Catching Fry 1 On the Hook

The heavy May heat hung low over Wetumpka, even in the late afternoon. Eric "Toad" Smith wiped a bead of sweat from his bald head as he double-checked himself in the side mirror of his Dodge Charger. Beard shaped up, the grey streaks catching the light, black slacks crisp, the deep navy button-up snug against a body that still looked built for combat -- or the club. Satisfied, he unlocked the door and slid on his sunglasses, turning his car toward his destination, the familiar buzz of cicadas filling the air as he headed toward Alley Station in downtown Montgomery.

The rehearsal was set for five o'clock, but Eric had been early for everything since joining the Navy and learning the importance of being early in basic training. Now, here he was -- first to arrive, and finding the door locked which left him feeling half-naked without having something to do with in his hand. Eric's job at Maxwell-Gunter had kept him busy as a civilian mechanic these last few months. In fact, today was his first real outing since he'd been home. Most of his family and old friends hadn't seen him since he'd gotten out of the military.

He leaned against a column, scrolling through his phone, pretending he wasn't already sweating through his shirt. Twenty minutes later, his mom, Yvonne Patrick, pulled up in her white Nissan Rogue, hopping out in jeans and a Lowes polo shirt, her face lit up in a tired but proud smile.

"Lord, Eric, you still ain't learned to be late sometimes?" she teased, wrapping him in a hug.

Behind her, her husband who was Eric's step-father emerged, ducking his tall frame out of the SUV. At 6'5" and built like a retired power forward, Roman "Fish" Patrick moved with a relaxed swagger. His salt-and-pepper goatee made him look more distinguished than old, and his easy grin was pure trouble.

"You still early for everything, huh, Toad?" Fish said, giving Eric a back-slapping hug that made Eric rock on his heels.

"Some habits die hard," Eric answered, flashing a grin.

Slowly, the rest of the wedding party trickled in.

First was Andre, Eric's younger brother by three years, grinning from ear to ear, radiating a kind of nervous energy that even his sharp creased white T-shirt couldn't hide. Kita Reed was on his arm, her honey-brown skin glowing, her curls pinned up neatly. Kita's smile was the kind that could calm a room, and it had definitely kept Andre grounded through some rough patches.

Close behind them came Rashaunda "Shaun" Jolly, Kita's best friend and matron of honor carrying some boxes of random decorations. Shaun's confidence practically entered the room before she did. Dressed in a flowy jumpsuit and silver heels, she carried herself with an easy authority -- ten years of friendship with Kita meant she was taking this wedding as seriously as her own.

Tameron Dunkin strutted in next. Short, tousled tresses framed her round face, her brown complexion glowing under minimal makeup. She was built solid, thick as we say the south-- all hips, thighs, and sass -- wearing a snug sundress that left little to the imagination. Tameron winked at Eric as she passed, making him chuckle under his breath.

The groomsmen came in clumps: Marcus, Deon, and Trell -- all friends Andre had grown up with -- each accompanied by their wives, laughing and talking loud enough to make the wedding coordinator sigh.

Everything was shaping up like a classic Black wedding: a little chaotic, a lot of love, and a timeline that was more suggestion than rule.

Eric was helping Fish drag the archway props into place when he caught a flash of soft brown skin and short-cropped hair out the corner of his eye. He froze.

Fry James.

She walked in beside Kita, a small thing compared to everyone else, but moving like she commanded the entire space. Her pixie cut curled against her temples, and her caramel skin caught the last of the evening sun.

Eric's heart gave a traitorous thump against his ribs.

Before he could adjust himself or even think straight, Fry spotted him. Her whole face lit up -- that same mischievous smile he remembered -- and she took off at a trot, nearly knocking him over as she hugged him tight.

"Toad!" she squealed, her arms winding around his waist.

Eric hugged her back, taking in the soft feel of her against him, the smell of coconut and vanilla. She was still tiny, barely reaching his chest, but she felt larger than life in his arms.

"Hey, lil' sis," he said finally, voice low and rough.

Except Fry wasn't really his sister. Not by blood. She was Fish's daughter, a secret hidden for years, stitched together with old lies and quiet regrets.

It started the summer of 1997. Eric was fourteen, full of resentment, riding in the back of his mama's Cutlass, arms crossed and mouth set in a deep scowl. Fish had convinced Yvonne to drag Eric and his little brother Andre out to the W. A. Gayle Planetarium for some "family outing," something about bonding and fresh air.

Eric didn't want to go. At the time, he despised Fish -- hated how he smiled too wide, hated how he acted like he already belonged to their family.

But everything changed when they pulled up to a small brick house tucked deep in west Montgomery, a patchy yard out front and wind chimes rattling in the humid breeze. Eric barely looked up until his mama cut the engine and said, "Be polite."

He followed her up the cracked walkway, Andre dragging his feet beside him. And when the door swung open, Eric saw her.

Sable James -- Fry to anyone who mattered -- stood there in cutoff jean shorts and a tank top, looking like sunshine caught in a jar. Big brown eyes, skin like fresh brown sugar, and a smile that hit Eric square in the chest.

He barely heard the introductions. Rose James, her grandma, waved them inside, the house smelling like fried pork chops and old wood. Rose sized up Yvonne with a sharp eye, but after a few minutes of talking, she smiled and gave a short nod of approval -- an invisible blessing.

A while later during the picnic at Oak Park that afternoon, Andre had run off toward the playground the second the car doors opened, leaving Eric and Fry standing there awkwardly.

"Wanna go?" Fry asked, cocking her head toward the slides.

Eric shrugged, acting cool even though his heart was thumping like a drumline.

They wandered over to the swings first, then the monkey bars, tossing lazy jokes back and forth. Somewhere between the cracked asphalt and the warm breeze, the awkwardness slipped away.

It didn't take long before curiosity -- the reckless kind only teenagers know -- took over.

Behind a thick wall of hedges near the playground, where no one could see them, Fry leaned in close, standing on tiptoes to whisper something Eric didn't even catch.

Then she kissed him.

It was clumsy and hot and perfect in the way that first kisses always are. Her hands clutched at the hem of his shirt, and Eric's own hands -- bigger and rougher -- slid along her waist, daring to explore further. He felt the soft curve of her hip, the quiver of her stomach, and even lower... until his fingers brushed the heat between her parted thighs, and she didn't stop him.

Fry let him touch her for those two or three uninterrupted minutes -- an eternity in the life of a fourteen-year-old boy.

The only reason it ended was because Andre started calling for Eric, his little-boy voice breaking the spell.

Eric and Fry pulled apart fast, breathless and pink-cheeked. They wiped their hands on their shorts like nothing had happened and jogged back to the picnic tables, laughing too loud and shoving each other like typical kids.

No one suspected a thing.

From that moment on, everything shifted. Eric wasn't sure what Fry was supposed to be to him -- friend, crush, something else entirely.

But a few months later, when Fish finally married Yvonne and officially stepfather to Andre and, reluctantly, to Eric, things got even more confusing. Fry was suddenly "family," even though Eric could still taste her lip gloss if he thought about it too hard.

Whenever Eric, in a rare act of boldness, brought up that day -- usually in private, low-voiced conversations when Andre wasn't around -- Fry always shut him down hard.

"I'm your sister now, Toad," Fry would say smiling. "You can't be thinkin' about me like that."

Eric knew better than to push it.

But the memory stayed.

Buried deep, but never dead.

Because no matter how much they pretended otherwise...

They buried the truth under layers of nicknames and fake titles. "Big brother." "Lil sister." "Family." They wore those words like armor, pretending they were enough. Pretending it didn't matter that sometimes Eric's stomach flipped when Fry laughed too hard at one of his stupid jokes, or that Fry's eyes lingered a little too long when Eric walked by in a sweat-soaked practice jersey.

But it always mattered. Even when they pretended it didn't.

He had never stopped wanting her.

The wedding rehearsal moved on in a blur. The coordinator barked orders about walking pace and standing positions while the bridal party cracked jokes and posed for selfies.

Trell couldn't keep a straight face when Shaun threatened to snatch his ears if he didn't stop fidgeting. Tameron kept sliding up behind random people, grinding her hips against them and laughing when they jumped. Marcus's wife, Shonda, started an impromptu line dances while Deon's wife captured it all on Instagram Live.

Yvonne and Fish stood back, arms crossed, shaking their heads but smiling the whole time.

"Y'all act like you ain't got no damn sense," Yvonne muttered under her breath.

But that was family. Loud, messy, joyful family.

After the official run-through, everyone huddled outside in the sticky air, debating what to do next.

"We hittin' Aviator," Eric suggested, flashing a grin at the best man, Marcus. "First round on me."

The cheers went up loud enough to startle a couple of pigeons off a nearby rooftop.

By the time they hit Aviator Bar, the sun was down and the night was humming with life. Inside, the air was thick with music and laughter. The DJ seemed to read their minds, spinning a playlist straight out of the late '90s and early 2000s -- club anthems, R&B slow jams, and dirty South bangers.

Eric found himself pulled onto the floor by Shaun, who was a little emboldened due to the free liquor, both of them hyping the crowd up when "Back Dat Thing Up" hit the speakers.

Then Tameron slid up behind him, grinding her thick frame against his back. Before he could process it, Fry slipped between them, facing him, her hips rolling slowly and teasing against his front.

The crowd whooped and hollered, a circle forming around them.

Eric felt himself stiffen slightly -- not from embarrassment, but from the simple, undeniable fact that Fry felt good against him. Too good.

Fry glanced up at him, her eyes dancing with that same daring he remembered from high school, the kind that always got him into trouble.

Maybe tonight wouldn't just be about the wedding after all.

Maybe tonight was about catching Fry.