I
The front door slammed harder than she meant it to. Geneva didn’t look back.
If her mom shouted something from the kitchen, she tuned it out. Lately, everything her mom Michelle said felt like a trigger —too loud, too sharp, too much. Geneva was tired. Tired of arguing. Tired of being “the strong one.” Tired of being everything except a kid.
She stepped out into the breezeway of her apartment building and let the cold air slap her in the face. It was late February, the sky already dusky blue, and the wind had a bite. Her hoodie wasn’t enough, but it was better than staying in that house for another minute.
She sat on the bottom step, pulled her knees to her chest, and stared out into the street. Headphones in. No music playing. Just silence. It was the only thing that didn’t feel like noise.
Her phone buzzed.
Rotary Club⚙️♣️
Kayla: Reminder—Fundraiser meeting Friday @ 8 am sharp. Don’t be late!
She slid the notification away without opening it.
Another one:
ForTheLoveOfTrack🏃❤️
Coach Martin: Big congrats to Geneva for setting a new 400m hurdle record! 56.47 — fastest in the state.
She should’ve felt proud. She used to. But that record didn’t change anything at home.
It didn’t make Michelle come home in a better mood. Didn’t stop Trayvon from talking back, or Jasmine from locking herself in the bathroom.
Didn’t calm Destiny when she was melting down, or hush little Faith when she cried from missing their daddy.
It didn’t stop Geneva from being the one holding everything together while falling apart herself.
⸻
Earlier that day, she’d walked home like always. Her half-day school schedule was a blessing and a curse. She got her freedom early—but it also meant she clocked in as “Mom #2” before her backpack even hit the floor.
By 12:30 PM, she was home. By 2:45, she was refereeing a fight between Destiny and Trayvon over the remote. Jasmine was blasting music in the bathroom again, claiming she was “doing her hair,” but just hiding on the phone with whoever. Faith was crying for a snack and asking if “Daddy was coming today.” Geneva didn’t have the energy to lie, so she just said, “Not today, baby.”
By 4:00, she had pasta boiling, laundry flipping in the dryer, and one AirPod in while trying to help Trayvon with his math homework. It was always like this—too many needs, not enough hands. No thanks. No peace. Just noise and pressure.
She didn’t complain. Not out loud. But the resentment? It sat under her skin like heat.
By the time her mom, Michelle, walked in from her first job, the house was clean, the kids were fed, and Geneva was mentally drained.
Still wasn’t enough.
Michelle barely said hello before launching into a rant about why the trash wasn’t out. The trash. Geneva had been raising four kids all day, and the conversation was about trash.
They fought. Again.
Words flew.
Voices raised.
And then that line got crossed.
Michelle shoved her. Geneva shoved back. Reflex, not disrespect. It escalated fast.
“You gettin’ too grown, Geneva!”
“No—you just mad I ain’t scared of you no more!”
Michelle slapped her.
Geneva didn’t cry. She didn’t flinch either. She just stood there, jaw tight, until Michelle walked off like she hadn’t just knocked the last bit of peace out of her chest.
So Geneva left. Hoodie, socks, and rage wrapped around her like armor.
⸻
She blinked, coming back to the present. Still sitting on the steps. Still cold. Still angry.
Across the street, the soft hum of a car engine grew louder. A sleek, dark-grey Jaguar with tinted windows rolled into the gas station on the corner. The bass inside the car vibrated the pavement before the engine even cut off.
Geneva didn’t mean to stare—but she did.
A man stepped out. He moved slowly, deliberately. Like he had nothing to rush for because the world worked around him. Watch shining under the streetlight. Polo jacket fitted. Fresh cut. Neatly trimmed but thick beard.
He leaned against the driver’s side door while another guy walked into the store. Lit a blunt and exhaled like he had peace on command.
Geneva studied him from the shadows of the steps. He didn’t look like somebody’s boyfriend, or hell, let alone anyone’s friend. He looked like power. He looked in control. Like the kind of man nobody questioned.
He also wasn’t from around here. Or at least Geneva hadn’t seen him around.
There was something in the way he carried himself—quiet but calculated. His presence didn’t scream for attention; it demanded it by doing the opposite. Like he didn’t need to prove anything to anyone because he already had it all. The car. The clothes. The women.
You could tell by looking at him that he was used to being wanted. The kind of man who never had to try too hard. The kind who didn’t chase, just waited.
Their eyes met.
Her breath hitched.
He didn’t smile. Just gave her the kind of nod that said: I see you.
She looked away, but the warmth in her chest lingered.
“Who’s that?” she asked under her breath.
Her best friend Keya had just stepped onto the porch and caught her staring.
“That’s Malaki,” Keya said casually. “Terell’s cousin.”
Geneva raised an eyebrow. “You know him?”
Keya shrugged. “Not really. I’ve seen him once at a block party, and some chick was tryna talk to him, he ain’t give her the time of day though. Drives that car, and I think another one. Always clean. Always alone. He... kinda fine though. Lowkey.”
Geneva stayed quiet. Still curious. She wanted to ask more, but Keya didn’t seem to know much.
Maybe nobody did.
And maybe that was what made him even more dangerous.
“Geneva!” a small voice called from upstairs. “Mom said dinner’s ready!”
It was Faith. Looking over the banister, rubbing her eyes like she’d been crying again.
Geneva stood up slowly, brushing the back of her leggings. She gave the gas station one last glance.
Malaki was still watching.
Not smiling. Not waving.
Just watching.
She didn’t give him anything except a slow blink and a sharp turn up the stairs.
But something in her gut whispered as she stepped back into the house:
You just met the storm.
