Arching my brow, I ask, “Who’s the person I’ve caught you staring dreamy-eyed at on your phone?”
Her freckles look like they’re dancing with the number of facial expressions she goes through before she finally answers. “His name is Brenden,” her voice barely above a whisper.
“Oh no bitch, you’re not allowed to get all bashful on me now. Spill,” I demand, laughing at her. Now the shoes are on the other foot, and she’s the one in the hot seat.
“Fine. We met when I went to New York two weekends ago. He’s…he’s fucking hot is what he is, and he’s so sweet,” she gushes, her cheeks turning scarlet.
“Oh? Tell me more,” I implore.
“He’s in his first year at NYU, studying chemical engineering. We’ve only been on one official date, but we talk all the time.”
“Lemme see him.”
She reaches in her cherry red Dior clutch, whipping out her phone. As she scrolls, Taylor arrives at the table with our dinner.
“Who had the fried chicken with rice and peas and extra oxtail gravy?”
Pausing her perusal, Shay raises her hand.
“That means you had the curry goat with white rice.” She places our respective plates in front of us, leaving once we say we’re all set.
Grabbing my fork, I spear a piece of her chicken and stuff it in my mouth, only for it to burn me.
Giggling at my stupidity, she says, “That’s what you get for being a sneaky greedy bitch.”
“Just show me your guy,” I snark.
She hands me her phone, and a chocolate-skinned man with black dreads fills her screen.
“Oh, he’s freaking fine. Tell him he better act right, or I’ll stab him,” I half joke.
“Not if I stab him first.”
“Then I’ll help hide the body and be your alibi,” I shoot back, and we both laugh.
I hear a snort of amusement from Thomas, and I shrug. He knows neither of us is wrapped too tight.
“And T will be the getaway driver. Right, T?” I coax, pleading with my eyes.
He shakes his head but responds, “Of course.”
By the time we finish dinner, the restaurant is in full club mode. The UV lights are on, making the all-white club fluorescent.
Standing, we make our way down to the dance floor as the DJ plays dancehall music, mixing in some R&B and rap songs.
I watch some dancers doing some of the dances I saw at Shay’s cookout. Their bodies move with fluidity, bending and dropping into positions I’m not sure I’d be able to get up from.
Leaning over, I shout loud enough to gain Shay’s attention, “Thank you! I’m glad you convinced me to come out. I’m having an amazing time.”
“Oh, our night has just begun,” her scheming smile is back.
“What are you up to?” I ask, but she just laughs and goes back to twerking.
We dance for hours, through three set changes, until my feet threaten to join the picket line if I don’t give them a break.
Tapping Shay on the shoulder, I whisper, “My feet hate me and refuse to hold me up any longer. I’m going to sit down.”
“Perfect timing,” she says, looking past me. I scrunch my face in confusion, then turn in time to be scooped up into the arms of Owen.
