Chapter 10-Kenya
“Do you have any plans for tonight?” Devon inquired as I walked into my house.
The first thing I did was slide out of my Prada pumps and instantly exhaled. After a long day in court, all I wanted to do was grab a bottle of red wine from my cellar and soak in my tub.
“No,” I answered, half wanting to remind him that he mentioned us going on another date. My mouth remained shut because I knew he had a son, and I didn’t want to sound too demanding of his time so soon. “I’ve had a long day. A bottle of red wine and my bed are calling my name.”
“Damn, you’re not gonna wash yo’ ass first?”
His vulgar query elicited a giggle out of me.
Normally, I’d be repulsed, but not with Devon. I wasn’t really sure about how to feel about that either. It puzzled me because we still didn’t know each other that well. Regardless, I was willing to go along with it.
“Taking a bath is a given. I didn’t think a detailed play-by-play was necessary.” I could hear a hint of flirtation in my words, and I wasn’t upset about it.
“The time will come when you’ll be rushing to give me a play-by-play.”
I halted at his words. My brows dipped in surprise, a sudden furrow appearing above my wide eyes, and I felt as if my breath was stuck in the middle of my chest. Like it didn’t know whether to go up or down.
“Is that your prediction, or is it more so wishful thinking?”
“Call it a lil’ of both.”
I nodded my head like he could see me, biting down on my red-stained lip to keep my intrigue at bay.
“Noted.”
“In due time, love,” he assured. “Give me just a minute, baby girl.”
A few seconds later, I heard muffle conversation that I couldn’t make out. Instead of trying to dive into a conversation that clearly wasn’t meant for me, I filled the wine glass I’d retrieved from my cabinet to the brim.
Just as I set my bottle of wine back down, my doorbell sounded. I wasn’t expecting company, so the chime came as a surprise. Whoever it was, was going to have to wait because I didn’t feel like entertaining and I was perfectly okay with leaving them on my porch.
“Something came up. Can I call you later on? It shouldn’t be too late.”
“You don’t have to call me back.”
“Are you tired of me already? I thought I’d at least make it past the second date.”
“Oh, no,” I responded, surprised that I’d answered him so swiftly and effortlessly. “I should’ve said that I had a long day and that after my bath, I’m going to bed.”
“I hear you, but you need to eat somethin’ before you call it a night, especially ‘cause your day was long.” The authority in his tone, mixed with what seemed to be genuine concern, sent chills up and down my spine.
“I have some leftover lasagna that I can warm up.” I said, choosing not to address the way his words made me feel. The doorbell rang again, this time making me upset because my uninvited visitor wasn’t getting the hint.
“Where you get it from?”
“I made it.”
“Word,” he spoke in a questioning tone. “Did your mama teach you to cook?”
“Oh God, no!” A laugh escaped my lips. “The only time my mother steps into the kitchen is to walk through it to get to the backyard. Fancy made sure I knew how to cook.” Instantly, fond memories ventured to the front of my mind of all the times she let me play sous chef while she prepared meals for our family.
Growing up, those were some of my favorite moments in time.
“Ms. Francesca’s cooking is a hell of a lot to live up to. I’ll have to see if your skills are up to par,” he rebutted. “But before I get wrapped up in our conversation, let me go. Have a good night, baby girl, and make sure I make an appearance in your dreams.”
The call ended there, leaving me wanting more. Yes, I was tired, but I had just enough energy to talk to Devon. I almost regretted telling him that I was calling it a night. It had been so long since I engaged in flirtatious banter that I’d forgotten how energizing it made me feel.
“Why didn’t you answer the door?” Sydney questioned, bursting into my kitchen, disrupting the silence.
“Why didn’t you use your key instead of ringing the doorbell? You have a key for a reason.”
“Miss ma’am, I respect your privacy. Who’s to say you didn’t have Devon in here making sure the neighbors know your name?”
“Sydney, seriously? I literally just met that man. Why would I have him in my space?”
“Because your space very much needs to be invaded,” she confessed, setting down her ‘Protect Black Women’ tote on my kitchen island. “Put up that facade with somebody who doesn’t know how long you’ve been celibate.”
She had a point, and we both knew it.
“Anyway. What are you doing here?”
“I was bored at home. Curtis is out with his boys, and Angel is with her grandparents. I knew you wouldn’t be doing anything, so here I am.”
I couldn’t help but laugh because my best friend knew me very well.
Fridays meant nothing to me, and sometimes Saturdays meant even less because on the average Saturday morning, you could find me in office, hard at work.
The only difference was that on Saturdays, I often abandoned my business attire, opting for something casual instead.
“If you came here to relax, why are you dressed up? You look cute, but that’s a bit much for a night in.”
Usually when Sydney came by on a whim, she’d be dressed in some sort of jogger set or something along the lines of being casual.
The two-piece leather crop top and fitted pencil skirt was anything but casual, and though I couldn’t see her feet from where I stood, I knew she was indeed wearing heels because she appeared taller.
“Girl, who said anything about staying in? We are going out, and before you start up with your excuses, don’t. You need to let your relaxed hair down and live a little.”
Sydney was natural and had been for as long as I’d known her.
She went natural long before it became the popular thing to do, and my faithfulness to relaxers was a source of comedy for her.
Regardless of what she said, I got my hair permed every six weeks like clockwork, and there wasn’t an ounce of shame about it.
My hairdresser, Infinity, made sure my hair stayed healthy in its relaxed state.
Straight hair is good hair . It wasn’t a statement that I wholeheartedly attested to, but it was a mantra that my mother swore by and instilled in my sister and me.
Having a standing appointment with my stylist had been a way of life for me since I was four years old and my mother took me for my first press and curl.
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
“How did I know you were going to say that?” she rhetorically quizzed before pulling out a small garment bag from her oversized tote. “Now you have something to wear.”
I groaned prematurely. Sydney and I had completely different definitions of modesty. By looking at her, you’d never guess that she was a tenured law professor. Whatever she had in mind for me would undoubtedly push me out of my comfort zone.
“Before you unveil that, where are we going?”
“Somewhere fun. Now, go handle your hygiene and get dressed.” I looked from my glass of wine and then back to her. It wasn’t like I had anything else to do.
“Give me an hour and I’ll be ready.”
“I’ll be here waiting,” she cheered, doing a dance in the spot she stood.