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Ace

It only takes a second for shit to go left.

One minute, everything is rolling along on the job site. Machines humming, metal clanging, team vibing. Then you hear a sound you’ll never forget. A sickening crack, followed by a hollow thud.

Somebody hit the ground.

I whip my head around, my stomach sinking before my eyes can even confirm it.

It’s Jamal.

He’s crumpled on the ground at the base of the eastern side of the bridge, his limbs twisted at angles they shouldn’t be. The boom lift looms high above him, its arm still extended.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I’m already running, pushing past his stunned team members, most of whom are frozen in place. “Call 911!” I yell at nobody in particular. A few guys fumble for their phones while I kneel beside Jamal, barely registering the sharp pebbles digging into my skin through my pants.

“Jamal.” My voice is firm even though I’m nervous. “Can you hear me?”

He lets out a low groan. He’s weak, but he’s alive.

“Don’t move, man. Stay still. They’re on the way.”

I know not to move him, but my hands still hover over him, desperate to find a purpose. His face is paler now. His breathing’s shallow. Blood leaks out of his hard hat, which is still on. But his leg…Jesus. It’s bent at the most unnatural angle possible.

A siren wails in the distance, and relief courses through my veins. I glance up to find the crew standing around us, some staring, some whispering, others pacing. A couple of them look at me, waiting for a directive. They know how this works, but they’re looking for me to call it.

“Shut it down.” I sound robotic, not at all like myself. “Everybody off the equipment. Right now.”

My order kicks them into gear. Machines wind down. I hear the hydraulic hiss of the lift releasing. The metal clangs go silent as work grinds to a halt.

Jamal coughs, then winces.

“You’re okay,” I say. “Stay with me, J.”

The ambulance pulls up, lights flashing. I stand as the paramedics rush over. One checks Jamal’s vitals while the other barks out questions.

“Name?”

“Jamal Searcy. He’s twenty-eight.”

“Fall height?”

I glance up. “Gotta be about twenty feet.”

The medics exchange a look, then move quickly. They brace his neck, then the female medic takes a pair of scissors out of her kit and cuts straight up his pant leg.

I don’t look directly at it, but they examine it closely. “Closed break, possible tibia and fibula,” the male medic mutters. “Good distal pulse.”

She grabs a splint, and they make quick work of stabilizing Jamal’s leg. He moans in agony until she injects him with something. They transfer him carefully onto a stretcher, then smoothly load him inside the back of the ambulance.

I’m relieved.

For the moment, at least.

I turn to Taye. “Go in my trailer and find Jamal’s emergency contact form.”

He nods and takes off running as I turn back to my crew.

“We gotta do this by the book,” I say. “Everybody who saw anything, stick around. We’ll do witness statements, and then I’m sending you on your way. The rest of y’all, go home. Site is shut down until further notice.”

Nobody argues. They know what happens next.

I pull out my phone and call the safety office, then the firm’s compliance officer. OSHA’s about to be on our ass. I’m looking at a safety review, an accident investigation, and an ass load of paperwork.

I scrub a hand down my face, feeling exhausted already. But this is the job. This is being the lead.

Taye returns with the contact sheet. I take it back to my trailer, dialing on the way, hoping somebody picks up.

“Hello?” It’s a woman’s voice.

“Is this Monique?”

“Yes…”

“This is Ace Taylor. Jamal’s team lead.”

There’s a beat of silence before she speaks again, her voice much higher. “What happened?”

I exhale. No easy way to say it so I just blurt it out. “Jamal fell at the site. He—“

“Oh my God!” she gasps. “Is he—“

“He’s alive,” I rush out. “He’s on the way to the hospital now. They’re taking him to Emory.”

More silence, this time fraught with emotion. When she finally speaks again, her voice trembles. “How bad is it?”

“I’m pretty sure his leg is broken.” I don’t mention the head wound. “He was awake when he went into the ambulance.”

She blows out a shaky breath. “That’s good. That’s good.” She’s moving around. “I’m leaving now.”

“I’ll meet you up there,” I tell her. “See you soon.”

Turns out, I lied. Soon turned into three hours. The interviews took up more time than I expected.

It’s dark when I finally make it to the hospital, but that’s just outside. The moment I enter, my mood goes even darker as memories flood my mind.

I’m regretting coming here.

But I push through the antiseptic tang, harsh fluorescent lighting, doctors and nursing whizzing by—all reminders of that day—and make my way to the waiting area.

“Jamal Searcy’s room?” I say to the nurse on duty.

“Ace?”

I turn to the voice behind me. I don’t know Monique, but I figure this must be her by the red-rimmed eyes and the dried mascara streaks on her face.

“Jamal’s wife?”

She nods. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.” She’s pretty. “I’m sorry it had to be like this.”

“Same. You wanna see him?”

She grabs my arm, not waiting for my answer.

She leads me down the hallway, holding onto me like I’m a source of strength and not some strange man she just met.

If she knew my track record with grieving women in hospitals, she probably wouldn’t be so keen.

We reach the door. Jamal is lying in bed, his leg propped up in a thick cast, a bandage wrapped around his head. He looks exhausted, but when he sees me, he sits up a little straighter and nods upward at me like everything is cool. Showing no weakness, like we’re taught to do.

I approach the bed, reaching out to dap him up. After, Monique moves past me to hug him and kiss his cheek.

“Are you hungry?” she asks softly.

“I told you I’m okay,” he says. “Quit fussing over me.”

“Impossible,” she says, smiling so brightly, I’m sure he feels no pain when he looks at her. “Tell me what you need, baby.”

His whole face softens, all the faux protest gone. “I’m alright. Long as you’re here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

I feel like I’m peeking through their bedroom window, so I take a few steps back, giving them space. I watch as her hands flutter over him like she’s afraid to touch, scared she’ll hurt him, but needing to feel him all the same. She leans over, pressing a kiss to his forehead, whispering something I can’t hear. The way she looks at him—like there’s nobody else in the world and nowhere else she’d rather be—twists like a knife in my chest.

I want that.

And I want to give that.

Love that doesn’t waiver. Love that stays, whether you’re on a high or at your lowest low.

And I lowkey have somebody already.

She takes care of me in her own way. She damn sure doesn’t waiver. The way she goes about it might be unorthodox, but that woman is ten toes down for me. That’s one thing I know for sure.

I also know she still holds back.

Even when she clings to me, gives herself to me, there’s a wall up. She still doesn’t feel completely safe with me.

I guess it makes sense. I broke up with her. Blocked her. Damn near moved her in. But I haven’t committed to her. She knows I’m not all in, so she acts accordingly.

I imagine being the object of her love is even more intense when she’s all in.

“Aye.”

Jamal pulls me out of my thoughts.

“You know I’m finna milk this shit for all the time off I can get.”

That gets a laugh out of me. “Do you, bruh. I ain’t no snitch.”

I stay for a little while longer, leaving with the feeling that Jamal will be alright. Monique is a good woman. She loves that man’s dirty drawers. What else does he need?

I, on the other hand, have a fine ass, devoted, loyal woman in my house, and I’m tripping over her being a little OD sometimes.

On my way out, I stop by the gift shop and spend way too much fucking money on flowers. In the car, I start the engine, but I don’t move. I’m still too deep in thought. Too fucking pussy to make a move.

So I make one.

“Hey, Ace.”

Mama’s voice is slurred. I check the clock; she’s probably on her third of fourth glass of Bordeaux by now.

“Hey. We need to talk.”

“Okay. Go ahead.”

“Raya showed me the texts.”

She’s quiet for a while. “What texts?”

“The texts you sent.”

“To who?”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “You really gonna act like you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“Honey, I truly have no clue.”

I don’t feel like arguing. I know why I called, and what I have to do.

“The White House thing…that’s off.”

“They canceled it?”

“You’re not invited anymore.”

She’s silent for a while. “I’m confused,” she says. “And what does your little girlfriend have to do with anything?”

“Mama…” I can’t tell the woman who raised me not to piss me off, so I take a few deep breaths instead. “Don’t deny it. I read every word you said. That she ain’t good enough. That I’ve dated doctors, lawyers, women who fit into the family.”

“That’s all true, sweetheart. But I don’t know anything about any text messages.”

I close my eyes, letting my head fall back onto my seat. The denial isn’t even vehement. Whether she did it or not, she should be more invested in the outcome.

Per usual, she just doesn’t give a fuck.

“I’m gonna go.”

She sighs dramatically. “You know, I’ve always thought this. I told your daddy all the time, but I never told you. Boy, you are so book smart, but you don’t have a lick of common sense.”

I shake my head. “You’ve told me that many times.”

“Well, good,” she says. “Obviously I didn’t say it enough.”

“Whatever.”

“Oh, you got an attitude?”

I blow out a breath. “My bad.”

“Yes it is.” She pauses, presumably to take a sip. “It pains me to watch this, I tell you that much. No…no pussy is worth all this,” she says like she’s spitting the word out.

My prim and proper mother sounded so absurd, I burst out laughing. She doesn’t laugh with me, though. It sounds like she slams her glass on the table.

“You think this is funny?”

I let out a breath, my amusement dying fast. “I think it’s crazy that you’re talking to me like this.”

She clicks her tongue. “I’m your mother, Ace. I don’t have to sugarcoat things for you. I see what’s happening, and I refuse to sit back and act like it’s normal.”

I rub a hand down my face. “You can’t stand to see my happy, can you?”

“Happy?” This time, she laughs. “You aren’t happy. You’re blind.”

She says it decisively, like she knows me better than I know myself. But for the first time in my life, I don’t think she does.

“We ain’t gon’ see eye to eye on this, so let’s just drop it.”

“Yes. Let’s. Goodbye .”

It feels loud when the line goes dead, but it’s probably just my state of mind.

Part of me is pissed, but the other part of me is relieved.