“Because if it did, you’d be dead,” he mutters, picking up another slat. “She’ll get over it one day. But you better find you some solace in the meantime, ‘cause it always gets worse before it gets better.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
LOVIE
Barnes-Blank Park feltlike the size of Central Park when I was younger. Now at twenty-four, it feels like the five acres it’s always been.
“Hey! Stop all that running through here!” Uncle Kenny yells, slamming the lid to his barbecue pit.
“Man…we outside, Mr. Kenny!” one of the boys from the gym whines, tossing his hands up then trampling over a cluster of wild sunflowers.
He runs toward the Slip ‘N Slide fully clothed with his frizzy locs flopping in the wind.
“Don’t you take your ass on that slide with them tennis shoes on, Chase! I ain’t buying another one.” Uncle Kenny huffs from behind me. “After you drop the weenies off, I need you to grab these ribs, Lovie!”
I roll my eyes and keep walking.
After the talk we had, that “biological thing” feels even bigger than it did before. It hovers between us like the dense fog that blanketed the yard when I woke up this morning. It even made my stomach ache while he and Aunt Faye moved around eachother in the kitchen like robots, grunting out questions with no thought behind them, then mumbling back noncommittal replies. It was obvious they hadn’t talked about what I told him…or anything else besides this stupid Family Fun Day.
The sun beams on my bare shoulders as I amble from underneath the tent Uncle Kenny and Chico set up for the barbecue pit with a pan of beanie weenies. It’s late October, but the leaves on the trees still haven’t fallen, and the high today is a scorching ninety-one degrees. It’s one of those weird “fall” days I missed while in New York.
Family Fun Day always starts at noon, but most of the adults hide inside until it gets later. Now with the sun setting, the measly five acres of land feels like two while everybody roams around with beer, red Solo Cups, and games the kids aren’t allowed to play, like Dominoes and Spades.
“What you got there, cutie patootie?” Lucky asks, dragging a lawn chair and his set of dominoes toward the oak tree they built the park around.
“Nothing a grown man would want!” I call out, stepping over a stray Jordan lying in the grass while his son eyes my bare legs.
I don’t remember his real name—only what Rich called him that day at Lucky’s:D.
D pushes his glasses up from the bridge of his nose as Lucky’s gravely laugh mingles with the Frankie Beverly and Maze that Chico’s playing. In the two years I was away, Chico picked up a side hustle DJing around the city, and now he thinks he’s the seasoned version of DJ G5.
“Tell your aunt to come holler at me later!” Lucky yells.
I give him a brief nod and giggle at the shy wave his son tosses my way as he trips over his own feet. He’s tawny-skinned like Lucky and so lanky that I’d probably look plump standing next to him.
I wave back and keep walking.
When I make it to the pavilion, there’s a lot more people ambling around than there were before because something about alcohol makes folks hungry. They wander from table to table with paper plates in their hands while I scan the covered area for Aunt Faye.
I catch a glimpse of the back of her blinged out “Worthing Gym 10th Annual Family Fun Day” shirt. I spent last night jazzing it up to keep my mind off Rich because the easy way my fingers find their way between my legs at night as soon as I miss his touch can’t be healthy.
Just as I take a step forward to follow the jewels I sewed onto Aunt Faye’s shirt, my body freezes.
“Where’d you say the drinks were, Ms. Faye?” a shrill voice yells across the pavilion.
“In the red cooler!”
I want to turn back around even though I have nowhere to go. I can’t run to Rich’s because it’s Saturday—Senior needs a visit, Arnez needs a new bedroom set, and there’s some vague thing he says he needs to take care of after he leaves Arnez’s apartment. He won’t be home for a while.
I dig my freshly manicured nails into the sides of the aluminum pan as Meechie’s lotus flower tattoo stops in my line of vision while she bends down to open the red cooler.
The thing about Bayou Crest is that you can’t outrun people for too long no matter how overrun it’s become with transplants, college students, and white people moving in. Eventually, you’ll find whoever you don’t want to see.
Nothing about Meechie has changed in the two years I’ve been away—except for her ass. Before our sordid friend-breakup, Terrica told me it was a gift from some white guy Meechie met at a golf course in The Woodlands where she’s a part-time caddie girl, and I’m supposed to act like I don’t notice it because she’s insecure about its shape.
Meechie grabs a Dr. Pepper out of the cooler, then stands up and whips her long braids over her shoulder. She scans all the faces under the pavilion.
