Into the Spotlight
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Synopsis
For fans of Rhythm’s Blues by Kimberly Brown, Into the Spotlight is a soulful, unforgettable romance where grief finds its melody, and love takes center stage.
Trinity Raya Walker has music in her blood and heartbreak in her past. At nineteen, she’s the newest name lighting up the R&B charts. Her lyrics are raw, her sound electric, but her soul is still mourning the brother she lost too soon. Every song she writes is a confession, and every stage she steps on brings her closer to healing . . . or breaking.
Keith Harris used to be next in line for fame, until life hit him with a loss he couldn’t sing his way through. Now, he’s working security gigs just to get by, watching his dream slip further out of reach.
When Trinity and Keith lock eyes, there’s something familiar there—like recognizing a scar you can’t see yet know too well. In an industry built on image and illusion, love doesn’t come easy. As fame pushes them apart and buried truths rise to the surface, the price of success might be the one thing their hearts can’t afford to pay.
Release date: July 28, 2026
Publisher: Black Odyssey Media
Print pages: 288
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Into the Spotlight
Manika Guerrier
Prologue
“I can’t believe it,” she whispered.
The only light came from her laptop screen, flickering across her face as rain traced slow lines down the window. The sound filled the silence she couldn’t.
Thoughts tore through her, wild and splintered, like wind through broken glass. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard, shaking. The air felt too hot, too thin. A pulse pounded behind her eyes as she stared at the screen, breath catching, tears spilling fast and soundless.
“I’m so fucking stupid. Why would he do this?”
The words cracked in her throat, raw from the pressure building behind them. Her pulse thundered. Her mind scrambled. It had to be a nightmare.
Then her phone rang, slicing through the quiet.
She flinched.
Her hands shook as she fumbled to answer, Imani’s name glowing bright across the screen.
“Ooo, this is bad,” Imani said immediately. “I know you’re pissed.”
“I’m beyond that! Who the hell does he think he is?” Her voice rose in fury, trembling.
“There’s no way he really did that to you.”
“I trusted him. I loved him. And now I feel…so fucking embarrassed.”
“It’s okay. How could you have known? Just breathe, all right? Calm down.”
“I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m gonna explode.” She started pacing, movements jerky and uneven. Her hands trembled as she grabbed her bag from the chair. “Fuck it. I’m heading to his studio right now.”
“Trin, hold up.” Imani’s voice cut through the phone. “You know how you get when you’re upset. And it’s pouring outside. I don’t want you driving like this.”
“I don’t care! He’s going to see me tonight.” The words tore out of her. “I can’t believe he did this to me.”
“Okay, okay, just let me take you,” Imani pleaded. “I’m grabbing my keys. Anything can happen when you’re this heated.”
“No. I don’t want you involved.”
Silence filled the line, heavy and cold.
Then, quieter, “I should’ve never trusted him. I wish I’d never met him.”
She hung up. The phone slipped from her hand and hit the floor. For a moment, she just stared at it, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Then she folded forward, face buried in her hands as the sobs came hard and fast.
She stayed like that for what felt like forever, the sound of her own breathing louder than the rain outside. Her tears slowed, but the anger didn’t. It gathered beneath her skin, hot and sharp.
Then something in her snapped.
She rose abruptly, wiping her face with the back of her hand. On the nightstand, a silver frame held a photo of them, arms wrapped, all smiles.
She stared through the blur of tears until the image split and her knees folded; she sank to the floor, the frame pressed to her chest as memory after memory hit: the night they met, the first I love you, the moment she gave him her heart. Her body. The promises. And the lies hiding behind them.
Grief twisted into fury.
She hurled the photo; glass exploded across the carpet.
Breath ragged, she yanked the aluminum bat from the closet and snatched her keys.
No more tears. No more talking.
If hurting her was the goal, he was about to learn how that felt.
Chapter One
Trinity
Highlighter. Blush. Concealer.
Trinity Walker sat perched at her vanity like it was a throne, dabbing on just enough shimmer to catch the light. Her skin, already smooth and luminous, barely needed help, but that never stopped her. Just because you’re blessed doesn’t mean you can’t add a little sparkle. Outside, car horns and pop beats bled through the window from the busy California street below. Out here, leaving the house barefaced wasn’t an option. A touch of glam was survival.
“Okay, mascara,” she muttered, searching through the drawer.
Nothing.
Her brow furrowed. Every brush was lined in neat rows, compacts stacked by shade. She ran a tight ship. So why was the mascara missing?
Without hesitation, she stood and crossed the hall to her sister’s room. Music thundered behind the door, bass rattling through the walls. She pushed it open to find eleven-year-old Alexis on the floor, lazily painting her toenails, utterly unbothered.
She didn’t bother shouting over the noise. Just stared.
Alexis met her gaze, then sighed and turned the volume down.
“Can I help you?” Alexis asked, already glancing back down.
“Give me back my mascara, Lex.”
“Oh. Do you need it right now?”
“Yes. Like, now now. What do you mean ‘oh’?”
“Well,” Alexis said, dragging out the word, “I brought it to school yesterday, and I can’t find it, but don’t worry. I’ll find it.”
Trinity narrowed her eyes. “Lex, what the hell? This is the second time. What am I supposed to do now?”
“Just go like that. You look great.” Alexis shrugged.
“No. You don’t leave the house without your lashes done. Find my mascara. I’m leaving in ten minutes.”
“All right, all right. Just use Mom’s for now. I’ll put yours back when I find it.”
Trinity rolled her eyes and shut the door behind her. She crossed the hall to her parents’ room, where her mom sat on the edge of the bed slipping on a pair of Coach loafers. Warm afternoon light spilled through the drapes, soft against Aaliyah’s hazelnut skin. She looked up and smiled, tired, but genuine. Trinity smiled back without thinking. Her mom’s curls fell in smooth, perfect waves, framing her face and catching the light just right. She’d always admired that about her, how she could make strength look so graceful. Watching her lead worship at church had planted the seed for everything Trinity was chasing now. Her mom wasn’t just a parent. She was her manager, her mentor, her anchor.
But ever since Tristan died, everything had shifted.
Her twin. Her other half. The one person who knew her inside and out. It had only been three months, yet it still didn’t feel real at times. His laugh no longer echoed down the hall, his seat at the table sat untouched, and every morning, grief flickered behind Aaliyah’s eyes before she forced a smile.
There were weeks when her mom barely moved from bed, when the air in the house felt too heavy to breathe. Trinity had learned to walk softer, to carry her own sadness quietly, but lately, the edges had started to soften. Her mom was going to therapy again. The church ladies brought food. Little by little, color was returning to her voice. And standing there now, dressed, lips glossed, eyes bright with something almost like peace, she looked like the woman Trinity had been missing.
For the first time in a long while, it felt like hope had walked back into the room.
“Hey, beautiful. You ready to go?” her mom asked.
“Almost. I just need to do my lashes. Can I use your mascara? Lex lost mine—again.”
“Go right ahead. Your dad’s supposed to meet us there. He’s working late but promised he’d show up.”
Trinity crossed to the vanity and found the mascara tucked neatly in the drawer. She applied it with practiced precision, hand steady. When she finished, a gentle pair of hands rested on her shoulders.
She looked up.
Her mom stood behind her, eyes on their reflection, the faintest smile curving her lips, like she was remembering what it felt like to shine.
“Okay, baby girl. It’s time,” Aaliyah said gently. “Don’t be nervous. You’re going to be amazing tonight.”
Trinity laughed under her breath, turning to face her. “Mommy, I’ve done this a bunch of times. I’m not nervous.”
“I know,” her mom said, still smiling, “but this is your first time performing at this restaurant. Around February, scouts from agencies start showing up looking for the next rising star. They’re already planning summer releases. Have you decided what song you’re going to sing?”
“Kind of. I was thinking of ‘Best Part’ by H.E.R., but Daddy thinks I should do one of my own.”
Aaliyah tilted her head. “Since it’s a new venue, I think one of your songs would be great. What about the one we wrote for your brother, ‘Dear Angel’?”
Trinity froze.
The name alone tugged something deep in her chest. That song wasn’t just a performance piece, it was a wound, still healing. She saw flashes of the night they wrote it: tear-stained notebooks, her mom’s trembling voice guiding her through the chorus, the ache of saying goodbye in melody.
“I don’t know if I can,” she whispered.
“That’s okay. No pressure.” Her mom gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Sing what feels right. Now, grab the keys. I just need to talk to your sister.”
Trinity nodded, slinging her purse over her shoulder.
Outside, the evening air hit cool against her skin. Her phone buzzed. Seeing Imani’s name light up the screen pulled a smile to her lips.
Trinity could still remember the stares in the hallway, the way people’s voices dropped when she passed.
“Must be nice having a cop as a dad.”
“She thinks she’s better than us.”
Being biracial in a mostly Black school meant never fitting cleanly anywhere. Her father’s badge only made the line between her and everyone else thicker. Tristan had learned to brush it off, headphones in, peacekeeper to the end. She hadn’t. Too many afternoons ended in the principal’s office, heart pounding, fighting to be seen as more than a stereotype.
It was draining until Imani showed up. Confident, loud, unbothered. She slid into Trinity’s life like she’d always belonged there, sitting beside her at lunch one day and asking, “You always eat alone or just today?” From then on, they were inseparable.
“Heyyy, girlll!” Imani’s voice burst through the speaker, full of energy as always.
Trinity laughed. “You heading over now?”
“Yup! Driving as we speak. You know I gotta come see you perform.”
“It’s not like you haven’t heard me sing a million times,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat of her mom’s car. “You just want to scope out the cute guys.”
“Okay, true, but I also genuinely love your voice, so win-win. Oh, and guess what? That new club opens tonight. We should slide over after your set.”
Trinity paused, fingers tightening on her phone. The thought made her chest squeeze. It would be the first time going out since Tristan passed. Every party they’d gone to, they’d gone together. She wasn’t sure she was ready.
“Club?” she echoed quietly.
“Yes, girl,” Imani said, her tone softening. “I think it’d be good for you. You haven’t really gone out since…everything, but you used to love it. And you know Tristan would want you to live again.”
She let out a slow sigh. “You’re right…but it’s twenty-one and up. We’re nineteen. They’re not letting us in.”
“Pfft. Please. I still got our fake IDs.”
“Seriously? I thought your mom took those.”
“She did, but I found them again, so we’re good.”
Trinity shook her head, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “All right. I guess we can go. I’ll see you soon.”
The venue buzzed with low chatter and the clink of glassware as Trinity stepped onto the small stage. Warm light washed over her, catching the shimmer on her cheekbones. A quiet hush spread through the room. Then the first notes of “Best Part” filled the air. Her voice rose, smooth and unhurried, threading through the melody like silk. She didn’t have to think—every lyric, every breath lived in her bones. The music wasn’t something she performed; it was something she remembered. For a few minutes, the noise of the world fell away.
When the last note faded, silence lingered for half a heartbeat before the room erupted in applause.
Her chest lifted, a small smile tugging at her lips.
For her encore, she chose an original—not “Dear Angel” but still a piece of her heart. The chords settled under her skin, the melody steady and sure. Each word carried weight—not grief, but something softer. Healing. When she stepped offstage, her mom was on her feet, eyes shining. Her dad clapped beside her, pride bright in his face. Imani cheered loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear.
“You did an incredible job,” Aaliyah said, eyes shining. “During your set, a producer was sitting near our table. I noticed he kept watching you, really listening. When you finished, I went over and introduced myself. We started talking, and he asked who was managing you.”
Trinity leaned forward. “And?”
Aaliyah reached into her purse and pulled out a small card. “I told him I was. He handed me this and said he’d be interested in meeting.”
Trinity blinked, the excitement flickering behind her composed smile. “Really? When?”
“We’ll need to call to set it up. But this could be big, he’s worked with some well-known names.”
She nodded, keeping her tone even. “That’s great.”
This wasn’t the first time someone had been interested, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last. Most producers wanted to be in charge of the creative process in exchange for getting their work seen, but she knew her worth. She wasn’t giving up her voice to anyone who didn’t respect it.
“Fingers crossed the meeting goes well.”
“It will,” Myles said. “But let’s head home. Your sister’s alone, and God knows what she’s gotten into.”
“You guys go ahead. Imani and I are gonna hang out for a bit. She’ll drop me off. I won’t be out late.”
“Okay, sweetheart. Be safe,” Myles said then planted a kiss on the top of her head.
As her parents left, the restaurant sounds wrapped around them again—laughter, music, the faint smell of grilled seafood. Trinity and Imani slipped into an empty booth, still caught in the glow of the night.
“Girl, change of plans,” Imani said, eyes gleaming. “While you were singing, guess who I saw?”
“Who?”
“Malik.”
“Wait…Who’s Malik?”
Imani blinked. “Girl. Malik. That fine dark-skin quarterback from high school? Locs down to his collarbone?”
“Ohhh. Him. Where?”
“Right over there.” Imani pointed across the room. “We talked, and he loves your voice. He invited us to his homeboy’s party. It’s his birthday. The guy’s an artist too. Malik gave me the address, Oceanside Beach. Whatcha think?”
Trinity hesitated. “I mean, that’s cool…I was kind of looking forward to the club though.”
“Girl, we can hit the club anytime. I want me some Malik.” Imani dropped her shades and waved.
He spotted them and started heading over.
“What’s up, Trin? Off the bat your voice is fire. Not gonna lie.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“So y’all sliding to the party tonight?”
“Yes, Malik, we are most definitely coming,” Imani said, grinning.
“Bet. I’ll meet y’all over there.”
He walked off, and Imani fanned herself. “Girl. This night just got interesting.”
Trinity shook her head, but the corner of her mouth lifted. For the first time in a while, the idea of fun didn’t feel so heavy.
On the drive there, the girls made a quiet pact to stick together. Music played low, city lights flashed across their faces through the windshield. Imani drummed her fingers on the wheel; Trinity watched the blur of headlights ahead, her stomach tight in ways she couldn’t name. They’d been to house parties before—plenty. But this time felt different. Tristan wasn’t here. His voice, his laugh, the way he always kept an eye out for them, gone. The silence he left behind had a weight of its own.
Imani glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Trinity said softly, though she wasn’t sure.
“All right. But we stick together tonight, okay?”
Trinity nodded. “Always.”
When they pulled up, the beach house took her breath for a second. It was massive, a three-story stretch of light and sound. String lights swung gently in the ocean breeze, and music pulsed through the air, heavy with bass. Every window glowed, every laugh spilling out onto the sand like the house itself was alive.
Inside, the air was thick—weed, sweat, fried food, liquor. Heat from too many bodies pressed close. People danced on tables, shouted over the music, phones flashing in every direction.
“Ayeee. Y’all made it!” Malik called, weaving through the crowd with a Henny bottle in hand.
“Yup. We’re here! This party’s lit!” Imani shouted back. “Where’s the birthday boy?”
“Oh, that nigga?” Malik laughed. “Probably upstairs with some girl. You tryna dance, Imani? You lookin’ real good tonight.”
Imani glanced at Trinity like a kid asking for permission.
“Go ahead, girl,” she said with a smile. “I’m good. Have fun.”
“Okay…just one dance. Two tops,” Imani said, still hesitating.
“Make it five or however many you want. I’m not cockblocking,” she teased.
They both laughed, and Imani disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by flashing lights and the pulse of the music.
Trinity lingered near the wall for a moment, letting the rhythm settle against her chest. It was louder than she remembered and lonelier too. A smile tugged at her lips as a flicker of memory surfaced—Tristan, spinning in the middle of a living room, shoulders loose, eyes bright, pulling everyone into his orbit. He’d dance with whoever was closest, didn’t matter if they could keep up. Half the time, she was right there beside him, laughing until her stomach hurt while he shouted the lyrics to whatever song was playing.
He could make a room come alive just by being in it.
The thought warmed her, but the ache came right after, sharp and quiet, like the space he used to fill was still echoing.
“Hey, beautiful,” a voice cut through the music, low and smooth. “You lookin’ good tonight. You here by yourself?”
Her head snapped toward the sound.
A Hispanic guy stood a few feet away, a thin curl of smoke rising from the blunt between his fingers. The light hit his tattoos, black ink rippling up both arms. Slick-backed hair, fitted black tee, Gucci belt catching the flash of someone’s phone. He looked like he belonged here—confident, untouchable.
And even though she didn’t want to, she felt the pull.
“Thank you,” she said, voice steady. “I’m not alone. I’m here with my girl.”
“Your girl, huh?” He smirked. “How old you is?”
“Nineteen. You?”
“Twenty-three. You tryna smoke this?” He held the blunt up.
“I don’t smoke.”
“Word? Ever tried it? This ain’t no weak shit. This that gas. Trust me.”
Trinity hesitated. It was true she’d never smoked before, but a part of her wanted to forget, even just for a little while—forget the ache of missing Tristan. Forget the quiet that followed him. Maybe this was her chance to let go.
She took the blunt and inhaled, only to burst into a fit of coughing. She tried to play it off, eyes watering.
“Strong, right?” He laughed, taking it back. “Yeah, shawty, I can tell you new to this. I’m Dray.”
“Trinity.”
“So, Trinity,” he said, stepping closer, voice dropping low, “you tryna hit more of this in my car? We can chill…see where it goes.”
The attention felt good, she couldn’t lie about that—being seen, being wanted—but she knew better than to get in some random guy’s car, especially one she’d just met at a party.
Her mom’s voice flashed in her mind, “The ones who smile the smoothest are usually the ones you gotta run from.” She didn’t need him to say more. The way his eyes lingered, the practiced ease in his grin, she’d seen it before. Every word, every move had one destination.
She was still a virgin, and she wasn’t about to lose her virginity to a player in a parked car outside a beach house.
“I’m good, boo,” she said coolly. “I’m just gonna chill right here.”
“Come on, shawty,” he coaxed, stepping in closer. “We don’t gotta do anything. Just vibe—talk. I’m tryna get to know you.”
She caught a strong whiff of his cologne, sharp and sweet, laced with weed. It clung to his clothes like a warning.
Before she could shut him down again, a girl stormed over, face tight with rage.
“What the fuck, Dray? You really gonna leave me to go talk to this puta? She’s not even cute!”
Trinity straightened. “Puta? Girl, watch your mouth.”
She didn’t speak fluent Spanish, but thanks to Cardi B, she knew exactly what puta meant.
“Bitch, shut the fuck up, tryna take my man and shit,” the girl snapped, voice rising over the music. Heads turned. Conversations stopped.
“Hold on. I don’t even want his ass,” Trinity shot back, anger flaring in her chest, “and I’m not the type to let someone talk to me crazy. I’m up for whatever. What you tryna do?”
She didn’t want a fight.
But the disrespect? That flipped a switch.
The girl lunged, but Dray stepped in fast, catching her mid-swing.
“Yo, chill,” he barked, holding her back as she thrashed and cursed, dragging her away through the crowd.
Only then did Trinity realize how many people were still watching.
“Girl, what happened?” Imani called, rushing over.
“Nothing,” she muttered. “I just need some air.”
She turned and walked away from the mess, moving through the house until she found a door that led to the back porch. As soon as she stepped outside, the cool, salty air touched her skin and tangled in her curls. The noise faded into a muffled thump behind closed doors.
Leaning against the railing, she took a slow breath. The moon streamed silver over the waves, making the ocean look like black glass with stars on it. As she closed her eyes, she began to hum “Dear Angel.” The smooth, steady tune was like a lifeline in the quiet.
By the time she finished, her shoulders eased, and the tension finally drained from her body.
“That song you were humming. Fire. Not gonna lie.”
She jolted, glancing around, expecting someone nearby.
“Up here.”
Trinity looked up and spotted a guy sitting casually on the roof, legs swinging over the edge. A notepad and pen rested on his lap. He wore a white tee under a cream short-sleeved flannel, black cargo pants, and spotless white Air Forces. The shadows masked most of his face, but she could feel his eyes on her.
He gave a small wave, his voice easy.
“What’s the name of that song?”
Her hand brushed the edge of the railing, tracing the wood grain. She looked away, the waves suddenly more interesting than his question.
“Damn, ma, you just gonna ignore me like that?” he said with a low chuckle, more amused than offended.
“It’s called ‘Dear Angel.’”
“Who’s it by?”
She glanced up at him again but didn’t answer. She wasn’t ready to share more, not about the song, and definitely not about the reason behind it.
“Why are you on the roof?” she asked, deflecting.
“’Cause it’s the only place at this party where people aren’t doing the absolute most,” he said. “Plus, the view’s nice. Helps me write.” He tapped the notepad with his pen.
A pause followed. The kind of quiet only ocean air could fill, waves crashing softly below, bass still thumping behind the walls.
Then he cleared his throat. “You can come up here if you want.”
“Yeah, no…I’m good down here.”
“What, you scared of heights or something?”
“No,” she said, folding her arms. “I just don’t sit on rooftops with strangers.”
He laughed. “Okay. You got that. I’ll come to you then.”
Trinity watched him stand, slip through the nearby window, and disappear into the house. A few moments later, the back door creaked open behind her. She turned, and there he was, strolling toward her like he belonged there. Casual. Unbothered. Like it was just another Tuesday.
He was taller than she expected, with a golden-brown skin tone just a little darker than hers and neat waves under a fitting cap. His smile was sweet, and he had dimples in both cheeks. He looked at her in an open, curious, and compassionate way that made her feel seen. Different.
Not like Dray.
Not like most guys.
She didn’t want to admit it, but the attraction hit her fast.
“You good?” he asked, voice low, tone easy.
“Yeah. Just needed a minute.”
“Same,” he said, patting down his waves with a quick swipe of his hand.
“On the roof?”
“Best seat in the house. I was working on a song. Needed somewhere quiet.”
“You make music?”
“Yeah—write, sing, rap. That song you were humming. Melody was dope. You said it was called ‘Dear…’ something?”
“‘Dear Angel.’”
“Right ‘Dear Angel.’ Who’s it by? I wanna check it out.”
She turned toward him more fully now, arms still crossed, voice softening.
“It’s mine. My mom and I wrote it together.”
That caught his attention. His expression stayed calm, but something flickered in his eyes—interest, maybe even respect.
She studied his face, trying to figure him out. Was he just another smooth talker or someone different? She couldn’t tell yet.
But she wasn’t turned off by the mystery.
“Really?” he said, surprised. “Wait. What’s your—”
The back door banged open. A drunk guy stumbled outside, made his way to the edge of the porch, and started peeing over the side.
“Bro. What the hell?” he muttered, shaking his head.
Then he turned back to her. “You tryna walk the beach, or is your man inside waiting on you?”
Trinity smirked, a spark lighting in her eyes. “We can,” she said coolly. “I don’t have a man.”
Her tone was flirtatious, measured. She hadn’t expected to vibe with anyone tonight, let alone someone this interesting. “Unless your girlfriend wouldn’t be cool with that. I don’t want any problems.”
“Nah, ma. I’m solo.” He chuckled, hands slipping into his pockets.
Together, they headed toward the shoreline, leaving the chaos of the house behind.
The sand was cool beneath their feet. The breeze curled around them, carrying salt and silence—a calm neither had realized they needed.
“So,” he said after a moment, “what’s your name?”
“Trinity.”
“I’m Keith…Keith Harris.” He gave a warm nod. “You said you and your mom wrote that song together…How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” she said. “And yeah… we wrote it for my brother.” A pause. “He passed a few months ago.”
His tone softened. “I’m sorry. Can I ask what happened?”
“It’s okay,” she murmured. “Car accident. He was actually my twin. I’ve been healing…slowly. Music’s helped a lot.”
Keith nodded. “That makes sense. Music’s powerful like that. I’ve been into it since I was a kid. My pops was a known rapper back in the day. Mama was coming up in R&B. They’re both gone now, but honestly, music’s all I’ve ever known. Runs through my blood.”
“Wow,” she said, a little surprised. “Do you have any siblings?”
“Nah. Only child. After they passed, I stayed with my aunt and uncle for a while. I was eighteen.”
“I’m really sorry,” she said gently. “That must’ve been hard. How old are you now?”
“Twenty-one. So yeah, it’s been a few years. That first year’s the roughest, but it gets better. For real.”
She nodded, the ocean breeze brushing across her cheek. A quiet flicker of hope rose in her chest.
“I started writing again around then,” he went on. “Everybody’s out here rapping about flexin’ and girls but I’m into real things. Life. Grief. Growth.”
She looked at him, voice low. “I wish more people did that.”
Even though they’d just met, there was something grounding about him. He understood loss in a way most people couldn’t. She still had a dozen questions, but for now, it was enough just to feel seen.
Keith met her gaze, voice low. “Same.”
He shifted the mood with a slight smile. “But that song ‘Dear Angel’, I’d love to hear it sometime, if you’re cool with that. We could link up, play some tracks.”
“Yeah, that’s cool,” she said a little too quickly. The excitement slipped out before she could catch it.
They exchanged numbers, and just as she saved his contact, a voice rang out from the porch.
“Ayo, Keith! Bring your yellow ass over here. We gettin’ ready to sing happy birthday!”
“A’ight, fam. Hold up!” Keith called back, shaking his head.
Trinity blinked. “Wait…it’s your birthday?”
“Yeah, ma.” He grinned. “Party’s almost over. I’m just gonna run up so they can sing. I can take you home after, if you want.”
“It’s okay. My friend’s inside waiting for me. But…happy birthday, Keith.”
“Appreciate you. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Before she could answer, Malik’s voice boomed again: “COME ON, NIGGA. DAMN!”
They both cracked up.
As they headed back toward the house, something lighter hung between them. Something new.
Chapter Two
Keith
Two weeks later, and she was still running laps in his mind.
Every night since the party, their calls had stretched past midnight, video screens glowing, laughter slipping between pauses that said more than either of them dared to. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all, just listened to each other breathe. Every late-night call, every laugh, every quiet pause where neither of them spoke but somehow still understood each other, it all stuck with him.
He was learning her piece by piece—stories about her mom, the scar on her wrist from climbing a fence, the way she believed songs could heal people. Every new thing pulled him closer.
Now, they were finally meeting again. The plan was simple: trade music. The real kind. The songs
“I can’t believe it,” she whispered.
The only light came from her laptop screen, flickering across her face as rain traced slow lines down the window. The sound filled the silence she couldn’t.
Thoughts tore through her, wild and splintered, like wind through broken glass. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard, shaking. The air felt too hot, too thin. A pulse pounded behind her eyes as she stared at the screen, breath catching, tears spilling fast and soundless.
“I’m so fucking stupid. Why would he do this?”
The words cracked in her throat, raw from the pressure building behind them. Her pulse thundered. Her mind scrambled. It had to be a nightmare.
Then her phone rang, slicing through the quiet.
She flinched.
Her hands shook as she fumbled to answer, Imani’s name glowing bright across the screen.
“Ooo, this is bad,” Imani said immediately. “I know you’re pissed.”
“I’m beyond that! Who the hell does he think he is?” Her voice rose in fury, trembling.
“There’s no way he really did that to you.”
“I trusted him. I loved him. And now I feel…so fucking embarrassed.”
“It’s okay. How could you have known? Just breathe, all right? Calm down.”
“I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m gonna explode.” She started pacing, movements jerky and uneven. Her hands trembled as she grabbed her bag from the chair. “Fuck it. I’m heading to his studio right now.”
“Trin, hold up.” Imani’s voice cut through the phone. “You know how you get when you’re upset. And it’s pouring outside. I don’t want you driving like this.”
“I don’t care! He’s going to see me tonight.” The words tore out of her. “I can’t believe he did this to me.”
“Okay, okay, just let me take you,” Imani pleaded. “I’m grabbing my keys. Anything can happen when you’re this heated.”
“No. I don’t want you involved.”
Silence filled the line, heavy and cold.
Then, quieter, “I should’ve never trusted him. I wish I’d never met him.”
She hung up. The phone slipped from her hand and hit the floor. For a moment, she just stared at it, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Then she folded forward, face buried in her hands as the sobs came hard and fast.
She stayed like that for what felt like forever, the sound of her own breathing louder than the rain outside. Her tears slowed, but the anger didn’t. It gathered beneath her skin, hot and sharp.
Then something in her snapped.
She rose abruptly, wiping her face with the back of her hand. On the nightstand, a silver frame held a photo of them, arms wrapped, all smiles.
She stared through the blur of tears until the image split and her knees folded; she sank to the floor, the frame pressed to her chest as memory after memory hit: the night they met, the first I love you, the moment she gave him her heart. Her body. The promises. And the lies hiding behind them.
Grief twisted into fury.
She hurled the photo; glass exploded across the carpet.
Breath ragged, she yanked the aluminum bat from the closet and snatched her keys.
No more tears. No more talking.
If hurting her was the goal, he was about to learn how that felt.
Chapter One
Trinity
Highlighter. Blush. Concealer.
Trinity Walker sat perched at her vanity like it was a throne, dabbing on just enough shimmer to catch the light. Her skin, already smooth and luminous, barely needed help, but that never stopped her. Just because you’re blessed doesn’t mean you can’t add a little sparkle. Outside, car horns and pop beats bled through the window from the busy California street below. Out here, leaving the house barefaced wasn’t an option. A touch of glam was survival.
“Okay, mascara,” she muttered, searching through the drawer.
Nothing.
Her brow furrowed. Every brush was lined in neat rows, compacts stacked by shade. She ran a tight ship. So why was the mascara missing?
Without hesitation, she stood and crossed the hall to her sister’s room. Music thundered behind the door, bass rattling through the walls. She pushed it open to find eleven-year-old Alexis on the floor, lazily painting her toenails, utterly unbothered.
She didn’t bother shouting over the noise. Just stared.
Alexis met her gaze, then sighed and turned the volume down.
“Can I help you?” Alexis asked, already glancing back down.
“Give me back my mascara, Lex.”
“Oh. Do you need it right now?”
“Yes. Like, now now. What do you mean ‘oh’?”
“Well,” Alexis said, dragging out the word, “I brought it to school yesterday, and I can’t find it, but don’t worry. I’ll find it.”
Trinity narrowed her eyes. “Lex, what the hell? This is the second time. What am I supposed to do now?”
“Just go like that. You look great.” Alexis shrugged.
“No. You don’t leave the house without your lashes done. Find my mascara. I’m leaving in ten minutes.”
“All right, all right. Just use Mom’s for now. I’ll put yours back when I find it.”
Trinity rolled her eyes and shut the door behind her. She crossed the hall to her parents’ room, where her mom sat on the edge of the bed slipping on a pair of Coach loafers. Warm afternoon light spilled through the drapes, soft against Aaliyah’s hazelnut skin. She looked up and smiled, tired, but genuine. Trinity smiled back without thinking. Her mom’s curls fell in smooth, perfect waves, framing her face and catching the light just right. She’d always admired that about her, how she could make strength look so graceful. Watching her lead worship at church had planted the seed for everything Trinity was chasing now. Her mom wasn’t just a parent. She was her manager, her mentor, her anchor.
But ever since Tristan died, everything had shifted.
Her twin. Her other half. The one person who knew her inside and out. It had only been three months, yet it still didn’t feel real at times. His laugh no longer echoed down the hall, his seat at the table sat untouched, and every morning, grief flickered behind Aaliyah’s eyes before she forced a smile.
There were weeks when her mom barely moved from bed, when the air in the house felt too heavy to breathe. Trinity had learned to walk softer, to carry her own sadness quietly, but lately, the edges had started to soften. Her mom was going to therapy again. The church ladies brought food. Little by little, color was returning to her voice. And standing there now, dressed, lips glossed, eyes bright with something almost like peace, she looked like the woman Trinity had been missing.
For the first time in a long while, it felt like hope had walked back into the room.
“Hey, beautiful. You ready to go?” her mom asked.
“Almost. I just need to do my lashes. Can I use your mascara? Lex lost mine—again.”
“Go right ahead. Your dad’s supposed to meet us there. He’s working late but promised he’d show up.”
Trinity crossed to the vanity and found the mascara tucked neatly in the drawer. She applied it with practiced precision, hand steady. When she finished, a gentle pair of hands rested on her shoulders.
She looked up.
Her mom stood behind her, eyes on their reflection, the faintest smile curving her lips, like she was remembering what it felt like to shine.
“Okay, baby girl. It’s time,” Aaliyah said gently. “Don’t be nervous. You’re going to be amazing tonight.”
Trinity laughed under her breath, turning to face her. “Mommy, I’ve done this a bunch of times. I’m not nervous.”
“I know,” her mom said, still smiling, “but this is your first time performing at this restaurant. Around February, scouts from agencies start showing up looking for the next rising star. They’re already planning summer releases. Have you decided what song you’re going to sing?”
“Kind of. I was thinking of ‘Best Part’ by H.E.R., but Daddy thinks I should do one of my own.”
Aaliyah tilted her head. “Since it’s a new venue, I think one of your songs would be great. What about the one we wrote for your brother, ‘Dear Angel’?”
Trinity froze.
The name alone tugged something deep in her chest. That song wasn’t just a performance piece, it was a wound, still healing. She saw flashes of the night they wrote it: tear-stained notebooks, her mom’s trembling voice guiding her through the chorus, the ache of saying goodbye in melody.
“I don’t know if I can,” she whispered.
“That’s okay. No pressure.” Her mom gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Sing what feels right. Now, grab the keys. I just need to talk to your sister.”
Trinity nodded, slinging her purse over her shoulder.
Outside, the evening air hit cool against her skin. Her phone buzzed. Seeing Imani’s name light up the screen pulled a smile to her lips.
Trinity could still remember the stares in the hallway, the way people’s voices dropped when she passed.
“Must be nice having a cop as a dad.”
“She thinks she’s better than us.”
Being biracial in a mostly Black school meant never fitting cleanly anywhere. Her father’s badge only made the line between her and everyone else thicker. Tristan had learned to brush it off, headphones in, peacekeeper to the end. She hadn’t. Too many afternoons ended in the principal’s office, heart pounding, fighting to be seen as more than a stereotype.
It was draining until Imani showed up. Confident, loud, unbothered. She slid into Trinity’s life like she’d always belonged there, sitting beside her at lunch one day and asking, “You always eat alone or just today?” From then on, they were inseparable.
“Heyyy, girlll!” Imani’s voice burst through the speaker, full of energy as always.
Trinity laughed. “You heading over now?”
“Yup! Driving as we speak. You know I gotta come see you perform.”
“It’s not like you haven’t heard me sing a million times,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat of her mom’s car. “You just want to scope out the cute guys.”
“Okay, true, but I also genuinely love your voice, so win-win. Oh, and guess what? That new club opens tonight. We should slide over after your set.”
Trinity paused, fingers tightening on her phone. The thought made her chest squeeze. It would be the first time going out since Tristan passed. Every party they’d gone to, they’d gone together. She wasn’t sure she was ready.
“Club?” she echoed quietly.
“Yes, girl,” Imani said, her tone softening. “I think it’d be good for you. You haven’t really gone out since…everything, but you used to love it. And you know Tristan would want you to live again.”
She let out a slow sigh. “You’re right…but it’s twenty-one and up. We’re nineteen. They’re not letting us in.”
“Pfft. Please. I still got our fake IDs.”
“Seriously? I thought your mom took those.”
“She did, but I found them again, so we’re good.”
Trinity shook her head, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “All right. I guess we can go. I’ll see you soon.”
The venue buzzed with low chatter and the clink of glassware as Trinity stepped onto the small stage. Warm light washed over her, catching the shimmer on her cheekbones. A quiet hush spread through the room. Then the first notes of “Best Part” filled the air. Her voice rose, smooth and unhurried, threading through the melody like silk. She didn’t have to think—every lyric, every breath lived in her bones. The music wasn’t something she performed; it was something she remembered. For a few minutes, the noise of the world fell away.
When the last note faded, silence lingered for half a heartbeat before the room erupted in applause.
Her chest lifted, a small smile tugging at her lips.
For her encore, she chose an original—not “Dear Angel” but still a piece of her heart. The chords settled under her skin, the melody steady and sure. Each word carried weight—not grief, but something softer. Healing. When she stepped offstage, her mom was on her feet, eyes shining. Her dad clapped beside her, pride bright in his face. Imani cheered loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear.
“You did an incredible job,” Aaliyah said, eyes shining. “During your set, a producer was sitting near our table. I noticed he kept watching you, really listening. When you finished, I went over and introduced myself. We started talking, and he asked who was managing you.”
Trinity leaned forward. “And?”
Aaliyah reached into her purse and pulled out a small card. “I told him I was. He handed me this and said he’d be interested in meeting.”
Trinity blinked, the excitement flickering behind her composed smile. “Really? When?”
“We’ll need to call to set it up. But this could be big, he’s worked with some well-known names.”
She nodded, keeping her tone even. “That’s great.”
This wasn’t the first time someone had been interested, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last. Most producers wanted to be in charge of the creative process in exchange for getting their work seen, but she knew her worth. She wasn’t giving up her voice to anyone who didn’t respect it.
“Fingers crossed the meeting goes well.”
“It will,” Myles said. “But let’s head home. Your sister’s alone, and God knows what she’s gotten into.”
“You guys go ahead. Imani and I are gonna hang out for a bit. She’ll drop me off. I won’t be out late.”
“Okay, sweetheart. Be safe,” Myles said then planted a kiss on the top of her head.
As her parents left, the restaurant sounds wrapped around them again—laughter, music, the faint smell of grilled seafood. Trinity and Imani slipped into an empty booth, still caught in the glow of the night.
“Girl, change of plans,” Imani said, eyes gleaming. “While you were singing, guess who I saw?”
“Who?”
“Malik.”
“Wait…Who’s Malik?”
Imani blinked. “Girl. Malik. That fine dark-skin quarterback from high school? Locs down to his collarbone?”
“Ohhh. Him. Where?”
“Right over there.” Imani pointed across the room. “We talked, and he loves your voice. He invited us to his homeboy’s party. It’s his birthday. The guy’s an artist too. Malik gave me the address, Oceanside Beach. Whatcha think?”
Trinity hesitated. “I mean, that’s cool…I was kind of looking forward to the club though.”
“Girl, we can hit the club anytime. I want me some Malik.” Imani dropped her shades and waved.
He spotted them and started heading over.
“What’s up, Trin? Off the bat your voice is fire. Not gonna lie.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“So y’all sliding to the party tonight?”
“Yes, Malik, we are most definitely coming,” Imani said, grinning.
“Bet. I’ll meet y’all over there.”
He walked off, and Imani fanned herself. “Girl. This night just got interesting.”
Trinity shook her head, but the corner of her mouth lifted. For the first time in a while, the idea of fun didn’t feel so heavy.
On the drive there, the girls made a quiet pact to stick together. Music played low, city lights flashed across their faces through the windshield. Imani drummed her fingers on the wheel; Trinity watched the blur of headlights ahead, her stomach tight in ways she couldn’t name. They’d been to house parties before—plenty. But this time felt different. Tristan wasn’t here. His voice, his laugh, the way he always kept an eye out for them, gone. The silence he left behind had a weight of its own.
Imani glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Trinity said softly, though she wasn’t sure.
“All right. But we stick together tonight, okay?”
Trinity nodded. “Always.”
When they pulled up, the beach house took her breath for a second. It was massive, a three-story stretch of light and sound. String lights swung gently in the ocean breeze, and music pulsed through the air, heavy with bass. Every window glowed, every laugh spilling out onto the sand like the house itself was alive.
Inside, the air was thick—weed, sweat, fried food, liquor. Heat from too many bodies pressed close. People danced on tables, shouted over the music, phones flashing in every direction.
“Ayeee. Y’all made it!” Malik called, weaving through the crowd with a Henny bottle in hand.
“Yup. We’re here! This party’s lit!” Imani shouted back. “Where’s the birthday boy?”
“Oh, that nigga?” Malik laughed. “Probably upstairs with some girl. You tryna dance, Imani? You lookin’ real good tonight.”
Imani glanced at Trinity like a kid asking for permission.
“Go ahead, girl,” she said with a smile. “I’m good. Have fun.”
“Okay…just one dance. Two tops,” Imani said, still hesitating.
“Make it five or however many you want. I’m not cockblocking,” she teased.
They both laughed, and Imani disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by flashing lights and the pulse of the music.
Trinity lingered near the wall for a moment, letting the rhythm settle against her chest. It was louder than she remembered and lonelier too. A smile tugged at her lips as a flicker of memory surfaced—Tristan, spinning in the middle of a living room, shoulders loose, eyes bright, pulling everyone into his orbit. He’d dance with whoever was closest, didn’t matter if they could keep up. Half the time, she was right there beside him, laughing until her stomach hurt while he shouted the lyrics to whatever song was playing.
He could make a room come alive just by being in it.
The thought warmed her, but the ache came right after, sharp and quiet, like the space he used to fill was still echoing.
“Hey, beautiful,” a voice cut through the music, low and smooth. “You lookin’ good tonight. You here by yourself?”
Her head snapped toward the sound.
A Hispanic guy stood a few feet away, a thin curl of smoke rising from the blunt between his fingers. The light hit his tattoos, black ink rippling up both arms. Slick-backed hair, fitted black tee, Gucci belt catching the flash of someone’s phone. He looked like he belonged here—confident, untouchable.
And even though she didn’t want to, she felt the pull.
“Thank you,” she said, voice steady. “I’m not alone. I’m here with my girl.”
“Your girl, huh?” He smirked. “How old you is?”
“Nineteen. You?”
“Twenty-three. You tryna smoke this?” He held the blunt up.
“I don’t smoke.”
“Word? Ever tried it? This ain’t no weak shit. This that gas. Trust me.”
Trinity hesitated. It was true she’d never smoked before, but a part of her wanted to forget, even just for a little while—forget the ache of missing Tristan. Forget the quiet that followed him. Maybe this was her chance to let go.
She took the blunt and inhaled, only to burst into a fit of coughing. She tried to play it off, eyes watering.
“Strong, right?” He laughed, taking it back. “Yeah, shawty, I can tell you new to this. I’m Dray.”
“Trinity.”
“So, Trinity,” he said, stepping closer, voice dropping low, “you tryna hit more of this in my car? We can chill…see where it goes.”
The attention felt good, she couldn’t lie about that—being seen, being wanted—but she knew better than to get in some random guy’s car, especially one she’d just met at a party.
Her mom’s voice flashed in her mind, “The ones who smile the smoothest are usually the ones you gotta run from.” She didn’t need him to say more. The way his eyes lingered, the practiced ease in his grin, she’d seen it before. Every word, every move had one destination.
She was still a virgin, and she wasn’t about to lose her virginity to a player in a parked car outside a beach house.
“I’m good, boo,” she said coolly. “I’m just gonna chill right here.”
“Come on, shawty,” he coaxed, stepping in closer. “We don’t gotta do anything. Just vibe—talk. I’m tryna get to know you.”
She caught a strong whiff of his cologne, sharp and sweet, laced with weed. It clung to his clothes like a warning.
Before she could shut him down again, a girl stormed over, face tight with rage.
“What the fuck, Dray? You really gonna leave me to go talk to this puta? She’s not even cute!”
Trinity straightened. “Puta? Girl, watch your mouth.”
She didn’t speak fluent Spanish, but thanks to Cardi B, she knew exactly what puta meant.
“Bitch, shut the fuck up, tryna take my man and shit,” the girl snapped, voice rising over the music. Heads turned. Conversations stopped.
“Hold on. I don’t even want his ass,” Trinity shot back, anger flaring in her chest, “and I’m not the type to let someone talk to me crazy. I’m up for whatever. What you tryna do?”
She didn’t want a fight.
But the disrespect? That flipped a switch.
The girl lunged, but Dray stepped in fast, catching her mid-swing.
“Yo, chill,” he barked, holding her back as she thrashed and cursed, dragging her away through the crowd.
Only then did Trinity realize how many people were still watching.
“Girl, what happened?” Imani called, rushing over.
“Nothing,” she muttered. “I just need some air.”
She turned and walked away from the mess, moving through the house until she found a door that led to the back porch. As soon as she stepped outside, the cool, salty air touched her skin and tangled in her curls. The noise faded into a muffled thump behind closed doors.
Leaning against the railing, she took a slow breath. The moon streamed silver over the waves, making the ocean look like black glass with stars on it. As she closed her eyes, she began to hum “Dear Angel.” The smooth, steady tune was like a lifeline in the quiet.
By the time she finished, her shoulders eased, and the tension finally drained from her body.
“That song you were humming. Fire. Not gonna lie.”
She jolted, glancing around, expecting someone nearby.
“Up here.”
Trinity looked up and spotted a guy sitting casually on the roof, legs swinging over the edge. A notepad and pen rested on his lap. He wore a white tee under a cream short-sleeved flannel, black cargo pants, and spotless white Air Forces. The shadows masked most of his face, but she could feel his eyes on her.
He gave a small wave, his voice easy.
“What’s the name of that song?”
Her hand brushed the edge of the railing, tracing the wood grain. She looked away, the waves suddenly more interesting than his question.
“Damn, ma, you just gonna ignore me like that?” he said with a low chuckle, more amused than offended.
“It’s called ‘Dear Angel.’”
“Who’s it by?”
She glanced up at him again but didn’t answer. She wasn’t ready to share more, not about the song, and definitely not about the reason behind it.
“Why are you on the roof?” she asked, deflecting.
“’Cause it’s the only place at this party where people aren’t doing the absolute most,” he said. “Plus, the view’s nice. Helps me write.” He tapped the notepad with his pen.
A pause followed. The kind of quiet only ocean air could fill, waves crashing softly below, bass still thumping behind the walls.
Then he cleared his throat. “You can come up here if you want.”
“Yeah, no…I’m good down here.”
“What, you scared of heights or something?”
“No,” she said, folding her arms. “I just don’t sit on rooftops with strangers.”
He laughed. “Okay. You got that. I’ll come to you then.”
Trinity watched him stand, slip through the nearby window, and disappear into the house. A few moments later, the back door creaked open behind her. She turned, and there he was, strolling toward her like he belonged there. Casual. Unbothered. Like it was just another Tuesday.
He was taller than she expected, with a golden-brown skin tone just a little darker than hers and neat waves under a fitting cap. His smile was sweet, and he had dimples in both cheeks. He looked at her in an open, curious, and compassionate way that made her feel seen. Different.
Not like Dray.
Not like most guys.
She didn’t want to admit it, but the attraction hit her fast.
“You good?” he asked, voice low, tone easy.
“Yeah. Just needed a minute.”
“Same,” he said, patting down his waves with a quick swipe of his hand.
“On the roof?”
“Best seat in the house. I was working on a song. Needed somewhere quiet.”
“You make music?”
“Yeah—write, sing, rap. That song you were humming. Melody was dope. You said it was called ‘Dear…’ something?”
“‘Dear Angel.’”
“Right ‘Dear Angel.’ Who’s it by? I wanna check it out.”
She turned toward him more fully now, arms still crossed, voice softening.
“It’s mine. My mom and I wrote it together.”
That caught his attention. His expression stayed calm, but something flickered in his eyes—interest, maybe even respect.
She studied his face, trying to figure him out. Was he just another smooth talker or someone different? She couldn’t tell yet.
But she wasn’t turned off by the mystery.
“Really?” he said, surprised. “Wait. What’s your—”
The back door banged open. A drunk guy stumbled outside, made his way to the edge of the porch, and started peeing over the side.
“Bro. What the hell?” he muttered, shaking his head.
Then he turned back to her. “You tryna walk the beach, or is your man inside waiting on you?”
Trinity smirked, a spark lighting in her eyes. “We can,” she said coolly. “I don’t have a man.”
Her tone was flirtatious, measured. She hadn’t expected to vibe with anyone tonight, let alone someone this interesting. “Unless your girlfriend wouldn’t be cool with that. I don’t want any problems.”
“Nah, ma. I’m solo.” He chuckled, hands slipping into his pockets.
Together, they headed toward the shoreline, leaving the chaos of the house behind.
The sand was cool beneath their feet. The breeze curled around them, carrying salt and silence—a calm neither had realized they needed.
“So,” he said after a moment, “what’s your name?”
“Trinity.”
“I’m Keith…Keith Harris.” He gave a warm nod. “You said you and your mom wrote that song together…How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” she said. “And yeah… we wrote it for my brother.” A pause. “He passed a few months ago.”
His tone softened. “I’m sorry. Can I ask what happened?”
“It’s okay,” she murmured. “Car accident. He was actually my twin. I’ve been healing…slowly. Music’s helped a lot.”
Keith nodded. “That makes sense. Music’s powerful like that. I’ve been into it since I was a kid. My pops was a known rapper back in the day. Mama was coming up in R&B. They’re both gone now, but honestly, music’s all I’ve ever known. Runs through my blood.”
“Wow,” she said, a little surprised. “Do you have any siblings?”
“Nah. Only child. After they passed, I stayed with my aunt and uncle for a while. I was eighteen.”
“I’m really sorry,” she said gently. “That must’ve been hard. How old are you now?”
“Twenty-one. So yeah, it’s been a few years. That first year’s the roughest, but it gets better. For real.”
She nodded, the ocean breeze brushing across her cheek. A quiet flicker of hope rose in her chest.
“I started writing again around then,” he went on. “Everybody’s out here rapping about flexin’ and girls but I’m into real things. Life. Grief. Growth.”
She looked at him, voice low. “I wish more people did that.”
Even though they’d just met, there was something grounding about him. He understood loss in a way most people couldn’t. She still had a dozen questions, but for now, it was enough just to feel seen.
Keith met her gaze, voice low. “Same.”
He shifted the mood with a slight smile. “But that song ‘Dear Angel’, I’d love to hear it sometime, if you’re cool with that. We could link up, play some tracks.”
“Yeah, that’s cool,” she said a little too quickly. The excitement slipped out before she could catch it.
They exchanged numbers, and just as she saved his contact, a voice rang out from the porch.
“Ayo, Keith! Bring your yellow ass over here. We gettin’ ready to sing happy birthday!”
“A’ight, fam. Hold up!” Keith called back, shaking his head.
Trinity blinked. “Wait…it’s your birthday?”
“Yeah, ma.” He grinned. “Party’s almost over. I’m just gonna run up so they can sing. I can take you home after, if you want.”
“It’s okay. My friend’s inside waiting for me. But…happy birthday, Keith.”
“Appreciate you. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Before she could answer, Malik’s voice boomed again: “COME ON, NIGGA. DAMN!”
They both cracked up.
As they headed back toward the house, something lighter hung between them. Something new.
Chapter Two
Keith
Two weeks later, and she was still running laps in his mind.
Every night since the party, their calls had stretched past midnight, video screens glowing, laughter slipping between pauses that said more than either of them dared to. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all, just listened to each other breathe. Every late-night call, every laugh, every quiet pause where neither of them spoke but somehow still understood each other, it all stuck with him.
He was learning her piece by piece—stories about her mom, the scar on her wrist from climbing a fence, the way she believed songs could heal people. Every new thing pulled him closer.
Now, they were finally meeting again. The plan was simple: trade music. The real kind. The songs
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Into the Spotlight
Manika Guerrier
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