A crackle of thunder shakes her Prius and makes me glance out of the window as if I’ll find Aunt Faye’s Camry trailing behind us, because at my big age, I’m still a runner. I still remember how many minutes it takes for Uncle Kenny to fall into a deep sleep, which floorboards creak the loudest in the hallway, and how much pressure to put on the back doorknob until it quietly clicks into place.
Marsha turns onto Joliet Street and the neighborhood dog bounces by, barking at her back tires.
She groans. “The strays over here are a serious problem.”
This whole thing was a stupid idea. Maybe the stupidest I had since I wandered down into the subway for a second timesearching for the random Dominican girl I spilled coffee on two weeks before.
Back then I had the same longing pang in my chest as I walked around the subway platform looking for her black ringlets and old Coach bag all because she told me her cornyblanquitatherapist said her secret superpower was embracing fragile women like herself after she helped a neighbor whose boyfriend punched her during an argument. Now I’m doing the same desperate thing with Rich—wandering around the neighborhood searching for him and that cut on his stomach even after he told me to stop doing it. What’s even worse is that I’m doing it on a Sunday—the day Beatrice and Aunt Faye said theydon’tbother him on.
“Alright…here ya’ go,” Marsha drawls with a sigh as her car rolls to a stop. “We made it through thunder, lightning, stray dogs, and a few fabulous sex workers trying to flag us down at the intersection. It’s this house, right?”
This was areallystupid idea.
But I’m too close to turn back.
I eye the worn-down house at the random address I typed into Uber to get me to Joliet Street, then sit forward in the back seat, squinting into the dark, wet street until I catch a glimpse of those metal folding chairs on Rich’s porch.
“Actually, it’s that one right there.” I point toward his house, that’s further down the street.
She nods and drives forward, stopping in front of Rich’s pristine, empty driveway.
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” I grab my purse, then push out of the car, slamming the back passenger door behind me.
On my trek to Rich’s porch I see the things I didn’t notice that second day I came to his house—all the things that should’ve clued me in that he was around—like the Tupperware container tucked on the side of the porch filled with kibble for theneighborhood dog, and the open side gate swinging back and forth in the wind. A faint thump of bass shakes his wooden steps as I climb them and amble toward his front door.
I raise my hand and pound on it.
I only have to knock twice before it swings open, exposing a man with a weather-beaten brown face and chapped lips. He cocks his grey eyebrow up when I smile at him.
“Hi, is Ri?—”
“Pup!” he hollers. “That thief out here!”
“Thief?” I mutter to myself, frowning. “Hey, I’m no?—”
He stalks off before I can tell him he’s mistaken. I’ve never stolen anything in my life—not from Rich, or from anybody. I didn’t even steal from Citi Trends that time Terrica begged me to during her stupid shoplifting phase.
I push my hand out to stop the front door from closing in my face. Music floats from the back of the house while the man’s husky voice intertwines with Rich’s deep one that makes my fingers curl into my palm.
So he lives.
Tonight, there’s no Teddy Pendergrass haunting me or raunchy cuts that remind me of college playing. There’s just smooth rap booming from the back of the house as if both men had decided UGK would satisfy their aural cravings.
“You can start pulling them sealed pieces into the shed!” Rich yells from somewhere inside the house. “That rain about to come down!”
There’s no clusterfuck of emotions swirling inside me right now—just hot neediness that followed me all the way from Aunt Faye and Uncle Kenny’s couch. It’s the same neediness that suddenly appeared while me and Rich stood in the ring at Worthing. It sits right at the apex of my thighs and dances outside my panties, taunting me. Somehow it replaced that mucky feeling I was sure I couldn’t get rid of.
“Shit,” I huff to myself just as Rich rounds the corner of his foyer.
He has clothes on tonight, and that’s just as bad as him walking around half naked. Who knew paint stained Dickies and a wife beater would make my middle throb? One day I’ll have to tell Rasheeda that her “man” looks good half nakedandclothed, or maybe today he’s Beatrice’s responsible chin-checking man who protects her house? I can’t keep up with who he belongs to. I just know he really doesn’t belong to me no matter how many times I make myself cum to memories of his face and mouth.
I step back when he gets closer even though I’ve tried this trick before. Putting space between us doesn’t cure my curiosity for him. It just makes me blurt out embarrassing things like, “Who was that?”
Rich smirks, holding a beer bottle at his side and leaning against the doorframe.
He stares at me through those low bedroom eyes, biting down on his swollen bottom lip. A fresh gash sits above his left eyebrow with a skinny butterfly bandage plastered over it and those two black eyes Uncle Kenny raged about look like they’re healing.
“Hi, Slim. How you doing?” he drawls out in amusement.
