6. Chanice
Chanice
Alexander opens the back door and waits for me to slide in before following. Giving the man an address, he falls back, facing me.
“I was a little preoccupied with you trying to leave, but now that we have cleared that up, I have to say that you look delectable.” He stares at me like I’m indeed something to consume; a fire alight in his eyes.
I hope that tonight he will actually get to taste me.
“You look good too; you have a great style,” I say.
Without the clothes, this man would stand out in a crowd, but with them, he is even more impossible to ignore. His bold shirt, paired with the perfectly fitted black pants, would draw the attention of anyone who came across his path.
“Thank you,” he says, running his thumb across his bottom lip. “I honestly have a passion for clothes, too much of my money goes towards it.”
“What else are you passionate about?” I ask, diving right into the question portion of the evening. Even though I’m only interested in one part of him, it seems only right to get to know the rest.
I can see hesitation in the furrow of his brow. His jaw flexes as he examines my face. If I didn’t know any better, I would say he is searching for something as he looks at me. An answer to a question he is asking himself.
I sit up a little straighter, trying to show him I’m engaged in whatever he has to say. With no right to judge anyone, I definitely am not going to do it to him.
He must see what he is looking for, because he answers. “I like to believe I have somewhat of a passion for everything I do, but nothing tops my love for painting.” He says the words like he is unsure that he wants to share. It looks like he stops breathing while he waits for me to react.
“You’re an artist? That’s amazing. What do you paint?” I place my hand on his knee, fingers trying to comfort him alongside my words.
His chest starts to move again as he lays a hand on top of mine. I expected something more devious for all his hesitance, but clearly something in his life makes him think this love is not okay.
“I wouldn’t go as far as to say I am an artist, but I really love still life and portraits. Painting people and items as I see them. I started with photography, actually, but I couldn’t always capture the moment.”
“Of course you’re an artist. Creating art makes you one. Do you sell your work?”
He frowns and looks down at his hands. “It’s just for me.”
As confident as he seems, I can tell he is pulling back a layer of himself to reveal a hidden version of the man everyone else sees. For some reason, he trusts me with this information, showing me a real side to him. It makes me feel touched enough that I want to give him a piece of myself back.
“I’m passionate about cooking. I went to culinary school for a short time, and would love to open a restaurant one day.” Sharing my greatest desire, I let him see the dreamer underneath the realist tasked to face each day.
His eyes meet mine again, face lighting up with interest.
“Why were you working front of the house at that event? You should be in the kitchen.” The hand, currently on top of mine, squeezes a little, pushing all his enthusiasm into the grip.
“I didn’t finish. Some things came up in my second year, so I don’t have the qualifications. I will go back one day. Until then, I work the jobs I can get.” I shrug one shoulder, brushing off the fact that my dream is on hold. He doesn’t need to see all the heartache and fear from that decision.
Not buying my nonchalance, he stares at me like he’s expecting more. “Maybe it’s na?ve to ask, but what’s stopping you now?”
I hoped I would get through the whole date without having to mention the three kids I’m raising, but how else do I answer that question? After all, it was them needing me that required me to drop out and get a second job.
My mum, incapable of keeping her shit together for more than a couple of years, fell off the wagon right into a drug den with her latest man.
She didn’t care that the system would not only split them up, but put them in homes already overflowing with other kids.
Gabby was only four, still young enough to get placed with a family that would want to keep her, while Imani was old enough to end up in a voluntary home.
I was only nineteen, but what else was I supposed to do?
“Life,” I say, hoping he will leave it at that.
He does, looking out the window. “We’re here,” he announces before opening the door.
With nowhere to pull over, the driver lets us out in the middle of the street.
All down the road, food trucks are stationed against the sidewalk, serving the swells of people.
The smell of the different foods hits my nose, causing my stomach to rumble and my mouth to water.
I don’t know where to look, curiosity pulling me in every direction.
Alexander grabs my hand and guides me into the crowd, leading me like he knows exactly where he is going.
I can’t help but wonder what people think of us as we go by.
While interracial couples are becoming more common; a conventionally hot man dating a plus-sized woman is rare.
There is this one couple on social media, but no other real examples to go by.
Yet, here we are in real life: a tall, magazine-cover-qualifying man and a short, big woman, holding hands.
Dressed up like this, I look like the perfect snack to his glass of milk. But that doesn’t stop people from staring like we don’t make sense.
Despite the fact that I learned to be mostly comfortable in my skin in my teenage years, when people were cruel and unforgiving, I have never tested those boundaries in adulthood. Walking with him in this crowd, I might get my first chance to.
He comes to a stop outside of a bright pink truck. A taco in a sari is the mascot painted on the side of the ordering window. The line is long, but Alexander is looking ahead like it is worth it.
“This place is so much better than anything we could have ordered at that restaurant,” he says.
Letting go of my hand, he lifts his and points in the direction of the menu.
“I’d recommend their butter chicken tacos or tikka masala burrito, but honestly, anything you get will be good.” His eyes light up as he looks back in my direction.
I go to ask him a question, but before I get a chance to, a blonde woman walks closer and answers as if he were talking to her.
“I’ll have to try those. Would you get the mango lassi or the horchata?” She curls a piece of her hair between her fingers, smiling at him like he is the second coming of Jesus. Closer than a stranger has a right to be, she leans into him, making her interest evident.
Beautiful in the way that people expect girls to be beautiful, she is petite, perfectly symmetrical, and model tall. Ignoring my presence, her gray eyes are focused solely on him, waiting for him to acknowledge her. I try not to let my inner critic take hold while I wait to see what he says.
“Both are great.” His words are clipped and straight to the point as he barely glances her way.
He looks at me instead, making it clear at the very least that we are here together. I lower my shoulders, thinking that would be enough, paying her no further mind as we move forward. But she follows us, staying right at his side.
“So you have been here often, then?” she persists, clearly not taking the hint.
Still looking between me and the truck, he shakes his head as if to say, ‘Can you believe this?’ as we both wait for her to walk away.
Instead, she extends her manicured hand to him. “I’m April,” she says, fluttering her eyelashes as she bites her thin lip into her mouth.
The nerve of this bird. Either she doesn’t think we are here on a date, or she really doesn’t give a fuck. I roll my eyes and cross my arms, trying to keep it together. I’m one step away from hitting her, and two steps from crying.
Seeing my clear irritation, he frowns before facing her. “April, I’m Alexander, and this is my date, Chanice.” He motions over his shoulder to me.
She finally looks past him to glance at the person he is with. Clearly unimpressed, her eyes widen as she takes me in. They are asking the question on everyone’s mind: Why her?
I give her a little wave, and then the middle finger. She dismisses me with a flip of her hair before looking at him as he continues on.
“I’ve planned on spending the evening with her. Not you. So if you have questions, you can go to their website.” He points to the address on the truck. “Have a good night.” He dismisses her, making it clear he has no further intention of talking beyond this.
Throwing his arm over my shoulders, he pulls me closely into his side. “Now, as I was saying, if you want something lighter, then I would go for their samosas. They come with this cilantro crema sauce that accentuates the spice perfectly.”
Finally realizing that he is not interested, she moves away from us back to wherever she came from.
“How about we order all three and split them?” I glance at him, satisfied with how he took care of that problem.
“Sounds perfect.”
When we make it to the front of the line, he takes charge and places the order.
Excitement has completely replaced all the nerves, as I look forward to trying this food.
With barely any money for groceries, we never get to order out or have anything new that doesn’t come from one of my jobs.
The chance to try a Mexican-Indian fusion dish is just the sort of thing I always wanted to do.
Probably something the kids would love as well.
Guilt replaces my joy with the confirmation of the fact that they won’t get to have this experience. Not while they live with me, at least. Here I am about to indulge in a delicious night out, while they are at home eating fish fingers or ramen noodles.
I suddenly lose my appetite. Just in time for him to turn towards me and hand two drinks over for me to hold.