Page 18 of Gotta Jones For Ya

“Yooo, this food hittin’!”

Knuck’s cousin, Wayne, hollered from the corner, mouth full of mac and cheese and barbecue-glazed rib meat as he held up his plate like a trophy.

“Who made these damn greens? They taste like Jesus blessed the pot.”

“Of course it is, fool!”

Keema popped off from the buffet table, loading her paper plate like the food was about to vanish.

“You think my brother was gon’ let his son’s shower have gas station wings and bagged salad?”

She smacked her lips, reaching for another deviled egg like it owed her money.

I still couldn’t believe I was somebody’s baby mama.

And not just anybody’s.

Knuck bulldozed his way into my life, and at eight months pregnant, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

He watched me fall asleep with one hand on my stomach every night now, like he was guarding his legacy.

A blur of cravings and chaos.

Arguments and forehead kisses.

Swollen feet, swollen emotions, and swollen pride every time I caught Knuck talking to my belly like he was raising a little prince through the womb.

We didn’t have a blueprint. Just us. Just vibes and hormones, thug passion, trial and error. But we were figuring it out.

Finding out I was pregnant wasn’t magical or cute or anything like the TikToks made it look.

I had just finished a full set on one of my regulars when the smell of her damn seafood boil leftovers had my stomach somersaulting out of nowhere.

I barely made it to the bathroom before I was bent over next to the toilet, throwing up so hard I saw stars.

“Girl, you okay?”

my client called from the door, blinking fast because her lashes were still setting.

I waved her off, swiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and whispered, “I’m good,”

even though I knew I wasn’t.

After I finished up her lashes, I drove to Walgreens on autopilot and bought a pregnancy test. Three bold ass lines stared back at me like you knew what you was doing when you let that man nut in you every damn day, now look.

I sat on the toilet, crying. I didn’t even realize I was calling Knuck until the phone was already ringing, my hand shaking so bad I damn near dropped it. picked up FaceTime quickly.

“Aye, baby. You good?”

I could hear voices in the background and see papers shuffling. His tone dropped low and serious, like he was already halfway out of the building.

“Ny, what’s wrong? Why you cryin’?”

My throat closed. The words wouldn’t come.

“Nyomi.”

His voice sharpened.

“Who the fuck made you cry? Say the word and I’m on my way.”

I gasped for breath.

“It’s not—it’s not that. I just…”

“Where you at? At the studio?”

“Yeah… just… give me a minute.”

I pressed a shaky hand to my forehead, pacing the bathroom in the salon with my heart slamming.

“I took a test.”

He went quiet. “A test?”

he repeated, like he needed clarification before he spiraled into some assumption.

I sank to the floor, hand still clutching the phone, the other wrapped around my belly.

“I’m pregnant.”

Dead silence.

Not even his breath.

More silence.

And then, low, like he needed to hear it again to believe it, he said, “Say that shit again.”

Tears welled up all over again.

“Keon… I’m pregnant.”

“You serious?”

His voice dropped into something thick and heavy, like it was filled with awe and disbelief and every emotion in between.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

He tugged on his beard and exhaled with a big ass smile on his face.

“You just made my whole fuckin’ life.”

That broke me.

I sniffed hard.

“I don’t feel ready.”

“You ain’t gotta be ready, Ny. You just gotta breathe right now. I got us. I gotchu”

I closed my eyes, letting his words wrap around me like a blanket.

“But what if…”

My voice cracked.

“Stop that shit. I fuckin’ love you. Ain’t nothin’ ‘accidental’ 'bout how deep I been in you either. I told you what was up months ago.”

I let out a breathy, emotional laugh through the tears.

“You’re crazy.”

I sniffed again.

“You’re really not freaking the fuck out?”

“The fuck I’m freakin’ out for?”

He softened a little.

“We made somethin’ real. I’m proud of that. You hear me? Proud as fuck.”

After that, Knuck didn’t play about me. Not that he ever really had, but something shifted. For real this time. Like a whole new level of softness fused with his normal unhinged, gangsta energy. He became obsessed.

He wouldn’t let me lift heavy shit. Wouldn’t let nobody stress me. Wouldn’t let me go anywhere alone. He told me he was showing up to every appointment, even the boring ones.

“You wanna be in the room while they do the glucose test?”

I’d asked, raising a brow.

“Yes, I wanna be in the fuckin’ room,”

he’d snapped.

“I need to make sure they doin’ they job right.”

And it wasn’t just the appointments. If I mentioned a craving out loud, he was on his phone, scrolling Yelp or calling his boys like yo, anybody know a 24-hour spot that got fried green tomatoes with extra vinegar?

I couldn’t sneeze without him putting his blunt out and asking, “You good?”

He rubbed my feet when they swelled. Rubbed my back when I whined. Rubbed my belly like it was a genie lamp and he was wishing for a boy. Sure enough, when we found out it was indeed a baby boy, Knuck popped some champagne. Shouted. Held me. But of course, we weren’t perfect. At all. We argued a lot, but mostly about us living in two different cities.

“I’m not leaving my clients or my studio, Keon,”

I told him for the fiftieth time while sitting on my bed unpacking a delivery of new lash trays.

“I built this shit. It’s my baby.”

“And you know I respect that shit,”

he said, arms folded, jaw tight.

“But my son ain’t finna grow up wit’ me part-time in his fuckin’ life.”

“So move here then.”

“Nah, you come to East Hollis. I’ll have you a studio built from scratch. Pink floors, rose gold walls, your lil’ cart thing wit’ wheels. Whatever the fuck you want.”

I laughed even though I was mad.

“You don’t even know what a lash cart is.”

“I know whatever it is, I’ll pay double for it, long as you wit’ me.”

Whew.

He wore me down. Bit by bit. With actions, not just words. Knuck started leasing a space near his second car dealership and had contractors send me mockups every other week. One night, he showed up with swatches of blush pink and satin cream tile samples, like it was HGTV. He even told me he would up the budget for me to hire at least two other lash techs so business wouldn’t all fall on me when my belly grew. He didn’t just want me to move. He wanted me to thrive.

And that’s what made me fall harder. That quiet, relentless type of love that made me feel like I was his biggest investment—emotionally, spiritually, and yes, financially too. He held my business and my belly with the same reverence.

I had never had that before.

And as much as I liked to fight him on everything, I knew without a doubt… he was all in.

I rubbed my belly and let out a slow breath, staring at the wild ass setup he’d insisted on for the baby shower. Blue LED lights lined the damn ceiling, and somehow this hood fabulous wonderland still looked like a magazine shoot. Tall white floral arrangements on crystal stands. Gold thrones for the mom and dad-to-be. A six-foot balloon arch in navy, royal blue, and gold. Personalized cookies with “Lil' Knuck”

on them. A DJ playing everything from Michael Jackson to Boosie.

My mother was lowkey overwhelmed.

“This is… something else,”

she whispered behind a tight smile, eyes darting around like she was trying to mentally sanitize the air. Her champagne flute trembled slightly as she sipped, watching one of Knuck’s cousins air hump to a Future lyric like he was auditioning for a hood version of Magic Mike. “Mmm,”

she hummed.

“Where’s the $1600 bottle of wine I brought, Ny?”

I grinned, inching closer, whispering, “Probably hidden behind the jungle juice Uncle Buck made in that baby bathtub.”

She cut me a sharp look.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll get your wine, lady,”

I said quickly, kissing her cheek and glancing toward the drink table where the baby tub was already half empty.

My stepfather, Carl, stood next to her looking like a retired deacon turned jazz radio host—linen button-up, brown leather sandals, and a Bluetooth in his ear that he hadn’t taken out since 2009.

“Wine? They got wine here?”

he asked, eyes low from edibles he’d taken with Knuck’s cousin Antt a while ago.

My mother sighed.

“Carl, I brought the wine.”

“Oh. Right. I thought that was for the house later.”

“See, I told you not to eat that damn brownie.”

“What? I’m just saying…”

He looked around, scratching the back of his head.

“This is… not quite what I expected, Debra.”

“Me either,”

she muttered, eyes following a different cousin doing the heel-toe while holding a blunt in one hand and a slice of pound cake in the other.

“Y’all knew what it was when I told y’all we was doing a backyard baby bash,”

I reminded them with a laugh, handing my mother a red plastic cup of wine.

“You know I love Knuck. I just thought you would take more… initiative,”

my mother said, lowering her voice like she didn’t want the cousins to hear.

“You’re usually the one with taste.”

“My girl, it’s a celebration,”

I said, patting her arm.

“I’m happy. Keon’s happy. His people are happy. Loud, but happy.”

“I can see that,”

she gave a light smile, sipping her wine. You know I’m happy for you both. I can’t wait to meet my grandson and spoil him.”

Meanwhile, my high ass stepfather was still stuck on the earlier thought.

“So wait. Is the wine...?”

“Oh my God, Carl,”

Mama muttered, shoving him along, and I just laughed, the memory of when they met Knuck bubbling up.

It wasn’t at dinner at a bougie restaurant or a formal sit-down at their house. It was the first OB appointment. Around week ten.

Knuck insisted on coming—even though I told him it wasn’t that serious, that it was just an ultrasound. He told me to stop playing with him, that any room I was in from now on—medical, emotional, spiritual—he would be there too. My mother and Carl had flown in the night before and showed up a few minutes after we did.

The moment she caught sight of Knuck, her whole posture changed. “Keon,”

she gasped, grinning from ear to ear.

Knuck stood up, gold-mouthed, smiling hard.

“What’s good, Ma?”

Before he could offer a handshake, she pulled him in for a hug. A real one. Two arms. Squeeze. A light pat on the back like he was already family.

“It’s so good to finally see you in person,”

she said as she stepped back, her eyes misty but not letting them fall.

“You’ve been a FaceTime square on my phone for too long now.”

Knuck chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I told Ny I was tryna meet you sooner, but y’all stay OT.”

“Mmhmm,”

she teased.

“Or maybe I was waiting to see if you were gonna stick around.”

He didn’t flinch. Just nodded, all serious.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

She stared at him a second longer, then reached up and straightened his collar like she’d been doing it his whole life.

“I can see that now,”

she said softly.

“Welcome to the family, Keon.”

“‘Ppreciate you. For real.”

He glanced over at me, then looked back at my stepfather, who stood there all poised and trying to be stern.

“This is your… friend?”

Carl asked, trying to keep it casual.

“Knuck, right?”

Knuck gave him a nod, then held his hand out.

“Nah, I ain’t her friend,”

he said.

“I’m her man. And her protector. And now, the father of her child. Keon, sir.”

“I like that better. What kinda name is Knuck, son?”

Carl asked, extending his hand as well.

“I was a lil’ bad ass growin’ up. What y’all old folks call a knucklehead type shit.”

And just like that… the wall cracked with laughter.

“Go ‘head, Nae! Ayyeee, you betta hit that shit!”

Knuck hollered from the middle of the backyard, bringing me back to the present. His drink in one hand, phone in the other, recording the whole thing like his niece was on payroll. Chris Brown and Bryson Tiller's latest joint was blasting, bass shaking the rented chairs. Monae was fucking up the TikTok dance rocking a custom powder blue tee that said “Lil' Knuck Loading…”

“She get it from her mama!”

Keema added, popping her own hip before immediately holding her back.

“Oop, lemme not play. I still got a pinched nerve from that fight a few months ago.”

Everybody broke out laughing, and Mikki and Sia bounced their way over to me.

“Okayyy, baby mama! You glowing and shit,”

Mikki grinned, easing up beside me with her glitter cup and a mouthful of fruit salad.

“Exactly,”

Sia added, licking frosting off her cupcake.

“I love this for you, boo. Everything came out beautiful.”

I snorted.

“Girl, don’t you know Knuck argued me down over two shades of blue like he works for Crayola. ‘Nah, baby, that’s cornflower. I said lil boy blue.’”

They both choked laughing.

“Not Knuck on his interior design era.”

Mikki cried.

“I swear,”

I said, sipping my mocktail.

“Had me looking at color swatches like we were planning the MET Gala, not a baby shower.”

“And it’s lit, too,”

Sia pointed out, glancing around.

“The food is bomb, DJ on point, and his whole family showed up for y’all. I’m lowkey emotional.”

“So proud of you,”

Mikki added, bumping my hip.

“Love looks good on you.”

Spotting Knuck’s Granny coming out into the backyard holding a foil tray that I knew had some fresh baked beans, I waddled my way over to her. She rocked.

“Y’all should’ve brought diapers, not more fuckin’ onesies,”

she complained, peeling back the foil on the tray.

“That boy gon’ shit daily, not serve runway looks.”

I damn near cried as I piled some baked beans onto a plate.

“We’ll be fine, Granny.”

She whispered, “As soon as he drop, I’m takin’ him to get gold earrings and a little nameplate chain. First great-grandson? Please. He gon’ be iced out in the crib.”

I laughed, holding my belly.

“Can he be born first?”

“He can be born dripped out, is what he can be,”

she said, nodding like it was final as she walked off.

Right on cue, I looked up to see Knuck pass a blunt to his boy Wock, then make his way over to me. Damn. He was so damn fine, matching my fly in powder blue. Gold chains dancing against his shirt. Fitted on his head. Beard too fresh. He hollered for the little kids to stop fighting, then kissed me on my cheek.

“I knew you was finna be on them beans soon as they came out,”

he chuckled, rubbing my stomach.

“Shut up,”

I asked, eating a spoonful.

“Where your mama go?”

“Inside. She’s probably going off on Carl ‘cause he ate that brownie.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I told him not to. My fault, baby.”

I giggled.

“It’s cool, babe. Everything’s good.”

Every loud laugh. Every glitter-covered onesie. Every elegant dress and Air Force 1. It was a blend of both our worlds—messy, bold, beautiful. Just like us. And I was carrying the proof of that chaos right in my belly.

Knuck looked down at me, then out at the party, then back at me with that signature smirk that usually meant he was about to say something either reckless or romantic. Sometimes both.

“You ready?” he asked.

“For what?”

He was already walking away.

“Keon, what the hell are you…”

He whistled to the DJ, and the music dropped. Conversations faded. People turned. Knuck hopped up on the makeshift platform we set for the speeches and lifted a mic.

“Aye,”

he said into it, the crowd reacting instantly.

“We appreciate y’all comin’ out and shit. Just give a nigga moment.”

He turned toward me, pulled something out of his pocket, and dropped to one knee in the middle of baby shower mayhem.

Gasps. Cheers. Granny screamed, “Oh hell yes!”

And me?

I was frozen. Staring.

“Nyomi,”

he said, voice suddenly low again.

“You already my home. My peace. My heart. My problem. My person. And now you the mother of my son. So this right here? This the only thing left to do, my baby.”

He opened the box. The ring was big enough to set off TSA.

“You been mine, but now I need the world to know it. Be my wife, baby.”

And just like everything he did, there was no plan B. No backing out. Just me, him, our wild-ass life, and a room full of witnesses waiting for my answer. Tears flooded my eyes. My hands flew up to cover my mouth.

Walking toward him, I whispered, “Yes,”

but it wasn’t loud enough.

“Say that shit again,”

he grinned, unhinged and in love.

“Yes!”

I laughed through my tears.

The whole party erupted as he slid the ring on my finger, kissed me hard in front of everybody, and whispered in my ear, “You better had said yes. You know what’s up.”

All I could do was cry and laugh.

I used to think love had to look a certain way—neat, planned, predictable. But what Keon gave me was reckless and raw, loud and overwhelming, but real as hell. He loved me out loud. Protected me without question. And even when we clashed, even when I doubted, he never folded. Not on me. Not on us.

So yeah… as he would say: I gotta Jones. I loved him real bad. Always will. Forever.