3. Brunch is for bullying your friends about their love lives
brUNCH IS FOR BULLYING YOUR FRIENDS ABOUT THEIR LOVE LIVES
Apart from a brief exchange when I’d arrived home the other night, I hadn’t heard from him and was losing hope. I snuck out while my two housemates argued over which TV doctor was hotter. My crepe could wait.
Rafael: Which of these two samples do you prefer? Do not say “both” or I will block you.
I got the distinct feeling he wasn’t joking. Two recordings of piano music popped up. The first was a haunting melody that tugged at my heart. The second was faster, more frenetic.
Me: the first one i think. its more emotional
Rafael: You have good taste. Also, I like your book.
Me: oh god im being perceived
Rafael: The excruciating ordeal of being known.
Me: well your music is dark and moody
Rafael: Accurate.
Me: my editor would appreciate your staunch adherence to correct grammar in texting
Rafael: Your editor is wise.
Rafael: Authors are supposed to be good with words, yes?
Me: words yes grammar no
Rafael: Touché.
I skipped back into the restaurant.
Deandra immediately clocked the glow on my face. “Ok, who is he?”
I forced the giddiness down. “I may have met someone at a bookstore…”
“Not the meet cute!” Annie shrieked, dark curls bouncing. “I’ve always wanted to meet a boy that way!”
I winced. “Way to tell the whole place my business.”
“Annie, when was the last time you dated anyone even remotely close to being called a boy?” Deandra had my back, bless her. She’d always said Black women didn’t get enough grace to act stupid.
She was also, as she put it, ‘gay for every woman, queer for every enby, and straight only for Michael B. Jordan’, which made her even less inclined to put up with our nonsense over the men we dated.
Not that Dee didn’t cry from heartbreak just like anyone else, but she was much better than me at moving on.
Anita Martin, however, had always been a hopeless romantic.
Maybe more hopeless than romantic. She loved vintage clothes—and vintage men.
Her current questionable partner was at least 35 years her senior.
With Annie in her 30s, that made him quite senior.
Frank was polite, at least. The last one hadn’t been.
Deandra tossed her fresh, honey-blonde braids, incredulity stamped on her sepia face. Gold glitter shadow highlighted her large, slightly tilted brown eyes—and the look she shot me.
“I just want to know what happened,” Annie pouted, her cherry-red mouth making a pretty moue. Everything she did was pretty. I’d never been able to pull off a red lip like she did, even though I was only fractionally paler.
To protect Rafael’s privacy, I edited the story. He became “just a musician”.
Deandra leaned on her elbows, intently staring at me over her hash browns. “Weren’t you the one who said musicians are always a red flag? Please tell me he’s not a lead singer.”
I flushed. Damn, I’d forgotten my own declaration. “He’s more of a classical musician. Hey, I like the new braids. That color really makes your skin glow.”
“Mmhmm.” Dee folded her arms. “Quit trying to distract us.”
Annie’s dark brown eyes sparkled. “Is he tall?”
I leaned back dramatically. “Girl, he is so tall you wouldn’t believe it!”
“Damn it! You said you didn’t care about height. Why do you get the tall one and the bookstore meet cute?” Annie had a staunch six-foot minimum.
I jabbed my fork at her. “I’m gonna tell Frank you said that.”
30 minutes later, Rafael texted again. I shooed my friends away.
Rafael: Would you like to see my apartment this Friday? No pressure. Treat it like a tour.
Me: you said the second date was for trauma. my trauma or yours?
Rafael: I would rather have an accomplice than a victim, if that is your question. Being a crazed murderer gets lonely—and obvious.
I snorted.
Me: i suppose it would be hard for you to go unnoticed by the police, mr seven foot redhead
Rafael: Exactly.
Rafael: Would you prefer dinner or drinks only? I will give you the garage code so you do not have to worry about street parking. Also, what size shoe do you wear? I want to be sure I have house slippers for you.
Me: size 10 narrow i have big ol ski feet
Me: depends whats your idea of dinner? are you one of those protein gym bros? chicken shakes with broccoli?
Rafael: How dare you! I blend only the finest census takers into my shakes.
Me: lol actually i have some food allergies that can be tricky to navigate. lets just do drinks this time. we can do dinner if you still want a next time after that
Rafael: I will put this unfortunate mail carrier back in the deep freeze, then. 8pm? Gives the traffic a chance to die down.
Me: i bet you have an excellent villain laugh. ok ill see you then Hannibal Lector
My friends watched me put the phone down with shining eyes.
I beamed. “Y’all, I have another date!”
We squealed in unison. Except for Annie, we weren’t normally so overtly girly. But my last boyfriend had wrecked me. I was so lonely, and they were probably tired of hearing about my shitty dates. Or at least, Dee was.
Would my vagueness over Rafael’s name and location come back to bite me in the ass if the composer turned out to be a serial killer after all?
Probably. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, the low, resonant rumble of his voice, how warm his hand had been.
The stretch of that shirt across his broad chest. The way he made me laugh. Shit, I was in trouble.
In the end, I caved and told Deandra the address, hiding behind the assumption we’d be at Telve. But at least she’d know where to send the police if needed.
We all agreed I should wear the cobalt blue slip dress with the plunging v because it most flattered my assets—aka my boobs, since the straps were just wide enough to hide my much-needed bra.
My housemates pushed for stilettos. I pushed back in favor of my Docs, arguing that if I needed to kick him and run, they were the practical choice. Besides, I wobbled like a newborn giraffe in stilettos. Not exactly the impression I wanted to make while entertaining a lion.
1 “Dumbest Girl Alive” – 100 gecs