Chapter Five #2
When he finally stepped off the plane and onto the sun-drenched tarmac, the heat hit me across the face like a slap. The weather had changed drastically. The air was thick, humid, and salty from the smell of the ocean.
It was beautiful. Paradise.
But the tension radiating off Romelo and Trecee threatened to ruin it before we even entered the Sprinters to take us to the beach house.
“Baby, can you carry my bags?” Trecee’s voice was chipper as she batted her eyelashes up at Romelo.
He didn’t even look at her. Just grabbed his own bag and started walking toward the Sprinter waiting for us on the curb.
“Romelo!” she called out after him, her tone sharper now. “I said, can you carry my bag?”
“The fuck wrong wit’ yo hands,” he muttered, slightly turning his head.
Trecee’s mouth dropped open, her face flushing with embarrassment and anger. Then she looked around—at me, at Mimi, at Oliver—like she was waiting for someone to defend her.
No one did.
Mimi rolled her eyes and made an attempt to grab her own bag, but Oliver slapped her hand away and grabbed it for her. I did the same and grabbed the handle of my suitcase, rolling it on the cobblestone, trotting toward the Sprinter.
“I can’t believe him,” Trecee hissed under her breath as she struggled to drag her oversized Louis Vuitton suitcase across the pavement. “He’s being such an asshole.”
I didn’t respond. Just kept walking.
Honestly, I didn’t feel bad for her.
Not even a little bit.
The beach house was stunning.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the turquoise ocean.
White marble floors. Sleek, modern furniture.
A massive kitchen with top-of-the-line appliances.
Four bedrooms, each with its own en-suite bathroom.
It was the kind of place you saw in magazines.
The kind of place people dreamed about. It felt exotic.
“This is gorgeous,” Mimi breathed, walking through the living room and onto the back deck. The sound of waves crashing against the shore drifted in through the open doors, mixing with the salty breeze.
“Hell yeah, it is,” Oliver agreed, grinning as he looked around. “Rome, this shit nice, mane.”
Romelo didn’t respond. He was already in his bedroom—the master suite at the end of the hall, away from everyone else. Away from Trecee. Away from me. Though Trecee followed him anyway.
“Baby, is this our room?” she asked. Her voice echoed down the hallway.
There was a pause before he responded, making the house grow silent.
“Take your pick. This one is mine.”
Trecee scoffed. “What do you mean?”
I could hear the irritation in his voice.
“Exactly what the fuck I said, Trecee. Damn!”
Trecee huffed, stomping her feet like a child. Mimi walked back into the house, hearing the noise. We exchanged a look before she mouthed, What happened?
The sound of the bedroom door slamming echoed throughout the house, but we ignored it. I shrugged, trying to play it off like I didn’t know. I was the reason for the tension between them, and Mimi knew that.
That didn’t stop the guilt from twisting in my stomach anyway.
Eventually, we ended up at the beach, trying to salvage the day despite the awkwardness. Mimi and Oliver were in the water, laughing and splashing. She was twerking on him in the water. He was being mannish, trying to slide his hands under her bathing suit.
Romelo was sitting in one of the beach chairs, smoking weed.
He looked so fucking sexy. He was shirtless, dressed in a pair of Burberry swim shorts.
His Cuban chain glistened in the sun around his neck, matching the diamonds in his Patek.
His feet were in a pair of matching slides.
His intricate tattoos were glistening in the sunlight too.
His phone was in his hand, an unreadable expression behind his Cartier shades. Trecee sat next to him—too close, trying to get his attention.
“Baby, can you put some sunscreen on my back?” she asked, holding out a bottle of La Roché-Posay.
He glanced at her for a second before darting his eyes back to his phone.
“Don’t piss me off.”
Her smile faded. “Romelo, I can’t reach—”
“Ask Synthia,” he snapped.
My head whipped from where I was sitting a few feet away from them. Trecee’s eyes narrowed.
“Why the fuck would I ask her?”
“Because I ain’t doin’ it,” Romelo said flatly.
Their tension was suffocating.
Trecee stared at him for a long moment, her jaw clenched and her hands balled into fists. Then she stood abruptly, grabbed the sunscreen, and stormed off toward the water.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Juicy, you good?” Romelo’s voice startled me.
I glanced over at him.
“Yes,” I lied.
He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push it. Still, I felt his energy. Felt the unspoken words hanging between us.
This shit was a mess…
And it was only day one.
One day before Trecee’s birthday.
They went to dinner, I stayed behind. I didn’t want to be in the know or around crowds, pretending to be okay. I could take any more of it. My face would give it away before my body language could. I couldn’t stomach Trecee hugging him, kissing him.
The beach house was eerily quiet without, minus the sound of the ocean waves and the occasional sound of the house settling.
I opened the massive stainless-steel refrigerator, scanning the contents. It was fully stocked with fresh fruit, vegetables, deli meats, cheeses, condiments—everything.
But I wasn’t hungry. Not really.
Still, I needed to do something. Needed to keep myself hands busy so my mind wouldn’t spiral.
I pulled out ingredients for a simple pasta dish—something easy—penne, marinara sauce, ground turkey, garlic, onions and anything else needed.
As I moved around the kitchen, chopping vegetables and browning the meat, I tried not to think about them.
The pasta came to a boil and I dumped in the penne, stirring it absently.
My phone buzzed on the counter. I picked it up, expecting a text from Mimi, but it was from Romelo.
RJ: Juicy, you good?
I stared at my screen, my heart rate picking up.
He was at dinner, with his girlfriend and he was texting me. I contemplated on responding, encouraging his bullshit, but my thumbs moved before my brain could catch up.
Me: Yeah. I’m fine. Just making dinner.
He didn’t respond in a text. Instead, he FaceTimed me. I didn’t answer, so he texted me.
RJ: I want to see your face. I miss the fuck out of you. Ion really want to be here for real.
Me: Yet, you went.
RJ: Cut me some slack.
Me: No, nigga, fuck you. Treating me like I’m a side piece. The only reason I came was busy you asked me to. I don’t have no purpose being here. You playing in my fucking face.
RJ: How am I playin in yo face Synthia? You know what the fuck going on! Let’s be clear! I’d rather be wit you.
Me: whatever nigga.
RJ: You know how I really feel! I ain’t finna keep explainin what the fuck goin on.
I didn’t respond. I left him on read. The three dots appeared and he sent me another message, before spamming me. Then, nothing! Ignoring him, I sat my phone face down and put my phone on do not disturb.
Once my pasta was finished, I carried it out to the deck, settling into one of the cushioned lounge chairs overlooking the ocean.
The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange, pink yellow and purple.
The water sparkled in the sky, fading in the light.
It was so beautiful. So romantic. Yet, here I am sitting alone, eating pasta out a bowl, while the man I was falling for was at dinner with another woman.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I took a bite out of my pasta. It was good—perfectly seasoned. The sauce tangy, thick and rich. But I could barely taste it. My mind was too busy being swooned around Romelo.
For just a moment, I took my mind off of him and took a sip of my wine. I wasn’t intending on drinking the whole bottle, but I don’t regret it. I set my plate down on the table, after playing around with my food. My appetite completely gone now.
By now was darker now. The mood hung low over the water, casting a silver path over the stars. Even at night, it was beautiful. It was the kind of night you shouldn’t spend alone. Yet I was.
I stood up from the table and trotted back into the house to throw my food in the trash and clean up after myself.
The buzz feel swept over me, but I poured myself another glass and grabbed my phone.
It was still on do not disturb, but it didn’t stop me from seeing the messages.
There were a few from Romelo, including a missed call, none from Trecee and one from Mimi.
Leaning on the kitchen counter, I tapped on her contact first.
Mimi: Bitch this dinner is awkward asf! They’re barely talking to each other. Trecee keeps trying to take pics and he keeps dodging her. Oliver and I just want to eat and gtfo lmfao.
I giggled before responding.
Me: Sounds fucking miserable.
Mimi: It is! You made the right call by not coming. This is second hand embarrassment. I’m about to fake a stomach ache so we can leave. Romelo done went to the bathroom, so many times.
Me: LMFAO!
I set my phone down, feeling tipsy. The only thing I wanted to do was take a bath and got to bed, but that was short lived.
The wine was causing my mind to blur, so I decided to rest in my room.
That was also short lived, because voices began to filter through the house—Mimi’s laughter, Oliver’s low rumble, Mimi’s loud cackle and Trecee’s sharp tone.
“I can’t believe you embarrassed me like that,” Trecee was saying.
“How the fuck did I embarrass you bruh,” Romelo responded, his voice tight with barely controlled frustration. “You embarrass yourself, goofy as mothafucka!”
“How? By trying to have a nice dinner with my boyfriend?”
“By makin’ a fuckin’ scene ‘cuz I ain’t want to a million fuckin’ pictures of you holdin’ yo fuckin’ drink,” he shot back.
“Oh my god,” she snapped. “You’re such a fuckin’ asshole!”