“So you wore shoes like that while you walked all around that place?” he asks.
“I’ve been overdressed since I was born. I didn’t wear a pair of pants until I was six…so yeah.” I sigh. “I wore heels like these all over the city. Pretty stupid of me, huh?”
I wait for him to ball his face up, but he smiles, sitting up on his elbows and turning his head to eye the suede knee-high boots from every angle he can. My stomach rumbles while I wait for the “hell yeah, that was stupid of you” to fall out of his mouth.
“Ain’t a goddamn thing about you is stupid, Slim,” he finally says in a matter-of-fact tone. “Believe that.”
He looks away while I hold on to the huskiness in his voice. It sounds better in person than it did in my head while I tossed and turned at night, and I can’t believe I missed that stupid nickname—Slim.
The elusive compliment he gave me replenishes the momentum I lost in the days we spent apart, so I finally ask, “Who told you I lived in New York?”
“People talk.” He shrugs.
“Oh, so you gossip with Faye while she pretends to clean your house? Because she’s obviously the people, right?”
He belts out a loud guffaw, thrusting his head back. “Them fancy boots got you thinking you can talk sideways to me?”
If I were Rasheeda, I’dalwaystalk sideways to Rich just to hear that silky laugh he kept hidden. I forgot how its smoothness caressed my eardrums.
“I can talk however I want, with or without the boots. They’re just the icing on top.”
“Damn, straight like that? You see why I’m scared of your lil’ ass?” he casually admits, wagging his finger at me.
I wait for him to laugh his comment off as a joke, but his face settles into an even expression instead. It reminds me I’m losing the plot. In fact, I don’t even have a plot. Terrica would say I’m moving off of vibes at this point and we always said that was dangerous. It’s how she ended up getting that abortion our senior year.
“You know, I know what you are,” I blurt, trying to bring myself back to Earth.
He raises his eyebrows. “What am I?”
I open my mouth, but I don’t know how to say it without sounding like the sheltered nerd he’s always accusing me of being.
“You fight.”
He lets out a low whistle, eyeing the punching bags to our right. “Damn, I ain’t know I was tryna hide it.”
I close my eyes, shaking my head. “No. You fight…down at Lucky’s.”
“Who told you that?”
“Faye.”
“Hm. What she telling you about that place for?”
“I…I was being nosy I guess.”
“Oh Lord…” He chuckles. “So, what, you gon’ do now, Slim? Call the laws on me forillicitfighting? Try to get me sent to jail or something? Because Myra Monkhouse would never do that to Steve.”
I blubber out a sloppy laugh.
He’s not as passionate about his “job” as Aunt Faye. There are no long soliloquies about respecting what he does to feed his family. His voice doesn’t even crackle with anxiety like Zaire’s did when he talked about “work.” And just like I suspected, it doesn’t sound like he’s running away from anything.
“No, it’s just…you shouldn’t be scared of anything—let alone somebody like me if you’re doing… all ofthat,” I mumble.
“First of all.” He snorts. “Stop closing your eyes when you talking to me.”
I pinch them tighter.
“And second, what you mean somebody like you?”
