The next afternoon, Maya stood outside the South Side Cultural Center, two folding tables deep in cosmetics and courage.


The block party pulsed around her—DJ booths, jerk chicken smoke in the air, hair braiding demos, and a crowd thick with style. Kids chased bubbles through chalk murals, and uncles played dominoes like their lives depended on it. The energy was electric. But Maya’s palms were sweating.


Her table was simple but proud: clear gloss tubes glimmered under sunlight, handmade signs with “Glossed by May May” in bubble letters, and a mirror edged in gold. A chalkboard displayed her newest shade:


💄 LEGACY — For the girls who make magic out of leftovers.


Tia danced beside the table, rocking a shirt that read Support Ya Friends Like You Support Rappers You Don’t Know.


“This booth fire,” she said, adjusting the gloss on her lips. “I’m ‘bout to tag everybody.”


Maya smiled, but it wavered.


She kept scanning the crowd.


Looking for him.


Hoping he wouldn’t show.


Worried that he might.


A woman approached—mid-twenties, two toddlers in tow, one on her hip.


“These yours?” she asked, pointing at the glosses.


“Yes ma’am,” Maya said, stepping into her pitch. “All-natural, handmade. I got testers if you want to try.”


The woman dabbed a bit of Afterglow on her lips, nodded, then handed over a ten.


“My little cousin need somethin’ like this. She just had a baby. Tryna stay cute through it all.”


“I know the feeling,” Maya said, handing her the product. “Tell her to keep glowing.”


As they left, Tia leaned in. “That’s five sales already.”


“I just need twenty-five to break even.”


“Girl, this your first booth. Relax.”


But Maya couldn’t. Not fully.


The music. The joy. The success… it all felt fragile.


Her eyes caught a figure leaning on a light pole across the street.


A red hoodie.


A black chain.


Watching.


Her chest tightened. Darius.


He didn’t come over. Didn’t shout. Just stood.


Like a storm waiting to be named.


Later, after sundown, Maya and Tia packed up the table.


Sales: thirty-two units. Sold out of Legacy. Four follow-up DMs on Instagram. And one freebie given to a high school girl who said she wanted to start her own line someday.


“It’s happening,” Maya whispered as they loaded the last box.


“It been happening,” Tia said. “You just finally seeing it.”


But when Maya got home, a note was taped to the door.


Scrawled in black Sharpie.


“Congrats on your little hustle. Just remember who made you strong.”


No signature.


No need.


She crumpled it and threw it in the trash.


Then picked up her son.


And held him like a shield.