In Tandem Read online

  “You know you’re not funny, right?”

  I scoffed. “I don’t know about any such thing,” I told him. “What did you want that was so important you couldn’t just talk about it over text?”

  He glanced at Leah, who was busy scheduling the track list and bobbing her head to whatever was playing in her ears, not listening to us. “Eh… it was more like you wouldn’t talk about it over text, not that we couldn’t. And you probably would’ve hung up on me over the phone.”

  My brows lifted as understanding dawned on me. “Uh-huh. Right. Bye.”

  “Nah, hold up Britt,” Vaughn urged, grabbing me by the arm to stop me from leaving, which I had every intention of doing now that I understood why I was here. He’d texted me this morning asking to meet, being cagey about it.

  With good reason.

  “I’m good on the whole, let’s pretend to be a happy family thing, okay?” I asked, pulling away from him. “If you want to play along, feel free.”

  “He just wants us to go to the gravesite together, pay our respects. Maybe have lunch or something.”

  “He killed her,” I spoke, incredulous. Vaughn’s thick eyebrows knitted together in a frown, silently protesting my dramatization of what had occurred between our mother and father. “Now he wants to give her respect, but he had nothing for her when she was alive, begging his ass to do right by us.”

  Vaughn’s relationship with him was his own business, but me?

  I didn’t have shit for him.

  Especially not on my dead mother’s birthday.

  Our mother’s birthday.

  “He fucked up, Britt,” Vaughn admitted with a shrug, which… I guess I understood. He shouldn’t have to answer for our father. The thing was though, he shouldn’t have to play mediator in this situation either, not for a grown-ass man, one old enough to have started being wistful about grandkids, according to Vaughn.

  “Yeah, he did. So I don’t understand why you’re defending him.”

  “I’m not defending him,” my big brother countered. “I’m… empathizing. You know what that is, right?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course you empathize – you’re a hoe just like he was. Is. At least you’ve had the decency not to marry any of them before breaking their hearts.”

  “Wow.” Vaughn stepped back, hand to his chest. “Shot fuckin’ fired, huh?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so. I’m just saying – I’m not interested in playing patty-cake with the man who stressed my mother into an early grave. Especially not at her grave.”

  “I get it Britt, I swear, but…” Vaughn pushed out a deep exhale through his nose, shoving his hands into the pockets of black jeans. With his pecan coloring and square jaw, he looked just like his namesake, and sometimes I wondered how much that must have hurt our mother, to have to see the face of her worst betrayer in her child.

  If it bothered her, she never let on.

  I raised my eyebrows, waiting on him to finish his defense of his damn daddy. He’d always been like that – like he was defending his homie, not a parent. In fairness, Vaughn was ten years older than me, and had spent more time with our father as an adult than I had. Maybe that was his friend. They certainly had their whorish ways in common.

  Yet another thing I wondered often, was about that age difference between Vaughn and me – I’d asked once, and was told to stay in a child’s place, though I was well past eighteen years old.

  Had he given her another baby to make her stay?

  Had I been the trap that kept her bound to him longer than she had to be?

  It was hard not to wonder, considering I was barely off to college before she moved out of our family home, into the cute little apartment she’d been so excited about. So happy to live alone, and be untangled from the man who now wanted to play doting ex-husband and father.

  Fuck that.

  “What can he do to make it right in your eyes?” Vaughn asked me, catching me off guard. From the phrasing of that question – and how quickly he’d come with it – it made me think they’d talked about it, maybe at length.

  I fixed my gaze on Vaughn, unwavering, because I needed him to know my next words were earnest. “Tell him I said to ask mommy, if he really wants to know.”

  Vaughn blinked, taken aback by my response. “Seriously, Britt? That’s how you feel?”

  “That’s how I feel, Vaughn,” I confirmed. “There ain’t shit I need from him. Not a thing he can do for me. If he wants to make it right with her though… only one way to see her again.”

  “That’s cold as fuck.”

  “And so was the way he treated her, so game recognizes game I guess,” I told him, turning to head out. “What’s the dress code for the FTK party?” I called over my shoulder.

  Instead of answering, he laughed.

  I turned, eyebrows lifted. “So what, you’re mad I won’t fall in line to play house with your daddy?”

  He smirked. “Nah, never that Britt. You get to feel how you wanna feel about that, I was just trying to bring some peace.”

  I propped a hand on my hip. “Okay, so then what?”

  That smirk deepened to a full-on grin, as Leah continued bopping along to whatever was in her headphones, oblivious to our conversation.

  “You’re not invited.”

  “Why not?”

  Vaughn shook his head. “You must not have really been listening then. You know what FTK stands for, right?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Fuck Them Kids.”

  “Right.” He straightened up, hiking his shoulders as he gave me this look like he was waiting on the punchline to become clear to me. When I gave him confused eyebrows back, he shook his head. “Baby sister… you’re the kid. Well, one of them. Nobody under twenty-five. No hard feelings.”

  “Wow,” I gushed, eyes wide. “Fuck Them Kids. And we’re – meaning, my age range – are the… wow.”

  He raised his hands, a big ass grin stretching across his face. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” I shrugged, as I pulled the door open, waving goodbye to Leah. “Don’t nobody wanna be at your lil party anyway. Have fun dancing with those bad knees.”

  Pretty.

  So, so pretty.

  Scantililly was known for quality, sure, and a cult fave for curvy girls like me, providing lingerie pieces that were sturdy, comfortable, and… pretty.

  It wasn’t every day that you found all three.

  It was part of why when Fallon, the owner, approached me one day about posing as a model in the promotion for the new line she was launching, I’d hesitated before saying no. If I actually believed in the product, which was why I was there shopping in the first place, I should at least consider it before saying no, right?

  That hesitation was what got me.

  Cause in those few seconds before the no could form on my lips, Fallon did her wooing, “You’re so gorgeous, Brittany, and you have this amazing full figure,” she gushed. “And the colors and textures – amazing lace, and silk, everything in silvers and electric blues that will look so fabulous on your skin. Can you imagine?” she asked, and I waited.

  I waited for the caveat.

  For the disclaimer.

  For the even thoughs and the in spite ofs.

  None of that ever came.

  She just looked me in my eyes and… wanted me to do it, because of my face, and because of my body, and because of my skin.

  Perks.

  Not flaws.

  So I said yes.

  Why the fuck did I say yes?

  Now, in my mirror at home, wearing one of the pieces that Fallon had sent me to try on – and get comfortable in, before the shoot next week – I tried to figure out what the hell I’d been thinking.

  The lingerie was just as amazing as she’d claimed – the piece I was wearing, in particular. An electric blue lace chemise, with an attached velvet choker collar, adorned with a bright silver ring at the base of my throat. The elegant fabric clung to my skin, showing flash
es of deep chocolate and pure white beneath. The molded cups held my ample breasts suspended as just one of many erotic focal points.

  I looked… lush.

  I reached up, unbraiding my thick coils from the single braid I’d wrestled them into after my shower earlier, setting them free. I fluffed my tresses around my shoulders, for once not minding the streaks of white that often made people question my age.

  In this getup, with my hair freshly-fucked wild, somehow… the streaks just felt like another point of visual interest.

  Was that what people would think when they saw these pictures? Would they think interesting, or would they think sexy? Would they want to fuck me, take me to the gym, or research me, to figure out what was “wrong”?

  Did other girls have to consider this shit at all?

  The sound of my cell phone going off with the distinct tone of a video call sent me scrambling for a robe, like I suddenly wasn’t alone in the room anymore. I was quickly reminded that I didn’t wear robes, because the only one available was the downright mindblowing one that had come in the box Fallon sent. Impeccable electric blue silk, luxuriously lined with soft feathers. I audibly moaned as I slipped the exquisite fabric over my shoulders and belted it at the waist before I dug through the wrappings that covered my bed to retrieve my phone.

  I froze when I saw the name on the screen.

  Oh my God.

  I couldn’t answer fast enough.

  “What the hell are you wearing?”

  Twenty-two days.

  That was how long it had been since the last time we spoke outside of texting, and that was how he chose to greet me.

  I loved it.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” I countered, peering at the screen. He was wearing a baseball cap, pulled low over his face in a way that left it in shadows, obscuring his features – including the curls I knew were underneath. “What’s with the incognito thing today?”

  “I’m a man of mystery, B.” This time, when he spoke, I noticed an underlying gruffness to his usually smooth tenor. Enough to bring a frown to my face as I studied the screen, trying to discern his surroundings.

  “Rafael… are you in an airport right now?”

  The brim of his hat bobbed, then lifted, giving me a better view of a face I hadn’t seen in person in a long, long time. Way too long. Rafael was beautiful, with his golden-brown skin and sculpted jaw, and dark brown eyes that always seemed to be brooding about one thing or another. He was always so focused, even now, instead of actually answering my question.

  “What’s with the feathers?”

  “Don’t change the subject,” I immediately scolded. The chin I was used to being smooth was now dusted – more than dusted, shrouded – with soft-looking hair, obscuring his jawline. He looked older, no longer quite like the baby-faced champion cyclist I was embracing in the picture that had been hanging in the bike shop for years. Not with the facial hair, and the weariness in his eyes.

  He looked… tired.

  “Yes,” he answered on a sigh. “I’m in an airport. Are you going to let me buy you a ticket to come to me? I need to know if you still smell like oil paints and vanilla.”

  I grinned. “Yeah, probably. Where are you? Naples?”

  “Nah,” he shook his head. “Not right now. And if I was, I damn sure wouldn’t bring your pretty ass to Italy, one of these motherfuckers might take you from me.”

  “These motherfuckers,” I scoffed, laughing. “With that curly ass hair, you’re not fooling anybody Rafael. You’re “one of those motherfuckers” yourself.”

  “Fair enough,” he conceded, tugging the brim of his hat lower again. “You gonna tell me about these feathers, or…?”

  “It’s just a robe.”

  His head tilted. “So you’re in bright blue feathers in the middle of the day… just because? Aiight – whose ass I gotta kick?”

  I laughed. “No ass-kicking for you, sir. Those are medal-winning legs, can’t take any chances. How are you doing, by the way?”

  Rafael’s only answer to that was a shrug before he was shifting the subject again. “You sure you good?” he asked.

  “Are you?” I countered. “You never told me where you were. So at least tell me where you’re going.”

  That brought on another shrug. “Shit… I really don’t know.”

  “Um… you’re at the airport, chilling. You kinda have to have a ticket to get in, right? Or is that not a requirement wherever you are?”

  He grunted. “Funny – not. I’m saying… I had a destination. I knew where I was going – where I wanted to go. Now… I’m not so sure I can get there anymore. Or if I even want to go.”

  “Wow. Are we still talking about flights, or…?”

  Raf let out an audible breath, then used his free hand to push his hat back on his head, digging his fingers through the lush curls I’d teased him about just minutes ago. With the hat pushed back, I could see his whole face – could see the fatigue etched into the corners of his eyes, the uncertainty in their deep brown depths.

  “I gotta go, B.”

  Suddenly, his eyes weren’t on the screen anymore. His head was tipped down, avoiding looking at me.

  “What? Why?” I asked, trying to suppress the alarm I felt over his shift.

  “Gotta figure out what the fuck I’m doing.”

  “You can’t do that with me on the phone?”

  “No, actually.” I could see his face again. He was grinning at the screen, shaking his head. “I need to focus, and you’re distracting.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, seriously. Excuse me for not being able to focus with you on my screen, looking like a pretty ass… bird.”

  A shout of laughter burst from my lips. “The prettiest goddamn bird you’ve ever seen.”

  “My very own personal stracciatella,” he mused, eyelids low as he gazed at me via the screen.

  That word, stracciatella, brought an instant smile to my face. Well… deepened the one that was already there. The first time he’d called me that, he did so with no explanation, leaving me to figure out the meaning for myself. Leaving me confused.

  Stracciatella – noun 1. an Italian soup containing eggs and cheese.

  Why the fuck was he calling me soup?

  But then, I kept reading.

  2. a type of Italian or Italian-style vanilla ice cream (gelato) containing fine, irregular flakes of chocolate.

  “Reverse stracciatella” was what he’d called me, to be exact.

  Chocolate gelato, with irregular flakes of vanilla.

  “When am I going to see you, Raf? For real see you?”

  “Just say the word, B. You’re welcome wherever I am.”

  I huffed. “You know that’s not…”

  “Not what?”

  “Possible.”

  “Bullshit,” he challenged. “You just don’t want to leave the Heights.”

  Pinching the soft flesh inside my lip between my teeth, I rolled my eyes. “You know what that’s about.”

  “I know it’s an excuse. Anything else you want to tell yourself about it, is a lie.”

  “I thought you had to go?” I asked, prompting laughter from Rafael as he shook his head.

  “You’re really not slick, but… yeah. I do have to go. Thank you for taking the time, B.”

  Hmph.

  It was so… weird, with us. Inseparable as kids, drawn together in shared, albeit unique, awkwardness. Besties. Through high school, and college, as we traveled separate paths, still solid.

  Until he decided to remain overseas.

  It was necessary, for his career, and he’d thrived. Winning medal after medal, becoming a household name. Rafael De Luca, award-winning professional cyclist. Even though he was still just Raf to me. With his intense training schedule, and traveling, and significant time differences… our dynamic changed. Daily conversations became checking in once a month, sometimes just voicemails in passing.

  But I lov
ed Raf, dearly.

  And for all the immediate friends and acquaintances and family and boyfriends and whoever else… nobody had ever come close to filling his place.

  “Always,” I told him, and meant it.

  And then the screen was shifting back to a snapshot I’d taken of the bike shop. He’d ended the call, and immediately, I missed the sight of his face. Deep in my belly, I ached with the loss of the friendship we’d had before, feeling the absence deeper now, after the call. The feeling stayed with me as I stripped down to nothing and returned everything to the boxes.

  It felt like more of a fuzzy socks and oversized tee shirt kind of day.

  Chapter Two

  The sun was out today.

  Sure, rain was a hallmark of the spring season, as inevitable as the return of the sun, but I preferred the Heights when it was bright and sunny, especially in Spring. It was hella aesthetically pleasing – flowers in baskets on the light posts, a million shades of brown skin on display, the aroma of cookouts, all of it bathed in sunlight like an early-aughts Amerie video…

  I pushed out a dreamy, audible sigh, louder than I intended – loud enough that I heard laughter behind me as footsteps headed down the stairs.

  “Why are you down here sounding like the bored princess in a Disney movie?” Anika teased, pushing her signature black-framed glasses up on her face. A quick glance past her told me her cousin, Jules, was headed down too.

  I shook my head as I accepted the half-hug Nik offered in greeting. “That wasn’t a bored sigh, it was more like… damn I wish I could go outside and play.”

  Her bottom lip thrust into a pout, and she nodded. “Girl. Same.”

  “Make that three of us,” Jules chimed as she finally made it down the stairs, lugging a duffel bag I could easily assume was full of camera equipment. “I’m doing damn studio work today,” she whined.

  Anika sucked her teeth. “Oh sweetie, what a heavy burden you have to bear, taking pictures of your naked chocolate boyfriend all day.”

  “He won’t be naked,” was the only thing Jules could counter with. “He’s introducing body products for Found Heritage, lotion and stuff. He doesn’t have to be naked for that.”