Gemini Girlz

My own story

The streetlights flickered low as I made my way home from work, the shadows of the night wrapping around me like an unwelcome blanket. The faint sounds of my heels clicking against the pavement echoed in the silence, a reminder of the hustle and bustle I was leaving behind at the club. The vibrant colors of the neon lights faded in my mind, giving way to memories I preferred to bury: nights spent draped in fabric that clung to me and the piercing gazes of patrons who saw me as nothing more than a way to escape their own reality.

While I was glad that my best friend Essence had finally reconnected with her father—a man who had long been a missing puzzle piece in her life—I couldn't help but feel the aching loneliness of my own unfulfilled familial bonds. The stories I had been told about my father, Parnell Stanton, painted him in contradictory strokes: a well-known drug dealer, revered and feared across the neighborhood, a gang member with a smile just like mine. The photographs I had seen showed a handsome man whose grin lit up the room, a stark contrast to the darkness of his life choices.

My mother called him her first love, and the wistfulness in her tone when she spoke of him often made me curious. After his death in a drive-by shooting when I was just four years old, everything changed for her. She became a stranger in her own home, encasing herself in a hard shell to protect her heart from the pain of loss. Men morphed into mere transactions in her eyes: financial support but never emotional connection. I often wondered if I was a living reminder of everything she had loved and lost, and if so, I resented him for it.

My thoughts continued to swirl as I walked, lost somewhere between the past and the present, when suddenly a blue vehicle slowed next to me. My heart raced slightly, unsure if it was excitement or cautious dread. A smooth, light-skinned boy popped his head out of the passenger side, revealing a charming grin. His tattoos told the story of a body decorated with memories, a blue bandana sitting atop his hair like a crown.

"Wassup beautiful," he called, his voice playful yet confident.

"Hi." I smiled, a reflex to his charm that felt out of place, an inflection of light in the midst of my troubled mind.

"You need a ride home?" he offered, but I shook my head.

"Nah, I'm good. I only live two blocks away."

"My name is Eric. What's your name?" he pressed, a hint of intrigue lighting his eyes.

The sound of his name danced in the air, wrapping around me like a soft embrace, but another voice broke into the moment.

"Man Eric, if you don't come the fuck on before we lose out on this paper!" his friend yelled from the backseat, impatience evident in his tone.

"Imani... I gotta get home. Thank you for offering to take me home though," I replied, the unease tugging at my heart. As charming as Eric was, I had learned from harsh experience that a friendly smile often masked darker intentions.

"Alright then, be safe," he said, his smile lingering as I stepped back onto the sidewalk, allowing their vehicle to drift slowly away.

When I stepped inside my house, the vibrant warmth of the kitchen welcomed me. My mother was preparing dinner, a mix of spices filling the air, but that warm feeling turned cold the moment I saw him sitting on the couch: Joe. Why was he here?

"Oh hell no," I muttered under my breath, each word dripping with incredulity. "Why is he here? You told me he wasn't coming back!"

"Imani, that was years ago," my mother said, her voice heavy with irritation as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. "Joe was drunk. He didn't mean to do that."

"Imani," Joe chimed in, his voice much softer, approaching me as though trying to bridge the chasm between us. "I'm sorry. I definitely didn't mean to behave like that that day."