“Stick with me, kid. I’ll keep you safe.” He winks and pushes the cart.
“Did you forget I’m older than you by five years?”
“I haven’t. Doesn’t mean I can’t teach you a thing or two. I’ll meet you at whatever bars you go to, and I’ll sit off to the side if you want.”
Having someone there I’m comfortable with will make the event less awkward.
Hopefully.
“I’d like that, thank you,” I say.
“Good! Now back to my juicer. I’ll grab one for your place too.”
Antonio’s eyes light up at appliances I have zero interest in or room for.
“What makes you think you’ll be at my house enough to need a juicer?” I ask the back of his puffer coat. My line of sight remains on his belt and not the gym booty or the tree trunks for legs under the pair of jeans that are sculpted to his form.
“Friends let friends juice,” he says to the shelves of counter gadgets. “And before you say something slick, I’m not sharingwith any new friend you might make. Ooh! This one has a thousand-watt motor.”
“Antonio,” I sigh. “You’ve seen my kitchen.”
“It’s cute, and this will look nice in it.” He grabs a box with a lopsided grin that deflates when he sees my glare. “What if I keep it in my trunk?”
I snort at his pout. “You want to keep a juicer in your trunk for when you visit? I don’t know who’s more off their rocker, me or you.”
“Both of us, bestie. Is that a yes?”
I’ll regret this. “Yes.”
He fists the air, then assesses our already full cart. “We should’ve gotten a flatbed.” He frowns at the jumble of random supplies and accessories we accumulated over the last hour. “Let’s get your paint for our painting party.”
“Our what?”
Chapter 11
Antonio
E.U.’s “Da Butt” slides through the Bluetooth speaker I brought from home. I kicked off the night with Silk’s “Meeting in My Bedroom” but almost found myself on the other end of Miriam’s front door. In my defense, we do have plans to fondle her walls, but she says, “that’s nasty.”
The bass of the DC go-go classic is no match for her cackling. I lost track of how many times she snorted today and had to check her pulse twice to confirm she was still breathing.
She does this silent laugh, like she’s choking. She’s wheezing now, tears streaking her makeup-free face, which is mushed up like she’s reaching for one of Fantasia’s high notes. Her eyes are closed, and her body convulses with a force that would make people call an ambulance if we were in public.
Watching Miriam be so carefree is an experience that requires earplugs at times, with her high-pitched squeals, but demands a front-row seat. She never laughed this much in the years we circled each other from a distance or when she was wrapping up her PhD. She put so much into her studies, it was hard to get her to come up for air.
This is the first time I’m seeingallof her, the layers buried beneath her sixteen years of chasing after degrees that consumed her identity. Those layers are slowly shedding away to reveal a woman who’s ready to let loose with the right encouragement.
“You done yet?” I say to her body curled into a ball.
She snorts. “Your p-penis is missing.” My phone falls out of her hands as her head tips back, inciting another soundless cackle. “Oh my—” She snorts again before a wave of giggles takes over.
“I. See.” Snort. “Person.” Her laugh hits a high pitch.
It’s an annual tradition for rugby players from the league to hit up Vegas the weekend before the season starts. Everyone dresses up in costumes during one of our nights in Sin City.
Last year, the Steel were Troll dolls. The ugly ones from the ’90s that look like foreskin with hair. It took a full-length bodysuit and a few tips on tucking from Queenie LaCreme, a Buffalo drag queen, to keep my dick down without cutting off my circulation.
It wasn’t long before I tossed the belly jewel and bare bottoms for basketball shorts and slides. It would take a magician to make these inches disappear, but Miriam doesn’t need to know that.
