Chapter 4
“Whuddup, C?” Dice greets me with a handshake we created back in the day—palm smack, fist bump, and a dash of bro sauce. “Mmm.” He catches the scent wafting from the paper bag and flashes a mega-watt smile. “Fried fish ‘n chips. I could kiss you.”
“No thanks. Those lips have too much mileage.”
“Don’t hate the playa.” He laughs and takes the bag. I shed my coat and boots and then follow him into the kitchen.
I met Dyson Jones in the seventh grade. My mom moved us to Bayside for a fresh start.
On the first day of school, when the English teacher asked the class to name a great character in American literature, Dice shouted out, “Eric Brooks! Blade is the baddest vampire hunter of all time!” I knew we’d be friends.
He was this tall, lanky dude then and didn’t take anything seriously—except Marvel comic books. We bonded over our mutual obsession and the Blade films. As Black kids, we found it dope to see someone like us playing a badass hero.
We’d hang out in my room for hours, watching action movies, eating Skittles, trading comics, and debating which superpower was cooler.
I thought mimicking the powers of others offered the best fighting advantage, while Dice wanted X-ray vision to see Jessica Clarke’s titties, which had suddenly appeared over the summer.
Dyson did for me what months of grief counseling couldn’t.
He made me laugh and feel more than just pain and anger.
I discovered that his goofball persona hid the hurts from a father he never knew and a mother who wasn’t cut out to be one.
Dice was always at our house and became like a brother to me.
When Mom passed, he took it almost as hard as I did.
I wash my hands at the kitchen sink and pull open his fridge. An eye-watering smell hits me in the face. “What the fuck?” I track the stench to a container of basil chicken. Keeping late hours as a bartender and weekend DJ, he exists mainly on take-out. “How long has this been in here?”
“A few days.” He shrugs.
“More like a few weeks.”
“The microwave kills bacteria.”
“You failed science for a reason.” I throw the container away to his protests.
“That shit cost fifteen dollars.”
“That shit could kill you.”
“Not everybody can be like your Martha Stewart ass,” he says of my cooking ability.
Laughing, I grab two bottles of beer from the six-pack. It’s the only thing in the fridge besides eggs, questionable-looking cheese, and a half loaf of bread. “You, my brother, give bachelors a bad name.”
“That’s not what the honeys say,” he boasts, scratching his bearded chin. “Luscious Lola had no complaints. When I tell you she’s a brick house, C, you don’t even know. I think I’m in love.”
You can always count on some things in life: the sun rising and setting each day, taxes, and Dice falling in love.
“Where’d you meet this one?”
“At Docks last night.” He sets the condiments and the brown paper-wrapped fish on the table. “She was there dancing her fine ass off, and I was spinning the vinyl. A match made in heaven.”
Shaking my head, I join him with the beers and a wad of napkins.
Tall, handsome, and ripped, Dice is one of those big-hearted players. He’s fast and generous with his affection, but it tends to be short-lived.
“She had a friend with her who was fire too. I could hook you up.”
“Naw, I’m good.” I dip the crispy battered fish into the container of tartar sauce and take a bite. “I already got my sights on someone.”
“Ahhh, shiiit!” Dice exclaims, clacking his fingers in the air. “Do tell, bruh.”
“Lexie Monroe. She’s here from Chicago and renting my cottage for the next six weeks.”
“She must be a dime and a half to get you out of your slump.”
“I’m not in a slump. Just haven’t met anyone who I vibed with in a while.”
“And you vibing with this Lexie?” he asks, dousing his fries in salt and malt vinegar.
“Could be. I’m definitely feeling her. We chatted at the café yesterday, and I bumped into her today while I was running with Bitsy. Photography’s her hobby, and she took some shots of us.”
“And from that, you already gone?”
It sure as hell seems that way. I haven’t been able to get the intriguing Lexie out of my head.
Maybe it’s her reserve that’s caught my attention—her caution stirring the innate hunter in me to chase and conquer.
Part of that drive is a base, primal urge.
But the other part, well . . . “There’s something there, and I need to find out what it is. ”
“So, ask her out,” Dice says simply.
“I did, and she shut me down.”
His mouth tips in a bemused grin. “You, Mr. Charm himself, struck out?”
“It happens.” I take another bite of fish.
“Not often. What reason did she give?”
“She says she’s on a solo retreat, which sounds like she’s here to get away from something.”
“Or someone.”
“Could be.” My jaw muscle tics. “But I asked, and she said there was no one. I think she’s just cautious.”
“So why bother? It’s not like it can go anywhere when she lives in Chicago.”
“It’s only a two-hour drive.” I tip the bottle of beer to my lips.
“It’s also a place that holds shitty memories for you.”
He’s right about that. Twenty years later, the anger is still a shadowy specter lurking at the edges of my mind.
Most days, it remains blurred and out of sight.
But there are times when my defenses are down or a triggering event occurs, causing the thirst for vengeance to pounce.
I shake my head, dismissing his comment.
“I’m not going to let that get in the way of tryna get to know her. ”
“Just be careful about falling too fast,” he warns, and I give him a side eye for his hypocrisy.
“Didn’t you just claim to be in love after one night?”
He scoffs. “That word doesn’t hold the same meaning for me as it does for you. I’m not serious. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Appreciate it. But I’m a big boy.”
“With a big heart. So, all I’m saying is, just ’cause you think this woman might be running from something doesn’t mean you have to be the one to save her.”
“I don’t get the impression Lexie needs saving,” I try to explain, to reassure him and myself. “From what I can tell, she’s cautious but not fragile. She’s not some bird with a broken wing.”
“You saved one of those too.”
“It was a duck.”
“Same diff.”
“I get your point, Dice, and I can’t give it to you in logical terms. The truth is, I don’t know Lexie or anything about her. Or why, after just a couple of brief encounters, I feel such a strong pull. It’s blowing my mind. I have to find out if it’s real.”
“All right, bro,” he relents, puffing air into his cheeks. “So how you gonna find out?”
“I could ask her out again. Be upfront. Tell her how I’m feeling about our connection and—”
“Man,” he cuts me off and stuffs his mouth, talking while he chews. “You don’t catch a scared squirrel by running at it, waving your hands. You gotta be subtle; gently lure her over with a few seeds.”
“She’s a woman,” I say wryly, “not a squirrel.”
“The same principle applies. So, listen up. You mentioned she’s a photographer, right?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Sooo.” He looks at me like I should be cluing in already. “She’s new to town. You could offer to show her some great spots to take pictures. Of course, you do it in the evening, all romantic-like. That’s bound to soften her up.”
“I don’t want to start off by deceiving her.”
“What deception? She likes photography, and you like her.”
“You can rationalize anything.”
“It’s a skill, my brother.” Dice grins and lifts his beer in a mock toast.
Leaning back, tipping the bottle to my mouth, I mull over his twisted logic and admit that the idea isn’t bad.
It’s two days before I see Lexie again. She walks into the café during the lull before the lunch crowd.
I watch her approach the counter, wearing a cream puffer jacket, a raspberry scarf wrapped around her neck, and tight jeans tucked into knee-high boots.
She’s holding a manilla envelope in her hand.
I feel a rush of adrenaline, like the nervous energy I get before a live performance.
Sophia shoots me a sly smile, then turns to greet Lexie. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“Same here. Sophia, right?”
“That’s me,” my sister nods.
“I’m Lexie.”
“I know. My brother might have mentioned you a few dozen times.”
Lexie’s dark lashes blink in surprise behind her glasses.
It’s only a slight exaggeration, but I don’t mind. “I was telling Soph about you taking pictures of Bitsy and me the other day.”
“That’s why I stopped by.” She hands me the envelope. “I hope you like them.”
Curious, I lift the flap and draw out the photos, looking through them with Sophia hanging over my shoulder. They offer a glimpse of the woman behind the camera: observant, detailed, and with an eye for artistry, humor, and emotion.
In one, Lexie captured us in a playful moment, with me freeze-framed in laughter while Bitsy appeared to grin and preen for the camera.
In another, we’re both standing on the shore, looking out at the lake.
The snow seems to shimmer like a wonderland of crusted diamonds as the sun paints us golden, a testament to Lexie’s gifted talent.
“These are incredible.”
“They really are,” Sophia adds as reinforcement.
“That’s very nice of you to say.” Her cheeks turn pink. “Chaz and Bitsy were excellent subjects.”
“Thanks.” I smile at her, trying to contain my excitement that she’s here. “I’ll be sure to share them with the Vargases. Can I make you a latte?” I ask, attempting to stall her for as long as possible.
“Yes, please.” She glances at the board. “What do you suggest?”
“I can whip up something that’s not on the menu. If you trust me.”
“With coffee, of course,” she says.
She still has her guard up. I figured as much. “Grab a seat, and I’ll bring it out.”
She retrieves cash from her pocket, and I shake my head.
“My treat.”
“I don’t mind, Chaz.”
“But I do. Consider it a token of gratitude for the photos.”