“You also aren’t into men, so . . .” I scrunch my face up at her. “I’m confused. Plus he’s notoriously happy with his wife Iris.”
“Their kids are adorable. She posted a family pic on insta the other day. Even my ovaries twitched, and you know damn well I have no intention of putting those things to use.”
A low chuckle shakes my shoulders in her lap. I reach up and grab her hand, overwhelmed with deep affection for my ace boom.
“Thank you for taking my edge off,” I tell her. “Weddings should not be this hard.”
“You’ve obviously never gotten married.”
“Last I checked, neither had you.”
“But I’ve been a bridesmaid for two sisters, four cousins and a gajillion friends. Everybody gets so turned up. Brides, mamas, wedding planners. It can become such a production.”
“I really just wanted something intimate and small, but Markus’s mama keeps stretching this thing like Laffy Taffy. Adding guests, a fancy photographer, this expensive caterer. Spending so much money. Left to me, the wedding would have been in my Mama’s back yard. We’d have been done with it, but Markus’s family insisted on footing the bill.”
“They that high society Negro crew,” Kiera says, pursing her lips into a moue to convey disdain. “Hello, dahling. I’m so boujee. Bad and boujee to be precise. Scurry along now. Fetch me some escargots.”
“If his folks are the Cosbys, me and Mama are the Evans family.”
“Good Times?” Kiera laughs, tapping my head. “Bitch, you ain’t ever lived in no projects.”
“Maybe the Winslows?”
“Oooh, now you know I loved some Urkel. Laura was wrong for that. All that devotion? I’d take it even in suspenders. Even with a dick. She shoulda been grateful.” She drops a kiss on my forehead and gently pushes me off her lap, standing to her feet into a graceful stretch. “And you should be, too. Markus loves you. This wedding will be over soon and then the marriage can begin.”
“If it was up to me, the marriage would begin tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow.” Kiera executes a perfect body roll. “I have a tent at that Juneteenth festival. I’m selling some of my art.”
“Oh, that’s great.” I stand, too, matching her stretch and adding a yawn. “I was planning to come through. It should be fun. What time does it start?”
Kiera grabs her bag off the bar dividing the living room from the kitchen and pulls out a vividly patterned head wrap.
“Like three o’clock.” She slips on the head wrap and slings the bag over her shoulder. “I’m going to set up. Need to grab some pieces from storage. You sure you don’t wanna roll?”
“I’m sure.” I sit on the arm of the couch and trace its geometrical pattern. “I’ve always hated this furniture.”
Kiera releases a startled laugh and gives an eye roll. “You’ll be living in Markus’s lap of luxury soon. No more slumming it for you. Though I suspect you’d settle just to be in his lap.”
“Markus will be lucky if I ever straddle him again after this last time caving to his mama. He better have answers.”
“It’s Markus. I’m sure he has a perfectly reasonable explanation for why he’s wearing that umbilical cord like a belt.”
I toss my head back, giggling despite the tension in my shoulders. “He’d die if he heard you say that.”
“Then don’t tell him I said it.” With one last chuckle and a wave, she leaves.
As much as I love Kiera, when the door closes behind her, I welcome the immediate silence that descends, starkly contrasting with a busy day in the classroom, the noise and rush of traffic and even the banter with my friend. I need this. Between work and . . . shudder . . .wedding plans . . .I haven’t had enough quiet lately.
My phone trills with an incoming text.
“So much for quiet,” I mutter, reaching for my bag on the floor and extracting my phone.
Markus: Hey.
Me: Hey.
Markus: Baby, I hate it when we fight.
Me: I hate when you do things that make me mad at you.
Markus: I know you said you needed some space to calm down, but could I come over for a few minutes?
My thumb hovers over the keys. In a moment of pique, I told him maybe we should wait and see each other tomorrow. There have been very few times either of us have requested space in the two years we’ve been dating. Neither of us has ever been very good at giving it. We’re like magnets, and resisting him, even when I’m angry, has never been easy. That’s why I asked for space. As soon as I see the man, my vagina starts having wild wild thoughts.
Me: Okay. A few minutes.
Markus: Open the door.
Open the . . .
I glance from my phone to the door of my apartment. The man doesn’t know when to quit. That cast-iron will is what compelled him to complete his doctorate of physical therapy. It’s what drove him to apply for the position of head athletic trainer and director of performance rehabilitation for one of the NBA’s hottest teams. It’s what fueled him to approach me at margarita night even though I was obviously hanging with my girls.