“That’s interesting,” Layla said, her tone neutral. “What’s your focus?”
“Post-Reconstruction through the Civil Rights Movement,” Alexis said. “But I also cover contemporary issues—gentrification, cultural appropriation, the commodification of Black culture in tourist spaces.”
Layla nodded slowly.
“Sounds like you know your shit.”
“I try,” Alexis said, laughing lightly. “It’s important work.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Layla went back to the kitchen to grab the main course.
Alexis turned to me, her smile still in place.
“She seems… intense.”
“She is,” I said.
“But sweet,” Alexis added quickly. “I mean, anyone who can cook like this clearly has a gift.”
Syx snorted.
I shot him a look.
He held up his hands in surrender, still grinning.
Layla returned with the main course—blackened redfish, roasted vegetables, and dirty rice that smelled like heaven.
She set the plates down in front of us with the same precise movements.
“This is beautiful,” Alexis said, looking up at Layla. “You’re so talented.”
“Thank you,” Layla said, her voice flat.
“How long have you been cooking professionally?”
“Long enough.”
Alexis blinked.
“Well, I’m sure Amai is lucky to have you. It must be so fulfilling to do what you love.”
Layla’s jaw tightened.
She set the last plate down in front of Syx and straightened, her eyes locking on Alexis.
“You act like you shocked I know what I’m doing,” Layla said, her voice calm but sharp. “Like you surprised I’m educated in my craft.”
Alexis’s smile faltered.
“I-I didn’t mean?—”
“Don’t let my passion for cooking fool you,” Layla continued, her tone cutting through the room like a blade. “I got multiple streams of income. I’m educated in a number of areas. I ain’t just some chef you can pat on the head and dismiss.”
The air in the room shifted.
Alexis’s face flushed.
