Sky's The Limit

xxi

twenty-one | antonio

Nova and I had always been alike in many ways. Being from Brooklyn. Having Hispanic ties. Wanting more for ourselves.

When I looked at her, I saw parts of myself.

Tough. Earnest. Sincere.

Being young— younger— I don't think we understood just how much we mirrored one another. We knew that we understood each other, but it wouldn't be until recent years that it became apparent just how much we were one in the same.

Maybe we'd grown more into each other, over the years. As intertwined as we are, there was no telling when it truly began, but we met in high school.

We shared a Spanish class— an easy A for her and a kept promise to my grandmother for me.

We were like magnets, immediate attraction and rare separation. Even during our time apart, it was never for long. Whether it be from deliberate actions or coincidence.

The same was true after high school. While I essentially moved up in the ranks of my uncle's business, she was in school to become a registered nurse. We weren't too far along the path toward either of our goals, when we reunited, but we've come a long way since then.

I'd moved into my own place. She graduated from her program and found a place in the Bronx. Then, we had a baby.

I was becoming convinced that we were meant to be together, even if that meant we wouldn't end up together romantically.

She was meant to be the mother of my first born. I was meant to be the father of her first born.

I was meant to be exactly where I was, and that was with her.

And the same was true on the night that my home was ravaged.

It wasn't typical of me to go to her place on a Friday.

But I was already in Harlem, chopping it up with a DJ. Driving to Nova's wasn't an inconvenience of any kind, especially since I hadn't seen her since the cypher.

We talked. We ate. We did some things we probably shouldn't have, for the health of our platonic relationship.

She asked me to stay the night, and I obliged.

In the morning, she cooked breakfast. We talked. We ate. I returned home for a hot shower, and a return to my Saturday routine.

I was in for a rude awakening, opening an apartment and finding everything fucked up.

Furniture was flipped, picture frames were smashed, shelves were cleared.

The studio was a mess. Chairs knocked over, cushions cut open and gutted, system smashed— as if a baseball bat ran into it hundreds of times.

My bedroom was fucked too. Pieces of jewelry thrown every which way, furniture broken, clothes everywhere. And my safe, in the very back of my closet, had been opened. Forcibly. Maybe niggas had a crowbar or something.

Yet, everything was still there. About one stack of money, which never seems like much even when the feds try to raid you and end up finding drugs and a boatload of cash.

But this wasn't the feds. I was becoming more and more convinced.

Lack of robbery had me thinking it was them, but the theatrics had only one name bouncing around my mind.

I was about to call Will, who was always down to ride, whether it meant getting money or giving beatdowns.

But I decided not to. I didn't doubt his loyalty, but I also knew he wouldn't be trying to talk any sense or do any strategizing.