"What else though," he prompted. "Just yoga."
"I like to cook when I can," I murmured, feeling a little more confident now. "I actually love it…creating something from nothing."
"Whatchu' like cookin'?"
"A little bit of this and that. I'm going through phases right now. I'm really into Thai at the moment, but I also love comfort food. My grandma slipped me a lot of her recipes before she passed and I swear it comes in handy."
"So you can be trusted with Thanksgiving dinner?" His brow rose, teasingly.
That got a giggle out of me. "I definitely can. Don't get it twisted nigga. I ain't one of these alfredo and rotel making ass bitches."
"My bad," he chuckled as he placed his glass of wine down and put his hands up in mock surrender. "You need to cook forme sometimes so I can see the hype. I ain't had some soul food in a minute."
"If I cooked it for you, promise me you won't be looking for me in the day time with a flashlight." Now it was my turn to tease him with a raised brow.
"Don't tempt me, Nyne." His smile was warm this time, giving me a glimpse of the dimple in his left cheek that I hadn't noticed before.
I looked away, focusing on my half empty plate. "What about you? Besides the gym, making women cum and smoking cigars, what does Syx do with his time? Or are you just as boring as I am with a daytime job."
He laughed. It was a real laugh that made my chest feel tight. "When you put it like that, I sound like a piece of work."
"I didn't mean it like that."
"Nah, you good." He took another sip of wine. His expression turning more serious. "I donate to Black colleges, mostly HBCU's that are struggling with funding. I do whatever I can."
I looked up, surprised. "Really?"
"Yeah with textbooks, curriculum improvements, whatever they need. A lot of these schools are barely hanging on, especially since Trump came into office." His jaw tightened. "They're trying to erase us, you know? Defund the institutions that were built specifically to educate black people when nobody else would. It's fucked up. Some of the programs that actually help have been cut."
There was passion in his voice. It was anger mixed with determination and it made me see him differently. Not just as the sex educator or the man who'd made me cum, but as someone who gave a shit about something bigger than himself.
"LeMoyne Owen's been struggling with that too," I said quietly. "Federal cuts and state cuts have been made, making major companies step up with donations. We get big checksthat look good in the press and it's helpful. The money goes to students who actually need it, but we need more."
Syx nodded, his expression grim. "That's what I'm saying. They need to come up with a set amount instead of doing quarterly meetings. I don't know how those calculations are set, but I'd like to be very hands on with contributing to it. I love seeing black students succeed."
"Absolutely," I nodded in agreeance. "That's part of the reason why graduation rates are low or why students are struggling."
Syx raised his glass to me. "That's why I try to give directly to programs that matter. It's the shit that actually helps students stay in school and graduate."
I clinked my glass against his, feeling a surge of respect for him that had nothing to do with sex. "That's really amazing, Syx. Seriously."
He shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. "It's the least I can do. I make good money doing what I do. Might as well put it toward something that matters."
We fell into silence again, but it was different now. The sun had dipped below the horizon now, leaving the sky streaked with purple and deep blue. The first stars were starting to appear. Someone, probably Syx had lit candles on the table, and they flickered in the breeze, casting dancing shadows across his face.
"You dating?" He asked suddenly, his voice casual but his eyes sharp. "You seeing niggas back home?"
I nearly choked on my fruit. I'd started playing with it to pass by time. I wasn't really hungry anymore. "What?" I quizzed with my brows furrowed.
"Dating," he repeated. "Seeing niggas. Do you be goin' out and shit." He stated with clarification, watching me carefully, like my answer mattered more than it should've to him.
"Why are you asking me that?" I tried to keep my voice light but my heart was pounding. "Seems like a weird question for someone who's supposed to have boundaries."
"Maybe I'm curious." He leaned forward slightly with his elbows on the table. "Whatchu' goin' back home to."
"Nothing," I uttered, more sharply than I intended. "I don't date. Well, I used to, but niggas are weird. All for more reasons of me being the ex-wife of a pro football player and as weird as it sounds niggas were only getting close to me because of him. Every guy I've met since my divorce has been a disaster. Most of them are looking for mommy to take care of them or they just want sex with no strings attached, and the ones who seem decent, they ghost after two dates or suddenly remember they're not ready for a relationship."
"I hear you."
