“And you?”
He picks the blunt up, taking another pull while smiling. “He needed a boy to carry on his legacy. You can’t do shit with a girl at Lucky’s. So LaTanya promised him she could give him a boy as soon as she got out of rehab as long as he took care of her after she gave birth. So here I am?—”
“With all your fingers, all your toes, and hands you can ball into fists. You’re perfect.”
He reaches out, running a finger along my cheek. “No more visits with Senior, no more deep thinking, and for damn sure no more questions about Faye and Senior’s business. Finish eat?—”
“But if you don’t want it, then why’re you going along with Aunt Faye and this boxing dream?”
A ghost of a smile coats his face because he’s floating again. This time it’s in his dilated pupils and fluttering eyelashes.
“Growing up, I ain’t understand too much about caring until Senior got this girlfriend that cared a lot…about God, birthdays, and a boy that could never imagine himself as anything other than what everybody around here said he was. Faye thinks she knows what’s best for me because she cares a lot. She’s the closest thing I ever had to a real mama, and I don’t wanna fuck that up by telling her that she cares about me more than I care about myself sometimes. Now no more questions about all this silly stuff that won’t matter six months from now when you all patched up and living your new life.”
Finally connecting another obscure dot in his life still doesn’t settle my curiosity. It just makes another strange feeling sneak out of that clusterfuck in my stomach. This one is overwhelming and all-encompassing, and makes me want to run faster toward him.
He picks the glass of liquor back up, pushing it toward me. “Finish eating.”
I grab the glass and take another shot to drown every confession he fed me.
Four shots, four forkfuls of fish and one blunt later, Rich’s heavy red eyes stroke my side. He’s so high that the red tinge coating his pupils looks painful, and I’m so tipsy that his Jack Daniel’stastes like a French 75. I think he can see me the clearest when he’s floating, just like I can see him the clearest when I’m almost drunk. I see the little scabs along his arms and chest and the way his movements get stiffer and slower as the night wears on.
“How are you still moving right now?” I slur.
“‘Cause fighting is a lot like getting drunk. You take hit after hit and shot after shot until the adrenaline makes you numb.” He swallows tipsily. “Then the next day you wake up and feel it all—the bruises, the cuts, the breaks. It’s like a fight hangover. You all irritated, weak, and sore with no appetite.”
“Ahh. So that’s why you don’t eat anything on Mondays?”
“Is my nosy baby bird tryna learn me?” He chuckles, sparking the lighter and holding the flame to his second blunt.
“Yup, and apparently you have to be under the influence for me to do it.”
He laughs harder, tossing the lighter onto the island.
“Your jaw looks better.”
“It feels better.” He stares at me through hooded lids, letting his eyes caress my stomach.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I feel better, but you don’t.” He lazily points to my throbbing side. “That still hurt so bad that you can’t eat? You been home for a few weeks now. The pain should’ve at least eased up enough for you to eat.”
I straighten my back, shrugging. “I figured I just needed to be patient and the pain would ease up eventually.”
He reaches out, tugging the bottom of my shirt. “Lemme take another look.”
I gulp down the tangy mixture of blackened fish and Jack Daniel’s that sits at the base of my throat. He doesn’t even slow-walk me into exposing my body to him this time, and I’m okay with it. We don’t need slow walking anymore.
He pushes his blunt toward me. “Hold that.”
I grab it and a gentle sigh escapes my lips as he grips the bottom of my baby tee, pulling it over my head without disturbing the glass of liquor and blunt in my hand. He drops the shirt behind me on the island.
This time I remembered my Wolford bra and its matching lace panties, but I don’t think Rich cares about bedroom optics. He had stared at my Target bra back at Worthing as if it were made from the finest silk instead of nylon and spandex.
I glance at my chest, waiting for him to realize the easy way he makes my nipples pucker against the lace, but he pushes his face toward that stupid bruise instead.
“You said it was just bruised,” I murmur. “What’s the problem?”
“Ain’t no problem.”
