Chapter 38
Bob Marley is the vibe tonight.
I don’t usually listen to his music—he’s never the first artist I gravitate towards, but every time I play him, I’m reminded why I should listen to him more often. The chill beats center me and have me vibing out in the middle of my living room floor as I re-organize my records for the fifth time today. It’s possible I’m under the influence of the substance known for munchies and half-mast eyes, dazed grins, and generally feeling on cloud nine, but regardless, I’m having a good day.
Surprisingly, most of my days lately have been that—good. Earlier today, I went shopping with Naomi, which isn’t a common occurrence I’d normally involve myself in, but I figured if she meant something to Tanner, it wouldn’t hurt to get to know her on a different, more personal level. Turns out, she’s a lot sweeter than I’d anticipated and reassured me numerous times throughout the day that she and Tanner have always been just friends, nothing more, nor would she ever want anything else from him. She briefly mentioned her dislike of his ex, and I only nodded my head in agreement, not wanting to delve too much into my first interaction with her without talking to Tanner first.
Naomi, though, she’s pretty cool. Born and raised in Boston, although her parents identify with Māori culture and migrated here from New Zealand before she was born. She disclosed to me that she’s still trying to learn as much about the culture on her own because her relationship with her family is strained. She clarified that it was only because they live in California now, wanting to enjoy their retirements without the cold winters Boston offered. But from what I gathered, her culture focuses heavily on the balance of life within friendships and relationships. I liked that modality and also told her I’d be more curious to learn about it, too. In general, I try to be mindful when it comes to asking other people of color about their culture before I gather information myself, mainly because the exhaustion of having to constantly explain who we are and where we originated from to others can be exhausting. I’ve had to do it my entire life because “yeah, you’re black, but where are you from?“ was a constant question asked. We don’t owe the explanation to anybody, so I figured if I wanted to ask Naomi specific questions about her culture, I might as well do my research first, and I fully intend to.
We talked briefly about my upbringing, being raised with a white mom and black dad, and there was a sense of solitude in understanding the struggle with that. It felt nice having another person to relate to. Not that Sam, Gia, or even Tanner don’t try understanding, but there’s something different when somebody just…gets it.
I can’t remember the last time I made a friend outside of the ones I currently have that I’m looking forward to knowing. I tend to be more on the reserved side of relationships because I don’t like getting close to people without fully being aware of their intentions, which is probably why it took so long for me to get close to Tanner. Although I could detect from early into our friendship and now somewhat relationship, if you want to call it that, he was a good guy with good intentions, it’s hard to fully know unless you’re spending that time with them. And now that I have spent almost every moment with Tanner over the past few months, I know he’s more than just a good guy. He’s everything I’ve wanted in somebody—kind, devoted, patient, understanding, even when he doesn’t fully get it. I can lay myself outright to him and know he wouldn’t shy away, and not many people can confidently do that.
I’m putting on a different record—Anderson .Paak’s Malibu when a knock rapts against my door. It’s firm but not urgent, so I can only assume who it is as I push off my knees and wipe my hands down my leggings. Making my way to the door, I peak in the peephole and find sandy blonde hair in the front of it, head looking down as both arms outstretch on either side of the frame like he’s holding himself up. I furrow my brows, step away to unlock the door, and push it open.
Tanner lifts his head, emerald eyes stormy with contemplation as the muscle feathers in his jaw. “Are you my girlfriend?” he says by way of greeting. I rear my head in surprise, brows rising to my hairline at the same time my mouth parts. I blink, trying to wrap my head around the question.
“What?”
“Are you my girlfriend?” he asks again, dropping his hands from the doorframe to take a step back. He dips his head as if he’s waiting for an answer, and I slide my gaze from him to the living room, where I was just contemplating the good things I like about him before drawing my attention back to him. His gaze doesn’t stray from mine, and it doesn’t take much to tell that something happened today that’s made him upset. I can tell because his nostrils flare slightly as he takes deep breaths in and out, his hands are curled against his sides, and his normally kempt hair is messy as if he had spent the past hour running his fingers through it. I realize in this moment, he isn’t going to leave without an answer.
My gaze narrows, head tilted curiously as I put a hand on my hip. “Do you want to come in and try that again?”
It takes him another moment of watching me before he dips his chin. “Sure. Yeah, I’ll come in.”
I hum, stepping aside to push the door open further for him to enter, gesturing with my hand to walk in. He steps out of his shoes before fully walking inside, his hands shoved deep in his pockets as he takes in the space around us, more fixated on the large window with the Boston skyline as the view.
“Do you want some tea or something?” I offer, slowly walking through the space into my kitchen, flicking on the light. I had low lights on in the living room to set the mood and realize how dark it truly looks with him standing in the middle of my apartment. He’s a shadow, the dimness of the lights only casting against the curve of his jaw and the slope of his nose. Although he seems to be in a shit mood, I take my time observing him from afar, biting the inside of my cheek as I slide my gaze back to the teapot I’m going to fill up.
“Nah,” he says after a beat. “I’m good.”
I hum, filling the pot with water anyway before setting it back on the stove and turning the knob on. I stare at the pot for a moment longer before spinning on my heel and making my way over to him. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”
When I approach him, he pulls his gaze from the window, and I’m half tempted to put my hand on his arm and do something so he knows I’m here with him. He watches me carefully, roaming my face like he’s trying to take me in but doesn’t know how to feel about what he sees. The sight makes my stomach flip, but I don’t break away from him.
“What are we, Daise?” he asks softly, a flicker of something casting in his eyes I haven’t seen before. I’m honestly confused why he’s asking because, up until this point, I’d been under the impression that we were two people trying to figure this out. Did I interpret that wrong?
“We are us, Tan,” I say with the same tone.
“Yeah,” he nods once, something in between a scoff and a sigh falling from his lips. “But what are we?”
My brows furrow as I watch him warily. “What…do you mean?”
“Like, are we a couple?”
“Why are you asking me this?” I ask, my defenses slowly kicking in, a hot spark racing through my spine. I’m trying to act calm and rational because I don’t know where any of these questions are coming from. He never vocalized any discontent with us, so it’s a bit jarring and unexpected. I’m willing and open to talking with him about whatever happened that’s making him get into his head, but I don’t know if he’s going to be receptive to what I have to say. “Did something happen?”
He sighs, dropping his shoulders as he runs his hand over his mouth, resting the other on his hip like he’s already over this conversation. His face falls, all exhaustion evident that I want to take away so badly. “Daisy, I just need to know,” he says seriously. “I want to know.”
“Yeah,” I say, crossing my hands over my chest. “And I’ll tell you once you explain to me why you’re acting pissy about it?”
To be fair, maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say in the moment. I recognize that now.
Tanner runs his hands through his hair and sighs again before sauntering over to the couch. He plops down without thinking, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he runs his fingers through his hair.
“I had a conversation with my parents today,” he admits, some of the earlier agitation leaving his tone as he finally looks at me. His bottom lip juts out to roll into his mouth, his teeth sinking into the plump lip momentarily. I can’t help but track the movement, wondering if it’d be appropriate to sit on his lap and trace that lip with my tongue—
“And I think I just got in my head over what this is between us,” he continues, gesturing.
I blink, thankful he can’t hear my internal thoughts. “I’m guessing the invitation for Thanksgiving didn’t turn out as you planned,” I muse, trying to lighten a serious situation. I don’t want to get into a fight with him when I’ve already had such a good day, but if we need to talk about whatever happened, I’ll be that anchor for him.
“Nah, that went fine,” he waves it away. “You’re obviously more than welcome.” Obviously, as if I would’ve known they would’ve said that.
“But it’s my mom,” he continues. “She’s concerned.”
“Oh,” I say carefully, moving from my place to sit on the couch arm. “About what?”
“She’s worried that I may be trying to save you or that I’m just getting myself into another Yasmin situation—where I put all of myself into it, and it’s not reciprocated.”
Although the conversation is about me, it isn’t. It’s about a mother’s concern for her oldest son, who is moving into a serious relationship with somebody after a failed engagement. I can understand it as much as I do, but even yet, I still can’t fully understand. So, I try calming the urge to defend myself and listen instead.
Tanner doesn’t necessarily seem happy with the conversation, either, which is why I’m assuming he’s here. He wants my reassurance and validation that what we are is enough and that there’s an end goal. Of course, there is, but I can’t tell him when. I’ve never been one to force things to happen at a quicker pace than what they are, nor would I want to in the first place. I don’t want to give him false expectations and tell him I’m ready at a certain time when it might take either longer or shorter. I know that’s not entirely fair to him, but I want to be honest with him, too.
“Do you think that’s what’s happening here?” I ask carefully, waiting for him to turn his focus on me rather than the hands he has folded in front of him. “That I’m not putting everything into this?” My tone comes out sharper than intended, and he sighs again, this time dejected. Honestly, the sighing is going to piss me off, but again, it isn’t about me. It’s not.
“No, baby, I don’t think that,” he says, leaning back on the couch in his spot—the one he always goes to when he’s here and reaches for me.
“Come here,” he says gently, soothing almost as I shake my head. “I don’t want to.”
He groans, dropping his head back. “Don’t start this, Daise.”
I tilt my head curiously. “Start what?”
“Closing off on me. I’m just telling you what happened.”
“I know, but your family obviously thinks I’m trying to take advantage of you—“
“What?” he jerks forward, a sharpness in his eyes at the mention of his family. “No, they don’t. They’re concerned, Daise. I don’t blame them.”
I raise my eyebrows, pulling my head back. I should probably check on the tea, but the pot hasn’t whistled, and I’m too focused on the thin line he made his lips into. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shakes his head, clearly agitated but not knowing at who, or what. “Nothing,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Well, you did, so tell me.”
He blows out a breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Baby, I don’t want to fight with you.”
I hate that my stomach flips at the nickname, especially because it’s not fitting for the moment. I shove the thought away for now. “I don’t want to fight either,” I say carefully as I walk to him, the urge to be next to him making my legs move on their own accord. I sit on the couch and angle my body towards him. “But we agreed to communicate with each other, and you aren’t. I want you to tell me what you meant.”
He drops his hand from his face and begins working his jaw in irritation, which is starting to piss me off. He can’t expect me not to get worked up if he’s going to say cryptic shit and not elaborate on it, and then get upset that I call him out on communicating, which is what he wanted to do in the first place.
His lips purse, and he’s quiet for a moment, looking down at the hands folded back in front of him, dangling in between his legs. He’s still leaning forward on his elbows, and it bothers me he isn’t looking at me as much as he normally does. “I don’t know,” he says, finally looking up at me as if he could hear my internal thoughts. “What are we? We’ve been doing this for a few months now, and it would be nice to know that you are fully mine.”
“But why do we need to say that?” I challenge. “What’s the rush?”
“There isn’t a rush,” he says, shaking his head and dropping it towards his chest. “They got into my head, is all.”
I stand up from my spot on the couch and head over to the kitchen because I need to do something other than sit calmly. My body is a ball of anxiety, unable to sit patiently while he works his thoughts out through his head. “I get that, but taking that out on me is not fair.”
“I’m not trying to,” he says, standing from his spot and sauntering into the kitchen. He leans against the island with his hip as he folds his arms over his chest, watching me fuss around with the tea. “But I do want to know if there’s a possibility that we could be more. Like with titles.”
A beat. “Are titles necessary?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” I turn from the stove, trying to keep my body as relaxed as possible, although I want to grip something. “Why do they matter so much?”
There’s a long silence that lingers in the air between us, and it’s not like the usual calm. It’s thick with a tension I don’t like—like two people are stuck at a crossroads between taking the leap for a happily ever after or falling to their deaths. It feels like hours when he finally speaks up when it’s probably only been a minute or two.
“They don’t matter, I guess,” he says. “Forget I said anything.”
I open my mouth to argue back because I want to hear what he has to say. I want him to take out whatever frustration he has on me, even if I don’t deserve to be on the receiving end. This feels like one of those situations bound to end badly, and if I lose Tanner because his parents got into his head…
I can’t think about it without my throat constricting.
“It was a mistake, coming over,” he says abruptly, walking through the kitchen until he hits the entryway. He slides on his shoes. “I gotta get going anyway, told Declan I’d game with him tonight at his place.”
“Tanner,” I say, following after him, a surge of anxiety rippling through me as he walks away. “I want to talk about this.”
He bends down to fix the heel of his shoes before standing upright. What I want from you, Daisy is to figure out if you can do the titles.“ I open my mouth, but he continues on.
“Yeah, it may be a stupid title, and I get that,” he says, gaze finding and locking onto mine. “But in my eyes, I already know what you are. It’s only a matter of whether I can be yours, too.”
He doesn’t give me the decency of a response, opening the door and leaving as quickly as he came. My hands tremble with anticipation or adrenaline. I can’t be sure, but I stare at the door in hopes he walks back in and says it was all a joke, that he was kidding and wanted to see if I’d fold. It’d be a shitty joke, but at least I’d be able to excuse the pain aching in my chest because he came back. But my chest continues aching, and I realize that he isn’t coming back.