Sweet Nothing | Aaliyah x J. Cole

2

Jay stops at Ali's, a small halal breakfast spot that serves his favorite beef-chorizo egg tacos, and the only halal spot serving breakfast between Liyah's on Kalorama and his home on 16th street.

When he pulls open the door, a wave of sizzling foods in the air lathers his senses, making his stomach growl. He says Salam to the shorty behind the counter, a young brother doing his part for the family business. Can't be any older than 16, Jay always thinks whenever the boy is here.

He remembers being that age: hot headed, horny, hungry for more just to be able to feed his mom and little sisters. While his friends played football or went to parties, he spent his weekend and summers handling smelly feet at Footlocker, or waxing cars in the blazing sun at his uncle's car detail shop.

Even during his years at Howard, he'd kept his head in the books and his hands busy at work interning at the radio station.

But he'd never not had a fling. Most of them had been long-term, young shorties he'd found himself attached to, sometimes they'd been older. He'd never called any of them his girlfriend, but it had been understood that if they wanted any access to him they couldn't allow his territory to be tread upon by anyone else.

Now, as he waits for his order and finds a seat near the counter, he thinks about Liyah. Stunning, humorous, ambitious, and more tender than any woman he's ever been touched by. That means something doesn't it? That he cares about that last part? Thinking about it, Jay can't recall the last time he even cared to cuddle or hug a woman who wasn't family.

Now there's obviously something off. He can feel it in the pit of his stomach, where it's usually still and light. Now it's hot and heavy, how it always feels when he knows something bad is coming.

Then his order is ready. His mouth waters.

Maybe I'm just hungry, he thinks, grabs his food, and returns to his Corvette outside.

He eats on the drive, careful not to let the red oil drip onto the crimson leather seat. It appeases his hunger but not the feeling of impending doom. So when he arrives at his rowhouse and parks parallel on the street, he wipes his hands with napkins and pulls out his phone again.

'Did I leave my wallet?' He sends the text to Liyah, whose contact name has a red rose emoji beside it. Because her body wash is rose scented. So are her pillows. And her little Toyota.

He waits a few minutes as the engine cools, staring at the message thread. Then her response comes in.

'I don't see it'.

He asks her to double check, and she says okay. But he has his wallet, it bulges in his front pocket. Any reason to keep her on the line is good enough.

Going inside the tall townhouse, Jay shoves the phone into his jeans again, and takes a look around. One thing about letting Ma live there is that she keeps it spotless, and smelling like home-cooked food. It makes the tension in his shoulders fall. There's no place like home. Ma used to always have the old house in the hood feeling cozy and secure like this, too, but it never looked this good, was never this safe, no matter what she did.

Hosting the number one hiphop radio show in the DMV pays off.

Now he can afford to have Ma, Jasmine and Janessa living with him, though his sisters prefer Richmond. He can even take good care of Liyah.

If she wants it.

Does she want it?

Does she want me?

Of course she wants me, Jay rests his keys in the catchall by the door and tosses his breakfast trash in the kitchen waste.

In his mind, he's the best she's ever had. He doesn't complain, doesn't snoop through her phone, respects her schedule, respects her home, and doesn't give his former roster of hoes the time of day just to keep it all to Liyah. So now why this?

Why the acting funny?

He doesn't know how to ask her why, so he texts instead. 'Did you find it?'

He sits against the tile counter and waits for her response. Minutes pass and nothing. She probably knows I have it. But she always responds. Why isn't she responding?

He heads upstairs to his room, the master suite, and sits at his desk to go over the day's mix and content. A couple interviews, media coverage for different events, reports on crime and good deeds in the community, and a little bit of political commentary in light of the upcoming elections comprises his lineup.

Most of everything has sorted itself, except the  content he submitted to his editor has been sent back. Her email says it's "too staunch", and she suggests being more ambiguous. She says that every time, anytime he writes for himself instead using his copywriter, and he has to correct it every time.

Life is that simple: black and white. Or it's supposed to be. Love, money, family, it could all be so simple.

If she wants it opaque, he'll make it opaque. For his editor, and for Liyah... who— checking his phone, he can see— still hasn't replied.

He types to her: 'Yo??'

Then he deletes it without sending, and tries to get the manuscript polished in time for a long day of work to feel a little less long.