Free Losing Romeo by A.J. Byrd Page B

down, but another part remembers the days when I used to pull that same tired stunt on my own parents. She just needs to vent better with music than with throwing things at my head again. My daughter has a good arm on her.
    I continue pacing around the living room, remembering how scared I was to receive that call from her from jail. Jail! I still can’t get over it. How did I get here? I never imagined that I would be the kind of father who had to deal with a child who went to jail. That sort of thing happens to other people’s children—not my own.
    I shake my head, suddenly needing something to drink—something strong. Swiveling around, I storm out the door and give it a good, hard slam myself. The only problem is that Ms. Maureen, Anjenai’s grandmother, is stepping outof my neighbor’s door, and she gives me a look that questions my sanity.
    I clear my throat. “Sorry about that,” I say, embarrassed, and then quickly storm off.
    Back in the car, I peel out of the apartment parking lot like a bat out of hell. However, I don’t have any idea where I’m going. Sure, I needed a drink, but tangling with alcohol right now would not be such a good idea. I just need space. We need space.
    Ten minutes later, I end up at the Waffle House. It’s a small diner that’s just slightly better than a truck stop. Most people come for the grease and not necessarily the food. Just seconds after walking into the brightly lit, square-shaped diner, I spot Deborah sitting in a corner booth. I ain’t going to lie, just that cursory glance at her has brightened my day. I walk up to the breakfast counter and pop a squat on one of the small, round stools. All the while, I keep one eye trained on my beautiful neighbor. And I’m not the only one. Every dude up in here is peeping her out and probably trying to work up the courage to approach her.
    Hands down, Deborah Combs is a stunningly beautiful woman. It’s no secret in this neighborhood that she’s the main attraction down at the Champagne Room. From time to time our paths have crossed, but not as much as one would think since one of her sisters is one of Tyler’s best friends. At least she was spared being called down to the police station.
    I remember when Deborah first took in Kierra and McKenya, about three years ago. Actually, the Combses’ situation made all the city papers. Michelle Combs, whom Iused to think I knew pretty well, was sent upstate for killing her husband, Kenneth Combs. Now, I didn’t really know Kenneth all that well, but what I did know of him, I didn’t like. I think it was the way Michelle took out her husband that surprised many of us who followed the trial. There was no screaming or hollering. No guns or artillery. She simply cooked him a feast of all his favorite soul food and laced it with some type of poison that I don’t remember offhand. He died while sucking on some ribs.
    Pretty cold-blooded.
    If I remember correctly, Michelle Combs never gave a motive, and therefore she was sentenced to life in prison without the chance of parole.
    Deborah seemed supportive at first, but then I think the stress of being so young and now being responsible for her two sisters is weighing down on her. I can easily relate, and I have just one child to deal with.
    â€œWhat can I get you?” my waitress suddenly pops up at the counter to ask.
    Hell, I haven’t even looked at the lunch menu. Reluctantly, I pull my gaze away from Deborah and pick up the plastic menu. “Just, um, get me the number one with a Coke.”
    â€œHow would you like your burger?” she asks, not bothering to hide how bored she is.
    â€œWell done.”
    â€œAll right. Coming right up.” She turns and yells my order to the guy working the grill, even though he’s just two feet from her.
    I steal another peek over toward Deborah’s booth, butthis time my gaze crashes right into hers. I try to