“What’s happened isn’t a ‘food desert’—that implies a natural occurrence,” Aanya adds. “This is an intentional effort, through zoning laws, lending practices, and other shit policies, to drive racial segregation.”
“Aanya is one of a handful of trusted advisors from the East Side who are informing me on solutions to push in City Hall,” my sister says. “Food is a priority in my office because of the rippleeffect on families. We want to cultivate a food infrastructure that’s rooted in and run by East Side residents.”
Ms. Amber’s grin stretches. “We created a position at the community center to educate kids about STEM and work with organizations like Aanya’s on urban farming initiatives. It’s part-time for now, while we secure more funding, but it comes with benefits. You’d have the creative freedom to mold the role how you see fit.”
“We could use someone with your background. Think it over,” Aanya says, her light blue suit catching in the light that reflects off the snow. “I’ll work with Ms. Amber on a job description and salary. We have some funds in my organization to hire you as a consultant. It was great to finally meet you.”
Ms. Amber squeezes me into another hug wrapped in White Diamonds perfume and a hint of school supplies. The tips of her curly pixie cut tickle my chin. “It would be wonderful to work with you. I know you have a lot of options. Please consider us.”
The pair leaves into the tundra.
Marcela bumps my shoulder. “Look at you making connections. How was the job interview?”
“Not a good fit,” I sigh. “Maybe I was supposed to swing by your office.”
“Maybe you were.”
I know absolutely nothing about food equity, but creating solutions to help families put food on their tables would be fulfilling.
“We get to work together!” Marcela squeezes me to her chest and proceeds to smother me with her cleavage while jumping up and down.
“Please keep your titties away from my mouth,” I mumble and push her away. Mine are big, but hers are flotation devices. “I haven’t agreed to anything, and I don’t know how I feel about being responsible for kids.”
Keeping the plants Antonio bought me alive is one thing. Kids are a different story. At least no heels or suits are required.
“We should celebrate.”
“I haven’t said yes!”
Marcela’s smirk activates a smile. “You will.”
Chapter 22
Antonio
Miriam is full of surprises. Like choosing violence for fun.
“Doe, I swear to—Doe!”
My fingers fly over the controller, but it’s too late. Miriam’s character not only decapitates me but manages to rip out my spine.
Shock with a hint of pride have me looking at her cackling figure sideways. She’s curled on her side on my sofa in my damn sweats and jersey. Her shoeboxes for feet flail in the air as she hiccup-snorts, tears rolling across her cheeks.
I check the controller for signs that the game didn’t freeze on me before shifting my attention back to the world’s cutest serial killer. Miriam has no bodies buried in real life—at least, not that I know of—but she sent every character I played to a gory death.
We came back to my place after grabbing dinner at a nearby burger joint. When I asked her how she wanted to celebrate her new job opportunity, I was happy she chose something low-key.
It’s her first time at Steel House, first time in my apartment of bare walls and honey-colored wood flooring. The space is smaller than my DC condo, but it fits a large sectional and aneighty-inch television in the living room, the current scene of the crime.
Training kicked my ass. Now, she is.
Miriam talked big about beating me in a game I’ve played since I was little. No one, not even Julian, can touch me inMortal Kombat.
“You cheated.”
Miriam holds up both hands, wearing a straight face that cracks under my glare. She’s cold as hell.
“Let me see your phone.”
