Love y’all. Bye.
I locked my phone before they could send anything else and set it face down. Hasheem ordered for both of us, tenders and fries for me and a burger for him. I dug into my tote bag while he talked to the server and pulled out a manila folder.
“What is that?”
“Since you volunteered as tribute, it’s your packet.” It was a ten-page, full-color, fake boyfriend briefing packet I’d made for Kylil back when I thought he was coming with me. I slid it across the table.
He looked down at it, then up at me. “My what?”
“Your script. Your handbook. Your orientation materials. Pick whichever word fits for you. Either way, you need to read it before we get there.”
He flipped the cover open.
“Duality Experience: Couples Escape Zanzibar—Brand Brief for Kylil—” He stopped and cut his eyes at me. “Damn. You didn’t even change the name.”
“Give it,” I said, reaching, but he angled it away, smirking.
“Nah. I wanna see what dude was signing up for.” He licked his thumb and turned the first page just to be annoying.
“Facts about Harlowe.” He read it in a fake announcer’s voice. “Favorite foods… tacos, fries, chicken tenders, anything smothered in cheese. Love languages… quality time, physical touch, and feeding me on schedule. It’s accurate.” He smirked and kept going.
“Biggest icks: men who don’t really read, men who don’t wash their legs, men who lie, men who only own two pairs of pants, and anybody who thinks Black romance is stupid.” He lowered the packet and raised one eyebrow. “So basically, every nigga you’ve ever dated.”
“I hate you.” I flipped him off, but I was already laughing.
He tapped the paper. “This is really cute. I don’t need it though.” He attempted to slide it back across the table, but I blocked him.
“What do you mean, you don’t need it?”
“I know you, Harlowe. I’m pretty sure it ain’t shit in here I don’t know about you.”
“Well, there’s some stuff in there I fabricated for the brand.” I turned to page four.
“Like what?” He cut his eyes low and scanned the page.
“Our origin story.” He read the first line and frowned. “We met at a poetry night in a little hole in the wall café downtown, when he slid me a note instead of shooting his shot out loud.” He looked up, his face twisted. “Poetry night, Lowe? Nah.”
“What?” I said. “It sounds romantic. Like something out of a book.”
“You don’t even like poetry.”
“That’s beside the point,” I admitted. “This story eats.”
He leaned back in his chair, giving me that look that said he was about to say something I wasn’t gonna like.
“So, we can’t just tell them we met freshman year of high school?”
“Absolutely not.” I shot that down immediately. “I’m not trying to tell Duality that I used to date your brother.”
“We ain’t gotta tell them all that.” His mouth twitched. “Our origin story is solid though. High school best friends. We can omit the other shit.”
I rolled my eyes at him, but I remembered that summer like it was yesterday. If I thought really hard, I could still feel the fabric on that Aeropostale shirt I had owned.
“Your big brother stopping me by the buses and telling me I was ‘too pretty to be walking alone’ before asking for my number to give to you is anything but solid,” I said.
“You gave it to him.”
“I thought it was kind of cute. I was thirteen.” I defended my decision the same way I’d always had. At thirteen, any attention felt like a blessing. It had taken me years to figure out that the loudest ones in the room were often the worst choice.
