Chapter 8 Tennessee Whiskey #2
“It dovetails into other stories about Black women taken from us too soon. Sonya Massey, Dominique Fells, Oluwatoyin Salau. Unfortunately, the list is endless,” Eve said, receiving a pensive gaze from Jamie.
“But it just opened in Chicago, which is where she was from, and it’s doing well, so that’s been…
I don’t know. Gratifying, I guess. And the reviews have been kind, although part of me worries that it’s because white people are just reticent to critique Black art, especially if it has to do with race…
” Eve realized she was talking about a mile a minute—showing signs of life—and slowed down.
“At any rate…everyone keeps telling me I need to get to work on the next one, so…here I am…”
“You sound excited,” Jamie said, beaming. “Granted, there’s absolutely nothing I can add to this conversation. But I liked hearin’ you say it.”
She hated that his accent made her ears perk up, his deep drawl feeling warm like the whiskey. “You probably say that to all the girls.”
“I don’t have any girls. And I wouldn’t’ve said it if I didn’t mean it.”
Eve tried to hold his gaze once it landed on her, but she couldn’t, getting lost in him and his flirtatious-ass tone.
She turned away, taking a nip of her drink as she continued slowly around the room, a covered structure in the corner near the balcony catching her eye.
A hot tub? “A hot tub?” she asked, tickled by the notion.
“Now that, I didn’t build. Came with the house.”
“Have you ever used it?”
“Not yet.” He was placing silverware and condiments on the dining table, his footsteps sounding like a soft drumbeat against the hardwood floors as he walked.
“And how long have you lived here?”
“Well, I don’t really…live here…”
“Oh God.” She knew he looked homeless that day they met. “Who lives here?”
“No, it’s my house.” He laughed at the panic that had surely claimed her face. “But it’s sort of a vacation home kinda thing. Which is why I hadn’t been out here recently. My son seems to think it’s cool, though,” he said. “The hot tub, I mean.”
“Oh.” Eve nodded, but the mention of his son again reminded her that she couldn’t afford to forge a real friendship here; he was a distraction and nothing more. She needed to just eat her food and go. If she played her cards right, she could be in bed by nine. “What’s for dinner?”
“Just some pork chops and roasted potatoes. Figured you weren’t ready for venison quite yet.”
Eve replied with a small smile, appreciating that more than she would say.
She took her seat at the table, where an arugula salad sat in the middle and Jamie served a bone-in pork chop, fried and lightly smothered in a brown gravy, with a side of golden potatoes and onions, all of it sprinkled with parsley.
“This looks so good.”
“You sound surprised,” he said, taking his seat across from her.
“I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Well, I hope it tastes as good as it looks.” He raised his glass to her. “Bon appétit.”
“Mèsi. Bon apeti,” she replied in her Haitian Creole dialect. They cut into their pork chops in unison, a stiff silence washing over them for several bites, leaving only the sound of silverware clinking against plates.
Jamie was the one to break first. “So you said you’re here to work on your next play? Does it take place in the woods or something?”
“Oh. No.” Eve covered her mouth as she laughed. She was going to have to be more forthcoming if her story was going to make any sense. “I’m using my grandma’s as sort of a retreat. I had a lot going on in my home life, and I needed to get away from it.”
“A lot like what?”
“Oh.” His inquisitiveness was disarming, but Eve wouldn’t be sharing those details with him—the only safety in being around Jamie was that he didn’t know her whole sad story.
He had no reason to pity her, no motive to suggest she try again, stop letting her grief drown her.
He had nothing to do with her real life, and she intended to keep it that way.
“Just…everyday drudgery,” she said. “I wanted to get away from all the noise of New York and just…write.”
Jamie’s brooding expression conveyed empathy, perhaps deliberately.
Perhaps not. “My girlfriend of nearly a decade cheated on me,” he confessed between bites.
“She’s with the guy now. Engaged , apparently.
” He spit the engaged like it was the most disgusting thing he’d ever said. “Drives me fuckin’ crazy.”
Eve smiled sympathetically. “ You don’t seem crazy.”
“I’m just good at hiding it,” he said. “But I came here because I needed to get away, too. So…I understand.”
Eve was at a loss for any type of meaningful response, unequipped with whatever he seemed to be looking for.
“I was with my boyfriend for five years,” she decided to say.
Calling him her boyfriend was a lie, meant to make the relationship sound less meaningful somehow.
“Blame it on the alcohol if this is too forward to ask, but is there a reason you didn’t get married after so long?
” Eve searched his face for a reaction before he could respond.
“Not that you needed to be, but most people…”
“No, I wanted to be,” Jamie said, stabbing at his pork chop as he spoke. He took a bite and chewed for several beats before continuing. “At a certain point, I thought it was basically inevitable. But she just…never wanted it. Felt like the commitment was enough.”
“Well, obviously not,” Eve said, then gasped, immediately wishing she could take back the droll retort. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, it was funny.” He nodded with a small grin on his pink lips.
“I thought so, but then I realized I should probably know you a little better before I make cracks about your ex.” She grinned at his smile—the way it grew wider as he swallowed his food. “I’m sorry.”
“Maybe on the second date,” Jamie said.
Eve sent him a pointed stare, her eyebrows raised when she replied, “This isn’t a date.”