternoon, walked up to the front desk, and paid for a room in cash. He didn't even take the key. He just took the folio receipt with his name on it.
Suddenly, his real phone lit up again in the cup holder.
Smoke’s heart slammed against his ribs. The screen displayed a picture of Annie from last summer, laughing with her head thrown back, the sun catching her dark hair.
[Annie]: Babe, are you almost home? Kids are finally down. Also, I was looking at the logistics for next week—did you book the direct flight from LAX to Cabo yet? I can’t wait for three whole days of just us. Come home soon, I miss you.
Smoke stared at the glowing screen until his vision blurred.
The Cabo trip. It was supposed to be their three-day getaway, a rare, sacred weekend without the kids to reconnect and celebrate the life they had built. Now, it was just another casualty. He wasn't going to Cabo. By next week, he wouldn't even be living in their house.
A single, hot tear finally escaped, sliding down his cheek and dropping onto his collar. He quickly wiped it away. He couldn't afford to cry. If he looked like he was in pain, Annie would sense it. She would dig, she would push, and she would uncover the truth. He had to be a monster. Cold, distant, and irredeemable.
Smoke reached into the plastic pharmacy bag on the floorboard and pulled out a cheap, sickeningly sweet bottle of floral perfume. It smelled nothing like Annie’s warm vanilla and luxury lotions. It smelled like a stranger.
He uncapped the bottle, squeezed his eyes shut, and sprayed it twice onto the collar of his shirt. The scent immediately filled the cab, cloying and foreign, sticking to the back of his throat like poison.
He gathered the burner phone, tossing it into the glovebox and locking it. He took the hotel receipt and shoved it deep into the front pocket of his jeans. He took one last, long look in the rearview mirror. The man staring back at him had dead, hollow eyes.
Smoke opened the door of his truck and stepped out into the cool coastal air, walking the two agonizing blocks toward his front door to destroy the only woman he had ever loved.
A/N: I hope you enjoy the heat in the beginning, because the heartbreak at the end is just the start of this ride.Enjoy the chapter, and please scream at me in the comments!
READ WITH CARE. | READ WITH CARE.| READ WITH CARE.
Time didn't exist anymore.
It was just heat, the smell of diesel, and the agonizing, suffocating silence inside Smoke’s own head.
He had been sitting on the concrete ramp for six hours.
Stack sat a few feet away. Thirty minutes ago, a National Guard unit had arrived by boat, carrying a heavy, military-grade satellite phone. Stack, desperate and running on fumes, had begged the commanding officer for exactly sixty seconds to call the staging area in Biloxi, Mississippi, where his wife, Mary, had evacuated.
Biloxi had been caught in the deadly right-front quadrant of the hurricane. The storm surge there had reached thirty feet. For three days, Stack had operated under the terrifying assumption that he was a widower, too.
Smoke sat with his back against the brick wall of the hospital, staring blankly at his own blood-stained boots as Stack paced the ramp with the bulky black phone pressed to his ear.
"Come on," Stack muttered, his voice shaking. "Come on, Mary, pick up the line."
Static crackled. Then, a faint, tinny voice bled through the receiver.
Stack froze. His breath hitched so violently it sounded like a sob.
"Mary?" Stack choked out, dropping to his knees right there on the concrete. "Mary, is that you? Oh, God. Oh, thank God."
Smoke slowly lifted his heavy, soot-stained head.
He watched his twin brother completely unravel in the blistering sun. Stack was weeping openly, pressing his free hand over his mouth, nodding frantically to a voice Smoke couldn't hear.
"I'm at Charity," Stack cried, his voice pitching up with a pure, unadulterated joy that cut through the misery of the ramp like a knife. "I'm safe. Yeah, we're okay. I love you so much, Mare. I love you."
Stack handed the phone back to the soldier and collapsed against the brick wall, burying his face in his hands, shaking with the absolute, euphoric relief of a man who had just had his entire world handed back to him.
Smoke watched him.
He was supposed to be happy. He was supposed to feel the relief of a brother.
Mary was family.
But as Smoke looked at Stack’s tears of joy, a dark, ugly, suffocating wave of pure envy rose up in his chest. It tasted like battery acid.
Why him? The thought was venomous, and Smoke hated himself the second it formed, but he couldn't stop it. Why does his wife get to be safe in a shelter while mine is bleeding out on a rusty gurney? Why does he get to hear her voice?
Smoke looked away, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ground together. He stared at the dark glass doors of the hospital. He felt a terrifying, widening gap opening up between him and his twin. For thirty years, they had shared everything. They had felt each other's pain. But right now, Stack was standing in the warm, beautiful light of a miracle, and Smoke was drowning alone in the pitch-black water.
Smoke looked down at his massive hands. They were still coated in the dried mud, plaster dust, and the blood from Annie's delivery. He refused to wash it off. He felt that if he washed away the physical evidence of her, the universe would realize how close she was to the edge and finally push her over.
Stack wiped his face, letting out a wet, breathless laugh of relief. He turned to look at his brother, his eyes shining.
"She made it, Eli," Stack said, his voice trembling with hope. "The shelter held. She's safe."
Smoke didn't look at him.
He couldn't.
If he opened his mouth, the bitter, agonizing unfairness of it all would spill out and poison them both. He just gave a single, rigid nod to the concrete.
Stack’s smile faltered. He saw the cold, dead emptiness radiating off his brother's massive frame. Stack shifted closer, reaching out to put a hand on Smoke's shoulder.
"Eli—"
The heavy glass doors of the hospital suddenly pushed open.
Smoke flinched, his head snapping up.
Standing in the doorway was the triage nurse. Her scrubs were completely ruined, her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, and she looked like she hadn't slept since Saturday.
But the look in her eyes had changed. The frantic, clinical panic from six hours ago was gone.
"Lieutenant Moore," she said softly, stepping out into the brutal heat.
Smoke couldn't stand. His legs, which had carried him through miles of toxic floodwater, refused to work. The bitter jealousy, the terror, the sheer exhaustion it all pinned him to the ground.
Stack grabbed Smoke by the thick canvas of his turnout coat, hauling his massive, frozen brother to his feet.
"Is she..." Smoke choked. The razor blades in his throat made it impossible to speak. He couldn't say the word dead. He braced his massive frame, waiting for the executioner's axe to finally fall.
The nurse looked at the giant, filthy firefighter, and offered a small, exhausted, beautiful smile.
"She's a fighter, your wife," the nurse said, her voice a quiet balm against the noise of the ramp. "We pushed three liters of fluid. We got her core temperature down, and the broad-spectrum antibiotics are holding the sepsis back. Her blood pressure is stabilizing."
Smoke squeezed his eyes shut.
A massive, shuddering breath tore out of his chest, carrying six hours of absolute terror and the ugly, bitter envy with it. His knees buckled, and this time, he leaned heavily against Stack, the giant finally allowing himself to be supported by the brother he had resented just two minutes ago.
"And the baby?" Stack asked, his own voice thick with fresh tears.
"Hypoglycemia is corrected," the nurse nodded. "She's small, and she's early, but she's got lungs like a siren. Come on, Lieutenant. I'll take you to them."
The inside of Charity Hospital was a stifling, shadowed labyrinth. With the basement generators completely drowned, the corridors were illuminated only by the harsh afternoon sunlight bleeding through the dirty windows. The air was thick, stagnant, and heavy with the metallic scent of iodine and sweat.
The triage nurse led Smoke and Stack through the maze of stretchers lining the walls, finally stopping outside a repurposed post-op recovery room.
"She's in here," the nurse whispered, keeping her hand on the door handle. She looked up at Smoke, her eyes full of a quiet, profound respect. "She just woke up a few minutes ago. She's weak, Lieutenant. Her body went to the absolute limit. Don't push her."
Smoke nodded dumbly. His massive hand reached out, his fingers trembling so violently they rattled against the metal doorframe.
He pushed the door open.
The room was quiet.
The frantic, deafening roar of the city, the helicopters, and the dying crowds felt a million miles away.
Annie was lying on a narrow hospital bed. She was hooked up to three different IV bags, the clear plastic tubing winding down into her bruised, battered arms. The plaster dust and river mud had been carefully wiped from her face by the nursing staff, leaving her dark skin looking terrifyingly pale against the stark white hospital sheets.
But her chest was rising and falling.
It was a deep, steady, rhythmic cadence.
Smoke stood frozen in the doorway.
He didn't look like a savior.
Covered in dried toxic mud, old blood, and the soot of a ruined city, he looked like a monster that had just crawled out of the swamp. The bitter, ugly envy he had felt on the ramp just twenty minutes ago crashed over him, replaced by a suffocating wave of unworthiness. He felt like he didn't deserve to step into this room.
Annie slowly turned her head on the thin pillow.
Her glassy, exhausted eyes fluttered, adjusting to the shadows, until they locked onto the giant standing in the doorway.
For a terrifying second, she didn't move. Then, the corner of her chapped, bruised mouth twitched upward into a weak, fragile smile.
"You look terrible, Lijah," she whispered.
Her voice was raspy, broken, and barely more than a breath of air. But to Smoke, it was the most beautiful, earth-shattering sound he had ever heard in his entire life.
The giant finally broke.
Smoke crossed the floor in two massive strides. His knees hit the hard ground right beside her bed with a heavy, echoing thud. He didn't care about his size, his strength, or his pride. He carefully, desperately buried his face in the crook of her neck, terrified of pulling her IV lines, and wept.
It wasn't a quiet cry.
It was the deep, chest-heaving, agonizing purge of a man who had stared directly into the abyss, felt the devil's hands on his throat, and had his soul handed back to him at the absolute last second.
Annie let out a soft, shuddering breath. She slowly lifted her heavy, bruised arm. Her fingers, still carrying the tiny, jagged scabs from the attic glass, found the back of his neck. She tangled her fingers into his short hair, anchoring him to her, just like she had in the pitch-black of the Convention Center.
"I'm here, baby," she soothed, her own tears finally spilling over, running hot and fast into her hairline. "I'm right here."
"I'm so sorry," Smoke sobbed into her skin, his massive shoulders shaking so violently the metal bedframe rattled. "Nette, God, you gotta understand somethin I'm so sorry. I done went to the Dome yeah? . Boudreaux told me you were at the bridge, and I went to the Dome. I looked in the wrong place. I left you alone in that dark. Baby im so sorry."
"Hey. Look at me," Annie whispered. Her voice tightened, drawing on that fierce, stubborn Ninth Ward authority he loved so much. She tugged weakly on the hair at the nape of his neck until he was forced to lift his head.
Smoke looked at her through bloodshot, overflowing eyes. The tear tracks had cut clean, bright rivers through the thick soot on his face.
"You didn't leave me," Annie said, her thumb gently reaching up to wipe a tear from his filthy cheek. "The water took the house yeah. It took the plan. We were both lost in the dark, Eli. But you found me yeah? . You walked straight into hell, and you carried us out."
"You died on that floor so I could have her, sunflower," Smoke wept, the crushing guilt still clinging to his bones like lead. "Your heart stopped against my chest."
Annie swallowed hard. Her eyes drifted past him for a moment, looking toward the window, out at the drowned, ruined city beyond the glass.
"I had to get her to you, Lijah," Annie whispered, her voice trembling with the absolute, terrifying truth of what she had done. "I knew my body was failing. I could feel the fire in my blood. But I knew if I could just hold on... if I could just get her out and put her in your hands... I knew you would never let her go. You're my protector."
"I am never letting either of you go yeah?," Smoke vowed. He grabbed her bruised hand in both of his massive ones, pressing his lips to her knuckles, his tears soaking her skin. "I swear to God, Annie. I will spend every single day of the rest of my life making this up to you."
Annie squeezed his thick fingers as hard as her exhausted body would allow. The fierce, unbroken fire slowly returned to her dark eyes, shining through the trauma and the tears.
"You don't owe me a thing, Elijah Moore," she smiled softly, a tear slipping down her cheek. "Just buy me a new yellow dress."
The heavy metal door to the recovery room clicked open.
Stack stepped inside, quietly shutting the chaos of the hallway behind him. He wiped his eyes with the back of his filthy undershirt, a profound, watery smile breaking across his exhausted face.
Behind him walked the pediatric nurse.
In her arms, she carried a small, tight bundle wrapped in two pristine, stark-white hospital receiving blankets.
Annie gasped.
Her breath hitched so violently it sounded like a sob.
She tried to sit up, her bruised hands reaching out blindly, the clear IV lines pulling dangerously taut against her skin.
"Careful, baby, don't pull the lines," Smoke said instantly. He shifted his massive frame, slipping his thick arm behind her shoulders to gently support her back, helping her sit up against the thin pillows.
The nurse stepped to the side of the bed. She looked at the battered, exhausted mother and the giant, weeping father kneeling on the floor.
"She's a miracle," the nurse whispered, her voice thick with emotion as she gently lowered the bundle into Annie's trembling, waiting arms.
Annie pulled the blanket back.
Ruby was asleep. She wasn't the terrifying, mottled blue she had been in the dark of the Convention Center. She was a warm, healthy, vibrant pink. A tiny, striped hospital beanie was pulled down over her head to keep her core temperature up. Her tiny chest rose and fell in a perfect, steady rhythm.
Annie stared at her daughter. She had fought the rising black ocean. She had swung a heavy iron axe until her hands bled. She had baked on blistering asphalt, walked through a nightmare of human suffering, and allowed a fever to literally stop her own heart, all just to see this face.
She pulled the baby tight against her chest, burying her nose against the top of Ruby’s head.
"Hey there, little bird," Annie wept, rocking the tiny bundle gently, her tears falling freely onto the white blanket. "I told you daddy would come. I told you he'd find us."
Smoke leaned over the bed.
His massive, soot-stained arm wrapped entirely around Annie’s shoulders, pulling both his wife and his newborn daughter flush against his chest.
Stack stood quietly at the foot of the bed, giving them their moment, and turned his gaze to the window.
Beyond the glass, the reality of August 31, 2005, was unfolding in biblical proportions.
Eighty percent of New Orleans was entirely underwater.
The levees... the concrete walls meant to protect their culture, their history, and their lives, had completely and utterly failed.
Stack watched the twin rotors of a Coast Guard helicopter chop through the thick, humid air, lowering a basket toward a submerged roof in the distance. Columns of thick, black smoke rose from the East, marking fires that would burn for days because the city had absolutely no water pressure to fight them.
Below them, the streets were a toxic lake of gasoline, raw sewage, and the bodies of those who hadn't been able to kick through their ceilings.
The weight of it hit Stack like a physical blow.
Hundreds of thousands of people were displaced.
The mighty Engine 42 was gone.
The Lower Ninth Ward, the vibrant, pulsing heart of their community, where generations of their family had lived, cooked, laughed, and died was wiped off the map.
They were no longer residents of a city; they were refugees of a catastrophe.
Stack looked back at his brother, holding his wife and his daughter in the dim, quiet light of the hospital room.
The joy was absolute, but the grief was an ocean.
They had nothing but the wet clothes on their backs.
Smoke lifted his head, following his brother's gaze out the window. He saw the black water swallowing the horizon. He saw the destruction of everything he had ever known. But as he looked down at the tiny, breathing girl in Annie's arms, his jaw set into a hard, unbreakable line.
The black water had taken the wood, the brick, the cars, and the photographs. But it hadn't taken his girls.
Smoke closed his eyes, pressing his lips to his wife's temple, his tears soaking into her dark hair.
The storm was over, and they were stepping into a terrifying, unknown void.
But as long as they had breath in their lungs, they were a house that no flood could ever wash away.
Saturday, August 24, 2025
Twenty-Five Years Later
The Lower Ninth Ward, New Orleans
The August sun beat down on the overgrown grass of the empty lot, hot and unyielding, but the breeze coming off the Industrial Canal carried the sweet, familiar scent of magnolias and wet earth.
A black Ford pickup truck idled by the curb on what used to be a bustling residential street.
Today, the street was quiet.
While parts of the Ninth Ward had rebuilt in the decades since the water receded, many of the lots remained emptygreen, silent monuments to the ghosts of 2005.
Elijah stepped out of the driver’s side.
He was fifty-five years old now. The thick, dark hair at his temples had turned to a brilliant, striking silver, and the lines around his eyes spoke of decades of hard work, but he was still a giant. He moved slightly slower, the old injuries from a lifetime of firefighting aching in the humidity, but his shoulders were just as broad.
He walked around the front of the truck and opened the passenger door.
Annie stepped out.
She was wearing a beautiful, flowing coastal sundress, her dark hair tied back elegantly. She looked stunning, carrying the confident, graceful air of a woman who had survived the end of the world and spent the next twenty-five years absolutely refusing to let it define her.
"It looks so different," Annie whispered, putting her hand in Smoke’s large, calloused grip. "Nature took it all back."
"Roots run deep, sunflower," Smoke smiled softly, kissing the back of her hand.
The back door of the truck opened, and Ruby stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk.
She was twenty-five years old, a brilliant, fierce young woman who had inherited her father's imposing height and her mother's terrifying, unbreakable stubbornness. She was in her second year of medical school a path she had chosen long ago, driven by the stories of an old Charity Hospital nurse named Miss Veda.
"Is this it?" Ruby asked, adjusting her sunglasses as she looked at the empty, overgrown lot.
"This is it, yeah" Annie said, her voice catching slightly.
Houston had been good to them.
When the helicopters had finally lifted them off the roof of Charity Hospital, they had been evacuated to Texas. Houston had given them a soft place to land, a place to heal, and a place to raise their daughter far away from the levees. Smoke had joined the Houston Fire Department, and they had built a beautiful, thriving life.
But their blood was in this soil.
The three of them walked into the tall grass. About thirty feet back from the curb, hidden beneath a layer of creeping ivy and clover, was a flat, cracked square of concrete.
The original foundation slab.
Annie stopped at the edge of the concrete.
She looked down, the memories rushing back with a breathtaking ferocity. She could almost see the walls. She could see the foyer where the black water had first crept under the door. She looked up at the empty blue sky, right where her attic roof used to be.
Smoke stepped up behind her, wrapping his massive arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest just like he had on a dark, filthy floor twenty-five years ago.
"I broke the ceiling right about there," Annie whispered, pointing to the empty air above the center of the slab.
Ruby walked to the center of the concrete. She looked at the spot her mother was pointing to.
She had grown up hearing the legend.
The axe.
The blistering roof.
The terrifying journey to the Convention Center. To her, her parents weren't just a mother and father; they were titans.
"You did all of that just to keep me safe?" Ruby said, her voice thick with emotion, looking back at her parents.
Smoke reached into the breast pocket of his button-down shirt.
He pulled out a small, framed shadow box. Inside, pressed flat behind the glass, was a single, ragged, faded strip of pale yellow cotton fabric.
He walked over to his daughter and placed it gently into her hands.
"She did," Smoke said, his deep voice rumbling with an immense, profound pride as he looked at Annie, then at Ruby. "Your mother chopped through the sky to give you life, and I tore through a broken city to come and find you both. That’s the legacy of this house, Ruby. Not the wood that washed away. Not the tragedy."
Ruby traced the glass over the yellow fabric, a tear slipping down her cheek.
Annie walked forward, wrapping her arms around her daughter, while Smoke wrapped his arms around them both. They stood together on the cracked foundation of their past, anchored by the love that had defied the ocean.
The black water had tried to bury them, but it didn't know they were seeds.
America had left them to drown, and the flood had tried to wash their history away, treating the Black families of the Ninth Ward like footprints easily swept out to sea.
But standing on that concrete slab, raising a daughter who was born from the darkest night of their lives, they were living monuments to a people who simply refuse to be erased.
The levees had failed them, but their BlackWater Promises never would.
A/N:
Writing this story was the gift of a lifetime. I’ve always poured my soul into writing surreal, unapologetic Black love and heavy, character-driven fiction, but Smoke and Annie... they completely wrecked me. Sitting with them in the dark water of Katrina, feeling the suffocating weight of that history, and watching their absolute, feral refusal to let go of each other.. WHEW!
Thank you for holding your breath with me. Thank you for reading, for grieving, and for surviving this journey right alongside me. I hope their blackwater promises touched your chest as deeply as they cracked open mine.
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Description: In dire need of a break and for a friend’s birthday, twenty seven year old first grade teacher Annie Celestine and her girls head to Rio De Janeiro for Carnival. On the connecting flight from Atlanta to Rio, she locks eyes with the man in Business class. After a brief 48 hours together, she promised to keep in touch with him. But she didn’t.
And Elijah hated when people broke their promises.
Sneak peek… 👀
Only three days. Three more days until they’d be out for Spring Break and she’d be back to lounging around her home in a moomoo with no panties. She was looking forward-
His scent. Mahogany and amber.
It invaded her space, her home unapologetically. But still… she leaned into it as if it were second nature. Her thighs clenching together under the flowy maxi dress. The woman stood frozen in her own doorway, her mind refusing to believe what her body already confirmed.
“Smoke?” It was said in an almost whisper. Deep down the woman had hoped that she was simply tired from the day and overthinking.
There was no way possible Elijah Moore was in her home. But…she was wrong.
Elijah pushed the chair back into it’s place and responded from the kitchen. “Yeah?”
He materialized in front of her and Annie just about threw everything to the floor.
The man grabbed all of her things and walked over to the couch to sit the items down. Annie remained in place as if she was imagining all of this but deep down? She wasn’t that shocked and after today? She didn’t have any more fight left in her.
But she still couldn’t give up that easy.
“What you doin’ here at my house, Smoke?” she hissed, trying to retain some level of control.
“You here, thats’s why I’m here.”
🇧🇷
Well….. 👀😭 Elijah is not a serious man. Skksskks. Or maybe he is.
He was in that lady house like:
A/N: I was threatened in my dm to post this, plz. 😭 I’m almost done. Just a few kinks to clean up.
And also, some real life shit been happening lately.
Ohhhhhh I can’t wait to be in front of this story like smoke in front of Annie damn door lol !!! Let’s go!! And frennn I ain’t forgot about that divorce one shot either @myheartsaysyes 🙌🏾🙌🏾🙌🏾
Description: In dire need of a break and for a friend’s birthday, twenty seven year old first grade teacher Annie Celestine and her girls head to Rio De Janeiro for Carnival. On the connecting flight from Atlanta to Rio, she locks eyes with the man in Business class. After a brief 48 hours together, she promised to keep in touch with him. But she didn’t.
And Elijah hated when people broke their promises.
Sneak peek… 👀
Only three days. Three more days until they’d be out for Spring Break and she’d be back to lounging around her home in a moomoo with no panties. She was looking forward-
His scent. Mahogany and amber.
It invaded her space, her home unapologetically. But still… she leaned into it as if it were second nature. Her thighs clenching together under the flowy maxi dress. The woman stood frozen in her own doorway, her mind refusing to believe what her body already confirmed.
“Smoke?” It was said in an almost whisper. Deep down the woman had hoped that she was simply tired from the day and overthinking.
There was no way possible Elijah Moore was in her home. But…she was wrong.
Elijah pushed the chair back into it’s place and responded from the kitchen. “Yeah?”
He materialized in front of her and Annie just about threw everything to the floor.
The man grabbed all of her things and walked over to the couch to sit the items down. Annie remained in place as if she was imagining all of this but deep down? She wasn’t that shocked and after today? She didn’t have any more fight left in her.
But she still couldn’t give up that easy.
“What you doin’ here at my house, Smoke?” she hissed, trying to retain some level of control.
“You here, thats’s why I’m here.”
🇧🇷
Well….. 👀😭 Elijah is not a serious man. Skksskks. Or maybe he is.
He was in that lady house like:
A/N: I was threatened in my dm to post this, plz. 😭 I’m almost done. Just a few kinks to clean up.
And also, some real life shit been happening lately.
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Ok I just read Everything Except The Signatures! Girlie you know you can write. I need the full fic now. How do you kno what to say in your writing? I want to write but I kno I can’t do it.
Omgoodness, thank you! 🥹💜
Don’t say you can’t! You definitely can. I tried writing for Pretty Little Liars 🫣 back in the day, and that shit was so cringe. 🥴 I told myself I would NEVER write again unless I was being graded for it. 😭
But then Annie x Smoke graced my movie screen, and after reading all the amazing fics people were writing for them, I found myself wanting to try again. That’s when I fell back in love with writing.
So I say all that to say: Never Say Never. If you find something you truly love, you might surprise yourself with what you’re willing and able to do. 💜
Annie, an 18-year-old from New Orleans, moves to Clarksdale with dreams of building a life all her own. There she meets Smoke, a 21-year-old war veteran with a dangerous reputation. What grows between them is sweet, sticky, and Southern— a smoldering love set against a world of bootlegging, Hoodoo, and blues.
Chapter 7
Contains: Explicit language, slow-burn/build romance, mentions of Hoodoo
Word Count: 9.9k
📝 This chapter really turned me every way but loose because it went a completely different direction than I originally planned, but it's necessary in kickstarting things between the two of them. Please let me know what you think in the comments! & Sidenote: The Harvest Party is coming up soon!
Masterlist
The hands of the grandfather clock ticked quietly in the front room of the boarding house, but to Annie it sounded like gunshots.
It was late.
The house had fallen into its nighttime rhythm— mostly quiet except for the random sounds of boarders stirring in their rooms. A cough from behind a closed door. The creak of a bed frame. The slow pouring of water into a basin. The smells of supper still lingered like they always did this time of night, settling into the walls like a layer of time. The fragrant aroma of clove hung over top of everything, bursting through the air every time Aunt Della parted her lips. She chewed on it slowly. Methodically. Watching Annie as her fingertips smoothed gently over the leather of the sketchbook cover.
Annie sat on the couch across from her. Her eyes looked full of possibility as she flipped through the paper, the corners of the pages sitting crisp beneath her thumb.
Something was on Aunt Della’s mind.
Annie could feel the warm flush of her skin cooling under the quiet intensity of her gaze.
Her voice broke through the silence. “He been comin’ ‘round a lot lately.”
There it was.
Annie looked up.
Aunt Della stirred her drink in her hand, ice cubes clinking against the sides of the mug. “How you feel ‘bout that?” she asked. Then she took a sip.
Annie’s head lowered. Her first instinct was to not respond. Her second was to deflect. Her third was to ask why.
“Baby,” Aunt Della probed. “I been alive too long. I know what it means for a man to stand around tryin’ to make himself useful.” She crossed one leg over the other, her ankle bouncing with anticipation like she knew this was going to take a while.
Annie’s mouth curved despite herself. She turned a page in her sketchbook, smoothing the spine down harder than necessary with her palm.
“You like him?”
Annie still couldn’t look up. It was like her words got stuck in her throat. The more Aunt Della talked, the more Annie felt caught off guard.
“Annie Royal, I ain’t talkin’ to myself,” she said sternly.
Annie’s head snapped up. She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. “I don’t know,” she said finally, in a hushed tone.
Aunt Della rolled her eyes. She let the words sit between them long enough for Annie to hear how untrue they sounded.
“Yes you do,” she answered back.
Annie looked down again, her throat tightening with something she didn’t have the name for. Aunt Della watched her for a moment, admiring how softly the lamp light curved around the edge of her face. It was smooth. Innocent. There was a vulnerability in her that she wanted to protect. But as much as she wanted to shield her, she knew she needed to be ready for the day the world came knocking.
But she was so young. Barely 18.
She remembered herself at that age. She remembered how quickly she got swept up in her husband’s kind words and gentle eyes like it was yesterday.
It happened so quickly. Marriage. Mississippi. A son.
She thought about the day her husband came back from town hall with the deed to their house. He painted the outside a rich buttery yellow and whitewashed the shutters with a puffed up chest. Dug out the underground storage with his bare hands, a shovel, and a strength that could only be explained by a feeling he’d never experienced before in his lifetime. Pride. Ownership.
The boarding house became a sanctuary without a steeple. They took in anybody who needed a hot meal and a place to lay their heads. Musicians, preachers, teachers, people trying to get up North. And two little boys trying to escape their father’s fists.
Elijah and Elias.
She met them young. Back when their father, Adam Moore, went door-to-door in town, strumming his guitar and sipping hooch straight from the bottle while his young sons walked around hungry.
She knew them before they went by Smoke and Stack. Then she watched them earn those nicknames in blood, gunpowder, and grit. And now Smoke was coming around her sister’s granddaughter. Her only great-niece.
She watched Annie nervously brush her thumb against the edge of the sketchbook and sighed. “I ain’t tryna fuss at you,” she clarified. “I just wanna know where your head’s at, and how you feel when he’s around.”
A moment passed. Then two.
Aware.
That’s how Annie felt when he was around.
Aware of herself. Aware of him. Aware of the space between one breath and the next. Like something inside her had started listening before she knew that there was sound.
Loose.
Not in the way men and women meant when they whispered about such things.
But in a way that words just came out of her mouth before she could stop them. She couldn’t carry on with him like she could with Aunt Della right now—taking the hard parts and making them sound just right so she didn’t reveal too much too soon. He got the truth before she could dress it up. And she hadn’t taken the time to figure out why quite yet. And that scared her. But it made her feel something else, too.
Seen.
She was holding back. Aunt Della could see that with her eyes closed. She could see the wheels turning in Annie’s head like she never got a chance to sit with her feelings long enough to name them. But she already had her answer. It was in the way she held the sketchbook to her chest before remembering she wasn’t alone.
She tried a different angle. “He good to you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Annie could reply quickly when she could answer without thinking too hard.
“Respectful?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He pressure you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I feel like—” Annie paused, embarrassed by the honesty that sat right on the tip of her tongue. She was fighting to keep it to herself. Not because she didn’t want to be honest, but she felt like words couldn’t do her thoughts justice. And she felt foolish that she felt any kind of way to begin with. “He makes me feel….”
Aunt Della let out a sigh. “You ain’t gotta explain it yet. Sometimes when the feeling’s good, you can’t explain it right away. You gon’ find the right words when you ready.”
Annie nodded once. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You intact?”
“Yes ma’am.” Heat climbed up her neck as she held the sketchbook to her chest.
“Don’t let him take it, if that’s not what you want.”
“Yes ma’am.”
A quiet beat passed. “If it is—” Her breath hitched when she cut herself off.
It felt like the room held its breath. Annie, too.
“Nevermind.” Aunt Della shook her head like she regretted saying anything.
Annie frowned, her lips poking out. “What is it?” She asked. Her voice was cautious, but not in the way it had been earlier. It was more braced than anxious.
Aunt Della looked at Annie with a fierce protectiveness. “What you think about him?” she asked quietly.
Annie twisted her lips, searching for something that wouldn’t feel foolish the second it came out of her mouth. “At first I just thought he was quiet,” she said finally. “Not empty quiet, but the type of quiet that’s always holdin’ somethin’ back.”
Aunt Della’s eyes stayed on her.
“But when he’s with me, when he look at me…” Annie’s voice softened despite herself. “It feels like…the rest of the world disappears. And it’s just us. Just me and him. And he can let go.”
Aunt Della didn’t answer immediately, and her face didn’t change. The silence felt worse than being questioned. “And how you think he feels about you?”
“Ummm….” Her eyes flitted around the room nervously.
“The truth do just fine.”
Aunt Della set her mug down on the coffee table with a soft thump. Then she sat back and crossed her legs again, twirling that ankle in the air in slow, deliberate circles.
“Truth is…” Annie started. “I think he’s taken a shine to me. He got me this.” She rubbed the cover of the sketchbook, her cheeks warm flushed with warmth and a hint of embarrassment trying to explain herself. “He comes around, he sits with me, he listens–really listens–to what I say. And he don’t forget,” she said, remembering the note he left her, and the conversation that sparked the words he left.
“What’s all this?” Smoke asked, gesturing to the drawings sprawled across her quilt under the magnolia tree.
“Drawings,” she replied sarcastically.
Smoke sucked his teeth. “I know that,” he tutted. “What they for?”
“Helps my memory. Drawin’ things. Writin’ them down.”
“So you remember what they look like?”
“Kinda. So I remember what they for.”
Annie glanced over, bracing for laughter, amusement, or even teasing. She got none of it. When she found Aunt Della’s eyes she wasn’t smiling. She didn’t laugh. She almost looked sad, but not in a way Annie fully understood.
She simply crossed her arms across her chest and arched a brow in challenge. “So you think that means…what?”
The bluntness felt like a physical thing. It cut sharply through the room like a knife slicing through a thick fog.
Annie blinked. “Ma’am?”
“You think every man who buys you a little somethin’ or listens to you talk, means to do right by you?”
Annie blinked twice this time.
All of a sudden, she felt every bit of eighteen.
Not a child anymore, but not grown in the ways the world seemed to demand all at once.
Smoke wasn’t the first to come around. She had a few who called on her back in New Orleans. Always respectfully, always in the proper way.
She had a freedom up here that she didn’t have living under the roof of her very protective family, and that freedom allowed her to get to know Smoke in a way that would have been damn near impossible back home.
But he was always respectful. Never pushed. Always made sure she felt comfortable. That meant something to her. Time. Energy. Intention.
She kept getting four when she added two and two together.
But maybe Aunt Della was trying to tell her she wasn’t too good at math.
“I’ve known the twins since they were real young. Seen ‘em grow into bright young men. Good-lookin’ young men that every woman in this town want a piece of.” She paused. “And men like Smoke…they can make a girl feel like the whole world done gone quiet around her. But that don’t mean the world ain’t there no more.”
Annie’s ears had already perked up at the mention of his name. But now she listened even more intently.
Aunt Della’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t assume nothin’ based on a man’s silence. You’ll get yourself in trouble fillin’ in blanks that ain’t yours.”
The flame of the oil lamp shifted behind its glass, throwing a soft tremble across the wall. “You got dreams. Hopes. You want your own shop right?”
Annie’s chin lifted with a defiant certainty. “Yes ma’am.”
“Good. Don’t you put that on hold for him, or any man. If he really likes you, he won’t keep you from it.” Her voice got lower, like she wanted to say something hard but make it sound sweet. “Smoke ain’t a man who say much unless he mean it. But if a man really wants you, he’s gonna spell it out plainly.”
The words moved through Annie slowly, crawling up her spine and down her chest where her heart thumped a little faster. She traced her thumb along the back cover, feeling the grain of the leather beneath her fingertip.
The ceiling creaked softly above them. Another lodger, maybe. Or just the house settling into itself. Crickets chirped low in the grass while the night wrapped around them, fully aware of what truth hid behind her silence. It chose not to soften it.
“I understand,” she finally said, quietly.
“Now gone’ to bed. I know you tired.”
Aunt Della stood. Annie did, too. Aunt Della turned towards the kitchen, then thought better of it and turned to grab Annie’s forearm before she got too far. She grabbed her face gently, staring at Annie with warm brown eyes. “I ain’t sayin’ all this to scare you. I’m sayin’ it ‘cause I love you.”
The tightness in her chest eased a bit. “What were you gonna say, when you stopped yourself?”
Aunt Della’s eyes softened. “It’s not for me to say,” she said softly. “But you’ll find out soon enough.”
She pulled her into a hug then released her. Annie moved slowly towards the staircase, purse slung tightly over her shoulder, sketchbook secured underneath the crook of her arm.
“Goodnight Aunt Della,” she called out.
“Goodnight, Annie.”
Annie started up the stairs. Halfway up she paused, her fingers tightening their grip on the banister. She looked back toward Aunt Della who was halfway to the kitchen.
“Thank you,” she said, just loud enough so she could hear it.
The night was dark and tonight that darkness felt loaded. The sky was bare. No stars, just an endless stretch of shadow that pressed against the windows, barely softened by the faint glow of the waning moon.
Annie laid in her bed just staring. First she counted the cracks in the ceiling. Then she traced the lines on the walls with her eyes.
The words of Aunt Della replayed in her head. That and the feeling that something laid quietly underneath their conversation. Something Aunt Della knew and refused to say.
Two questions came to mind.
What was Aunt Della holding back from telling her?
What made her change her mind?
It took a while for Annie’s eyes to get heavy while her thoughts refused to shut off. Something settled in her bones at that moment.
Somewhere beyond the boarding house, Smoke—Elijah—had come and gone and left something behind. Something more than just a pretty sketchbook and a thoughtful note.
Morning light came soft through the windows, a pale gold that stretched across the floorboards, taking on the pattern of the lace curtains. Annie stood at her dresser with her nightgown hanging off one shoulder, a satin scarf sliding slowly down her braids.
She counted under her breath, the silver coins plunking against the thin metal of the container where she kept her money. It was a tea tin, a small one that smelled like mint no matter how many times she tried to air it out. The last coin clinked against the others in the tin. She closed the top of it, taking a moment to write the total on the back cover of her sketchbook. She kept a running tally there, one that she copied over from a piece of scrap paper she used to keep track of her earnings before last night.
Annie set Smoke’s note on her dresser. She traced her fingers over the words, brushing her hand over his name on the paper. The ink pooled thickest where he dotted his “i,” and when she touched it, it stained the part where flesh met fingernail. Aunt Della’s words from last night crossed her mind as she watched the ink bloom and spread across her fingertip before slowly sinking into the skin.
Crossing the room, she knelt near the loose floorboard in the corner that lifted without a creak. She tucked the tin into the hollow space and started to fit the wood back into place. Then she hesitated. Not because she doubted herself, but because she wanted to imagine what it would be like for a spell. Her own shop. A modest house with blue paint. She’d sell and barter healing herbs and medicines that ward off sickness and bad spirits, the shelves lined top to bottom with jars, vials and bottles of them. A long table, polished smooth by her own hands, would stretch proudly across the front room where she’d serve meals to sharecroppers and passing workers. Dried roots tied in bundles would hang from the rafters in a shed off to the side. People would come to fill their bellies and stay for something more.
That was hers.
Annie left New Orleans before dawn, dust kicking up from the soles of her shoes and darkening the hem of her dress. She kept her money folded small, eyes cast down the way she was told to when she was traveling alone. A few things she held close to her chest— her great-grandmother’s bible, some knick-knacks, and a few letters. A burlap sack hung from her shoulder, holding some other possessions she held dear. An old trunk held the rest.
The Mississippi River laid before her, wide and brown. She boarded a boat with other people heading upriver, women with their satchels, men with their hats pulled low to keep the mosquitos away. Annie hung onto the railings, watching the trees dip their roots in the water, their branches swinging heavily in the wind like they’d seen too much. The depot was next. When she boarded the train, she closed her eyes and said a prayer underneath her breath— one for the journey, one for the destination.
She spent the night in a Colored waiting room with families piled on top of each other and solo travelers with tired eyes wearing all their possessions.
The next day was another train. Cotton fields stretched wide beyond the thick glass of the windows, the grim landscape broken only by oak trees and tiny shacks lined up in a row. They passed by another stretch of land mostly hidden behind the treeline, but she could feel it— water, soil, roots, foundation.
An elderly man, skin the color of pralines, sat on his porch watching the train go by. Striped overalls with the clasps unbuckled, white shirt with the sleeves rolled, straw hat, heavy work boots— but what caught her attention was his eyes. One was completely covered in cataracts. The other one looked sharp enough to hold the sight of four people. The man sucked on a stick of sugarcane while a hound dog sat by his side, tongue out, panting hard under the burn of the Mississippi sun.
Then he was gone.
All that remained were the muted shades of nature as the train trekked through the countryside. No house. No dog. No sugarcane. But Annie could remember every detail, even the dusty blue denim of the man’s overalls. And the expectant look in his eye.
She woke up with a jolt, spine snapping straight where she was slumped over in her seat.
The train cabin was quiet. Most people were asleep, some lingering in the corners, some just starting to wake up. Nighttime was on the horizon. Shades of orange and pink swallowing what was leftover from the day.
“How long I been out?” she asked the woman next to her.
The woman thought for a moment. “Since we got on, I reckon.”
“I been sleep this whole time?”
“Mhmm,” she confirmed. “Must’ve had you a long day…”
“Must’ve…” Annie frowned, rubbing the sleep from her drowsy eyes. She looked out at the land through the thick, cloudy windows of the train cabin, and the land looked back.
Time passed and she still remembered it all. The land. The house. The way the sun slanted just right through the trees. The man. How he looked like he was waiting for something. How real he felt, even after she realized she was dreaming. When she finally pressed the floorboard back into place the room became itself again. A bed. A dresser. An altar. And a young woman kneeling on the floor daydreaming about possibilities.
One state over, the road began to flatten towards Memphis. It was bad in places, rutted deep from wagons, farming equipment, and animal hooves. Dust rose up behind the truck in low brown puffs, sparkling in the light before disappearing up into the trees.
Smoke drove with both hands steady on the wheel. Stack rode beside him, one arm hanging lazily out the window, hat tipped low against the glare.
“So you gon’ tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
Stack sucked his teeth. “Don’t do that.”
Smoke kept driving. Stack waited him out. That was the thing with twins, when one soul splits into two. Silence didn’t work on somebody who already felt it on the inside.
“Annie,” Stack blurted after a while.
Her name shifted something in the cab. Stack could tell by the way Smoke’s eyes narrowed slightly, his hands tightening around the wheel all of a sudden, the leather groaning under the force of his grip.
“What about her?”
Stack barked out a laugh. “So, it’s like that?”
The road curved just ahead of them, pecan trees crowding close to the edge on either side of the road like they were trying to listen in on their conversation.
“I talked to Della,” Smoke admitted. He looked over to Stack, whose smile eased a bit where he sat.
“About?”
Smoke didn’t reply.
Stack sat up fully. Back straight, slouch gone. “For real?”
Smoke shot him a look.
Stack leaned back slightly, studying the side of Smoke’s face. “Damn,” he trailed off. “What she say?”
It was the day before they were set to head to Memphis, and the early evening sun poured molten gold through the back windows, warming the floorboards of Della’s kitchen. Smoke stood in front of the counter watching her slice a batch of onions. Della stood on the other side, her arm moving like the wheels of a locomotive, the movement slow, methodical, and sharp because she’d done this a thousand times.
“I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’,” he said, voice steady.
Della kept her pace, she didn’t slow or stop. “That right?”
“That’s right.”
“This ‘bout my girl?”
“It is.”
Della stopped what she was doing. She wiped the knife off on a kitchen towel, then set it down on the counter.
“I was hopin’ I could court Annie,” Smoke said firmly. “Proper like.”
“What you know about courtin’ a woman proper?” Della asked. She crossed her arms.
Smoke took his lick. He didn’t flinch.
“She ain’t just anybody,” Della said before he could respond.
“I know,” Smoke replied. Something in him leaned forward before his body did. “I wanna do it right. If she’ll have me.”
Della looked over Smoke carefully. For the lie in his eyes. For the joke tugging at the corner of his mouth. For the doubt in his posture. “You talk to her ‘bout this already?”
“Not yet.”
“You need to.”
“I will. Wanted to ask you first.”
She eased her weight off one hip, and put it on the other. “She ain't built for no half steppin’.”
“I don’t do half.”
Della’s eyes narrowed for a second, then relaxed. “That girl want somethin’ of her own,” she said. “Don’t know if she told you that yet.”
“She did.”
“Well.” Her voice came out soft but sharp. “She got powerful hands. Hands that ain’t meant to be locked up under some man’s roof waitin’ for permission. If you wanna court her, you better not try to shrink her.”
“I won’t,” Smoke replied.
Della picked up her knife again. She sliced into an onion slowly, the thin, methodical rhythm of metal hitting wood echoed in the otherwise quiet room.
Lodgers started to walk in from their work shifts, heading to their rooms or back out to the porch where a few of them were squatting over a dice game. A few of them poked their heads into the kitchen to ask about supper.
Smoke hadn’t moved an inch. He waited quietly, letting the silence sit between them, more for him than her.
“You like her,” she said. It wasn’t a question. She didn’t even need to ask. She could see it. Feel it, even.
“Yes ma’am.”
“How much?”
“I care about her. Wanna see her more. Respectfully.”
Della’s nose wrinkled. “You serious?”
“I am,” he said with finality.
Something passed through Della’s eyes as she looked him over carefully, from head to toe. It didn’t feel like judgment. It was something Smoke didn’t have a name for. He raised a brow, a silent question.
“Still seein’ other women?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Ain’t what I heard.”
Confusion. It spread slowly across his face like the petals of a night-blooming flower before turning into something darker. Smoke flexed his hands at his sides before clasping them firmly in front of himself. “What you heard?” he asked, inclining his head.
“Little here, little there,” she admitted. She tilted her head. “May not be loud, but I can hear whispers just fine.”
Smoke’s jaw worked. He shook his head once, firmly. “It ain’t true.”
“It ain’t?”
“I ain’t lyin’,” he stated simply. “Since I started spendin’ more time with Annie, I’ve only been seein’ her.”
“Then why they still talkin’?”
Smoke sighed, running a hand down his face. “I don’t know,” he shrugged.
Della sucked her teeth. She looked away, then looked back. “That don’t answer my question.”
Her eyes got a little sharper, then. Defensive. She folded her arms across her chest, pushing back.
Smoke looked like he was racking his brain for the answer. When it clicked, let out a ragged, frustrated breath through his nose. “I guess, I ain’t really end it the way I should,” he confessed.
Della’s voice went up a whole octave. “You guess?” she asked incredulously.
“How you tryna court Annie, when you can’t even end somethin’ proper? What happened?”
“I stopped reachin’ out,” he explained. “Ain’t seen ‘em, none of that.” He sighed into his words. His voice tight, but firm. “Thought that was it. I moved on, figured they did, too.”
“You figured wrong,” she corrected. “You leave one woman guessin’, don’t come over here askin’ me for permission to leave another one guessin’.”
Smoke nodded, the muscle in his jaw fluttering. “I won't. I’ma clear it up. Before I bring anything to Annie.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Della started.
“Miss Della—” he started.
She searched his eyes. “Elijah,” she said, in a tone that sounded like a warning.
Smoke’s gaze didn’t waver. He looked at her firm, steady, unblinking. “I mean to do right by her. I wouldn’t be askin’ you if I didn’t.”
Della sighed. “Alright.”
Smoke’s face relaxed.
“There’s rules.”
“Okay.”
“Handle that business, first.”
“Trust me, I will,” Smoke said, nodding once.
Della picked her knife back up, turning it sideways so she could start dicing the onions. “Y’all been kissin’?”
He wasn’t about to lie. He didn’t lie anyways, not when it mattered, but especially not to a woman who could put a root on him with one hand, and chop an onion clean down the middle with the other—at the same time. “Yes ma’am,” he admitted.
She didn’t flinch. “That it?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Mhmm,” she muttered. “No funny business in my house,” she warned, pointing the tip of the knife towards him.
“You ain’t gotta worry about that.”
“I know,” she said warmly. “Not with you.”
“Can I leave this for her?”
Smoke held up a thin, black leather covered book.
“What is it?”
His jaw worked. “It's for her drawings,” he said simply. “So she can keep 'em all in one place.”
“I will,” she said. She could feel the tenderness in his words, even though he tried to hide it.
Smoke let out the breath he’d been holding since he walked up the steps of her porch with a gift and a question. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, sweeping the diced onions into a bowl with the edge of her blade. “That girl’s heart is her own. She gotta say yes, first.”
“Smoke.” Stack’s voice came out quiet.
Smoke slowed without thinking. He cursed under his breath, sitting fully forward in his seat.
Up ahead, the road dipped towards a narrow wooden bridge that laid over a stretch of shallow, muddy water. Off to the side, something rose from behind the cotton fields.
Dust. It came from the far side of the bridge, lifting faintly through the trees along with the sound of a mule dragging something through dirt.
Smoke eased the car to a stop beneath the shade just before the bridge. Stack moved from the passenger seat and stalked towards the edge of the field, his body loose in the way men looked when they were prepared not to be. He looked for what didn’t belong while Smoke stayed behind the wheel listening for it.
Wind rustled through the leaves, a dry, papery sound that blew through the acres of cotton plants. Sharecroppers that sang hymns and blues songs as they moved down the line. They picked cotton with tired, calloused hands, the cost of their labor paid in bright red splotches of blood that dripped from their fingers, staining the stark whiteness of the cotton bolls. A vulture circled overhead, then found its prey. It swooped down, its wings spreading menacingly slow as its talons gripped the rung of abandoned machinery.
Stack walked back to the truck with the cautious confidence he carried no matter how many times they’d taken this route. His face didn’t show it, but his eyes stayed sharp. “Just some nigga on a wagon,” he said, waving it off.
Smoke looked back, looked towards his brother, looked towards the bridge, flexed his hands on the wheel, then steadied.
Memphis appeared thirty minutes later.
The city smelled like hot grease and opportunity. The sound of brass instruments hung heavy in the air, cutting through all the cigar smoke and pipe exhaust. A band played on the street once they turned the corner, a crowd of people gathered around them tossing money, dancing, and singing. Vendors lined the streets selling all kinds of treats, both savory and sweet, shouting their prices above all the noise.
There was a lightness here.
But Stack hadn’t spoken since they crossed that bridge.
“Just say it,” Smoke muttered.
“Say what?” He spoke with his usual slick tone, toothpick hanging out the corner of his mouth like he knew something you didn’t.
“Whatever it is.”
Stack grinned. He rolled the toothpick around his mouth. Cleared his throat. “I’m just thinkin’.”
Smoke waited.
He rubbed a hand over his freshly lined up goatee. Smiled again, wider this time, his gold fronts shining in the late afternoon. “You ain’t seen…you know?”
Smoke didn’t even let the question linger in the air. “No.”
Stack didn’t back down. “Last I heard…”
Smoke’s brows pulled together. “It ain’t true,” he said flatly.
“I knew she was full of shit.” He shook his head in disgust. “She gon’ be pissed, though.”
“Who, Annie?”
Stack looked over. “Nah.” He shrugged. “I mean, maybe…” He shook his head again. “I mean...”
“Nigga.”
Beale Street pulsed around them. A saxophone blared loudly on the sidewalk. The sultry voice of a woman floated out from the open door of a juke they passed by.
“Look at my nigga tryna be serious,” Stack teased, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “I mean you was born serious but…”
“Aight….” Smoke mumbled.
“For real," he continued. Voice lighter now, but not unserious. “I’m happy for you brotha.”
Smoke didn’t answer.
Stack leaned back in his seat, arms folded behind his head as the truck slowed in front of The Monarch. The juke joint was already breathing through the walls. Music, laughter, and the smell of fried food spilled out into the street.
“You know she good for you, right?”
Smoke’s eyes cut over.
Stack lifted a hand. “I’m bein’ serious,” he said with a grin.
“I ain’t ask you for all that,” Smoke grumbled. He pulled the brake and cut the engine. “I just need you to be serious ‘bout this business we ‘bout to handle.”
Stack smoothed out his suit jacket before climbing out first. “Nigga, I’m always serious ‘bout—” He cut himself off. His grin widened. “Oh, you really like her huh.”
Smoke stepped out after him, shutting the truck door harder than necessary. “Shut up, Stack.”
Stack only laughed as he headed towards the door of the joint. Smoke followed behind him, both brothers disappearing into the smoky mouth of the juke.
They waited until the boarding house was empty. Breakfast was long over, the kitchen back to the way it looked before the lodgers ran through it in the morning. The floors were swept, shelves dusted, dishes washed, dried, and stacked neatly in the cupboard. Flour dust hid between the cracks of the table no matter how many times it was wiped down, a chipped blue bowl full of onions and garlic hiding most of that. A heavy cast iron pan hung over the stove with something in it that would cook low and slow until supper.
Annie stood in the kitchen with her sleeves rolled past her elbows, wiping down the edge of the table. Aunt Della watched her from across the kitchen, tending an arrangement of calla lilies in a slender glass jar. “Ready?”
Annie looked up from wiping a stubborn corner of the table. “Yes.”
“Nervous?”
Annie rung the rag out, twisting it once and dropping it in the wash basin. “A little.”
The kettle hissed softly behind them, steam reaching up towards the ceiling in white, pillowy puffs. A burst of bright, mid-morning light flooded the room through the curtains, catching the edge of a jar of dried bay leaves that sat near the windowsill and the fur of Felix who was curled up with his paws tucked under him like he was waiting on this exact moment. He purred gently, the sound a sharp contrast to the kettle whose whistle was now piercing the air.
“Come on,” Aunt Della said, leading her towards the lean-to in the backyard.
The space was narrow and dark even though the sun was high, only slivers of light peeking through the cracks in the siding. The shelves held various grooming items needed for a house full of men. Lye soap, oils and tonics, shampoos and aftershave. A galvanized tub sat in the middle of it all. Aunt Della moved two small crates aside in the corner of the room. Annie looked down, her mouth dropping open when she caught the glint of the iron ring hidden between the floorboards.
“Don’t just stand around catching flies,” Aunt Della threw over her shoulder. She was already bending over as quickly as she could for her age, hooking two fingers into the ring and pulling up.
“What’s down there?” She bent down to help her.
“You ‘bout to find out.”
The wood lifted from the floor with a low groan and a whistle of trapped air that escaped like the room was letting out a breath. The smell of something earthy and dark—roots, clay, old wood, and something more sharp—hit them with the first whiff that rose from beneath the ground. Aunt Della lowered herself carefully onto the first step then looked back, a lit oil lamp secure in her hands. “Mind your skirt,” she told Annie. “And close the door behind you.”
Annie gathered the length of her skirt, wrapping it twice around her hand. The stairs creaked beneath her feet, each one more narrow and steep the deeper she moved below the boarding house. The hum of the street disappeared first. Then the sounds of the backyard—chickens, birds, bees and the breeze.
Then the daylight.
Annie paused at the bottom to take in all that she could see from the stretch of Aunt Della’s oil lamp. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crowded with everything from bottles to tins to roots dark and twisted that reached into the soil like fingers.
Aunt Della led her to a door. They had to be underneath the front porch of the house, Annie thought to herself. She unlocked the room, a heavy oak door fitted with two heavy padlocks, and guided them inside.
More shelves.
Glass jars caught the flickering flame of the lamp in dull flashes. They were lined up along the walls, filled with graveyard dust, mandrake, cinquefoil, High John, and camphor. A stack of bones too small for Annie to name. A brown bag of black mustard seeds, blue glass beads, river stones smooth as polished teeth, and an assortment of other things.
Aunt Della set the lamp on a low table in the middle marked with knife nicks and stains like old wounds. On it sat a mortar and pestle, a ledger book with a cracked spine, a fountain pen, three small bowls, and a white candle burned low in its dish.
“This where we gon’ start.”
Annie looked around, wrapping her arms around herself. “This all yours?”
“It’s all mine,” Aunt Della confirmed. “Take a seat.” She gestured for Annie to sit on one of two cushions around the table and moved to one of the shelves. She glanced at a bundle of dried leaves, touching them lightly with two fingers before bringing it back to the table. “Some of this belonged to my mama. Some of it from women I met along the way. Women whose names don’t get spoken much anymore.”
She opened the ledger to a blank page, then pushed it to the corner of the table. “First thing you learn ain’t gon’ be what does what, it’s gon’ be what not to touch.”
Annie’s eyes narrowed.
“There’s stuff that heals and stuff that calls. Calling is where it gets tricky. You can call luck, love, happiness. You can call something darker. Something that settles. Something that unsettles. The thing that gives you mercy can be the same one you beg for mercy. It all depends on which hand holds it.”
Annie absorbed as much as she could while her gaze drifted around the room. This room felt smaller, not because of its size, but because of what it held. Most things felt familiar, a few things did not. It was the few things that didn’t, that unsettled her.
She thought of her grandmother. Of the stool in her apothecary. Sometimes she’d sit there all day, just watching. Reaching for things out of curiosity and being told ‘not yet’ so often that it became part of her rearing.
Aunt Della must have seen something cross her face, because her voice softened. “You know more than you think,” she said.
“Then why do I feel like I don’t know anything…all of a sudden?”
She paused. And then— “Lemme show you.” Aunt Della reached for a jar of something dried and fragrant hidden under a strip of blue fabric. She set it on the table. “Name it.”
Annie tried to peer through the glass. The leaves were green, obviously. Smooth, and curled at the edges, from what she could see. She opened the jar carefully and sniffed the fragrance that wafted through her nose. The smell was earthy. Sharp. “Sage?” she asked.
Aunt Della gave her a look.
“Not sage,” Annie winced.
Aunt Della paused a moment. “You know that ain’t no damn sage.”
Annie brought the jar to her nose again. She took a deeper whiff. It smelled different this time, something warmer and sweeter. Familiar, but not from the kitchen. “Boneset?” she guessed.
“You askin’ or tellin’?”
“Tellin’,” she said, twisting the lid closed and setting the jar down.
Aunt Della waited a moment for Annie to second guess herself. She didn’t. “There she is.”
Annie smiled despite herself.
“What’s it for?”
“Fevers and aches,” Annie began. “Unless you take too much.”
Aunt Della hummed as she shuffled through the jars, vials, and pouches littered on the shelves. “Every living thing got a spirit,” she started. “It had a spirit ‘fore it had a name.” She continued on. “Its smell will tell you its name. But its spirit, that’ll tell you what it wants.” She looked at Annie closely, eyes narrowing. “This,” she tapped her temple, “is how you learn the spirit of a thing.”
She reached behind her without looking, pulled another jar down, and set it on the table in front of Annie. “Name it.”
They went on like that for a while, one jar after another. Some Annie knew right away, some she hesitated on, and some that made her feel straight foolish when Aunt Della corrected her.
“Don’t just guess ‘cause you wanna be right.”
“I wasn’t!”
“You was.”
Annie huffed softly, frustrated.
“You gotta learn how to trust yourself, baby. Like when you close your eyes to draw.”
Aunt Della turned her back to the shelf, her eyes sweeping over her collection until she landed on a small bundle wrapped in red thread. She placed it on the table without a word.
“Gon’ head. Pick it up,” she insisted.
Annie hesitated at first. Her fingers wrapped around it gently, something tightening low in her belly once it touched her palm. Whatever was inside the cloth was hidden, but she could feel the weight of what she held in her hands.
“What?” Aunt Della challenged her. “Tell me how it feels.”
Annie rubbed her thumb along the fabric. “This one feels…like it wanna be left alone,” she said breathily.
The flame of the oil lamp that sat on the low table shifted, flickering once then standing still—but it wasn’t from any wind.
There was no wind down here.
Just darkness, soil, and walls that held their breath like lungs.
Aunt Della watched her for a moment, then reached out and took it from her. Annie’s hands felt lighter instantly.
“What was that?” Annie’s eyes lifted, following the bundle.
“Not today.”
“Really?”
“I said,” Della repeated. “Not today.” She sat back down. “Lesson number two. Curiosity don’t mean permission.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Power ain’t always in what you can hold. Sometimes it lies in what you know to leave alone when you ain’t ready. When it ain’t ready.”
She looked up to the ceiling. “They know?”
Aunt Della snorted. “Men don’t notice half of what’s goin’ on.”
Annie laughed and Aunt Della smiled back, pulling the ledger towards the edge of the table. The pages were filled with names, dates, ingredients, measurements, and notes. Some in Aunt Della’s hand, others in foreign script. Most of the entries were normal: fever, toothache, bad blood, sleeplessness. Others were less common: keep someone away, restore peace to a home, stop a tongue from speaking ill, return what was sent. Annie traced a line without touching it. Her pulse felt different as her finger hovered over the script. Slower, heavier, like something had reached up and guided her hand.
Aunt Della flipped to the next page of the ledger, tapping a blank line on the page once with her finger. “When you open a door with your name on it, you better know what you sellin’. You ain’t just sellin’ an herb. Ain’t just sellin’ a bottle. You sellin’ a promise.”
“A promise?”
“When a woman’s hurt and she comes to you for help…she ain’t just lookin’ to buy a root. She’s lookin’ to buy trust. Silence. The hope that somebody knows what to do with what she can’t carry alone anymore.”
Annie thought about the women slipping through her grandmother’s door. Their faces covered with veils, hands holding tight onto coins, voices just above a whisper. She drew them sometimes while she sat in the corner on that stool—not just their faces, but the changes. How they came and how they left.
Aunt Della pushed the pen, ink, and the ledger on the table right in front of Annie. “Write today’s date.”
le 31 octobre 1919
Annie wrote it in her best script. When she put the pen down she felt different somehow, like she had crossed a threshold she didn’t even know was there.
Aunt Della moved the ledger away to let the ink dry and the moment settle. Then she stood, took down another jar from the shelves, popped off the lid, and set it in front of her.
“Name it.”
Annie lifted the jar to her nose, but this time she didn’t rush.
She smelled first.
Looked second.
And listened to whatever quiet thing inside her answered third.
It took Smoke three attempts to light his cigarette.
It was later that same evening. He stood on the second-floor balcony of the Greenwood House. It sat on the corner of Hernando and Beale; the place he and Stack stayed every time they came down to Memphis. The clink of utensils and the hearty smell of andouille sausage and gumbo drifted out the open windows of the porch and floated upward to where he stood outside, making his stomach twist with hunger.
An older woman named Mrs. Johnson owned the place and knew them well, often turning a blind eye to whatever they (Stack) got up to when they came down for business.
“This ain’t no whorehouse! You want a whorehouse, there's plenty of them down the street! Tryna soil my good furniture. The sheets is one thing, but I catch one of them hussies on one of my couches, I’ll put you out on ya ass in the middle of the night with just ya draws on!”
Smoke held a lighter in one hand, an unlit cigarette in the other, rolled up tight with the special New Orleans blend of tobacco laced with a little grass that he got from Bo every other week.
His thumb slipped on the spark wheel on his first try.
His hand shook suddenly on the second.
He gripped the base harder, clenching his teeth on the third try. An eruption of flint and fuel sparked a flame that burned bright and angry against the setting Memphis sun and the backdrop of Beale Street.
Smoke brought the cigarette to his mouth, its red ember heating the inside of the palm.
He exhaled with relief.
It felt like a betrayal. That a white man’s war was the reason his hands had a mind of their own sometimes. The lack of control that had him shook. Angry.
He took another drag to calm his nerves, his thoughts searching for somewhere soft to land.
Annie.
He’d seen her walk into some shop on Issaquena a few weeks back. Long blue dress with buttons down the middle. Curved just right over her hips and thighs. Like it was painted on.
Smoke took another hit, blood sparking heavy with desire. He let the smoke filter through his nostrils when he exhaled. He inhaled it back through his nose, letting the fumes settle deep and spicy in his chest.
He had to think about something safer.
Like lips or eyes.
But Annie’s lips? And Annie’s eyes?
Her lips were dangerous. Soft, fluffy, inviting. Sweet.
He thought about how his name slipped out of them like it was the best thing she ever tasted.
“Smoke,” she’d drawl. It melted on the tip of her tongue like a scoop of her favorite ice cream from downtown, her Louisiana lilt drawing out the o, making her lips form a perfect circle like she was—
“You good?”
The sound of familiar steps made him turn his head to the side.
It was Stack.
“Yeah,” Smoke said, flexing his hands at his sides. “Food ready yet?”
”Just about. She puttin’ dishes out and shit.” Stack turned to walk away. Then he paused. Turned back. “She made sweet potato pie, too.”
Smoke snuffed out his cigarette and hurried his ass downstairs.
One Week Later…
It was lunch hour. The dining area at Blackbird was packed full of hungry customers, unbridled laughter, and the smell of frying oil. Annie weaved expertly through the tables and around the booths like she belonged there. Since she started working there, she’d already found her own rhythm even though she only worked a few times a week. She was keeping up with the seasoned waitresses, the ones who didn’t write orders down and could balance two serving trays and a pot of coffee with one hand. She was doing so well that even Mr. Hightower was impressed with how she held her own, even with the sudden increase of diners from out of town.
Especially people’s relatives from up north.
There wasn’t a family in Clarksdale who didn’t have somebody who went north for better opportunities, higher wages, and more or less, more freedom. Annie heard the stories. Walk off a train, walk into a stockroom or a shipyard and find work that pays four times what you’d earn in the fields or as a domestic down south.
And now she was looking at them sitting in the booths, laughing with their friends and family while showing off their fancy cars, shiny shoes, and new clothing.
That ‘Northern’ polish.
Stack had that type of polish. Always kept a waistcoat. Always wore real gold—chains, pocket watch, gold fronts. Shoes always shined like they were polished by the sun.
Smoke didn’t dress like his brother, but he had a way about him too. His clothes weren’t flashy, but they were clean. Neat. He kept a wristwatch instead of a pocket one. One with a black leather strap, smooth bezel, and a nice engraving carved on the back. But he still had a ruggedness about him that she liked...a lot.
She wondered if their “travels” ever took them up north. Pittsburgh, Detroit, Chicago. She knew they’d been to New York. Smoke told her that. Spent some time in Harlem staying with Aunt Della’s son before they shipped off to war.
Annie didn’t know exactly what they got up to when they went out of town, but she wasn’t wet behind the ears. She didn’t need all the details to know the shape of danger. The town knew what the SmokeStack twins were; they earned those names here. Even if the town knew to not go into detail about what they did to earn them. But there were rumors.
Especially about the women they dealt with.
Stack was the womanizer. Annie knew that the minute she first met him at the train station. He had a mouth so slick, he could make a woman apologize to him for breaking her own heart. Smoke was a little different. Quieter about his, at least. But quieter didn't mean it ain’t exist. Where Stack left noise, Smoke left silence. The type of silence that was hard to measure sometimes. And with silence came people trying to fill that empty space with their own version of the truth. So they whispered.
“So-and-so said…but you ain’t heard it from me.”
“He don’t talk as much as Stack, but he ain’t no saint.”
Aunt Della’s words came to mind. About things being spelled out plain and not assuming attention meant intention. But Annie wasn’t so sure if it was a warning, or just plain words of wisdom.
Was she just another woman in a line of quiet whispers?
“Annie!” It was Mr. Hightower.
She looked up.
“You been wipin’ the same spot for a minute, now.”
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head a little, plopping the rag in the bucket.
“I need you to dump the coffee in the back please,” he requested, walking off.
Annie sighed. “Yes, sir.”
She made her way to the back, coffee pots in one hand and a bucket of hot, soapy water in the other. She set the bucket by the back door and walked outside.
The back alley smelled like cigarettes and old food.
Annie’s nose wrinkled as she walked over to the trash receptacles before getting startled by a raccoon that darted out from under one of the trash bags. She managed to dump the coffee out without splashing it all over her shoes. The cool, brown liquid pooled on the ground for a minute before seeping into the dirt, the coffee grounds scattering across the wet surface like ash.
Fourth Street was alive. Wagons, voices, music, smoke drifting up from cigarettes and woodstoves. Smoke had finished one last piece of business near Fourth Street. He stepped out of the back room of a building and onto the street, money folded tight in his pocket, hat sitting low on his head. He stepped off the curb and crossed the street, slowing right in front of Blackbird Cafe. He stopped. Looked through the windows casually, trying to be subtle. He wasn’t. The writing and the glare from the sun made it hard to see, but he found her instantly.
Annie was behind the counter, but her head turned towards the kitchen. Probably listening to one of the cooks talking shit from the back like they always did. He saw her shoulders shake and her head dip forward like she was laughing at something one of them said. But when she turned back around, the smile on her face broke the room open.
Something struck him low in the chest. A possessive tightening pull on his ribs. Annie’s eyes shifted. She looked around the restaurant. Through the other waitresses that darted around her, through the people in the dining area. They kept on moving until they finally found him.
Her face went blank for a second and he thought his chest would cave in. Then it softened, then the corner of her mouth lifted slowly. Just for him. That was enough for him to walk inside before he even realized what he was doing.
The cafe got quieter when he walked in. Conversations lulled, laughter turned into low chuckles that turned into throats clearing. Men nodded to him. Either out of respect, fear, or something else. Smoke took a seat at the counter and watched as Annie made her way over with a coffee pot in her hand.
“Afternoon,” she said softly.
“Afternoon.”
“You hungry?”
“Coffee’s fine.”
She took a mug from the shelf behind the counter, placed it in front of him, and started pouring. The coffee spilled into the cup dark and hot, steam rising off the top before dissolving into the air like the things left unspoken between them.
Smoke wrapped his hands around the mug and took a sip. Warmth settled into his palms and spread throughout his chest. And it wasn’t from the coffee. “Thank you,” he said, voice low.
“My pleasure,” Annie giggled. “How was your trip?”
“Long.”
“That it?”
“Mostly.”
Annie didn’t push. She studied him for a second, topping off his coffee and wiping down the countertop while the diners went back to their own conversations and meals. She thought about saying more. She decided not to. It was too quiet now. Too many ears perked up. She reached behind the counter again, this time to pull out a clean napkin.
“Thank you,” she said as she set the napkin down next to his mug.
“For what?” His eyebrows pulled together.
“The sketchbook,” Annie said incredulously, head cocked to the side.
Smoke’s mouth twitched. “You welcome.”
“Mhmm.” She rolled her eyes playfully.
“You been good?” His voice was rough when he asked that question.
She tapped her fingers slowly on the counter as he set his mug down. Annie leaned forward on her hands. Smoke leaned forward on his arms. Annie looked at Smoke. Smoke looked at Annie.
“Been great,” she said finally. Her lips were pursed in that playful way he liked. “You?”
Smoke’s eyes moved over what he could see of her from his seat at the counter. Slowly.
“Better now.”
She raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”
“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t,” he said casually. He kept his eyes on hers.
Her mouth dropped open, whatever she was fixing to say right on the tip of her tongue when Sheila’s voice from the kitchen made it snap shut.
“Table six, order up!” Followed by two dings.
Annie turned around, quickly sliding the plates of hot food from the pass-through window onto her serving tray. She moved from behind the counter to a table with hot food and a smile brighter than the sun reflecting off the windows. Smoke watched her working, stealing glances over the rim of his mug. Every so often while she was taking an order, or refilling a coffee, she’d look over at him like she could feel his eyes on her, then quickly look away. When it started to get busier and she couldn’t steal a look at him, he felt something. Like a dull ache.
He stood as Annie finally circled back to where he was sitting, stretching his arms above his head.
“You leavin’?”
Smoke nodded. “Got some business to handle.”
He put his money on the counter, their hands meeting when she reached for it before he had pulled his hand back. The contact made them both still. Their index fingers brushed against each other where they touched for a second before pulling away completely. Their eyes met again.
“I’ll see you,” Smoke said.
“Okay,” she replied. It was just above a whisper.
He wasn’t finished. “Soon.”
Their eyes held, the contact lingering for a moment like they both had something they wanted to say but knew it wasn’t the moment.
Smoke slipped away, steps light even though he carried weight. Annie watched the door swing shut behind him, letting in a flash of air and street noise before locking it out again. She stood behind the counter still, fingers resting on the money he’d left on the table, feeling the ghost of where his finger rubbed the side of hers. She stood there for a second, letting it sink in. Two seconds went by, then three. Then she snapped out of it, pulling herself back into what she was there for— the money.
“Felicia!” Annie called for her as she carried a tray over her shoulder. “Table four said they want two more sodas!”
“Got it,” Felicia huffed.
The bell above the door rang again. Annie moved quickly, sat the diners at a table, pulled out her pen and pad. She gave recommendations, talked up the specials. She even took on an extra table—a party of six that started off with a round of drinks.
She kept herself busy. There was no such thing as a quiet moment during a lunch rush. But every time she looked out into the street, she thought of him. Coming through like he owned the place. Leaving something behind every time he walked out.
—
Smoke was far enough away that he couldn’t see her clearly through the window anymore. Just movement and light and the shape of her passing between the tables. Blackbird stayed loud and alive behind him. Annie’s world now. Part of it, anyway. The more Smoke saw her, the more he wanted to be that other part. Not keep her waiting. Not tuck her away.
Della was right. Just wanting her wasn’t enough. Other men wanted her, too. He saw the way their gaze would follow her around as she moved around the cafe…until they saw him. He heard about the one at the theater. And the preacher. But he knew she needed to hear it from him soon.
When they stared at each other before he left Blackbird, the look in her eyes held a question. One he didn’t have to ask to know. He knew one thing, he was gonna set shit straight before she was left guessing what kind of man had walked into her life.
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