A Love Like the Sun

Chapter 2 How to Swing a Louisville Slugger

My mom would say these boxes are heavier than one person can carry, but that never stopped her from trudging ones like this up the stairs to our third-floor apartment when my dad was at work. I was tiny back then, but I’d drag a plastic shopping bag up behind her because I really wanted to help. That was two decades ago, but the memories have been bleeding through like watercolor and weighing on me. She’s getting older, and I won’t allow her to do the heavy lifting now that we’ll be selling our natural products from home again.

My arms ache when I slide the last box out of the car and it slips from my grasp, hitting the ground with a shattered-glass thud. I stare at it for several seconds, wishing for the ability to rewind time, hoping that the fragile pieces inside will be miraculously intact.

But the box is still on the ground, and now I have an audience.

Wilma Murphy from across the street walks over, cane in one hand, cup of coffee in the other. She stops a few feet in front of me, takes a slurpy sip, then says, “You know, it’d be smarter if you pulled into the driveway and unloaded the boxes at the back door.”

I’m annoyed she’s probably right, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me shaken. “Is that so?” I say. “I’ll remember for next time.”

She narrows her eyes, surely sensing the sarcasm in my tone. “So, you’re really closing the store? Does this mean your mother will be cleaning rooms with you for the rest of her life?”

Fun fact about my neighborhood in Providence: Silver Lake has fewer than nine thousand residents, which means there’s a decent chance the boy you have a crush on two blocks over could’ve already hooked up with your cousin. What it means for me: Wilma Murphy’s grandmother used to babysit my mother in the same house Wilma still lives in across the street. Even more interesting: Wilma’s sister, Bridget Murphy, is a permanent resident of the hotel where I work and just so happens to be one of my favorite people in the world. And it might’ve been a nice thing, working in a space with one sister and living on the same street as the other, but Bridget and Wilma haven’t spoken in decades. The reason is still unknown to me, but I believe it when my mom says Wilma was always petty or judgmental because the longer I live in this apartment, the clearer it becomes that this seventy-one-year-old woman can often be both at once, so I’m certain she must’ve done something incredibly spiteful to her younger sister.

“Maybe,” I say, “but at least we’ll have good company with your sister living there.”

Wilma’s top lip curls at the mention of Bridget. “Guess you aren’t the businesswoman you thought you were,” she says, before pointing to the lawn with her cane, a sour look on her face. “You should get someone to mow the lawn.” With that, she turns away, whistling a song while walking toward her house with its perfectly mowed lawn.

Once I’m inside, I take one look at the shattered jars of sugar scrub and sink against the front door, still feeling the sting of Wilma’s words below my breastbone. When we opened the shop, my mom was able to quit housekeeping to focus on creating products, something she started when she was a teenager who was sick of being sent to the salon every Saturday for relaxers. She never knew she’d find joy in making hair products, but six-year-old me was already dreamy while I listened to her sing and whip shea butter till it was smooth, waiting for the chance to mix something too. All I hoped for was to be as cool as her when I grew up, for her to look at me the way I looked at her, and I finally felt that when we first opened our shop.

I glance up at the wall to stare at the picture of us hugging in front of Wildly Green on grand-opening day, remembering that she couldn’t keep tears out of her eyes. “I can’t believe this is real,” she said. Then with a shaky voice: “If only your dad could see us now.”

My gaze flicks to another picture, of the three of us, which is in the same worn wooden frame I’ve had since high school. Dad with a handlebar mustache I’d poke fun at, me on his back with small six-year-old fingers pulling at his blond hair, Mom in stilettos with beautiful brown legs, tiptoeing to place a kiss on his cheek. He was staring straight into the camera, and it feels like he’s staring right through me now, knowing that the business degree I was so proud of, the one I flashed in front of Mom’s face, insisting we were ready to transition from a stable kitchen business to a store, didn’t mean I’d have smart solutions to save it.

I pull my phone from my pocket. Nothing else from Issac. He’s been in Cali for two years, and I still struggle with him living across the country. That he’s too far for weekly movie nights. I hardly remember the last time we browsed a bookstore together. And I can’t bring myself to tell him about Wildly Green over the phone. If I’m being honest with myself, I haven’t wanted to tell him at all.

But right now, I need my best friend.

My finger hovers over the Call button, debating because he’s probably on a photo shoot for a clothing line or making new art on video…or maybe he’s on a romantic getaway with Melinda. My stomach squeezes at the thought. It might be my imagination, but it seems like ever since they started casually dating months ago the texts have become less frequent, our phone calls shorter, and he hasn’t flown back home in half a year. And I can’t help but wonder how casual the dating truly is, if something is changing between him and me because of them.

You’re the worst friend in the world, I type to him instead. Hoping it’ll elicit a Don’t be a brat or There goes my brat or even Tell me what’s bothering you, brat, but he reads the message and doesn’t respond.

I sigh and click out of the conversation. Right underneath is Darius’s now muted thread. I should probably block him, but the petty part of me wants him to sweat it out. I scroll through the photos, a little amused. Has he been home all day buck naked or are these recycled dick pics?

You want me to come over?he texts, like he knew I was in here lurking.

Hell no:), I reply, my stomach tight at the feeling of being caught.

But then the doorbell rings and startles me to my feet.

Last week, Darius dropped me off after our date and kissed me on my front porch. Before this afternoon the memory had made me feel good, but now I’m quietly creeping to peek out the blinds and make sure it’s not him. And I might’ve been able to if my landlord had come and cut the overgrown bush outside my window to give me a better view of the door like he was supposed to last month.

I swallow, call out, “Who is it?”

But no one answers. When the doorbell rings again, a shiver shoots up my spine. I blow out a breath and pick up the Louisville Slugger from beside the door. My dad taught me to swing a bat just in case. I reach for the lock, then the handle, carefully twisting and letting it creak open. But I don’t swing because the man standing before me has deep brown skin and even deeper eyes, which bore into mine like they’re searching my soul.

Issac pulls his gaze away to glance at the scene in front of him—me gripping the Slugger, ready to swing—and a smile breaks across his face, dimples deep, visible even under facial hair.

“Hi, Ni,” he says, voice warm, the sun growing dim behind him. “You have a bad day?”

After a sharp inhale, I squeal, the bat clattering to the floor, and jump right into his arms. He stumbles back, laughing, but catches us like he always does. Since he has thirteen inches on me, I’m able to bury my face right in the center of his chest. He bends low to drop a kiss on my head, and the tension releases from us both: a shared breath. We stay that way awhile, wrapped in each other, connected limbs and familiar affection. But then he clears his throat and steps back to give us inches of physical space I’m not used to.

He swallows hard, then rubs the bridge of his nose like he does when he’s nervous or even disappointed, but I can’t get a read on why he’s doing it now. My mind begins to worry over the imperceptible distance between us, something I was hoping I wouldn’t feel in person, while my body needs another one of his hugs after six months without my best friend, and the disappointing days I’ve had since last seeing him. But I stop my limbs from doing awkward things to get closer to him again and pick up the bat instead.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. “Why didn’t you tell me you were flying in?”

“I love surprising you,” he says, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “And I came to be a better best friend. Sorry it took me so long.”