“Oh yeah? What people? The people that matter? The ones that don’t know your secret? People like Kenny?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah, I figured as much.” He nods to himself as if he’s tucking away that little stupid piece of information for later, and somehow his sharp words intermingle with my pain.
They take away the jarring, chest-aching memories from the night I thought I was dead. It was the night that made me collapse next to Yesenia on the train the next morning with a swollen, bruised body and tell her I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t love a man to death anymore.
The hard tug Rich gives my zipper pulls me out of my head. I look at his hand.
“A’ight, you can tell Faye that I got my birthday gift,” he murmurs, pulling my zipper back up and staring at my breasts one last time as if they belonged to him. “Time for you to go about your business.”
“Huh?” I whisper.
This time he doesn’t stop himself.
He swipes the sweat off my forehead with his rough palm and fixes my headband that had slid back. Now my panties are so soaked that I wouldn’t even be able to explain why if somebody asked because I think Rich was just being Rich this whole time. I don’t think he was flirting.
“Tell Faye I said ‘thanks for sending me my birthday gift,’” he murmurs again. “Now it’s time for me to send you on your way.”
On my way?
But there was nowhere for me to go.
“You listening to me, Slim?”
“But…but the cake?” I stutter out.
He looks over at the white box sitting next to his bag on the bench. “You paid for that cake?”
I shake my head.
“Yeah, he better not have made you pay for nothing in there.”
“Right. I heard your fists pay the lease there sometimes.” I mutter. “What does that mean?”
He glances down at his hands, then his eyes flutter away. “I told you Mr. Copeland runs his mouth. The next time I see him, I’mma tell him not to talk like that in front of you.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Go hang out with your friend like you said you were gonna do.”
I take advantage of our closeness and stare at the bottom half of his face, studying the tiny, jagged flesh-colored scars that mar his chin.
“Bring the cake home. You and Faye can eat it,” he finally decides. “Just tell Kenny she bought it for me.”
“It’s yours, though. It was for somebody else, and then I told Mr. Copeland it was your birthday, and…and he just decorated it and gave it to me. We can’t waste the cake, Rich.”
“We?”
“You know what I mean.” I huff, rolling my eyes and looking away.
He tugs at the zipper on my dress one more time, like he’s testing its sturdiness, and then lets go. “I’ll bring the cake home with me.”
And me too, right?
My body grows warm.
Jesus, I shouldn’t be thinking that either.
