Chapter Twenty-Three
Renny
Hours later, after landing at SFO and getting our bags at baggage claim, Brent and I agreed to share a car to the university-owned employee housing neighborhood.
With a light breeze and fog rolling in, I shivered, dressed in only my T-shirt and shorts Brent had made fun of earlier, as we stood at the rideshare pickup zone outside the airport.
I prayed our car would arrive quickly as I browsed my phone for information about my new address and instructions for getting past the gates and the security code to the condo.
“Here,” Brent said, draping the winter coat he’d been carrying with him on the flight from Detroit to San Francisco over my shoulders. “I don’t want you to get too cold.”
“Thanks,” I said. I set my things down and put the coat fully on, turning up the fake fur collar like it was wintertime. “Why is it so cold in June? I thought California was all sunshine and palm trees. It’s gotta be at least thirty degrees cooler here than in Detroit.”
“San Francisco weather is a little bit different,” he said, though now he was holding himself to protect from the weather.
“Our real summer heat doesn’t hit until September and October.
So we joke and describe the summer weather here as ‘June Gloom,’ ‘No Sky July,’ and ‘Fogust.’ And wait till you experience fog and chilly in one neighborhood, and sunshine and warmth in another. The microclimates are crazy in S.F.”
“Well, now I know.”
Luckily, our rideshare driver understood the assignment and had the car’s heat cranked to a balmy eighty degrees as we wound our way up the 101 and 280 freeways for twenty minutes to the employee neighborhood adjacent to the C.U.
Lake Merced campus. On the ride, I marveled at the multicolored pastel houses and apartments lining the hillsides of the city, because we didn’t get this kind of architecture and geography in Detroit.
I wondered who had thought of embedding and building a city like San Francisco on a bunch of hills and mountains.
It seemed adventurous, much like my move from the Midwest to the West Coast.
With the sun setting over the Pacific on one side of the road, and a “Welcome to Merced Manor” sign on the other, we drove through the gates toward our places.
It had been a long day in general, and with the travel and time change, I was ready to find my condo, unpack my suitcases, put on some sweats, and crash.
“Mr. Ross,” the driver said as he pulled in front of a tent-covered unit with a portable moving and storage container in front of it, “this is where my GPS is telling me to stop for you. But I think the house is not where it’s supposed to be.”
“It looks like it’s being fumigated,” Brent said. “Let me text President James’s chief of staff and see what’s going on.”
“Great,” I said, looking at the yellow and black striped tent covering where I was supposed to call home. “Where am I going to sleep tonight? I wasn’t planning on getting a hotel.”
Truth was, I didn’t have the money or any available funds on a credit card to get a hotel room. And not knowing the area, I didn’t know where I’d find one.
“Just drop us off at my place for the time being,” Brent instructed the driver. “We can figure everything out over there.”
“I’m not going to your place, Brent. I can’t impose on you like that.”
“I got you,” he said as the driver continued up the street. “Besides, I know you ain’t got no money to stay anywhere else.”
“I’m not that much of a hot mess, if that’s what you’re saying,” I said, fighting the matter and knowing I was going to lose. “I could call Dustin.”
“Not on the week of their Juneteenth Pride party,” Brent said, reaching out for my hand on the back seat between us. “Don’t be so stubborn when someone is just trying to help you out of a situation.”
“Fine,” I said as the driver pulled over to the side of the road about a block away from where we first stopped. “We’ll do it your way.”
Once inside with our suitcases and bags, Brent turned on some lighting. He opened the windows to circulate the air, as his place smelled strongly of Pine-Sol and Clorox.
“Can’t get the country boy outta me,” he said. “I want that super clean scent on the days the housekeeper comes. Just like I want to see those lines in the rugs underneath the tables. Learned it from Jewel and Wanda.”
“You are definitely giving B.D. King from the country vibes with that. The smell is strong in here. But I’m glad you keep it clean.”
I looked around the living room, which was giving masculine and modern chic vibes with its forest green, tan, and off-white color scheme.
On glass end tables, there were photos of Bracee, L.B.
, and Macy looking happy and posing together at various places.
The coffee table held a couple of succulents and photo books on great moments in sports history.
Photos of NBA greats were neatly arranged in black frames along one wall with plants of various heights and sizes on a table underneath them.
The living room opened into a kitchen with stainless steel appliances and an island, plus a small area with a dining table.
With a few strategically placed rusty-orange colored rugs underneath tables, the ebony-colored hardwood floors glistened.
I wondered if my place would have a similar layout and looked forward to seeing it once the fumigation tent was gone.
“It’s nothing like the house Macy, the kids, and I lived in over in the Oakland Hills, but it makes do for a single man like me,” Brent said. “Mi casa es su casa, as we say in California.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But only until my place is ready. And please tell me you have an extra bedroom. I don’t want any only-one-bed funny business while I’m staying here.”
That trope was popular in romance novels, but I wasn’t wanting to experience it on day one in California crashing in Brent’s place. It was bad enough I was inconveniencing Brent because my place wasn’t ready for me to move into.
“There is only one bed,” Brent said with a serious look on his face. Then he laughed. “Only one bed in each of the two extra bedrooms in this place.”
“You’re such a dad with the bad jokes.”
“I try on days that end in ‘y.’ ” He was such a dork. A tall and cute dork. The gentle giant. “I don’t know if there’s any real food in the kitchen, but we could have something delivered if you’re hungry. Some groceries should be coming before sunrise, though.”
“I think I’m good for now, Brent. Thanks. I’m more sleepy than hungry. My body’s still on East Coast time.”
“Same. Let’s get your bags upstairs so we can get some rest.”
Brent carried one of my suitcases up the stairs, and I followed him with the other. Upstairs, Brent pointed out his bedroom suite at the end of the hallway. He showed me two additional bedrooms, one he used for Zoom meetings on his remote days, and the shared bathroom for all the upstairs rooms.
“Can I ask a silly question, Brent?”
“No such thing, but have at it.”
“If you’re single, why do you have so many bedrooms?”
“I gotta have a place for my kids when they come to visit.”
“See, silly question,” I said. “That’s me not thinking like a parent. My bad. I’ll take the non-office bedroom.”
While rolling my bags into the guest room, Brent said, “There’s a smaller bathroom, shower, and laundry room on the first floor behind the kitchen area, just in case, and there are towels and washcloths in the closet in your room.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome to sleep in as long as you need.
I’ma hit the gym early and make us breakfast. You’re welcome to come with me to campus tomorrow.
I’m greeting all the student athletes before they go on a camping retreat together.
I can show you around some other spots, too, if you want to play tourist.”
“The itinerary sounds exhausting, but I’m down. Maybe I’m just sleepy.”
“We can talk about it in the morning.”
I let out a yawn. “I’m so ready to knock out, but I’ll take a quick shower first. I appreciate you letting me stay here, Brent.”
“I’m happy to let you stay. I’m happy my guy is out here in San Francisco. I can’t believe we’re in each other’s orbits again after all this time.”
“Abracadabra. It’s me.”
Brent stared at me. “If you, um…want to come down the hall later, to my room, after I take a shower…”
I tapped Brent playfully on his arm as he began backing out of the room.
“Nice try, mister. I told you I’m taking a break from—”
“You said relationships. You ain’t say anything about me sitting in the chair. I’m just saying.”
“Now you’re sounding desperate and disgusting. Boy, bye. See you in the morning,” I said as I closed the door gently.
“You can’t stop a guy from trying,” Brent yelled through the closed door.
“I’ve got more self-control than I did in Missouri.” I smiled as I thought about how as recently as a year ago, I would have taken the bedroom invitation. Things were different for me now, and giving in easily to words of assurance and compliments was not my plan. Tempting as it was.
As I took a clean tank top and underwear out of a suitcase, I could hear Brent’s footsteps tapping down and up the stairs as he took his own bags to his bedroom and made his way to the bathroom and shower.
While I waited for him to finish, I browsed around the guest room.
It was simply decorated, coordinated in the same green, off-white, and tan colors as his living room, and furnished with a full-sized bed with a pillowed headboard, end table with a lamp on it, dresser drawer with a small flat-screen TV mounted above it, and a bookcase along another wall.
Book lover that I was, and curious to see what kinds of books Brent kept in the house, I browsed it.
Romance.
Top row, all of E. Lynn Harris’s novels in chronological order.
Next two, the entire Beverly Jenkins and Terry McMillan collection, same order.
Then rows with books by Christina C. Jones, Lauren Lacey, James Earl Hardy, Tati Richardson, Julian Winters, LaQuette, Eric Jerome Dickey, D.L. White, Anne Shade, and Kennedy Ryan.
The bottom row surprised me.
All twelve of my novels, in order of publication, with their colorful book spines that looked like a rainbow when lined up on the shelf. I kneeled and pulled out a couple from the shelf to confirm they were all the first editions and first prints of each novel. My heart melted.
Seeing my books on his bookshelf was better than any grand gesture he could have shown me.