Page 17 of Just Like Summer

“Are you playing me?” she grilled with squinted eyes. “I really don’t take you as the type to forget things.”

A low rumble of a laugh fell from his lips as he hit a series of buttons on the radio. The beat flowed through and Kamilla listened with the musical ear she was gifted from her father. She didn’t bob her head. She didn’t smirk. She just listened. When it faded out, she hummed.

“Better but it’s not ready yet,” Kamilla pushed.

“I got a studio session tonight. You down for rollin’ with me and helping me work this out?” he challenged.

She didn’t want to sound eager but she also didn’t want to be back at the house any sooner than she had to. “Is it safe?”

“You’re always safe with me. Ain’t no question about it,” he replied.

“Alright. Sure. But can I ask how is it that you can afford a studio session?” she mused.

“Don’t ask me no questions unless you want the truth.”

“I’ve had my fill of people lying to me,” she returned. “And if you really want to be my friend, you’ll be real with me.”

“Gang shit. I handle business, I get a cut, it goes into music. I’m not trying to be in this shit forever, feel me?”

She nodded. “Yeah, I feel you. I – I mean I hear you.”

There went another smirk over his full lips that made her look away. “You like donuts?”

“Are you a carnivore or a vampire or something? Like is there some weird obsession with feeding me? Fatten me up and then you go in for the kill?” she retorted.

“I mean I like to eat but I won’t be trying to kill you or nothing like that,” he muttered, making Kamilla’s cheeks flush red. “It’s eleven in the morning and I’m hungry and your shift starts at eleven-thirty so there isn’t really enough time to get you a real breakfast.”

His eyes were on the road and hadn’t caught how her skin had glowed red. She quickly recovered without missing a beat. “Donuts are cool. I’m over eating tacos. Can I pay for it?”

“Nah. You might as well get used to not paying for nothing else.”

“That’s not how friendship goes, Cairo. It’s an equal exchange.”

“You’re right. You ride shotgun, keep me company, critique these beats, and I take care of the rest. Sounds equal to me,” he spoke, turning into Gary’s Donuts.

“Mm it sounds like something else, but I’ll let you live,” she muttered under her breath.

He got out to open her door. Leaning in, he muttered back. “The thing about friendship is, we make it what we want.”

Cairo stepped back and nodded her to the door of the building. “After you.”

Kamilla pushed a dry curl out of her face and huffed quietly. Whatever this was couldn’t live in her space. She couldn’t label it, nor did she want to be naïve enough to think this could be something more. When it came to Cairo, it was clear they came from two different worlds.

Inside the donut shop she took in the nostalgia of it. Photos hung on the wall from entertainers who’d patronized the business. Actors, directors, and music artists who’d filmed their movies or music videos here. She took it all in. And then she spotted a photo of her father. She froze, her eyes taking him in. Black and blue checkered flannel buttoned around his neck, all that hair he had out and free, the set of rings she retrieved every time they were evicted. She didn’t care about losing her clothes and whatever else they had, but his rings, his albums, and anything else she could get her hands on after his passing – she held on to them with all her might.

The bitterness of grief began to rise like the tide and flooded her chest and eyes. She cleared her throat, nodded, and pulled herself together. She was the daughter of a L.O. legend hiding in plain sight.

“You know what you want?” Cairo’s baritone fully pulled her out of her silent observation.

Kamilla withdrew herself from the photo of the man she shared a face with and placed herself by Cairo’s side. “What’s good here?”

“Depends on what you like. It’s a neighborhood staple ‘cause Gary been here since the Azuls started but his shit is top tier,” Cairo spoke, motioning to an older man kneading dough. “He don’t play about his shit.”

Kamilla read the marquee. Each special was named after a Los Oceania legend. The Husten Boys dozen, Alley Op Alson 3 peat, KP Azul Confetti – a tiny smile appeared on her lips. The sweet memories of the blue icing donut with sprinkles that survived the ride up the coast when he visited.

Kamilla could still hear the timbre of his voice when he handed it to her with pride. “I made that nigga dip it in blue just for you, Mariposa.”

“I’ll take the KP Azul Confetti. Just one, I don’t want to be dragged to your den or anything,” she quipped making Cairo chuckle. “Maybe a coffee, I’m tired.”