He chuckles. “I mean you halfway to me. You might as well keep on.”
It’s embarrassingly true.
I’msoclose to him I almost taste that oakmoss scent that’s always lingering on his body.
I place my foot on the first step that leads to the ring and climb up, but my trek is anything but dainty because of that stupid bruise on my side. I duck under the ropes he holds open, quietly wincing as my side throbs from the pressure. I feel his eyes on me so I try to contort my body into a less awkward stance, but my tight dress makes it hard. As soon as my left foot makes it through the ropes, he lets them go and stands up.
We face each other.
“Now what was all that nosy shit you was asking me from down there?” he asks.
“I asked why you aren’t scared of Rasheeda like you’re scared of me…and before you try to flirt and weasel out of an answer—I climbed in this stupid ring in heels.”
His tongue darts out, settling against his swollen bottom lip as he looks away from me. “What I need to be scared of Rasheeda for? She don’t have no heart.”
There’s no passion in his voice when he talks about her. It’s hollow. It’s not like hers was that day she walked up on us in his backyard.
“And I do?” I ask.
He smirks, shrugging and avoiding my gaze. “Guess it’s my turn, huh?”
“Your turn for what?”
“To ask a question. What’s that you told me? Asking nosy questions is how you have a decent reciprocal conversation. It’s how you learn people. Ain’t that how you said it?”
My face heats.
“So how much I owe you for the cake?” he asks.
I huff to myself. “That’s…that’s not how birthday gifts work.”
“Well, how do they work then?”
“It’s something special given to you from others to commemorate your birthday. It’s to celebrate you. You’re not supposed to pay people for giving you gifts.”
“Oh.”
Mr. Copeland’s chatty self was right. There was no way Rich celebrated his birthday.
“Did Rasheeda even get you anything?”
“Nope.”
“Nothing?” I whisper back.
“Nothin.”
“That’s…sad.”
He shrugs. “I guess. What’s a man supposed to want for his birthday, anyway?”
“Oh, I don’t know, lots of things—cologne, clothes, shoes, tickets to see his favorite sports team, a nice card, maybe.”
“So I’m supposed to give her my money to go buy me all that?”
“No.” I snort, rolling my eyes. “I mean, she can use her own mon?—”
“She don’t even own a wallet.”
