A giggle almost slips out of my mouth until Ace looks at me again.
He knows she’s drunk. It’s in the tiny smile he gives me before he takes another swig of Hennessy.
My thighs are sore from rubbing them against each other. Every time I think that wet spot will dry up, he looks at me and I start rubbing them back and forth again. I don’t know how long I can tolerate Marcus being his host nigga or whatever he is.
“Show me,” he says, staring at me instead of her. “Play something for me, Mom.”
Mama’s so drunk she yanks her shattered phone out of her bra and swipes at the screen while Ace pushes back from the table.
In the two hours he’s been in our house, Mama has turned intohismom, I finally know what Chelsea means when she says Marcus’ voice makes her wet—ew, and Ace has taken over dinner. Now Keith Frank is singing, telling us to roll with him while Ace’s caramel arm slides in front of me to take my half-eaten burger and steak fries.
“Come on, Ason!” Mama howls, tossing her bald head back.
Ace whistles back and my head whips around so I can watch him like he’s been watching me. He grips the tulip glass in one hand and balances our plates with his other. He toed his Jordans off after I fixed his drink, and now he’s doing what I’m supposed to be doing.
Before I can finish imagining what he might look like without clothes, he’s already put our dirty dishes in the sink and stealing Mama’s glass of Hennessy. He replaces it with a bottle of water and she doesn’t notice because he pulls her out of her chair by her thin arm.
Her legs move and then her hips follow and he tries to do the same, but his legs won’t cooperate. They’re too used to Los Angeles. That giggle I tried to hide earlier comes out in an ugly snort while he dances just how I expect a nigga from Los Angeles to—stiff with his arms locked in front of him, doing an ugly ass two-step.
Mama shimmies around him. It’s the most she’s moved in a week. There’s sweat prickling at the ends of her sparse eyebrows and the tight dress I picked out for her to wear bunches at the back. Ace grabs her between the folds and their feet shuffle together until they stop doing two different dances and their bodies sync together as one.
“He can move, can’t he, Phat?” she yells over the music, chasing her breath.
“Yeah, Mama… he can.”
They can’t hear me over their laughs, the music, or Ace asking Mama if she got dressed up for him tonight.
I can’t remember the last time Keith Frank played in our kitchen or a man held Mama at the small of her back. Her Miss Me Jeans are two sizes too big now and the cowboy boots me and Marcus got her last Christmas collect dust in the back of her closet. A month ago she told Granny she didn’t think she’d make it to another trail ride, but somehow Ace changed her mind.
She laughs. “I’m taking you with me, Ason! I’d have to beat those bitches off you. You handsome thing you!”
The song ends and the wheezing from her chest grows louder.
“Okay, Mama. That’s enough excitement.” I push up from the table. “You ain’t ate nothing for dinner.”
“Yes, I did,” she slurs, burying her head into Ace’s t-shirt.
“Hennessy don’t count.”
“It do!”
If my eyes ever get stuck like she claims they will, her and Bryson would be the reason, and maybe Ace too, because he makes my body do weird shit.
I walk past them into the kitchen and fling open a cabinet to grab a plate.
“A’ight, Mom,” Ace says. “I’mma chill outside and wait for Marcus. Let Phat take care of you.”
It’s the first time all night he’s said my name, and it was worth the wait. He says it as if we’re familiar with each other—like he comes to our house all the time for dinner to play mediator between me and Mama. He said it just like he saidLourdesat the bookstore. He says them like I’m his.
“Don’t let her run you off,” she whispers.
“She can’t ever do that.” He laughs.
I whip my head back from inside the cabinet I’m digging in, but he’s already peeling Mama out his arms and grabbing his cup from the counter.
“Don’t get lost in here,” he says, shoving his feet back into his sneakers.
I think that was for me.
