𝘝𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦

C.27

Quincy

The alarm went off at 6:15 like it always did.

He turned it off, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat there for a second. Not wallowing. Not spiraling. Just adjusting. That was the word he kept using in his head. Adjusting. Like when you move furniture and the room feels wrong for a few days until your brain catches up.

His old apartment in Harlem was smaller than he remembered. Full size bed instead of a king. One bathroom. A kitchen that barely fit two people standing side by side. He'd left everything at the brownstone because that was the right thing to do. He'd bought it for them. She was going to live in it. That was that.

He got up and cracked four eggs into a bowl. Whisked them with a fork because he didn't own a whisk here. Added cheese the way Valley liked it, a little salt, cooked them low and slow. Two pieces of toast went in the oven because the toaster was at the house. He'd been meaning to buy one but kept forgetting. Or maybe he kept not wanting to, because buying a toaster for this apartment meant he was staying. And staying meant it was real.

Valley's door was cracked. He knocked twice with his knuckle.

"V. Breakfast."

Covers shifted. A pause. Then small feet hitting the floor.

She came out in an oversized t shirt that used to be his, hair wrapped in the silk bonnet with little stars on it. Valentine had bought her that. He noticed it every morning and every morning he chose not to say anything about it.

"Eggs and toast. Juice or water?"

"Juice."

She sat at the small table by the window, legs pulled up in the chair. She was different lately. Not sad exactly. Just quieter. Processing in that way smart kids do where they don't tell you what's wrong but you can feel them rearranging things in their head. She used to argue with the TV, give full presentations about why recess was too short, correct his grammar mid sentence. Now she ate slow and looked out the window.

He didn't push. She'd talk when she was ready. He knew that about his daughter.

"You good for school?" he asked, sitting across from her.

"Mhm."

"New class still cool?"

"It's fine."

He nodded. Left it there.

Valentine had Valley moved out of her class within three days of them getting back. Conflict of interest, the email said. Professional and clean, the way Valentine handled things when she wasn't in her feelings. He respected it. Valley hadn't asked about the switch directly, but she was ten. She wasn't stupid. She knew the math.

He dropped her off at 7:40. She grabbed her backpack, said bye, and walked inside without looking back. He watched her until she disappeared through the doors then sat in the car for a second with the engine running. Not because he was hurting. Just because the mornings used to be louder. Valentine would be in the passenger seat arguing about whether Valley needed a jacket. Valley would be in the back yelling that she was old enough to decide for herself. And Quincy would be in the driver's seat pretending to be annoyed while secretly loving every second of it.

Now it was just the engine and the radio.

He pulled off and headed to the store.

The record store sat on the corner of 138th and Frederick Douglass, wedged between a barbershop and a bodega with the best bacon egg and cheese in upper Manhattan. The sign read VERSE in block letters, black on gold. Roman's idea. Quincy had wanted something simple and Roman had said simple was forgettable. He was right.