Chapter 9: The Porch He Never Had
The knock came at 9:47.
Nova knew the time because she'd been staring at her phone for the last twenty minutes, scrolling through nothing, reading the same three texts from Mei without absorbing a single word. Her hair was still wrapped in a damp towel. She was wearing an oversized Willie Nelson tee that hung past her thighs, and her feet were bare against the cold kitchen tile.
She wasn't expecting anyone.
Mei got to the door first—because of course she did. Nova heard the chain slide, the deadbolt turn, and then Mei's voice, flat and unimpressed.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Nova set down her coffee cup. Walked to the hallway.
Zay stood in the doorway.
He was wearing a plain black hoodie and jeans that had seen better days. A brown paper bag hung from one hand—the kind you get from the diner on the corner, grease already bleeding through the bottom. His jaw was set. His eyes found Nova immediately.
He didn't smile.
Didn't say good morning.
Just stood there like he was waiting for permission to exist.
Mei looked between them. Her expression was somewhere between amused and exhausted.
"I'm going to my room," she said. "Again."
She disappeared down the hall. Her door clicked shut.
Nova and Zay stood in silence.
"You gonna let me in?" he asked.
She stepped aside.
He walked past her. Into the kitchen. Set the bag on the table. Pulled out two styrofoam containers, two cups of coffee, a handful of napkins he didn't need.
She watched him move. Watched the way his hands worked—efficient, precise, like he did everything. Like he was managing a situation. Controlling variables.
"Sit down," he said.
"I'm not a dog."
He looked up. Something flickered in his eyes. Almost a smile.
"Please sit down."
She sat.
He sat across from her. Popped open the containers. Eggs, grits, bacon, toast. The smell hit her stomach before her brain caught up.
"Didn't know what you liked," he said. "So I got everything."
She picked up a fork. Didn't eat.
"Why are you here, Zay?"
He didn't answer right away. Took a bite of his eggs. Chewed. Swallowed.
"Because I don't do this," he said finally.
"Do what?"
"Show up. Unannounced. Bring breakfast." He gestured at the spread. "This isn't—I don't do this."
She set the fork down.
"Then why are you doing it?"
He looked at her. Really looked. And for a moment, the mask slipped—just enough for her to see something underneath. Something tired. Something careful.
"Because I couldn't not."
She waited.
He pushed his container aside. Leaned back in the chair. The wood creaked under his weight.
"You want the truth?" he asked.
"I've been asking for it."
"Okay." He exhaled. Slow. "My mom left when I was nine. Just—gone. No note. No goodbye. I came home from school and her stuff was gone and my dad was sitting on the couch watching TV like nothing happened."
Nova didn't move.
"He didn't look for her. Didn't call the cops. Just said she wasn't happy and that was that." Zay's voice was even. Flat. Like he was reading a police report. "Took me about ten years to figure out she'd been planning it for months. Saving money. Making arrangements. The whole time she was kissing me goodnight, she was counting down the days until she could leave."
Nova's chest tightened.
"That's when I learned," he continued. "Love is a liability. People say they'll stay. They don't. So you don't count on them. You don't let them in. You build your own shit and you protect it and you don't apologize for it."
He reached for his coffee. Took a long sip.
"Los Rojos wasn't ambition. It was survival. I needed money. I needed protection. I needed to know that nobody could take anything from me ever again." He set the cup down. "And the record store—"
He stopped.
"What about the record store?"
He looked at her. Something shifted in his expression. Softer. Rawer.
"It's the only thing I ever did for myself," he said. "Not for money. Not for power. Just because I love it. Because the first time I heard a vinyl record—really heard it, the warmth, the crackle, the way it feels like the music's alive—I felt something I hadn't felt since before my mom left."
He looked away.
"Stupid, right?"
"No," Nova said. "Not stupid."
He nodded. Didn't say anything else.
The Miles Davis record was still spinning in the corner. The needle had been skipping for the last ten minutes—the same three notes over and over, a loop that neither of them had bothered to fix.
Nova stood up.
Walked to the turntable.
Lifted the needle.
Silence.
She turned back to face him.
"My turn," she said.
He watched her. Didn't interrupt.
"I grew up in Savannah. Big porch. Sweet tea. My daddy was a deacon at the church and my mama taught Sunday school. I had three brothers and a sister and we all knew exactly what was expected of us." She crossed her arms. "Manners. Respect. Clear intentions. My daddy used to say, 'If a man wants you, he shows up at the door. He shakes your father's hand. He tells you what he wants.'"
Zay's mouth twitched.
"That's a lot of rules."
"They're not rules. They're standards." She leaned against the counter. "I was raised to believe that if a man can't look you in the eye and tell you what he wants, he doesn't deserve your time. And I've spent my whole life believing that."
She paused.
"Then I met you."
Zay didn't move.
"You don't do porches. You don't do handshakes. You don't do clear intentions." She held his gaze. "And I let you in anyway. I let you into my bed. Into my body. Into whatever this is." She gestured between them. "And I don't know what that says about me."
"It says you're human."
"It says I'm stupid."
"No." He stood up. Walked toward her. Stopped three feet away. "It says you're willing to take a risk. That's not stupid. That's brave."
She laughed. Sharp. Bitter.
"I don't feel brave. I feel like I'm standing on the edge of something I can't see."
He nodded. Slow.
"I know the feeling."
They stood there. Two people. One kitchen. The space between them humming with everything neither of them knew how to say.
"You want to know what I think?" Zay asked.
She folded her arms tighter.
"Tell me."
"I think you're the first person who ever made me want to try."
She stared at him.
"But?"
"But I don't know if I can give you what you want." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't do commitment. I don't do forever. I don't even know what that would look like for someone like me."
"Someone like you?"
"Someone who built their whole life around not needing anybody."
Nova stepped closer. Close enough to see the exhaustion in his eyes. The tension in his jaw.
"I'm not asking you to need me," she said. "I'm not asking for forever. I'm asking for honesty."
"I'm honest."
"Then tell me the truth right now." She lifted her chin. "What do you want?"
He looked at her.
For a long moment.
Then—
"I want you."
"That's not enough."
"I know."
"So what happens now?"
He reached for her hand. Found it. Held it.
"I don't know," he said. "But I'm here. Not because I have to be. Not because it's easy. But because I can't seem to stay away from you."
She swallowed.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
She pulled her hand back. Stepped away.
"I want a man who chooses me fully," she said. "Not halfway. Not when it's convenient. Not when he's bored or lonely or looking for something to pass the time." Her voice was steady. Heavy. "If you don't see that happening—if you can't give me that—then we shouldn't keep doing this."
The words hung in the air.
Zay stood there. Jaw tight. Eyes locked on hers.
He didn't say anything.
Didn't move.
Just stood there like he was doing math he never wanted to do.
Finally, he spoke.
"You want me to tell you I can give you that."
"I want you to tell me the truth."
He shook his head. Slow.
"I can't."
She nodded. Like she'd expected it. Like she'd already prepared herself for the blow.
"Okay," she said quietly.
"Nova—"
"Don't." She held up a hand. "You told me the truth. I asked for it. I'm not going to punish you for giving me what I asked for."
He took a step toward her.
She took a step back.
"I need you to leave," she said.
He stopped.
The silence stretched between them. Thick. Suffocating.
"For what it's worth," he said, "I didn't come here to waste your time."
"I know."
"I came here because I—"
He stopped.
Couldn't finish.
She waited anyway.
"I came here because I wanted to see you," he said. "That's all. I woke up this morning and the first thing I thought was your name. And I couldn't shake it. So I got in my car and I drove here and I brought you breakfast because I didn't know what else to do."
She closed her eyes.
"That's not enough," she whispered.
"I know."
"Then why are you still here?"
He didn't answer.
Just stood there. Waiting. Like he was hoping she'd change her mind. Like he was hoping she'd say something that would make this easier.
She didn't.
"Zay," she said. "Please."
He nodded. Grabbed his keys from the table. Walked toward the door.
Paused with his hand on the knob.
"I'm not good at this," he said. "But I'm not lying to you. And I'm not playing games. So if you want me to go—if you're done—I'll go."
She crossed her arms. Held herself together.
"I'm not done," she said. "I'm just not available for halfway."
He looked at her one last time.
Then he opened the door.
And walked out.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Nova stood in the kitchen. Surrounded by cold eggs and lukewarm coffee and the smell of bacon that would linger for hours.
She didn't cry.
Not yet.
She just stood there. Breathing. Letting the silence settle into her bones.
Then she walked to the turntable. Put the needle back down.
The record spun. The music filled the room.
And Nova finally let herself fall apart.
The front door clicked shut and Nova stood in the kitchen, surrounded by cold eggs and coffee going stale in styrofoam cups.
She didn't move for a long time.
The Miles Davis record spun on, oblivious. The needle caught on a scratch, skipping the same three notes—a stuck heartbeat, a loop she couldn't escape.
Her hands were shaking.
She looked down at them like they belonged to someone else. Like she was watching herself from outside her body, observing the way grief manifested in tremors and shallow breath.
Then she walked to the turntable. Lifted the needle. Set it back down.
The music started over.
She sat on the floor. Back against the cabinet. Knees pulled to her chest. And she let herself feel it—all of it—the weight of what she'd asked for and what he couldn't give. The truth of it. The clean, sharp edge of it.
She didn't cry.
She just sat there. Breathing. Letting the music wash over her like water.
When Mei found her an hour later, Nova was still on the floor.
Mei didn't say anything. Just sat down beside her. Crossed her legs. Leaned her head against Nova's shoulder.
They stayed like that until the record ended.
---
Monday came whether she was ready or not.
Nova woke at six. Showered. Dressed in jeans and a faded Georgia State hoodie. She packed her bag—laptop, notebook, the small recorder she used for melody ideas—and walked to campus like it was any other day.
Because it was. It had to be.
Music history was at nine. She took her usual seat in the back corner, third row from the wall. Dr. Whitfield was already at the podium, adjusting his glasses, pulling up slides about the Brill Building era.
Nova opened her notebook. Drew a staff. Started sketching chord progressions in the margin.
She didn't look at the door.
Didn't look at the seats around her.
Didn't think about the fact that Zay was in this class too. That he'd been in this class since August. That he'd sat two rows behind her, close enough that she could smell his cologne—something woodsy, something warm—every time he leaned forward.
She focused on the lecture.
Goffin and King. Carole King's piano. The way a song could be simple and devastating at the same time.
She wrote it all down.
When the lecture ended, she packed her bag and stood up.
And there he was.
Zay was at the end of the row. Hoodie up. Eyes forward. He was talking to someone—a guy from the business program, someone Nova didn't recognize. His voice was low. Steady. He didn't look at her.
She walked past him without a word.
Didn't slow down. Didn't speed up. Just moved through the aisle and out the door, her heartbeat a steady thrum in her chest.
She didn't look back.
---
It became a routine.
Nova went to class. She went to the studio. She worked on her senior project—a five-song EP she was producing herself, layering harmonies and strings and the kind of raw, honest lyrics that felt like bloodletting.
She wrote about porches. About sweet tea and Sunday mornings. About the way her father used to look at her mother like she hung the moon.
Then she wrote about a boy with dark eyes and a guarded heart who showed up at her door with breakfast and left without saying goodbye.
The song was called "Halfway."
She didn't play it for anyone.
---
She saw Zay everywhere.
On the quad, walking between buildings, his head down, earbuds in. In the library, hunched over a table, textbooks spread out around him like a fortress. In the parking lot, leaning against his car, talking on his phone with that same unreadable expression.
Every time, she looked away.
Every time, she kept walking.
Every time, she pretended it didn't matter.
But she noticed the way his gaze followed her. The way he'd pause mid-sentence when she passed. The way his jaw tightened like he was holding something back.
He never approached her.
He never called.
He just watched. From a distance. Like he was waiting for something he knew would never come.
---
The social event was called "Mix & Mingle."
A stupid name for a networking mixer hosted by the music department. Students, professors, local industry people—all crammed into the student union ballroom with cheap wine and finger foods.
Nova almost didn't go.
But her professor had recommended her for a mentorship program, and the coordinator would be there, and she needed to show her face.
So she put on a black dress. Curled her hair. Put on the kind of lipstick that made her feel like she could walk into any room and own it.
Mei drove her.
"You look hot," Mei said, pulling up to the curb.
"I look nervous."
"Same thing."
Nova laughed. Shook her head.
"Wish me luck."
"You don't need luck. You need to stop thinking about that boy."
Nova didn't respond.
She just got out of the car and walked into the building.
---
The ballroom was loud.
Soft jazz played over the speakers. People clustered in groups, clutching wine glasses and name tags, talking about internships and thesis projects and who was sleeping with who in the adjunct pool.
Nova grabbed a glass of water. Found a corner. Scanned the room.
No sign of Zay.
She exhaled. Relaxed her shoulders. Started working the room—introducing herself, shaking hands, smiling the way her mama taught her.
Then she saw him.
Zay was near the bar. Black blazer over a plain white tee. Dark jeans. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
He was talking to a professor. Nodding. Not smiling.
Nova turned away.
Focused on the conversation in front of her.
---
The guy's name was Marcus.
He was in her songwriting seminar. Tall. Good-looking. The kind of smile that came easy.
He'd been flirting with her for weeks. Nothing aggressive. Just—persistent. Compliments on her work. Saving her a seat. Sending her Spotify links at 2 a.m. with captions like, "This made me think of you."
She'd been polite.
Nothing more.
But tonight, he was laying it on thick.
"You killed it in workshop last week," he said. "That song—'Porch Light'—that was yours, right?"
She nodded. Took a sip of water.
"Thanks."
"I mean it. The imagery. The way you use space in the melody." He leaned closer. "You've got something special."
She smiled. Polite. Distant.
"I appreciate that."
"I'd love to hear more of your stuff. Maybe grab coffee sometime? Talk about music? Or—anything, really."
He was sweet. Harmless. The kind of guy her daddy would've approved of.
But he wasn't Zay.
She hated that.
"Maybe," she said. "I'm pretty busy with the EP right now."
"Totally get it. Just—think about it."
He touched her arm. Light. Casual.
She didn't pull away.
---
Zay saw it.
He was across the room, nursing a whiskey he didn't want, when his eyes found her.
Nova.
In a black dress. Hair down. Laughing at something some guy said.
Some guy with perfect teeth and a future in music licensing.
Zay watched.
Didn't move.
Didn't react.
Just took a sip of his drink and turned back to the conversation he was having—something about distribution rights, something he didn't care about.
But his eyes drifted back.
Again.
And again.
Each time, she was still talking to him. Still smiling. Still letting him touch her arm like it was nothing.
Zay's grip tightened on his glass.
He finished his drink.
Set it down.
Walked toward the exit.
---
Nova saw him leave.
Just a glimpse—his back, his shoulders, the way he moved through the crowd like he was made of smoke.
Her chest tightened.
Marcus was still talking. Still flirting. Still touching her arm.
She smiled. Nodded. Said something about how she should probably mingle more.
Then she excused herself.
Walked to the bathroom.
Stood in front of the mirror.
And stared at her reflection until she could breathe again.
---
The night ended.
The ballroom emptied.
Nova stepped outside into the cold. Hugged her arms to her chest.
The parking lot was mostly empty. Just a few cars, a few stragglers, the streetlights humming overhead.
She pulled out her phone. Texted Mei. Waited.
Then she heard footsteps behind her.
She turned.
Zay stood ten feet away. Hands in his pockets. Breath fogging in the air.
"Hey," he said.
She didn't respond.
"Can we talk?"
She looked at him. The same dark eyes. The same guarded expression. The same man who'd walked out of her apartment and never called.
"I don't think there's anything to say."
"There is."
"Then say it."
He stepped closer. Stopped.
"I saw you tonight," he said. "With that guy."
"Marcus."
"Yeah. Him."
"What about it?"
He didn't answer. Just looked at her. Jaw tight.
"You could've come over," she said. "You could've said something."
"I didn't want to interrupt."
"You didn't want to interrupt." She laughed. Bitter. "That's what you're going with?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to be honest."
"I am."
"Then tell me why you walked away."
He didn't answer.
"You showed up at my door. You brought me breakfast. You told me you wanted me. And then you left." She stepped closer. "You left, Zay. You didn't fight. You didn't try. You just—"
"I couldn't give you what you wanted."
"You didn't even try."
The words hung in the air.
He looked at her.
She looked back.
Then—
"I'm trying now," he said.
She stared at him.
"What?"
"I'm trying now." He pulled his hands from his pockets. Let them hang at his sides. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be what you need. But I'm here. I'm standing here. And I'm telling you that I want to try."
She crossed her arms.
"Why?"
"Because I can't stop thinking about you."
"That's not enough."
"I know."
"So what's different?"
He stepped closer.
"I don't know," he said. "But I'm willing to figure it out."
She looked at him.
The cold air. The empty parking lot. The man who'd walked out of her life three weeks ago now standing in front of her like he had something to prove.
She should have walked away.
Should have gotten in Mei's car and never looked back.
But she didn't.
"One conversation," she said. "That's all you get."
He nodded.
"Okay."
"When?"
"Now."
She exhaled. Long. Slow.
"Fine. But not here."
She turned. Walked toward her car.
He followed.
And the night stretched out in front of them—uncertain, fragile, full of all the things neither of them knew how to say.