Jamila
Although I’m freezing on this balcony, I’m in love with this view and my camera is obsessed.
We are on the fifth floor and the ground below is completely covered in snow.
The branch-only trees look white and the darkening of the sky casts a gloomy yet mysterious hue over the snowy scene.
It’s absolutely beautiful. The sound of the glass door opening pulls me from my lens.
“Ten minutes.”
“Okay. I’m coming in. Just one more shot.”
“It’s not like we’re leaving tomorrow. You can take more later.”
“It will be different later: the light, the amount of snow, everything. Beauty changes in the flick of the eye. It has to be captured the moment you encounter it.” When I turn to face him, I notice the angle of his jawline. Inspired, I raise my camera and say, “Like now.”
When I snap the picture, he huffs with disdain.
In the eighteen months we have been together, he has only allowed me to photograph him a total of three times.
The day we met, our first Christmas, and our one year anniversary.
Even though I have my own studio, Candid Moments, and a very successful career, Corey only sees my photography as a hobby. That’s an argument I curve every time.
“Come on, Jamila. Put the camera up. We need to head downstairs,” he insists.
He’s being so extra about this reunion. Although he is normally a bit anal, today he is doing the most. We are never ever on time for social events or outings. Corey likes to roll in late and skip out early but with this no. The mixer starts at seven and it’s five minutes till.
“What’s the rush? It’s barely seven. I figured we would drop in around eight.”
“It’s from seven to ten. We can’t be an hour late.”
“That’s your normal m.o. What’s so special about this reunion? My ten year is next year and I don’t have one ounce of desire to attend. I only keep up with three, maybe five, people from high school. That was another lifetime ago. Besides, I’ve never heard you even mention a high school friend.”
Totally dismissive, he shrugs then asks, “Will you be ready in five minutes?”
While shaking my head, I simply respond, “In fifteen.”
“I’ll just go down without you. It’s in the banquet room. Your name will be on the list when you check in.”
“Corey, I know you aren’t going to leave me. It’s fifteen fucking minutes. I need to run my flat iron through my hair. That’s it.”
“You should have been doing that instead of playing out here with the camera,” he says, striking a nerve. I can’t stand it when he gets condescending like that.
“Just go. I’ll be down when I’m down.”
I push past him and storm into the room.
Without looking back at his smug ass, I race to the bathroom and slam the damn door.
I’m fully dressed and my flat iron has been on while I was on the balcony.
My hair is already straight because I got a blow out yesterday.
However, the humidity here and snow have caused a few frizzy patches.
Honestly, it will probably take less than five minutes to fix it but because of his little attitude, I’m going to take my sweet time.
As I turn the temperature down on my hot flat iron, I hear the door close.
This negro really left me.
Out of spite, I take my time and flat iron my hair.
By the time I finish my hair, retouch my makeup, and slide into my heels, it’s closer to eight than seven.
When I make it downstairs, I follow the Polar Bear signs to the banquet room.
There’s a short line to get into the room.
I can hear a mixture of music and chatter coming from inside as I wait in line.
My cell phone vibrates in my mini clutch so I reach inside to grab it. As I do, something or someone bumps me from behind. Between my heels and my focus on getting my phone, the bump results in me losing all balance. Before I know it, I’m on my ass and my phone is somewhere on the floor.
“What the hell,” I huff as I try to gather my composure and pride. I really just fell.
“My bad. My bad. Are you okay?” a soothing baritone asks apologetically. Guilt and empathy are laced in the tone.
“I’m fine,” I snap as I try to push up. My heels and tight jeans are not helping my plight at all. I’m struggling miserably.
“I’m so sorry. Please let me help you,” the baritone insists.
It’s deeper and closer so I lift my head and glance over my left shoulder.
My eyes behold the beautiful man leaning down over me.
No other word does him justice. He has the richest, smoothest, dark cacao skin I’ve ever seen.
His eyes are narrowed and I can’t stop myself from being intrigued.
Their light hazel hue with specks of gold are a stark contrast to his gorgeous skin.
His neatly trimmed beard and low Caesar cut only add to his allure.
“Please,” he says again while extending his hand.
Pushing my pride aside, I accept his hand.
As he pulls me up, I still struggle. These damn shoes.
I immediately regret my mantra, the higher the heel, the closer to God, because these six inches are a beast right now.
However, he notices my struggle. While holding my hand, he uses his other arm to reach toward my waist. He’s being very cautious; his eyes beg for permission.
When I nod, he grips my waist and hefts me up.
“Thanks,” I utter as soon as I’m upright.
“Again, I am so sorry. This caddy…I wasn’t paying attention… Are you really okay?” he rambles. I’m only catching a few words though because I’m frozen, spellbound by his eyes. “Are you hurt?” he asks.
Snapping out of my trance, I mumble, “No. I’m fi—”
“Jamila!” Corey’s voice cuts me off. He’s rushing to me. When he reaches me, he steps right between my gorgeous assaulter-slash-rescuer and me. “I’ve been calling your cell.”
“Is this your phone?” the beautiful man asks.
His hand is out and my phone is in it. However, before I can respond, Corey does.
In a sharp and rude ass tone, he says, “Yeah. Thanks.” He grabs the phone and dismissively turns his back to the man, obstructing my view.
“Let’s go inside.” Corey’s hand touches my lower back and he gently coaxes me to move.
When I try to discreetly look for the man, he’s gone and so is his cart.
A small wave of disappointment blankets me but I snap out of it when Corey asks, “Did you check in?”
After pulling my focus back to Corey, I shake my head and simply reply, “No.”
“Where’s the restroom?”
“Right over there.” He points to my left. “I’ll check you in.”
When he walks to the check-in table, I head to the restroom.
I can’t go in there looking flustered in front of Corey’s classmates and I definitely don’t want the man to see me like this either.
There’s a small line for the four stalls but I only need the mirrors and sink.
So after politely walking around the three women in line, I step to the first set of sinks.
As I finger comb the few strands of out-of-place hairs, I examined my flushed face. I honestly don’t know if my rosy cheeks are from the fall or him. Either way, I have to fix my face. Using the sponge from my pressed powder compact, I swipe across my face.
Get it together, Jamila. I think as I inhale and exhale.
Once satisfied, I place my compact back inside of my clutch then exit the restroom. When I do, Corey is in the hall, waiting for me. There’s a piece of paper or something in his hand. He steps to me as I approach.
“You need to wear this,” he says as he hands me the small paper.
It’s a name tag with my first name only.
My eyes roam his shirt for one but there isn’t one.
He reads my mind. “Actual classmates aren’t wearing one.
Part of the mixer is a bingo game of who can recognize the most classmates.
To make it easier for us, all plus ones are wearing tags. ”
After peeling the back of the tag off, I press the sticker on my left side. “Is it straight?” I ask him.
“It’s fine. So what happened with you and him?”
“I stumbled and fell and he helped me up.”
“I told you those shoes might be too much. It’s snowing.”
“We are inside. There’s no snow in here. But if we go outside in the snow, I have boots,” I snap because shoes are the first thing on his mind, not my wellbeing.
“Let’s go.”
He reaches his arm out and latches it with mine. When he does, I utter, “And I’m fine, not hurt at all, just in case you were wondering.”
“If you were hurt, I would have said something. You look fine; that’s the only reason I didn’t ask.” We enter the ballroom and he nods to the right. “Our table is over here.”
As we trek to the table, I scan the room. There are huge pictures on the wall, displaying old senior pictures, class photos, and candids. I even spot Corey on several of them. These pictures are ten years old and his face hasn’t changed much at all.
“You must have been the shit in high school. You’re in so many of these pics,” I comment.
“It was a small class,” he says modestly but based on the photographs, the class wasn’t that small. As soon as we approach the table, he pulls my seat out and I sit. He doesn’t join me though. Instead, he leans in and asks, “I’m going to the bar. Do you want your Melon Ball?”
“No, I need to eat before I drink something that heavy,” I admit. “Maybe a glass of wine. White, if they have it.”
Because the itinerary stated food would be served at this mixer, we didn’t eat dinner.
I actually haven’t eaten since lunch. He always rants and raves about a grilled peanut butter and jelly sandwich from a spot here.
So, when we landed and got the rental, he drove straight to it.
While he enjoyed his grilled PB&J, I ate a delicious turkey Rueben.
That was five hours ago though and I need food before I tackle any liquor.
“The servers are walking around with food. They’ve been going from table to table,” he says before standing.