Sweet Nothing | Aaliyah x J. Cole

5

Missed call from Jay

Liyah's heart skips a beat. He never calls. She's tidying the shop with Kiara, helping to sweep hair and wipe mirrors. Her phone shows he'd called less than five minutes ago. She shakes her head and drops the phone back into her purse perched in a stylist chair.

"Here he go with this wallet shit again," she picks up the broom again.

Kiara turns toward her. "Huh?"

"Girl, this wallet shit. He bugging me about it but he knows I don't got it."

"Maybe he wants to talk to you. Thought about that?" Kiara's smirk is heard in her voice.

Liyah leans her weight on the broom, and stares across the room at Kiara. She has thought that, but can't imagine him not getting the picture.

He's a dub. They're done. She's moving on. What is there to talk about, and why can't it be discussed via text?

She's certain hearing his voice will suck her back in. He's persuasive without even trying, knows the grip he has on her. All he'd had to say in the past was "Open the door" and she would oblige, even if he'd been popping up unannounced.

Thinking back to her submission to him, Liyah rolls her eyes.

Those privileges have been revoked.

Then her mind goes to last night's sex. He'd had her twisted like a pretzel, cooing in her ear as she ruptured over and over. Jay didn't just fuck, she's always told herself, he makes love. That's why he's the best.

Realizing she's biting her lip, Liyah shakes off the thought, sweeps the hair and grime into the dust pan, and dumps it in the trash. Grabbing the last of all the trash bags, Liyah tells Kiara to give the cans new bags and then lock up.

Purse in tow, she lugs the the trash to the dump out back, her heels clicking on the rough asphalt. Kiara follows behind long after, and like usual, she waits for Kiara to get safely into her car before pulling off.

As she brings her car to the red light, she sends Jay a text, unable to help herself.

'Just got off. What's up?'

She stops at a takeout restaurant, orders chicken fried rice, and returns to her car with the food. By that time he still hasn't responded. Must not be urgent, she thinks, her shoulders dropping as she starts the ignition.

She'd hoped maybe he would realize what he means to her, that she loves him, that she'd do anything for him.

But it looks like his pride is getting in the way.

Pride? Or indifference?

He's not lacking any options in women, most of them being the type who have hundreds of thousands of follows and require princess treatment in order for a man to even think he's going to lay a finger on her.

And there she'd been, giving him any and everything in exchange for nothing.

Why am I worth so little to him?

She's always questioned why men never seemed to come correct, yet always treated hoes like they had sense. She doesn't get it: she's a good girl. A saint? No, but not in the streets. Her own home and now two businesses. She thinks of herself as kind, and she doesn't bring drama.

But it's my body, Liyah rests her head back on the seat as she drives. It's always been her small chest, petite bum, and tiny frame.

If I had ass, he would be simping, she snickers to herself.

At home, she sits on the couch in her robe, chopsticks in hand as she rakes through the rice for more chicken. The TV is on, screening The Photograph with Issa Rae and LaKeith Stanfield, madly in love. Her favorite film.

It's on the part where the two lovers are dancing together, foreheads touching as they breathe on each other's lips in content silence.

Why can't I have that?

—

Jay read's Liyah's text over and over, wondering what the fuck is up.

He's on his back in bed at home, scrolling every now and then through Instagram or work emails, but unable to help himself from returning to their text messages.

'Just got off. What's up?'

He reads it for the thirtieth time. He rarely ever calls her but when he does, she always answers or calls him right back if he's missed her. And she knows what's up: she's supposed to be his plus-one at the club opening on Friday. Why the sudden shadiness?

He goes to her Instagram page, but she hasn't updated anything, not even her story, in a few days.

She must got a new nigga, he thinks, putting the phone on the charger. Then he rethinks it. No way. She's a good girl, she would never move on this fast.

Jay closes his eyes to imagine her with someone else, but it makes bile rise in his throat. He swallows it back down.

When did I start caring so much?

I do care. Does she think I don't? Why won't she call me back?

Apparently she needs space. I'll give her that, he thinks, deciding not to respond to her text.

Then his phone vibrates, and he jumps up to grab it. But it's just a text from his siter, Janessa.

'Hey bro'

He knows what that means. He says hey anyway. She texts him a short sob story that's basically a plea for more money. He navigates to Zelle and sends her $500, and tells her to eat at home instead of having brunch everyday. She says thanks, and he puts the phone on the charging pad again beside the bed.

Damn, nothing? His mind goes to Liyah.

Is she still fucking wit a nigga?