Chapter 6 Monique #2
Resting her elbows on the table, she said, “Well, since somebody is too cute to be sweating out her press-n-curl in the kitchen…”
The table broke out into knowing laughter, and her aunt sat and smiled, unaffected. “I am gifted in so many other ways, my favorite niece.”
“I’m your only niece.” Monique winked at her aunt and then turned to face Maurice. “I have a lot of our family’s recipes, so I make everything. I really love to bake, though.”
“It’s been a minute since I had that casserole, man. I’ma need you to hook me up.” Tommie’s whining was almost funny. “I’ll come get it.”
“You’ll come all the way to Chicago for some chicken, broccoli, and rice casserole? You sound crazy.” Monique’s words were pointed; she didn’t mean for them to be.
Tommie’s smile faltered, but he recovered in half a breath.
The glass carafe of sangria in front of her sweated, the fruit bobbing in the red wine like a lava lamp.
Chicken. Frozen broccoli. Rice. Mushroom soup.
A struggle meal that her kids would actually eat without complaint.
To Tommie, it was some sort of novelty. Heat rose up her neck— so different from the sudden infernos of menopause, those came without warning. What rose in her now was anger.
That’s what made all the shit she had to shovel so damn exhausting. She could never tell who was truly there to help when so many acted like their attention was assistance. Monique stopped trying to learn the difference.
She’d stopped trying at a lot of things.
Maurice pressed his knee against hers on purpose this time, drawing her attention to him. He gave her a placating smile and mouthed, you okay?
The conversation continued around them without Monique’s input.
Lanie reclaimed the table. “Nah, I think he knows that he won’t get any home cooking at home, so he has to go to Chicago and get it to go.”
The sudden explosion of laughter startled Monique. She glanced at Maurice, who was still smiling. At her.
“You all can stop laughing at me. Like Mama Don, I know where my gifts are.” Lanie flicked her hair and lifted her chin.
Tommie wrapped his arm around her and kissed her temple. “I’m definitely not marrying you for your cooking.”
They were cute. Watching them nuzzle and coo at one another made Monique want to leave the table. Instead, she reached for the water glass in front of her and took a long pull to cool her rising discomfort.
I promised everybody back home that I’d try…
“You’re from Chicago?” Cassie asked.
Monique nodded. “Born and raised. West Side.”
Cassie smiled. “I teach at DuSable State. Been there about six years.”
She nodded again. “That’s dope.”
The other woman’s eager expression almost made Monique say more.
A waiter approached, handing her a menu. “Whenever you’re ready.” Soon everyone at the table roared with recommendations.
“We’ll talk later,” Cassie said over the din.
Monique gave her a noncommittal thumbs-up.
“Yo! Since Monie has decided to finally grace us with her presence”—Tommie was standing again at the head of the table—“we have a couple of options for the rest of the day,” he said, with a wide grin, his eyes fixed on Monique.
“See, you wanna talk shi”—her eyes darted between Maurice and her Auntie Deb, who raised a stern eyebrow—“I mean, stuff, Tommie.”
“Whatever.” He looked toward his mothers. “Some people want to go out to the shops and whatnot. Others wanna be lowkey and stay inside.” His gaze landed on every couple, as if asking what they wanted to do.
Mr. Turner chimed in. “This old man is tired from traveling, so I’m going to take a nap after this good food. We’ll see how we feel later.”
A chorus of similar answers circulated the table before everyone quieted into private conversations again.
Maurice leaned over, too close, and whispered, “You look rested.”
She hummed as her body softened at his nearness.
He was more handsome in the daylight. Flecks of gold danced freely in his eyes. His hair wasn’t as dark as she’d initially thought. The silver streaks were subtle but spotlighted his strong, elegant features.
Monique sighed and redirected her focus to the purpose for them all gathering: a pre-wedding get-to-know-you luncheon.
His blink was slow, but his breathing was rapid.
“What is this you’re eating?” she asked him, pointing her menu at his untouched plate.
Maurice blinked and tilted his head. “Huh?”
“Your plate. What is it? It looks good,” she asked again.
It was like the man glitched. He blinked again as if forcing his mind back into his body. “Here,” he offered, nudging his plate into the space between them, “try it.”
“You sure?”
His yes was breathy, like in an old movie, and he was some starlet new to the big city who’d just been swept off their feet. Dreams be damned.
She liked that about him. How she could catch him off guard.
“You haven’t touched it, though.” Monique poked at his fish, rice, and peas. It felt like eons since she’d enjoyed food. Most days, treatments had either left her too exhausted or too nauseous to eat well.
His answer was cool breath gliding over her cheek on a whisper. “I was waiting for you.”
A prickle shimmied through her nervous system, and she shifted in her chair.
Her mouth watered. Monique forced her attention back to the plate of food, and she took a taste.
Her eyes closed as she savored the flavors.
Back home, food like this was one of the few indulgences she allowed herself.
Her sigh released the stiffness in her body and replaced it with a warm fluidity that rippled and surged in her veins.
San Juan had aroused her appetite.
The weight of eyes on her brought her back to awareness. She had an audience.
She licked her lips. Bronzed pink spread across Maurice’s face and down into the open collar of his ridiculously patterned linen shirt.
He was feeling her.
Suddenly, the idea of a vacation fling wasn’t so obscene anymore. Flings were driven by pheromones, not feelings. She could do this. A vacation tryst. Puerto Rican beaches and hillsides, add Mo, carry the rum and mofongo, subtract her draws. That could add up to a memorable trip.
Her lady bits pulsed in agreement, and Monique flinched in her seat at the prodigal sensation.
The restaurant bubbled with energy. The shift was as if the staff could read her mind and had decided to cheer her on. A server sidled up to them and asked Monique, “Have you decided?”
Yeah, she’d decided.
Monique shrugged. “Whatever can be out the quickest is fine. Apparently, we have a tight itinerary,” she said, darting a playful smile at her cousin.
The server nodded and sped away, only to return moments later with a beautiful plate of roasted pork shoulder topped with golden-brown chicharrón. “Pernil for the Senora,” he said.
The pigeon peas and rice emitted a cartoonish swirl of steam, snatching all of Monique’s senses. Her stomach growled loudly, drowning out her thanks.
The table fell into a silence that only good food could induce. But Maurice barely touched his food. His mouth remained in a tight line.
“You don’t like it?” Monique asked, nudging him with her shoulder. Her port wound throbbed in protest.
“Hmm?”
“Your meal. Do you not like it?” She rubbed momentarily at the spot just below her left shoulder, noticing how Tommie and her aunts followed her movements. She put her hand down.
“Sorry.” He shook his head. “My mind is somewhere else.” He tried to cover a long exhale with a self-deprecating chuckle.
That response didn’t sit quite right. Like he had a catalogue of scripted replies and couldn’t find the right one for this exact scenario. Dude needed to lighten up. She knew he could.
Start somewhere. “That’s pretty obvious.” She placed a forkful of food into her mouth and slowly chewed. The savory flavors took her on a gastronomical lazy river, and she floated along, the noise in her body turning down several decibels.
“Is it good?” he asked. Monique could hear the smile in his smooth tenor.
Monique’s eyes fluttered open, and a smile curved her mouth.
“You eat pork?” She snapped off a piece of pork skin and extended it toward him.
“There’s a few Puerto Rican spots that I like back home, but it’s been like two years.
I’d forgotten how good it is.” She chewed a little more and hummed.
“It’s some orgasmic shii—” She slammed her mouth closed and darted her eyes toward where Aunt Don and Auntie Deb sat, mooning over each other.
Wide-eyed, Maurice coughed and reached for his water. His skin was now as red as the hibiscus blossoms that surrounded them.
He cleared his throat and waved his hand in rejection. “No, thank you.”
Monique curled her lips in and released them, sucking her teeth. Being the head of household had cultivated a loose tongue. She had stopped censoring herself altogether when she’d come to terms with her diagnosis.
Remaking herself for others’ comfort was played out, and she lacked the mental and physical energy to perform that act anymore. Fuck it. She would be herself.
She shrugged and popped the offered pork skin into her mouth. “More for me,” she said, doing a little dance in her chair.
Maurice sat stiff, and then methodically ate his food. He nibbled first on the fish, then the rice and beans, then the plantain, returning to the fish again, as if he were trying to catalogue every item, giving it respect and not rushing the experience.
“You all right?” she asked him, raising an eyebrow. “You just… I don’t know… locked up.” Monique gave him an I’m watching you gesture and returned to her meal.
A loud clap brought their attention to Tommie.
“Mo—” Maurice’s and Monique’s heads snapped up from their meals and toward Tommie.
The whole table laughed. “Mau-rice,” Tommie said slowly, his face full of teasing and sarcasm.
“While we’re here, I’m entrusting you with the most important people in my life.
” He turned to Lanie. “Except for you, baby.”