He nodded, before opening the backdoor and sitting in the SUV. Immediately, his sweet yet masculine cologne filled the truck.
“Oh, shit y’all been blazing already,” he chuckled, as he closed the door.
“Sure was.” Tarin’s friendly ass smiled, as she looked back at him, before handing him the blunt. “It took you forever to come out.”
He took a toke off the weed. “Yeah, I know. But I wanted to get everything over and done with. Now, my room is completely setup, and all my clothes are put away.”
“Really? You put up all those clothes?”
“Yep. Now I can sleep in tomorrow.”
“And then you’re gonna get up and go see your girlfriend?” Tarin asked, probingly.
I sat rolling my eyes, saying nothing.
“Girlfriend?” He lightly chuckled. “I don’t have one of those.”
“You said that like having one is a bad thing.”
“Nah. I was just stating the facts, lil’ mama.”
“So, why don’t you have one?” She shamelessly interrogated.
“Because. I haven’t met anybody worth giving that title to.”
“So, you’re picky?”
“Not per se. I’m just not what people expect me to be, and then shit gets weird.”
“Wait. What do you mean by that?” I found myself questioning.
“It means that girls love the idea of me. The super star basketball player. NBA bound. Mr. Popular. And that’s what they come with. Focus on the nigga they knew from a distance. Then dismiss whatever doesn’t fit that narrative. So, the reason that I don’t have a girlfriend is because not one of the girls I deal with can tell you how I’ve taken apart and rebuilt my computer too many times to count. They don’t know about the apps I’ve created. Or the ideas I have for my own digital platform. That’s boring to them. Then they call me crazy when I admit that playing ball just comes natural to me. But it aint my passion. They swear that I’ll change my mind when I say that I’m going into the tech world after college and am only using ball to get a full ride. They change the subject when I say that I honestly don’t see myself drafting into the NBA.”
“Wait,” Tarin spoke up. “So, you honestly could never picture yourself in the NBA?”
“Yeah, I could. And that’s the problem. I can vividly imagine myself going pro. It will be just like high school, all over again. It would just worsen. The fake people. The groupies. The attention. Everything that I don’t care for. The appealing part is the money aspect. I wanna be filthy rich, and if I gotta use basketball as a stepping stone, then so be it. But that’s not where it’ll end for me.”
After processing everything he’d said, I nodded. “That sounds like a solid plan. I wish that Harlem thought like that. Because he eats, sleeps, and breathes ball. And he doesn’t like to consider what he’ll do, if it doesn’t happen for him.”
“Well, in his case, I get it. That nigga is going to the NBA. No questions. He just gotta let go of the dream of us hooping, side by side.”
Staring straight ahead, I smirked. “You believe in your boy that much?”
“You don’t?” He rebutted.
“No. I definitely believe that he’ll make it. I guess…it’s just refreshing to hear somebody expressing different interests. You know how jocks are. Always one track minded. Conversations can become redundant.”
“Okay, so, what you wanna do, after we graduate?” Breeze questioned, as he passed the blunt to me. “You wanna be in fashion or some shit?”
I hit the weed, before shaking my head. “Nah. What made you say that?”
“Cause. Shit, it’s clear that you love getting dressed up. I know it probably takes your conceited ass hours to get ready in the mornings.”
“What?” I tittered, while gazing at my reflection in the sun visor mirror.
I mean…yes, I paid attention to detail. My silk pressed hair was burgundy, had layers, was healthy, had body, extended past the middle of my back and matched perfectly with my burgundy tinted brows. My lash extensions were done to perfection. My gold stiletto shaped nails were on a lot of girls’ vision boards. I was rocking a yellow and red cropped custom Letterman jacket, along with a pair of matching custom Jordan’s. My distressed jeans were skin tight, while I had a racer-back tee tied up in the front. I was definitely on point, although I was going nowhere in particular. Because my mama had instilled fashion sense in meas a child…and I was now anal about my appearance. But that didn’t mean that I was interested enough in fashion to make it a career.
“Come on, girl. You know why I said what I said.”
