Page 68 of Meet Me on Greenwood

I strained, trying to see where she was looking, but then, Rita turned me, and I nearly dropped my drink. Houston was sitting in a circular booth across the room with several other white men, all of them bent over a poker table.

He hadn't seen us, but I watched as one of the other men said something and the whole table laughed. Except, Houston didn't. He just reached for another card without looking up.

"Go over," Rita said in my ear.

"Why would I do that?"

"You aren’t fooling anyone. The reason why my mother gave you hell is because of the way you look at him." She leaned in so her voice carried over the music. "He looks at you the same way, you know."

"He does not," I said, shaking my head.

"Gema this is the one place in the city where none of what is out there matters. No one here is going to say anything to anyone. That is the entire point of a speakeasy."

I wrinkled my nose. "It feels like a place where people’s fetishes can be on full display."

Rita flinched at my words.

"White men getting with Black women," I clarified.

Her shoulders relaxed, but only slightly.

"I told your mother I’d stay away from him."

"Yeah, well, I told her I wouldn’t drink and—" and she tipped the rest of her champagne back. "My mother lives to meddle in the love lives of others. She’s chosen her path, I say we choose ours."

"Have I said something?" I asked. "You seem—not like yourself."

She sighed. "No. I just wish my friend was here," she said, looking over the crowd again.

"Maybe he’s in a different room?"

She held up her hand to stop me.

"Before we leave, I need you to take a good look at that man. I dare you to turn away from what could be the night of your life."

Against my better judgment, I looked over to Houston, who’d loosened his tie. His jacket was hanging over the back of the chair, and he looked like a different version of himself. He seemed less disciplined, softer even.

And for the first time, I noticed the woman by his side. She was tucked against him, dark haired and striking brown skin, her dress doing very little to contain her. She leaned in and said something close to his ear. He smiled.

Something in my chest dropped, fast and humiliating, before I could stop it or explain it or pretend it hadn't happened at all. I had no claim to him. I'd told myself as much more times than I could count, in more ways than I wanted to admit

"I need some air," I said.

"Gema—"

"I just need a minute."

Before she could argue, I pushed through the crowd, moving deeper into the building. Rita followed me down a short corridor and through an open doorway that spilled warm light onto the floor. The room one the other side was wide and low-ceilinged, the center cleared of everything except a dozen or so people arranged in loose pairs and clusters. They were all watching a small woman in a gold dress that matched her hair. She was teaching them the Charleston, a dance I recognized from old films.

The instructor moved like she was born with music inside of her as she called out the steps over the noise, demonstrating with her whole body. The dancers attempting to follow did so with varying degrees of success.

"Have you ever learned?" Rita asked.

"No."

She grinned. "Finally, something I can teach you."

She was patient in her instruction for approximately eight minutes before the dance teacher descended on us.