Page 9 of All In

He’d already read Maximus’s Brown’s file twice. Now he was reviewing his mother.Single mother,North Philly address,Limited academic history.The boy was intelligent, sharp even, but struggled withimpulse control,redirection, andboundary recognition. Nigel had seen it before. He’d written papers on it. Spoken on panels about it. However, what stood out mostwasn’tMax. It was his mother…Jacqueline Brown.

Najee heard her name before, not in clinical terms, but in Cash’s voice. The one time his cousin mentioned her, there had been something Nigel didn’t expect: tension, curiosityandmaybe evenregret.Nigel rarely passed judgment without evidence, but when his Aunt Malika mentioned Jackie was“rough around the edges,” he formed a loose mental picture of a woman, who was loud, defensive, and dismissive.The kind of parent who showed up swinging before understanding the assignment.But when the door to his office cracked open, everything in his head shifted.

She wasn’t what he pictured. Jackie stepped inside like she had been summoned, not invited.Wearing a green ribbed polo dress that hugged her body with just enough intention to feel dangerous. Her makeup was soft and natural. Her lips were glossed, eyeliner sharp, and she carried the scent of cinnamon and amber, warm, grown, and womanly enough to make his mouth water.She did not shrink or overcompensate. She was composed andannoyed as hell.

“Jacqueline?” he asked, standing slowly, voice smooth and professional.“Jackie,” she corrected, one brow raised. “Only the Police and my grandmother call me Jacqueline.”Nigel smiled. “Jackie it is.”He gestured for her to sit.She hesitated for a second before lowering herself into the chair across from him—back straight, arms folded.

“I’m Dr. Nigel Amin-Rashid,” he said, settling in.

“Najee, if you prefer less formal.”She tilted her head. “Ain’t that convenient. Everyone calls me Jackie, but y’all get two last names.”He chuckled, genuine. “Fair enough.” He watched as she glanced around his office, taking everything in.The space was decorated in earthy neutral tones.

He had his interior designer come in to replace the harsh lighting the school originally provided with something more therapeutic. The school’s interior team had styled the space with cool African American art, and they even framed a few of his scholarly articles on the walls:Black Boys Don’t Have to Be Broken. The Diagnosis Gap: Reframing ADHD in Urban Black Youth.“Let’s just be clear,” she said, locking eyes with him. “I’m only here because Sister Malika set this up. Not because I think Max needs fixing.”Nigel nodded. “Noted. And to be clear, I don’t think he’s broken either.”She blinked—surprised, if only for a second.He leaned forward, folding his hands.

“I think he’s navigating more than he’s ready to articulate. And I think you’re doing the best you can with what you’vebeen handed. But that doesn’t mean he’s okay, or that you’re supposed to figure this out alone.” Jackies shoulders dropped, like his words allowed her to release whatever tension she carried into the session today. It was the first time since she sat down, Nigel could see there was more to Jackie Brown that met the eye. She was apprehensive. But Nigel recognized it for what it was.Fear.

Jackie was concerned for her son, and unfamiliar with this part of the process. Still, she was willing to relax her guard temporarily and at least listen.

CHAPTER SEVEN

JACKIE BROWN

Dr. Nigel wasn’t at all… what she expected.

Jackie thought he’d be one of those clinical crunchy types, that wore that fake-ass Kente cloth and reeked of oregano oil and wore too many rings.

But Dr. Nigel—Najee, looked like he had stepped off the cover ofMen’s Health for Black Intellectuals. He had flawless brown skin, the color of smooth cedar. His hair was cut in a clean, curly-top taper fade, and his goatee was neat, sharp, and perfectly groomed. Nothing flashy, just a sharp lineup and a face carved like it stayed unbothered on purpose. His jaw was strong, his shoulders broad, and he had that tall, lean build that moved with quiet power. He wore a heather gray cardigan over a crisp white tee, both hugging a frame that said he either boxed, lifted, or ran miles for exercise. His long legs filled out the tailored black slacks, that he paired with a fresh pair of low top Alexander McQueen sneakers. And those glasses? Designer, minimalist, and sexy as hell in a nerdy way. They sat on his face like they belonged there. His voice was deep, smooth, and commanding in a way Jackie had to push out her mind, because she wasn’t here for all that. Still, sheclockedit. And the way he said,I don’t think he’s broken, had her stomach doing this weird little shift she didn’t trust. Jackie crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in the chair. “You real polished, huh?” He smiled. “Only onTuesdays and when my Auntie Malika’s watching.” Jackie fought a smirk.This man had jokes, and he was fine.

Jackie glanced around his office again. The space was inviting and warm. The art was intentional, Black boys smiling, playing chess, reading books. No forced “grit” aesthetics. No inspirational posters about self-control or making better choices. Black boy Joy was on full display, and that felt refreshing.

Still, she didn’t trust it—or him. “Look,” she said, “I know y’all probably got Max filed under ‘angry already based on whatever information the school provided.” Najee shook his head. “That’s not how I file kids.” Jackie gave him a long look. “With all due respect… you a Black man in a system run by white folks. I’m sure you learned early how to play both sides.” That made him pause. Just for a second. But she caught it, that flicker behind the lenses. A quiet acknowledgment that she wasn’t wrong.“I don’t want them labeling him,” she added, her voice softening. “He’s seven years old, and he’s not perfect. But he’s, my baby. He just got a lot on him right now.” Najee nodded slowly. “Tell me what’s been going on at home.” Jackie inhaled through her nose. Here came the part she hated. Saying it out loud. Naming things, she’d been trying to push down. “He misses his brother,” she said. “Marcus Junior. My oldest. He’s sixteen. Lives with his dad now… somewhere out of state. Long story.” Najee didn’t interrupt. He just listened. “We haven’t seen him in person in over two years,” Jackie continued, her voice thinning.

“And Max… he asks about him almost every day. Sometimes I think he acts out just to be sent home early, just to see if maybe his brother will be there.” She blinked fast. “I am doing the best I can. But some days…” Her throat tightened. “Some days I feel like I’m failing them both.” Najee nodded again, softer this time. “You’re not.” Jackie swallowed hard, hating how muchthat meant to hear. She cleared her throat. “Anyway. That’s the gist.” Najee leaned forward slightly. “Would you be open to working with me? Just a few one-on-one sessions with Max to start. Observations. Nothing formal yet. And I can offer parent support too.” Jackie narrowed her eyes.

“Like… therapy, therapy?”

“No, like help, with resource, perspective and allowing you space to breathe, while we all figure this out together.” Jackie stared at him but didn’t speak. She was processing his words. Then finally, she let out a deep breath and spoke. “I’ll think about it.” Najee smiled again. “That’s all I ask.” But in that moment, she already knew. She was going to say yes. Even if she didn’t want to admit it aloud. She just wasn’t sure whether it was for Max…or for her.

CHAPTER EIGHT

JACKIE

Jackie didn’t know how long she’d been sitting in the tub.

The water had gone lukewarm thirty minutes ago, leaving only a fading ring of bubbles around her thighs. Fat Daddy was still sprawled across her bed, knocked out after his post-school chicken tenders and exactly twelve minutes ofBlack Panther. The house was quieter now, carrying that early-September chill that always arrived before the leaves began to turn. Autumn in Philly had always been one of Jackie's favorite times of year. The sun set earlier, and the summertime foot traffic outside her door finally gave way to quieter evenings. Jackie loved nights like this, when she could steal a small sliver of peace and actually hear her own thoughts. Earlier, she'd grabbed a wine glass, her favorite candle, and her Bose speaker before running a bath. She'd slipped out of her clothes, thrown on a robe, then walked Max to his room and tucked him in, whispering a prayer that he'd stay in bed this time.

Back in the bathroom, she let the robe fall to the floor and eased into the hot bubble bath she'd more than earned. Leaning her head against the tiled wall, Jackie closed her eyes, pressed play, and letMariah the Scientistdrift through the room. She lit her pre-roll and replayed the afternoon. The meeting at the school had gone better than expected. She thought she'd be meeting some uptight, yuppie motherfucker attacking her parenting and judging her baby. Instead... It wasDr. Nigel.Jackie hadn't expected to like Nigel. She certainly didn't expect to feel so seen in his presence. Ordinarily, she wouldn't trust his type—polished men who knew the right thing to say in the right tone, who dressed like success and talked with absolution. That polish usually hid something. She knew because she'd been there before. Once engaged to a man who wore that same kind of finish. Max Sr. had looked the part: tailored suits, measured words, even carrying that calm confidence she'd once mistaken for safety. The boy came from old money. Realinfluence—the influence that purchased judges and determined elections.

And Jackie? She'd been the opposite. A hood bitch from North Philly, with no education, no legacy, and no pedigree. Still, Max Sr. loved her. Or at least he tried to. Until their love story was cut short. Dr. Nigel had that same finish. Only he wore hisdifferently.He was more grounded, less performative, and spoke with more conviction. His confidence never demanded attention. Instead, it felt familiar. Maybe even nostalgic in a way she couldn't quite put her finger on.

Why am I naked in the tub thinking about my child's therapist?A man I've known for less than forty-five minutes.Earth to Jackie...She clocked the thought, then immediately pushed it aside. This was about Max. Not her. So whatever Dr. Nigel was or wasn't—right now he was just her son's therapist. Just then, her phone buzzed as she adjusted the bamboo tray stretched across the tub. Her Kindle, her Maison MargielaJazz Clubcandle, and her phone sat neatly on top. A text lit up the screen.

Syxe:So... how was Mr. Psychology Today???

Jackie rolled her eyes, grabbed a towel, and started typing. But before she could hit send, another message appeared from a number she didn't recognize.

Unknown Number:Just wanted to say thank you for showing up for Max today. You didn't have to. But you did. Let me know if you ever need to talk.—Najee

Jackie stared at the screen, her thumb hovering. She didn't respond right away. Instead, she let herself smile, just a little, before tossing the phone face down on the tray. She sipped the last drop of wine from her glass, stood, and stepped under the shower to rinse off.