Chapter 32
Miriam
Afish fry with throwbacks is always a good time.
Marcela’s fundraiser for the Jefferson District isn’t the convention-center soirée I’d imagined, with overpriced parking and bland food. It’s the place to be on a Friday night in your Sunday best.
Worn pine softened from decades of neighborhood gatherings and gospel brunches creaks under two-steps to Tony!
Toni! Toné!’s “Let’s Get Down.” Elders hold court at spades tables around the hem of the dance floor.
The crackle of fish searing in the kitchen floats through the double doors, separating greens, cornbread, and catfish recipes passed down generations.
Tonight reminds me of nights in Panama City during the rainy season, when we’d open the windows and doors to listen to the percussion of water droplets and “Patria.”
Rubén Blades isn’t in rotation, but the heart of the community is here, which reminds me of home.
I beat my chest and swallow a cough when the sting of bourbon incinerates my insides. Samford, the gray-haired bartender with bifocals, put more than a “splash” in the lemonade cocktail he swore would change my life. More like send me into the afterlife with a hangover.
I’m barely hanging on, with only prayer and a plate of fish keeping me steady on the barstool.
This is my first drink, by the way.
I did my part tonight. I came. I saw. I bid on a spa treatment with mud and seaweed wraps.
My social battery is travel-sized at best, which meant two laps around the cozy hangout to snatch more catfish from the buffet before I parked myself in the nearest corner.
Me being here in a knee-length black dress I keep in the back of my closet is a miracle. So are the heels strapped to my feet, which I haven’t tripped in yet. Marcela, by all accounts, is a local celebrity. With that comes an interest in me by association.
The hugs.
The handshakes.
The business cards.
Why must people insist on invading your personal space to tell you about themselves? Most are people my age who are more focused on candid selfies and feigning importance. No meaningful conversation whatsoever—not that I need it. I’m good with being ignored, but that wasn’t an option tonight.
Does it look like I care how quickly you became a project manager in two years? Or that you were photographed with the mayor last week?
The third person who introduced himself with his LinkedIn profile got the hint and left me alone with my catfish.
I’m one “Can you introduce me?” away from sneaking out the back.
Marcela already caught me and redirected my butt in wobbly heels right back to the bar, where I’ve been munching on the best golden-crusted marine life in the city.
For all of the interviews and line dancing she’s done, my sister’s hair—a sharp bob I didn’t snatch off—remains in place.
So does her glossy smile that matches the amethyst jumpsuit sparkling against her skin.
Her makeup is flawless, and her breasts are sitting high and pretty, tempting men, women, and a few acne-faced teens.
She contained her cleavage, but there’s a lot of circumference peeking out of the top. It’s hard not to notice.
Poor Trevor was sweating like the Jordan Peele meme. He managed to keep his tongue in his mouth but hit his breaking point watching Marcela electric slide. There was a shot, a swipe right on an app, and he was off for the rest of the night.
“Not bidding?” I freeze at the familiar voice.
My brows knit as I slowly turn to face the last person I expected to be here.
“Kieran. Hi.”
“Didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner.”
“It’s my third plate,” I admit with zero shame.
His chuckle rattles his Adam’s apple. “You’re really fucking up that catfish.”
“Slipped a twenty to one of the grandmas in the back for a couple of to-go plates. I’m not cooking this weekend, and Ms. Ethel promised me extra cornbread.”
My finger breaches my lips to savor the final notes of the love letter to the Jefferson District the cooks wrote with seasoned batter and oil. Kieran’s eyes lock on the movement. His nostrils flare, and his jaw tightens.
“Are you okay? There’s still plenty in the back. I swear I didn’t eat it all.”
His laughter is faint. He runs a thumb across his lower lip. “My appetite isn’t for fish. Did you bid on anyone? Me, maybe?”
“Oh God, no,” I snort. “I mean—that’s not what I meant.”
Do you see how awful talking is? One minute, I’m eating in peace. The next, I’m disrespecting a man who was almost my boss.
With a flushed face and regret that I didn’t stay in the house, I try again. “What I meant to say is, I’m not bidding on anyone. I’ve never been on a date, and I don’t want my first to be one I paid for.”
Unless Kierra dragged me somewhere, I kept to myself. Dating required time I refused to spend and an interest in young adults who were still very much big kids with facial hair.
The two times I had sex never included a happy meal, much less food outside of what I had in my dorm room. I was horny. Josh Alby’s penis was available. We consented. He finished in under three minutes each time. The end.
Nothing memorable. Not like—
Access denied.
What happened in Vegas will stay in Vegas.
Kieran’s gaze roves over my nearly makeup-free face, down the silhouette of my scoop neck dress that screams more Who died? and less Slide me your digits. His eyes stall at the outline of my breasts and dip to my thighs stretching polyester above my knees.
I tuck a loose curl behind my ear and jolt when he leans forward. One of his hands is on the black granite. The other is on the back of my barstool, and he uses it to turn me to him. The scent of his cologne, a woodsy aroma mixed with citrus, toys with my nose.
Was he always this forward?
Shadows dance across the sharp lines of his cheekbones and down to his trimmed beard. His lean figure fills out the all-black suit pulled over his shoulders.
“You really do look like Ghost from Power,” I giggle into my water glass. Omari Hardwick is alright with me.
“I get that a lot,” he says in a low tone. His stare smacks the breath from my lungs as he closes the distance between us. “I’d like the honor of taking you on your first date. I’ll make a bid.”
I frown. “On yourself?”
“I consider it an investment.”
“In?”
He studies me. “Possibilities. I’ve been searching for a way to approach you without pulling your number from your résumé.”
“Because that would be weird.” I went to Maple King about a job, not for a man.
Kieran’s fade catches in the light when he nods. “I took a chance you’d be here tonight.”
“And if I didn’t come?”
He shrugs. “I’d find another way. We’re problem solvers by nature, Miriam. I was disappointed to hear we won’t be colleagues. But perhaps we can still collaborate in a professional sense outside of the office.”
“I already have a job,” I say.
“I heard.” He lets out a chuckle at my brows threading. “Buffalo is the second-largest city in the state, but it’s small in many ways. News about you travels fast. Do you think teaching STEM after school will satisfy you? Our offer still stands.”
“Teaching kids is only part of it. When I’m done, they will have built equipment to help sustain urban farming efforts across the city.
These kids are future engineers who look like us, and they will go farther than we ever have.
It’s more than just after-school teaching. This is a generational investment.”
The pieces of my life clicked together when I stepped into the Jefferson Moselle Community Center on Monday. I was a child who naturally gravitated toward science and technology. My parents recognized the spark and invested in me, the same way I’m investing in these children four days a week.
They’re eager to learn, and they deserve more than the scraps the city gives them in funding every year.
“You sound happy.”
For the first time tonight, I smile and actually mean it. “I am.”
He considers me. “I would like to support you. Our lab is open if you ever need it.”
“I might take you up on that.”
“Now, about that date.”
Kieran isn’t unattractive. By conventional standards, he’s handsome, with good teeth and a top-paying job at a prestigious engineering firm. I don’t feel a zing with him, but maybe that’s okay. It’s dinner, not a hand in marriage.
I reach for my cocktail but think twice. “A dinner would be nice.”
He chokes back a laugh. “All I get is one?”
“Do you think you’re entitled to more?” I shake my head and sip my drink before covering the unsexiest cough.
The bartender refills my water with an apologetic smile.
“Thank you, Samford,” I say.
“What are you looking for?” Kieran asks.
“A signature drink, apparently.” I push away the cocktail.
Thick lips split into a grin. “You’re funny. Beautiful too.” He nudges my knee. “Don’t get shy. What are you looking for?”
“Nothing,” I say, matter-of-fact, and straighten my glasses. “I wanted degrees, not a life partner by a certain age. Love will find me when I’m ready.”
He nods. “Any traits you like?”
“Someone who makes me laugh and accepts my quirks without trying to change me.” I smile to myself. “Someone kind, considerate, and honest. Loyal. Someone I’m enough for, who won’t dim my sparkle to shine on their own.”
Despite my best effort, Antonio skates back into my mind.
The hours we spent together in the hospital.
The care we held for each other throughout a long-distance friendship.
Our home improvement trip that ended in a paint war.
Video games.
Vegas.
He makes me feel comfortable to try new things. To explore more. To be me.
Antonio checks many boxes, but he isn’t wired for love in a romantic way. Going cold turkey from each other is the safest solution. Minimal contact to ease back into random texts and late-night calls will fight off any physical attraction.
“I fly out for a client meeting in the morning, but I want to see you when I get back.”
I smirk. “I’ll have to check my calendar, but I should be free. Good luck with the bidding.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Don’t need it. I put down two grand in your name.”
The water I gulp goes down the wrong pipe. Who in their right mind drops thousands for a chance at a date?
“Too much,” I push through a cough.
“It’s a start. Your sister is doing good work. As for us, I look forward to exploring more ways to collaborate.”
Kieran walks over to the bidding table in the corner. He grins at something Marcela says when she passes by and winks at me before leaving.
Two thousand dollars—in this economy!
Marcela rests her forearm on the bar and motions for water. “Look at my little grown sis, pulling dates from the bar. And he bid thousands on himself? That man in sprung.”
“Hardly.”
“Thousands.” She emphasizes the s.
“It’s for a good cause, and the fish is good,” I counter.
“Thousands.” Her voice rises an octave, drawing my frown. “Fine,” she sighs. “I’ll leave it alone.”
“Thank you. I don’t want to make a big deal about Kieran’s—” I roll my eyes and laugh at her palm propping up her chin. “Change the subject, please.”
“I’ll let you off this time. Your bestie brought in a nice amount. Five thousand, to be exact.”
“What?” My stomach plummets.
“Antonio was a last-minute entry. We’ve had a player from the Steel for the past two years. Lisa went back and forth before she got outbid and stormed out. Serves her crooked-ass wig right.”
“Who was the lucky winner?”
Marcela puckers her lips toward a woman with a crowd gathered around her. She’s easily over six feet tall, in black-strap stilettos that show off even, painted toes—professionally done and not a rushed hack job while hopping to the door in open-toed shoes that are too tight.
She’s slimmer than me, with perky breasts on display in a V-neck evening gown with silver sequins. Crystals, maybe, judging by the diamonds dripping from her ears.
“That’s Kenya,” my sister supplies. “Former cheerleader for Buffalo who does some type of TV work. I don’t remember what she said. She’s in town as an ambassador for the children’s hospital.”
Charitable and looks like Rihanna.
“She mentioned she and Antonio are friends. Sounded like they were close a few years ago, before she moved away.” Marcela tilts her head. “Didn’t he tell you about tonight?”
“No,” I mutter. He’s been quiet all day, with a one-word response here and an “I’m good” there.
It shouldn’t surprise me that his “friend” is here, dropping thousands for a date and possibly recording an R&B album later. She’s gorgeous.
Out-of-your-league, I-laser-off-every-ounce-of-body-hair beautiful. Of course they would be familiar.
A night with Knight.
“I’m going to go.”
Marcela frowns. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Nope. Just tired.” I offer a quick smile and steal a final glance at Kenya. Even her teeth are pretty. “The farm tours are this weekend, so I better pack. Congrats on a successful fundraiser.”
I need a distraction, far away from the feelings I can’t shake.