Chapter 13
Miriam
Agood way to stir up childhood trauma is to sit through a church service three hours long or an overpriced meal with somebody’s lawn clippings as garnish.
And Howard the Duck. The Dark Overlord possessing Dr. Jennings disturbed me.
Marcela is responsible for the first two today.
If our server hadn’t dropped a basket of artisan bread on our table, I’d never speak to her again.
Snatching off her lace front came to mind, but I’d be on the receiving end of her hands, feet, and elbows if I even hinted at the slightest desire for a physical confrontation.
We survived Sundays in church. Not for a couple of hours—the entire day.
I love Jesus, and I have the Vacation Bible School certificates to prove it, but He doesn’t need to see me from sunup to sundown every weekend as proof.
Had it not been for the chicken plates they served in the basement, I would’ve called CPS several times on behalf of my anxiety.
There is no logical explanation for why my sister didn’t tell me she wanted to visit a church that started at eight and let out at eleven thirty.
I ran out of Twizzlers after hour two. By hour three, I contemplated fainting.
The only thing that would’ve come of that is a prayer cloth over my lower half and church aunties reviving me back to consciousness by speaking in tongues.
No one to rescue me from sitting between a man with breath in need of an exorcism and the woman swatting me with the side of her hat.
Strike two came after Marcela insisted we eat brunch at an upscale restaurant with no weather mats to stop me from electric sliding over the marble floor.
I almost went back to church in a casket the second my ankle boot hit the ground.
Between the slush outside and the frozen stares, staying at home and not spending a small fortune only to still be hungry was the better plan.
Which brings me to strike three: Marcela’s line sister inviting herself to our brunch.
Lisa insisted we sit in the private dining room with a wall of expensive wines the second she trotted into the restaurant wearing heels that would have me calling the injury attorney with the catchy jingle.
I was never a fan of her or her attempts to weasel her way into my time with my sister, the same way I’m not a fan of her plus-oneing herself to our family events and the annual DC galas my father forced us to attend. All Lisa cares about is herself and being seen.
She always steers conversations to who she’s with or the luxury trip someone else financed. I’m not mad or jealous. I also did not risk slipping and falling to sit through another story that strokes her ego.
“Aruba was beautiful,” she coos, with an emphasis on “beautiful.” Her accent is foreign to her Buffalo roots. “Low humidity. Warm sand. Luxury brands. Come next time.”
“Did you forget I have a district to run?” Marcela lifts her Bellini to her lips. “I can’t just disappear for a week.”
“Four days,” Lisa corrects.
Marcela waves her fresh manicure. “Same thing. I have commitments.”
“Like traveling to another country for dick?” Lisa arches a brow. “How is that not the same?”
My sister leans her forearms on the polished wood table, careful to keep the sleeves of her tweed pencil dress away from the croque madame in front of her.
We’re the only two at this table that seats ten who aren’t eating a small plate of sprouts to look cute for the few people who walk by the street-level window.
“First, the dick lives in Amherst,” she says about her senator sneaky link. “We go to his house in Canada to keep people out of our business. Second, I’m an hour away. Third, and most important, I don’t fuck for handbags or trips I can’t afford myself.”
I choke back a laugh.
Marcela and Lisa’s relationship is interesting, and by “interesting,” I mean unnecessary but tolerated.
Lisa is building up her event-planning business.
She hangs around my sister for access to her contacts, former corporate clients, and associates.
Marcela’s star is on the rise as a councilmember, garnering state and national headlines.
Lisa wants a piece of that and leeches where she can.
If this is what friendships look like, I’m glad I keep to myself.
“Something funny?” Lisa’s glare sears into my profile.
“Nope.” I cut into the tiny crab cake on my plate. Not bad, but it could use some Old Bay.
“Do you even know how to compute being around people? A man?”
“Not too much.” My sister’s tone is her first and last warning to try me in her presence.
“Sorry.” Lisa feigns innocence. My smirk lifts her high cheekbones into a phony smile with perfect white teeth. “How are you liking Buffalo?”
“Good,” I say, “but we don’t need to pretend you care. Go back to trying to impress Marcela.” Her face falls, and my sister bites her lip and drops her head.
I never understood small talk or communicating with someone you don’t care about. Both seem pointless.
Lisa’s jaw clenches, and her eyes narrow. “I’ll do no such thing. I’m friends with your sister, and I hope we can be closer now that you live here.”
“Okay” is my response.
Lisa has known me since she came home with Marcela during winter break of their freshman year of college. Never once did she display any signs of caring about me. If anything, she’d take jabs about my clothes and my K’nex set. I was twelve at the time.
I frown at Lisa’s playful shove and look at Marcela, who lifts her shoulder before finishing her glass.
“Come on, we’re older now.” Lisa laughs and tosses the twenty-eight-inch bundles cascading down her back. I twirl my coils, which are sitting high from my wash-and-go. The shrinkage is real, but it’s moisturized.
I giggle to myself at the double entendre. Antonio is rubbing off on me.
Lisa’s face lights up. “What’s got you grinning? Is it something, or someone?”
“Nothing.” I sip my mimosa.
“It could be her friend.” Marcela shrugs with an apology and a smile I want to knock off with my baguette. “Sorry, sis.”
“Oop! Did Baby Beckford find love in the Rust Belt? So soon too. You’ve been here, what, a week?”
“I’m not in love, nor am I dating,” I say to Lisa and cut my eyes at my sister. I’ll thank her later for not disclosing Wednesday’s find-a-friend bus tour. She still needs to zip it.
“I have a friend who’s up here from DC,” I reveal, much to my annoyance. “We’ve spent some time together now that I live in Buffalo and have finished my PhD. He’s—”
“He?” Lisa’s eyes widen.
“Is fine,” Marcela says. Her hands fly up at my glower. “What? You see him twice with those glasses on. The man is fine and has body for days. That’s all you, little sis.”
“It’s not like that at all,” I protest. “Two people can share platonic interests without it meaning a trip to Canada for secret sex, or Aruba to score a handbag.”
“Hey!” they shout in unison.
“We’ve been friends for a few years, but we’ve never spent time together. That’s all we’re doing. Painting walls and building furniture.” I leave out the near peen sighting and the glimpse of Antonio’s muscled butt, which would make a person with 20/20 vision lose sight from crossing their eyes.
“I’m sure he did paint your walls all night,” my sister snickers into her glass.
“That’s all I hear from you two—penis, penis, penis! There’s more to life than a hard dick!”
A throat clears. Our server stands frozen, and nearby diners shift back in their seats for a better look at the woman who’s shouting about shafts at brunch.
I force my eyes shut and rub my temples. “We’ll take the check, thank you.” I don’t bother looking at the server, who rushes off like the building is on fire. I’m embarrassed for both of us.
“Miri. I didn’t mean to get you worked up.” Marcela’s voice is low and holds a degree of what I assume is concern.
“I’m not worked up,” I mumble.
“Your face is red, and your glasses are two seconds from cracking. I won’t poke fun about you and Antonio.” At least she has the decency to push down the humor in her tone. “Sidenote: I think this is the first time I’ve heard you say ‘dick.’”
I drop my hands from my face and give her a deadpan glare. It morphs into a snort at the pride beaming across her face.
“You bother me.”
“Love you back,” she says.
The truth is, I don’t want to think about penises because I’m struggling not to think about Antonio in that way. What he would feel like. How he’d make me feel.
I see clearly—glasses on or off—how attractive he is, along with the benefits of adding rugby to your workout regimen.
His voice alone licks the shell of my ear, and I don’t need to test the theory of what will happen between my legs if we step beyond the boundaries of a platonic friendship.
Said boundaries are in place so I don’t ruin years of friendship for one night of pleasure.
I can’t. He’s my only friend, and he’s too important to me. Not that he would see me that way.
What if he did?
Please.
I never gave thought to an “us” because it has no chance in reality.
He’ll screw just about any woman, and his history proves he will leave this earth a bachelor, sowing every oat in his box.
He doesn’t do relationships, and he enjoys a new woman to replace the ones who temporarily have his attention.
I’ve seen him and his charm in action. I know better.
Something we do have in common is our lack of experience as someone’s significant other. I’ve never had a boyfriend in order to keep school a priority; he refuses to settle down in order to keep multiple options in rotation. The difference is that I do want love and commitment one day.
Dating was never top of mind for me because of my studies. With that lengthy chapter of my life closed, I have time I’m willing to dedicate to seeing who’s out there.
And fulfilling any physical urges my box of goodies can’t satisfy.
“Antonio.” Lisa chews on the name with a crease between her brows. “Antonio Knight, who plays for the Steel?”
“That’s him,” I say.
Marcela frowns. “Since when do you watch rugby?”
Lisa swipes her mouth with her napkin. “We’re acquainted.” Her gaze swings to mine. “Well acquainted.”
The implication doesn’t go unnoticed.
“You’re sleeping with him?” Marcela asks.
Her mouth lifts. “I wouldn’t call what we do sleeping, but I was at his place last night.”
My fork slips from my hand, and I rush to catch it. I adjust my glasses and say nothing.
What is there to say? One call, a few whispered laughs, and Antonio was out my door. Onto the next. We haven’t spoken since he left my house last night…for her.
I push down the images of them together. Her in his arms, kissing every defined muscle that stretched and bent to unpack my boxes. Her mouth around the length indented in his sweats.
It makes sense, their pairing. Lisa—or Jalisa—is attractive. Tall. Long legs. Toned. Perky breasts. She favors Maia Campbell and gives twenty- and thirty-year-olds a run for their money with her skincare game alone. Fashion too.
Her thigh-high boots and belted sweater dress are a far cry from my leggings and blazer, which I found stuffed inside one of my boxes. Lisa is the physical embodiment of Antonio’s type. A reminder that whatever cues I think I receive are part of my imagination. Not that I would pursue anything.
Friends, I remind myself. Buddies without bumping booties and complicated feelings.
You’re still talking to yourself.
I’m done.
Lisa offers a wry smile. “Will that be an issue for you?”
“Nope,” I say, much to the surprise of my sister, who hasn’t stopped staring at me. “Like I said, we’re friends. Pass the salt, please.”