Chapter Twenty-Three
Adrián
Moving away from the only home I’d known for my thirty-six years of life hadn’t been an easy decision. Gen’s love and my family’s support carried me through the hard days as I assimilated to a different world, a different culture.
Time used to be a slow friend that allowed me space to enjoy my day and bask in the wonders of it. Now it had become a foe, leaving me breathless as situations happened to me without my control. Unwilling to worry Genevieve I settled for our routines, which helped a bit.
We’d just finished our meditation, and Gen stood by the door, giving me a kiss and a hug that promised to become more until she gently disentangled herself from my arms.
“Fine, leave me like this,” I grumbled.
“Oh my God, why are you acting like we didn’t just have sex last night, and during the early hours this morning and...”
“Okay, okay, you made your point.” I escorted her out of the building with a farewell kiss while I went on my morning walk. Enjoying the unusual cooler breeze, I took my circuitous trek around the block, ending in the grocery store at the corner, where I selected a few chicken breasts and thighs to cook with assorted vegetables for dinner.
Knowing Genevieve, she’d be late today. She’d been most days since I’d moved in with her. Now that everything was in the open, I wanted to share my worries. I respected her drive, and would never impede her career path, but anyone with two eyes could see she was running herself ragged. If she came home inspired every day, that would be one thing, but lately, it was more grumbles than wins when we snuggled under the covers at the end of the day.
After setting my purchases in the fridge, I went to take a shower, enjoying the warm water easing the tension in my muscles, worries for Gen’s well-being and mine swirling with the water.
After taking care of my skin, a task that now was more important than ever with the dryness I experienced from all the air-conditioning, I settled to work on the accounting for both Villa Bonita and LasDell.
Thank God for the Tropics account because it was what was keeping the coffers somewhat stable. After a few hours of numbers swimming on the screen, I paused, needing a break from the artificial lighting of the laptop.
With lunch in my mind, I rummaged through our fridge, looking for cold cuts for a quick sandwich when the lock on our door turned.
Who the fuck could it be at one in the afternoon? Gen was at work, and no one had a spare key. I’d asked her if her mom still had one the other night and she’d assured me that was no longer the case.
Springing to action, all the hairs of my body lifted, and my muscles tensed up prepared for anything. I snatched a cast-iron pan and a knife for extra protection.
By the time Genevieve walked in, I stood in a defensive pose, ready for anything.
“What in the world is happening? Why are you holding my cast-iron pan, and the chef’s knife?”
Breathing hard, I placed the pan on the kitchen counter, followed by the knife, inhaling and exhaling to remove the chest pain from the adrenaline. Then I returned to Gen whose lips had disappeared as she pressed them together. Her shoulders were rigid, as she held her laughter in.
“Go ahead, let it go,” I drawled.
She doubled up, her adorable giggles fizzling out and filling the room with her contagious humor. A few minutes later and we were both doubled up in laughter.
“What...what are you doing here?” I managed between chuckles.
“I took the rest of the day off.”
Arching back in surprise, I followed her as she went into our bedroom, removing her shoes and pencil skirt in the process.
“So my lovin’ advances this morning inspired you to return for more?” I asked, hopeful, as she removed her silk blouse, revealing her smooth dark skin, and her pink lace bra.
Genevieve turned around in her panties and bra with a quirked brow.
“What advances?” Her eyes twinkled in mischief.
“Graciosa.” I leaned against the door frame, watching her put on an olive jumpsuit over a white tee. It looked like overalls on top with wide legs at the bottom. No words were said between us and it felt absolutely comfortable. For all that I was having a hard time adjusting to living in a new country, this? This was perfection. Being with Genevieve, actually fulfilling the simple wishes I had for our lives together?
Perfection.
She pulled her hair in a messy bun on top of her head, then added some hoops and a Cuban link to the ensemble.
“Ready?” She turned around. “What you are wearing is perfect for what we are doing.”
She gestured at my mustard-colored shorts and white T-shirt and gave me a thumbs-up.
“Oh, that reminds me of our drive to Colón that fateful day,” I drawled, mimicking her awkward face and thumbs-up of that day.
The thumb tucked in, then another finger made its way out.
“Damn, it’s like that now?” I asked, laughing.
“You, sir, are not jumping for joy at my adventure.”
“What adventure, Preciosa? You just came in, gave me the quickest striptease of my life, then robbed me of the opportunity to thank you because you put your clothes back on. That’s all I know,” I protested.
Her brows scrunched in exasperation, morphing to a satisfied grin. Her beautiful dark cheeks plumped until her eyes crinkled with triumph.
“I’m taking you sightseeing.”
“I realized I hadn’t really shown you around since you arrived,” Gen said as she maneuvered her car on I-95. Even though it wasn’t rush hour, there were so many vehicles on the road. In that regard Panamá and Miami were the same. Never a time where you could enjoy empty roads unless late at night, and even then you had to be wary of partygoers.
“You haven’t, but you’ve been busy I get it,” I said, touched that she’d prioritized this time for the two of us. It felt good to be out and about with her, during daylight.
“It’s no excuse, I’ve been an atrocious host, but no worries Se?or Nicolas, I’ll be guiding you around today.”
“Oh, so you are my driver?”
“And tour guide.” She smiled as she focused on the road. Genevieve’s joy was infectious and damn sexy. After getting off the highway, she deftly took us to an area I hadn’t seen before.
“Where are we?”
“Overtown. Here let’s find somewhere to park.”
We drove down a street with short trees adorning the edges. The area had smaller buildings, some well painted, some dilapidated, and in every block there were Black people either catching public transportation or walking about their business. Miami was a very diverse city, and everywhere I’d been so far I’d seen a mix of races and cultures, but here, here it felt closer to home. Closer to Colón.
“Why are we here?” I asked her when she parked her vehicle in an open parking spot. As soon as we got out of the car, I was glad for the shorts. The sun beamed over us, heating my skin.
“I am probably going to mangle a lot of the story, but, this is Overtown, which used to be Colored Town back in 1896 during the Jim Crow era. Many Black people from the Carolinas, Georgia, North Florida, Alabama, and the Bahamas came to work for the railroad and the rich land in Coconut Grove, but when Miami became incorporated as a city, because of segregation laws, they needed a colored area.”
We walked down the same street we’d driven, with some parking lots, what seemed to be smaller apartment buildings, and enclosed lots with fences. This was more of how I had imagined living in the South would feel based on movies I’d seen while young. I admired the low-hanging trees casting cool shadows to hide away from the sun, and the slower pace, as if this street stood in a time capsule.
Gen walked with purpose until she paused in front of a white house.
“See when Flagler, as they say, founded the area, Black folks helped alongside everyone, but the moment it became a city...it was a wrap. No longer could they live where they worked. We were given this area northwest of the developed city. At the beginning...it was rough, but you know us,” she said, taking out her cell phone and shooting a video of the house ending with a close-up. She was brilliant at it, and I wondered what her post would be on social media after our visit. Her tips to Black women travelers were gaining traction online and her following had expanded. I stared unabashedly at her, in awe.
“We always find a way.” I nodded, following her thoughts. I studied the two-story old wooden house behind her with ivory walls and brown roof. Easily spotted were the areas that had been modernized, from the windows to the upper balcony, but the structure still maintained that older feel.
“My weekends with Mama, after Dad left, were mostly about doing homework. But sometimes she’d bring me here to walk around, when this area had not one spec of gentrification, and it wasn’t updated as it is now. This is the house of Dana A. Dorsey. Mom and I would stand in front of it, and she’d tell me that he was the first Black millionaire in South Florida. She’d explain how he was also a civic leader, creating housing for Black workers here in Colored Town, which in the 1920s people started calling the Harlem of the South. He had a dream and he never stopped chasing it. People like him opened the doors for people like you and I, she’d tell me.” Gen shaded her eyes from the powerful sunbeams and watched the house for a while.
As she watched the house, I watched her. Her dark skin gleamed under the sunlight, as she shared a glimpse of what and who she was. Every little morsel delicious and exhilarating.
“So, since you were little you’ve had dreams to be a millionaire?” I asked, curious, grinning when she gave me a “really?” look with a tilt of her head and everything.
“Mmm-hmm. Maybe at that age I dreamed of the dollar signs, but soon it was about the work itself, about opening doors and opportunities. To better our worlds. When I think of Colón, and Overtown, I think of what Colored Town used to be. A Mecca made by Black people for Black people. Here, come, let’s cross.” Her soft hand grasped mine, and together we crossed to stand in front of a two-story building with tall cement pillars creating arches on the front.
“This is the Ward Rooming House, it was for out-of-town Black travelers and Native Americans who couldn’t stay in Downtown Miami back in the 1920s. It is now the Ward Rooming House Gallery. A group of Black intellectuals called the Hampton Art Lovers worked on restoring it. Want to see some art?” Her eyes shined with pride and excitement, and her exuberance was so infectious, my heart tripped and restarted as we walked hand in hand together to the art gallery.
“Let’s do it.”
“This is delicious...mmm, my God,” I murmured while I took another bite full of creamy mac and cheese. Our plates were similar with both mac and cheese, collard greens, and corn muffins, but I’d ordered the oxtail and she had the turkey wings. Everything was great. The spot she’d picked was unassuming but had great pictures of the history of the area and the restaurant.
“I know, it’s good, right? Some good soul food, and it’s been here for ages.” She grinned and took a sip of her flop.
“So, the area around us, is being gentrified?” I asked.
“Yes, it has been, but many of the historic landmarks we saw today, it’s Black Miamians working on their preservation.” After going to the art gallery, we’d walked over to the Lyrics Theater, which she’d shared had seen many of the greats perform back in the day, from W.E.B. Dubois, Marian Anderson, Langston Hughes, Paul Robeson, and Whitney Houston. She’d made fun of me when I fanboyed when hearing Whitney Houston’s name.
“Was this really about sightseeing or are you trying to send me a message?” I took a sip of my flop, comically squinting my eyes at her. Her passionate recounts of her mom’s words, her delight about what Black people did with Colored Town, and what the new generation was doing with Overtown had inspired me. Now more than ever I understood her drive and her passion. It came from a similar place to mine, our love of our people, her in a macro level mine in a micro, but she was challenging me to think bigger. To be more. It was a scary but thrilling proposition.
“Am I that transparent?” She chuckled, then waggled her perfectly arched eyebrows. I got lost in her brown gaze, realizing there were some specks of amber in her eyes. God but she was gorgeous, and persistent. No wonder they called her the Silent Sniper at work—she was relentless. That knowledge made me want to take her home and finish what we’d started in the morning.
“Ah... I think I lost you.” Gen smirked, and I shrugged, snapping out of my trance.
“Can you blame me? Look at how carefree you’ve been today, and the videos you took. You’re challenging me today, so let me pay you back in kind. Remember how today felt. How making time for yourself made room for this. I’m thankful for you showing me around your city. It makes it feel more mine now too.” I reached out and squeezed her hand.
“Oh, you good...you really...” She chuckled, shaking her head. “Okay then, I guess you have things to think about and so do I.” Her brown eyes zeroed in on me, willing me to agree. I returned the impassioned plea, kissing her soft hand, savoring the silky, salty skin, never breaking the connection. Pressure built in my core as her tongue slid out of her mouth to moisten her perfectly plump lips.
“I guess we do,” I murmured, recognizing that gauntlet for what it was. We soon departed the restaurant, our hands and fingers interlaced, carrying the heat and the promise of what would happen the moment we crossed the threshold of our apartment. But even in the maelstrom of desire that had swirled around us, I couldn’t stop thinking of Genevieve’s message, and the things we could do in Colón if I only dared.