Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
It’s windy on the balcony. I light up a cigarette and lean against the rusty railing.
Behind me, the door squeaks open and clatters shut.
I smell Noémie’s citrusy perfume before I see her. “You okay?” she asks.
People only ever ask that question when it’s obvious that someone’s not okay. It’s such a dumb question, but my hearts skitters all the same. It’s nice to know that Noémie cares—or is pretending to care.
I don’t respond. Mainly because I’m not sure what to say.
I take a drag from my cigarette and stare down at the parking lot. The view is bleak—kind of like my life.
“You know you can talk to me,” Noémie says, nudging her elbow into my side.
Can I really? Noémie doesn’t know me, and I barely know her. She said we are friends, but we aren’t actually. Still, in the span of a few days, we’ve gone from not talking to each other to conversing about loved ones long departed. I never talk about my dad. Never brought him up to Sarah or Wayne, even when probed. But I opened up to Noémie about him. Maybe that means something?
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say.
“I’m not buying that, but if you don’t want to talk about it, I get it.” Noémie sighs. “Lord knows there’s a lot I refuse to talk about.” She holds out her hand, gesturing for the cigarette.
I pass it over.
Noémie takes a long pull. The end smolders red. She blows out a breath of smoke and hands it back. Her lip gloss left a mark on the filter.
Possibly, I’m a sicko, because I feel a bit giddy when I suck on the end that was just in her mouth.
“I wasn’t expecting to see Samira,” I confess.
“The woman with your sister?”
“Yeah.”
Noémie’s brows draw together. “You guys have history?”
“You can say that,” I say, drumming my fingers on the balcony railing. “She’s that person for me, you know? The person I can’t shake—like a piece of me will always belong to her.” I’m saying way too much, more than I usually would, but it’s too late to take back my words.
Noémie’s nods like she understands.
A gust of wind whips her auburn hair about her face, and I catch myself almost reaching out to push the strands back out of her eyes.
“So you’re in love with her,” Noémie states, folding her arms across her chest.
I shake my head. “No, not anymore.” I stare back down at the parking lot. The streetlamps have come on. It gets dark so early now. I hate it. “It’s more like, when I look at her, I remember. And sometimes I wish things were different … that I was different.”
“I get that,” Noémie says, leaning her back against the railing. “My ex did a number on me—turned my life upside down. Looking back, I wish I could have done things differently too. But maybe things are supposed to happen the way they happen. Maybe we have to go through the tough shit to appreciate something good when it comes along.”
I’m not entirely following Noémie’s bit of sage wisdom, but I nod because I want her to believe that I get it. Also, I’m happy that we’ve moved away from talking about my drama and that we’re talking about her.
“Is this a recent ex?” I ask, stamping the cigarette out in an ashtray.
“Yes.”
“What’d he do?” I want to know what kind of dumbass fool would let a woman like Noémie slip through his fingers.
She nibbles her lower lip. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
I don’t press for more information. I want to, but I don’t. Instead, I shrug, feigning indifference.
If there’s anything I’ve learned about Noémie, it’s that I don’t know anything at all. She keeps her cards closer to her chest than I do. But I want to know everything about her. It’s such a stupid thing to want. I need to get over my crush.
“We should probably head back inside,” she says.
I nod.
When we step back inside, Uncle Weston walks into the apartment, followed by his two sons, Ezra and Samuel.
Ezra is the same age as me. He’s built like a basketball player—strong and tall. He’s handsome and always carries himself well. His cornrows are always tight, and his goatee is always neatly trimmed. As kids, we’d been inseparable, but in our teenage years we grew apart, which is kinda sad. There are times when I miss him and the bond we once shared.
Ezra hitched himself to a rough group of friends since high school. For years, he hasn’t been on a good path. He’s gone to jail more than a handful of times—all his charges were drug related. But, according to my mother, my cousin is finally trying to turn a new corner. I love that for him. I hope he succeeds.
Uncle Weston’s younger son, Samuel, is the exact opposite of his brother. He’s all bones, acne, and awkwardness. He dresses like a Pokémon trainer. Despite only being five years apart, Samuel looks so much younger—perhaps because he can’t grow a beard to save his life.
I move towards the group and sense Noémie following closely at my back.
Uncle Weston beams at me. “Wagwan!” he says, holding out a fist.
I commit to the greeting ritual, bumping his fist. “Nottin’ much. Am good, Uncle Weston.”
I turn towards my cousins and give them props as well.
Their gazes focus behind me—on Noémie. I can tell they’re very interested to know who she is and what she is to me. Though, Ezra’s black eyes glint with something that reads more like hunger than intrigue.
I tense.
Again, I’m regretting my decision to invite Noémie. The last thing I want to see is Ezra turning his charms on her. Noémie deserves better than what he can offer her.
Where women are concerned, Ezra’s track record for breaking hearts is a thousand times worse than my own. At least, I’ve always been honest and upfront with the women I sleep with. I’ve always made it clear as crystal that I don’t do relationships. I’ve never strung anyone along. But Ezra, at any given time, has at least three women he’s talking to. Women who think he’s serious about them.
Ezra grins. “Who’s your friend?”
“Noémie,” I say.
“And she’s with you?” Ezra asks, arching a brow.
I grit my teeth.
Besides Ezra’s seedy friends, another reason for our rift is the fact that he consistently denies my sexuality. He thinks that a lesbian is just a woman who hasn’t found the right man yet. When Samira and I were dating, that didn’t stop him from throwing game at her every chance he got. I still hate him for that.
I’m half tempted to tell him that Noémie is with me, but before I can even think to utter something, Amari pushes her way into the conversation, stating, “Nah, they’re just roommates.”
I drill my sister with a hard look. Amari grins like the devil she is.
Ezra stretches his hand out toward Noémie. “Nice to meet you, Noémie,” he says in a deep and buttery voice.
Noémie shakes his hand, and when her face flushes, my stomach curdles. I taste something sour in my mouth.
“I need to use the washroom,” I say, skirting around my family to get to the narrow hallway. I walk past the two bedrooms and yank open the bathroom door, shutting it behind me. I flip down the toilet seat and sit on the lid, holding my head in my hands.
My heart’s beating fast like a hummingbird’s wings. I’m hot all over. I’m being so stupid. So what if Ezra wants to flirt with Noémie? So what if she likes it and flirts back?
The doorknob turns.
“Occupied,” I say, bolting to my feet.
But my ex walks in despite my warning. She’s the last person I want to be alone with right now.
“I’ll be out in a bit,” I say, blowing out a breath. “You can leave.”
Samira ignores me. She closes the door and turns the lock.
I swallow. “What the fuck are you do?—”
“Shhh,” Samira says, pressing a finger to my lips. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten this game. We need to be quiet.”
“Seriously, Samira?—”
She encircles my neck with her arms, cutting my words off with a kiss.
Like an idiot, I kiss her back. Like an idiot, I push her up against the wall and force my leg between her thighs. Like an idiot, I graze my lips down her neck and suck at her beating pulse.
“Fuck, I missed you,” she purrs into my ear. “You look good.”
Samira smells just like I remember, like coconut body butter. The familiar scent dislodges a thousand memories from wherever the hell they’d been stuck. They float to the surface of my mind, and I’m reminded of all the mornings we spent together wrapped in each other’s arms. And of the nights we went clubbing and danced until the overhead lights were flipped on, signalling that the party was over. I remember the laughter, the fights, and the passion.
I’d thought she was my ride or die. I saw us getting married. I’d even been saving for a ring. But Samira craved something more than I could give her. She wanted all of me—heart and body. She wanted me to surrender to her, and I just couldn’t. I don’t like to be touched. Samira believes there’s something unnatural about touch-me-nots.
“You’re so broken,” she told me more than once.
The memories are sobering. I pull away. “We can’t do this.”
“Why not?” She pouts, trying to tug me back.
“Because nothing’s changed,” I answer.
Frankly, I’m surprised she came after me in the washroom. For five years, we’ve circled each other cautiously without exchanging more than a few sentences. I’m not entirely sure what her agenda is for being here right now. Whatever it is, I want no part of it.
“There’s no point stirring shit back up between us,” I say.
Samira shoots me with a dark look and folds her arms over chest. “Maybe I’ve changed,” she says with a huff, her nostrils flaring. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s no point in stirring this shit back up again. From what Amari tells me, you only go for chicken nuggets now—you’re all about that white meat.”
My jaw clenches so tightly that my teeth hurt. So that’s her agenda—she’s jealous of Noémie. It grates on my nerves that her dig at Noémie involves race. Why does it always have to be about race with my sister, Samira, and my family?
Not wanting to have it out with her in the bathroom, I throw open the door and nearly collide with Noémie.
“There you are,” she says, wringing her hands. “Dinner’s ready.”
Samira steps out of the bathroom and makes a big deal of righting her dress.
Noémie’s eyes grow wide as her gaze flickers between me and my ex.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I say, although I’m not sure why I feel the need to explain.
Noémie blinks and stands a little straighter. “Sorry, I have to pee,” she says, sliding past me. The bathroom door clicks shut behind her.
Samira chuckles. I glare at her.
My ex pinches my cheek. “You’ve always been so adorable when you’re pissed.”
I bat her hand away and return to the living room.
Minutes later, everyone is gathered around the oval table. Dishes of curry goat, oxtail, jerk chicken, rice and peas, steamed fish, and fried plantain are set out. Turkey isn’t a thing in our Caribbean household.
The room is stifling and humid, and I’m itching for a cigarette. But I can’t disappear outside until after the food is blessed and I have eaten.
Grandma Janet stands at the head of the table where a stack of disposable paper plates and plastic cutlery mark the beginning of the queue for food.
Back from the washroom, Noémie sidles up beside me just as the prayer starts.
I’m not sure I believe in God, but we are expected to close our eyes and bow our heads, so I do it when Grandma Janet starts to speak.
“Father God, blessed almighty, may you lay your hands on this food before us so that when we eat it, it does our body good,” she says. “For you are the lord of lords and the king of kings. And to you we give all of the praise …”
The hum of my grandma’s prayer fades into the background as I crack an eye open to look at Noémie. Not only are her eyes clammed shut and her head bowed, but her hands are clasped together too. Considering her religious upbringing, I shouldn’t be surprised that Noémie is taking the prayer as seriously as Grandma Janet, my mother, and Uncle Weston.
Across the table, Amari and Samuel are snickering about something. Samira’s eyes are half-closed, and I can feel her gaze on me. Ezra’s focus is entirely on Noémie.
I scowl at him. The bastard winks at me.
“Bless and sanctify this food!” Grandma Janet finally cries out. “In God’s name we pray. Amen.”
Everyone does as directed and says amen.
Grandma Janet is encouraged to grab the first plate, and a line forms behind her. Noémie and I are at the back of it.
Amari doesn’t bother lining up. She won’t be eating any of the prepared food. My sister has always been the pickiest eater I’ve known. Ever since she landed her first job, she stopped eating anything home-cooked, preferring to buy takeout. Her diet mainly consists of pizza, McDonald’s, and Popeyes chicken—she’s lucky we’ve inherited great metabolisms.
Naturally, both my mother and Grandma Janet are hurt by Amari’s refusal to eat anything they prepare. “Scarnful dawg nyam dutty pudding,” they’d often tell my sister. The Jamaican idiom loosely translates to “people who act haughty are soon humbled.”
I keep waiting for the day to come when Amari is finally humbled. I’m starting to lose hope.
I pile my plate with curry goat and rice and peas, spooning on some gravy from the stewed oxtail. Personally, I’m not a fan of oxtail meat, but the gravy is bomb.
It pleases me to see Noémie take a bit of everything. Has she ever had Jamaican food before? She’s such a foodie. I wonder if my mother’s and grandmother’s food will meet her high standards.
The two couches are full, so Noémie and I perch against a wall to eat.
“Is it good?” I ask after she’s taken a few bites.
When Noémie nods curtly, I wonder if she’s lying, if she actually dislikes everything she’s putting into her mouth. But she’s making a huge dent in her plate. I’ve never seen her eat so fast. So maybe she does like it. I hope she does.
For some reason, I get the sense that she’s mad at me. The atmosphere around us just feels off again, like all the progress we’ve made towards building our friendship today is corrupted. I’m not sure what she could be mad about. Does she think I lied to her about Samira? Out on the balcony, I’d told her that I was over my ex, and pretty soon after Noémie saw us exiting the bathroom together.
Having inhaled everything on his plate, Ezra gets up from the couch, tosses out his plate and makes his approach.
He leans in very close to Noémie. His musky cologne is too much, and I bite my tongue before I can say anything about it.
My cousin asks Noémie what she does for a living, and how she knows me.
Noémie beams at him. It’s the same smile she gave me when I offered her a job. I hate that she’s looking at him like that.
My cousin and Noémie hit it off, and it’s not long before their conversation dips into flirting territory. Noémie is touching his arm and leaning in close.
It makes me sick. I seethe.
I run off to the balcony for a smoke.