Page 19

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“Zaire in the back?” Aku asked one of the production assistants, who looked like he wanted to melt just from being in her presence.

She’d just gotten there and was already in work mode.

“Y-yea, they setting up the hoop shot now. He’s already in wardrobe.”

Niah smirked at how awestruck Zaire’s assistant got whenever Aku showed up. After working with her for the past month, you’d think he was used to it by now.

They were in Crescent Park at the last shoot for Zaire’s Nike campaign and Aku kept looking around to see if she saw Malik.

It had been a week since the brunch fiasco and Aku thought about him regularly. However, she wasn’t too pressed to reach out to him. She’d come to terms with her fate that love just wasn’t in the cards for her, at the moment, and she was okay with that.

“Good,” Aku said, sliding past him and adjusting the clips on her stylist belt. “Tell ‘em I’m on deck.” “Niah, did you make sure his sweats were steamed and not pressed?”

“Yes,” Niah walked fast behind Aku. She’d been at the shoot for the last hour making sure all the pieces were there.

Thanks,” Aku hummed, pulling her phone from the front pocket of her apron to respond to Noodle. They were still in recovery mode from the brunch incident.

Once Malik left, Bu had some strong words for her and Little Lunar was pissed to.

Noodle went off on her new husband and shut everything down ’cause Aku was free to date whoever she wanted and no color came before their family.

Safe to say, Bu was now on board. Too bad, Aku and Malik had fizzled out before they could really ignite a match.

Aku moved like water—flowing and untouchable, her phone in one hand and iced matcha in the other.

Crescent Park wasn’t her turf, but she walked through it with grace every time she found herself there.

French taught her she was good on any boulevard and if her daddy said it, it was facts.

That and she had a je ne sais quoi about herself that made people stop and stare or open doors because she deserved it.

It was her energy. It was how she entered a room without asking for permission and made it hers anyway.

Aku personified that.

The shoot was in full swing now. A local basketball court had been dusted with paint from the last community mural project.

Kids peeked through the fence. Crescent babies were everywhere, proud and present.

Just black and beautiful, the way they were intended to be viewed.

Aku loved being black and styling black people.

In the middle of it all…was Zaire, polished and always fine, but not even pretending to flirt this time.

Aku welcomed that, since she wasn’t currently in the head space for it.

“Be still,” Aku mumbled through pursed lips.

“Don’t worry, I heard,” he said with a laugh as she fussed at him for wrinkling the neckline of the Nike thermal.

“Heard what?”

“That Key is sweet on you now.” He said it like it wasn’t news. Like it was just part of the neighborhood gossip rotation. “The streets still talk. And even though I’m a golfing nigga now, I’m still a Crescent baby.”

Aku smirked but didn’t answer. She just patted his shoulder and signaled for the photographer to start rolling.

Because yeah…she’d been looking for Malik..had been since the second she pulled up on the block.

But he wasn’t there.

She didn’t see his car parked in front of his house, hadn’t heard the kids call his name.

Not in the crowd, not in the cut, not watching from the side like he always did.

Malik’s presence wasn’t felt in Crescent when she strolled on the scene.

It felt so long ago since his eyes cut through Bu like thunder, and his voice cracked from yelling and years of watching people die over colors and corners.

She ain’t heard from him since.

And she had vowed—long before Crescent Park, long before Key—that she would never run behind a man again.

Not when she was raised by a daddy who never let her wonder if she was worth chasing.

Not when she’d been loved right and loud by a mama who prayed over her baby’s heart every morning before sunrise.

So no…she wasn’t pressed.

But dammit if she didn’t keep glancing toward the alley every other minute anyway.

Still, she continued working ‘cause Black women do that with hearts aching and edges sweated out. No matter what, they show up and make magic happen.

“I don’t want the jersey tucked in,” she told the PA. “Let it hang, like he just came off a street run. Shoes unlaced, but not messy. Like he’s fly on accident.”

Zaire stepped back in front of the lens, and she coached him between sips of her drink, snapping gum and tossing affirmations like glitter.

“That’s it. Yeah, give ‘em that ‘I might’ve just dropped 30 but I still smell like good cologne’ look.”

Behind her, a little girl tapped her shoulder shyly, couldn’t be more than ten. “Are you the girl who styles famous people?”

Aku lowered her shades and looked at her. “I’m the girl who makes people feel famous.”

The girl giggled and ran back to her Mama, who mouthed a “thank you.”

And right there, with the sun bouncing off her cheekbones and gold rings on every other finger, Aku stood tall in her magic. Her heart might’ve been sore, but her spirit was intact.

Women like her weren’t made of fairy dust and fragile dreams. She was made of steel wrapped in honey. A walking contradiction of soft and savage.

She didn’t need Malik to feel whole.

But God… she wanted him for a reason she couldn’t verbalize. Simply put, she liked him. He reminded her of her own daddy—handsomely wrapped in turmoil, warm hugs, gentle hood lingo, and the spark of black boy joy they didn’t know they possessed.

Still, she had work to do.

With a deep sigh and one last look around the neighborhood, Aku got back to the job she loved.

By the time the sun started slipping low behind the row of palm trees, Crescent Park had turned into a block party.

The Nike team had wrapped the last shot, Zaire hit every angle with precision, and Aku’s styling had him looking like a streetwear God. Not too polished - but just right…like the hood was still in him, but the world was finally catching up.

“I told you,” Zaire said, dapping up a group of old heads sitting on fold-up chairs in their yards. “Crescent made me.”

And Crescent showed out for him. The Nike team was thrilled at how diverse and inclusive this would make them look. With Zaire being the talk of the golfing world, they wanted first dibs on him.

Someone pulled out big speakers. An old head slid up with crates of vinyl and his own little setup.

Kids were running around with neon blue snow cones.

Aunties were carrying foil pans of hot links and macaroni pie like all this had been planned months ago, but you could tell they all just pulled something together last minute.

Teen girls started slow wining barefoot in the grass with lashes long enough to fan butterflies.

And there was Aku…

Still in her work clothes—shorts and a Nike windbreaker knotted at the waist. Her bob had slight curls in them this time, bouncing like the bass in the music.

“You tryna leave?” Niah asked, sipping on a fruit punch freeze cup, her edges frizzed from the heat.

“I was,” Aku said, then paused as Zaire’s assistant passed her a plate of barbecue straight off the grill. “But…”

Zaire leaned over her shoulder grinning, grill showing. “C’mon, stylist of the year. You ain’t got nowhere better to be. We celebratin’ us tonight.”

Could she say no to that and a plate of food that had her mouth watering?

“I can kick it for a lil while,” she agreed, biting into a sausage.

Niah wanted to jump for joy but kept it at bay.

Flags waved, but not in warning - just pride.

Turf claimed not by war, but by heritage.

By kids who grew up watching their older cousins get jumped in and prayed their own route would be different.

Crescent Park wasn’t perfect, but it was home to so many.

A block full of blue hearts and brown skin, where everybody knew whose mama sold the best funnel cakes, and who was most likely to make it out.

Today, Zaire was proof that making it, didn’t mean forgetting.

When KenTheMan blasted from the speakers, Aku and all the girls in the neighborhood started rapping.

With her hands on her knees, Aku rolled her body to the ground. “I ain’t never met nobody that ain’t crazy ‘bout me…I don’t get my way, swear to God it ain’t gon’ work.”

The young girls started screaming when they saw Aku could really dance. She cut up in that yard, without missing a beat.

Her little booty moved effortlessly, and she popped her body nonstop. It had been so long since she had a good time. Her girls were married and miles away now, so she hadn’t really been going out like that. Plus, business had picked up for her drastically, leaving her too tired to go out much.

Aku rapped word for word with each song the DJ played. It was all female rappers and she was in heaven. It was like they knew she needed the reminder that she was truly that girl living out her dreams. It was like a wakeup call, ‘cause Aku had clearly lost herself in the fairytales.

When it came to female rappers, she was in heaven. She loved when women popped their shit and stayed on niggas necks.

“Aye!” One or a few of the girls hyped her up, getting low with her.

They weren’t in competition, really just a group of girls dancing and having fun.

Aku danced with all the girls from earlier—the ones who stared at her with wide eyes like she was made of stardust. She dropped low when the beat told her to, twerking in the middle of a circle while everyone hyped her up like she was one of their own.

“She actin’ bad for real!” somebody yelled.