Page 58 of Own It

Our father didn’t teach us much, if anything at all, other than to be an abusive asshole who treated women like shit, so anything we did learn about being men came from whatever shit Rakim could come up on. And one thing he’d always told us, including Ayan, was to own yo’ shit no matter what it was. Real niggas didn’t make excuses or complain.

I listened as someone entered the suite, and I could surmise it was the breakfast since I heard Téa thank them.

After washing my hands, I ventured out of the bathroom to see the large platter of food on a table draped in a white tablecloth in the center of the living room.

Téa was already seated, so I descended on the bench beside her, instantly scoping on what I would eat.

“So can we exchange numbers, or are you one of those types of niggas who write off women that let you fuck first night?” she asked, stuffing her face with some of the pancakes.

“Nah, I prefer those types,” I joked. “But I definitely wanna keep in contact with you.” I looked around and located my phone on the coffee table before standing to grab it. “Put yo’ shit in. I might pull through the club later if you working. Throw some money on you.”

“I will be there.” She blushed, handing me back my phone so I could text her from it right quick, before we resumed eating.

I wanted to fuck with Téa for the night, but I would attempt to do the shit sober.

Once Téa and I parted ways, I made my way to the crib. As soon as I pulled up, I spotted my twin, Josias’s car, and he climbed out holding a big ass white plastic bag that looked to be holding some white Styrofoam food containers.

“Nigga, I was calling to see if you wanted to go eat, but you ain’t answer, so I got takeout,” he said as soon as he was near me.

Stepping up to my door and slipping the key in, I said, “My bad, I was a little busy.”

“Busy getting some pussy I hope,” he half jested, trailing me inside. I knew he was hoping I had been with a woman but also hoping I hadn’t been getting high.

“Something like that,” I replied, plopping down on the couch as he did the same, opening the food containers.

“I got the same shit for us both, so don’t matter what you pick,” he said.

“’Preciate it.” I opened the box, not really in the mood to eat, especially since I’d eaten with Téa.

For a moment, she had me feeling like I could be sober, but at the moment, that feeling had vanished. I wished I knew how to get that shit back.

Josias and I said our prayers together before he immediately started smashing his food, while I picked through the waffle combo from what I assumed was Louis Burgers.

“What you do last night?” he queried.

“Went to Perry’s and met up with some chick,” I answered. “We kicked it for the night.”

Josias was silent for a beat, eating his food and taking a sip of his orange juice. I knew him too well, and he was gathering the courage to ask me some shit.

“You did it clean?”

“Man.” I sucked my teeth, shaking my head.

“Bruh.” He set the fork down. “That night at Pops’ party, you scared the fuck out of a nigga. You know I can’t live without you.”

As he talked, I gave him a little bit of eye contact, craning my body toward him slightly.

“I know.” I huffed, digging my palms into my eyes out of exasperation. “Shit is easier said than done, Jojo. When I’m coherent, I remember too much shit and think too fucking hard,” I admitted.

“I’m already knowing, bruh.” He cleared his throat. “We handle shit differently, and while neither of our vices are healthy, one is worse.”

Same way I buried my troubles in pills and sometimes alcohol, Josias buried his in between women’s legs. I got high or drunk to run away from my thoughts and to be able to be in the same room with my father and not freak the fuck out from all the torment he put us through. It’d been that way since I was a kid except back then, it was candy, sodas, and anything I could get a sugar high from.

Same time, Josias was becoming a womanizer, using women to put him on a pedestal since he was like gum beneath our father’s shoe at home. I noticed he sought out the women who bore glints in their eyes at the sight of him and typically waved off the women who saw him as just another nigga.

Ayan was a fucking scaredy cat, and from childhood wanted most importantly to please our father to avoid being locked in small closets or beat until he couldn’t sit like Rakim. He never grew out of the shit, allowing our dad to puppeteer his adult life in any way he wanted.

Rakim took on the brunt of the torture, beatings, and belittling ’cause he could never shut up and, in return, learned to deal with shit by being violent and withdrawn as fuck. It worked out for him in his career choice as a boxer but then ruined that same career.