Girls Love Beyoncé

77

THIRD POINT OF VIEW

The living room smelled like leftover turkey, rum, and candle wax. A few cousins lingered around the dining table, plates still half-full, some workers milled about, pretending not to listen.

The TV played muted highlights from a late football game, casting flickering light across the room.

"You were wrong, Onika—and you know it,"Waka said, arms folded as he watched his best friend pace back and forth, rage boiling just under her skin.Onika's shoes tapped sharp against the tile.

"You and Beyoncé should just stay away from each other until you get it together," Mama Carol spoke gently, worry in her voice.

"I've seen her, Onika. She's been doing just fine."
Onika scoffed, head snapping up.

"So she's better off without me—is that what everyone's saying?"

No one answered. Silence settled like dust. It only made the anger burn hotter in her chest. She threw her hands up, voice cracking under the weight.

"I'm not doing this. I'm not gonna keep going back and forth with people who ain't her. Yes, I got my problems—but I already agreed to fix it. To fix me. I start therapy soon—what more can I fucking do for you?" Her voice dropped to a raw whisper by the end, defeated.

"It's not what yuh need to do for us," Polito cut in, his Trinidadian accent curling around each word, low and rough.

"It's what yuh need to do for yourself, Nikki. We talk 'bout this already. This life—it ain't easy. We know. But we don't want she get drag down dat path with you."

"She will never come down this path because I won't let her!" Onika's voice rose, sharp and desperate. "Are you fucking crazy?"

Polito gave her a long, heavy look—something cold flickering behind his eyes. Then he glanced over her shoulder, locking eyes with someone by the back doorway. Mama Carol caught it too; she swallowed, gave Polito a knowing nod, and quietly slipped out of the room, her footsteps soft on the tile.

"You drag her down this path the day you kill Jay," Polito's voice was lower now, measured, like a judge handing down a sentence.

"The day you let yuh anger consume yuh and kill dat boy."

Onika's fury ignited all over again, chest heaving, hands curled into fists. "He deserved to die!" she spat. Polito scoffed, leaning back in his chair, the old wood creaking under him.

"And you tink you get to decide dat, eh? Because yuh have a gun, you get to choose who live and who die?"

"He hurt Beyoncé!" she shouted, voice cracking. "Cheated on her. Let that nigga almost touch her. Manipulated her—all that shit. Yeah, I get to decide!"

Heads turned. A couple workers exchanged glances; some shook their heads, others looked down, quietly agreeing.

Polito's gaze didn't waver. He raised his glass of rum, took a slow sip, then asked, soft but cutting:

"If dat's the case—why you ain't dead?"

Onika froze, arms still mid-air, breath catching. Polito set his glass down, leaning forward, eyes locked on hers.

"Why you still in my face shouting 'bout dis girl?" A bitter laugh escaped him. "You should be the first one dead."

The words hung heavy in the room, thicker than the scent of the rum. Onika's hands fell to her sides, fingers twitching. For a moment, the mask cracked guilt leaking through. She didn't know what to say.