Chapter Twenty-Three
Solange
Thursday afternoon, I arrive at Victory Academy earlier than usual, not because I’m a particularly punctual person but because I need a quiet place to think. A quiet place to put my time with Dean in proper perspective. Far from his piercing gaze. Far from Brandon’s smug expression (which, fair, considering I came home with a dazzling just-fucked glow that left little doubt about the nature of my morning activities).
I sit at my desk and stare out at the rows of empty chairs. Every class is a new opportunity to reach someone. To give them the boost they need to shoot for the stars. To remind them that life presents us with a host of opportunities, and it’s up to us to decide which ones are worth pursuing.
It stands to reason, then, that I should heed my own advice and accept the obvious: Dean isn’t worth pursuing. Dammit, I know this. And yet I’m imagining a scenario in which a man I’m totally incompatible with becomes the person I need.
Someone who isn’t driven by a single-minded desire to attain professional success.
Someone who doesn’t approach dating as if it were a job interview.
Someone who wants to love their partner to distraction for the sake of that soul-deep connection and nothing more.
Someone who isn’t so fixated on never deviating from their life plan and can appreciate the freedom in exploring all their options until they land on the right one.
Dean isn’t that person, and he isn’t interested in becoming that person either. So I should just let him be. That’s easier said than done, though.
Get Dean out of my system? Hardly. Instead, he’s wormed his way into every nook and cranny of my psyche, and try as I might, I can’t kick him out of here. Worse, I’m premenstrual, so I’m extra grumpy about the situation. As if all that weren’t enough, now I need to put on a happy face and teach my students how our government works in theory when they damn well know how it works in practice. Might as well call this session Intro to Fairy Tales rather than Intro to Civics.
The sound of shuffling footsteps draws me out of my musings. It’s time to shut off the Dean compartment of my brain and focus on my class. After everyone’s settled, I glance at the empty desk where Layla usually sits. I shouldn’t have favorites, but I’ll confess to having a soft spot for her. She wants to be a paralegal. I even connected her with Lina, who was one herself before she became a wedding planner, so Layla could get the real scoop on her dream profession. “Has anyone seen Layla?” Most of the students shrug.
This isn’t like her. She’s punctual. And uber responsible. If she’s going to be late to class, she sends an email. She’s never missed a class altogether. I look up to find the rest of the students staring at me expectantly. “Sorry, everyone. Turn to page one-forty-six in your study guides. We’re going to talk about capitalism today. But first, let’s begin with a question: Can anyone tell me what Biggie Smalls meant when he said, ‘Mo money mo problems’?”
After class, I check email on my laptop, still distracted by Layla’s absence. Sure enough, a new message from her sits in my inbox. That’s my girl. It reads:
Hello, Ms. Pereira:
I’m sorry I missed class today. I wanted to tell you this in person, but I don’t think I’ll be able to get out there anytime soon. A job opportunity fell into my lap, and I had to take it. Unfortunately, it means I won’t be able to attend your class anymore. It’s just Mom and me, so I really don’t have a choice. I hope you understand.
Thank you so much for making school fun again. If I’d had you as a teacher in high school, I probably would have finished.
Sincerely,
Layla
I stare at the words for a minute or two before they truly sink in. There’s nothing earth-shattering about the news, but the casual finality of it guts me for some reason. Her explanation is perfectly reasonable: A job, particularly in this economy, isn’t a small matter. But I’d gotten ahead of myself and imagined seeing Layla pass her GED, attend community college, study to become a paralegal. In my head, I would be serving as her mentor, even if I decided not to accept a permanent position with Victory Academy. Just like that, the scenario I envisioned is no longer a possibility. It’s a timely reminder that relationships can often be one-sided. Making space for someone in your life doesn’t guarantee they’ll make space for you in theirs.
“I’m ready for my lesson, Ms. Pereira.”
I startle at the sound of Dean’s deep voice. It’s tinged with humor—and matches the half smile he’s wearing as he leans against the door frame. His unbuttoned suit jacket allows me to see the sinewy muscles straining against his dress shirt.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, ignoring his attempt at flirtation.
His smile vanishes, replaced by a look of concern. “I thought we could catch a ride home together. Show up to my place at the same time. I think it would be awkward if I were alone with your cousins, and I didn’t want you to have to scramble if they asked you for something and you couldn’t find it.”
I should be grateful he’s thinking ahead, but I’m growing tired of the subterfuge. It isn’t Dean’s fault, though, so I muster a smile and slowly rise to my feet. “Good idea.”
He steps inside, then shuts the door behind him. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
Because Dean’s my friend, it never occurs to me to tell him anything but the truth. “I got some unexpected news today. About one of my most promising students. It left me a bit deflated.”
“Are they okay?”
“I think so. But they’ve dropped the class. For a good reason, I’m sure. I suppose I was getting attached, and I didn’t even realize it.”
“That’s a sign of a good teacher. You care.” Dean holds out his hand. When I take it, he tugs me forward and draws me into his arms. Neither of us says anything. I don’t know that there’s anything for us to say anyway. He’s providing comfort. Being supportive. This is precisely what I need right now, and somehow Dean gets that.
“Ready to head home?” he asks, his breath feathering over my ear.
“Sure, I’m ready to head to your place.”
Home. His place. There’s a difference. And no matter how comforting it is to be wrapped in his arms, I can’t lose sight of that fact.
Dean
My brilliant idea to arrive at my condo together was pointless; Ana and Carlos aren’t even here, and Ana texted to let us know they won’t be arriving anytime soon.
“Is there anything else bothering you?” I ask.
Having fed Solange my signature bachelor meal of spaghetti and salad, I’m standing next to her at the kitchen counter as we dry the last of the dishes. She looks drained, the usual life in her eyes conspicuously missing. I can’t help wondering if I’ve done something to upset her.
She sighs, then sits on a stool. “I didn’t expect I’d ever have to explain this to you, but my period is coming, which means I’ll be grumpy for a bit. It’s not a fun time. I get terrible premenstrual cramps for several days, and they sap me of my usual strength. Happens like clockwork, unfortunately. I can borrow the electric stimulator from Natalia if you’d like to experience it for yourself.”
“Uh, no thanks.” There’s no way I’ll willingly strap on those nodes ever again. “So, given how you’re feeling, is it safe to be around you?”
She narrows her eyes.
Shit. I’m fucking toast. I back up a few steps just in case.
“Here’s a life tip, ol’ pal of mine,” she says. “There are certain things you don’t get to talk about. Not without negative consequences. And only people who get periods can talk about the attitude that goes along with them. I don’t make the rules; that’s just the way it is.”
“I can live with those rules,” I say quickly. “Permission to change the subject, then?”
“Smart man. Granted.”
I pull her off the stool, take her place, and draw her across my lap so we’re facing each other. “Okay, I want to know something about you that wasn’t in your dossier. A fact others would find surprising. And you need to make it good.” I waggle my eyebrows. “Extra points if it’s incriminating stuff.”
She rests her shoulder against mine and thinks about my question for a bit, then puffs out her chest as though she’s putting on a brave face and pushing through her discomfort. “Okay, here’s something: I throw one-person fashion shows in my apartment. And I don’t mean trying on clothes in front of a mirror. No, it’s an event. Makeup. Lights. Hairstyle changes. Brandon plays the emcee.”
It’s easy to picture them doing this together. I mean, Brandon would be the perfect hype man. “I bet he’s excellent at it too.”
She nods. “He is.”
I study her face and watch the life return to her eyes. This is an activity Solange obviously enjoys. But then she grimaces, and I wish there were something I could do to make her feel better.
“Want to throw a show here?” I ask.
Where the hell did that suggestion come from?
“I don’t have any clothes,” Solange says on a laugh. “I wish I . . .” Her voice peters out as she considers me. “Oh, but you do, don’t you? Is that what you were suggesting? That you’d be the model, and I’d narrate?”
“Honestly, the thought just popped into my head, so I have no damn clue what I was suggesting. My mouth occasionally disobeys my brain and goes rogue. But yeah, we could do that if you want.”
“I want!” She jumps off my lap, wobbles a bit, then places a hand on the counter. “Whoa. Too fast.”
I’m at her side in seconds. “Come sit on the couch and relax. I’ll take care of everything.” She leans on me as I guide her across the room, accepting my help as if it were an ordinary occurrence.
Once Solange has taken Tylenol and is safely ensconced in a comforter, a glass of water within reach, I shuffle back to my bedroom and lay a few outfits on my bed. Hopefully my antics will lighten Solange’s mood. Regardless, I’ll get to experience what it’s like to be a part of her inner circle.
After I settle on the runway order, I reenter the living area, move the coffee table out of the way, then reposition the floor lamp to act as a spotlight.
“You’re taking this seriously,” Solange says, grinning.
“I’m a professional through and through.” I leave without another word. Then, after my first outfit is squared away, I stroll down the hall. “Ready or not, here I come.”
“Wait,” Solange shouts back. “I need a mic!”
“Use the remote!”
“That works. Okay, ready.”
I glide down the hall, slowing my pace when I get to the living area’s entryway.
Smiling wide, Solange tucks her legs under her butt and raises the remote in front of her mouth. “Next, we have our most popular model of the evening, Dean Chapman. He’s wearing an expensive suit made by a designer I can’t name—”
“Tom Ford,” I say.
“Okay, then,” she continues. “He’s wearing a Tom Ford suit that probably costs at least a few months’ rent, but since I’ve seen him wear it twice in the time that I’ve known him, I won’t make any snide comments about his excess. Yet.”
“Focus, woman,” I say, rolling my eyes. “We won’t ever get to the good stuff at this pace.”
“Fine, fine. It’s a navy blue three-piece suit that highlights Dean’s classic style.”
With a wink, I spin around and lift my jacket.
“Scratch that,” Solange adds. “The suit shows off his very fine ass.”
“That’s more like it,” I say before striding back to my bedroom.
The plan is to put on progressively more casual clothes and end with the pièce de résistance: my very fine naked ass—if Solange is up for it. And if that doesn’t distract her from feeling shitty, nothing will.
When I come out, Solange’s expression melts into one of undisguised desire. Her mouth parts a fraction, and her breath hitches.
“Nothing to say?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Oh. Right. Chapman’s latest ensemble is irreverent and simple. Men’s casual wear at its finest. The gray sweatpants sit just below his waist and emphasize his enticing happy trail. Correction: That trail is fucking ecstatic.”
I swing my hips from side to side in a slow roll. “Notice anything else worth mentioning?”
Her gaze lands on my crotch. “The beauty of the fit is that underwear is optional, apparently. Either Chapman is freeballing or he’s carrying a baguette in his pants.”
Solange’s comment makes me miss a step.
“Yep,” she adds. “He’s definitely freeballing.”
I raise one finger in the air. “Hang on. I have one more outfit.”
“Chapman.”
I turn back. “Yes?”
“I do hope you’re going to wear even less for the next round.”
“Great minds, Solange,” I say, puckering my lips. “Great minds.”
She throws a pillow my way. “Get to it, then.”
A minute later, I return wearing . . . nothing. Just in case our wires have crossed, I hold the sweatpants against the front of my body.
Solange gestures at me. “Drop them, Chapman.”
I happily comply.
She whoops and circles her fist in the air. “Yesssss. That’s what I’m talking about.”
My plan is to make a slow revolution so she can enjoy my very fine ass, but the doorbell rings and I freeze instead.
Solange springs to her feet and takes a giant hop in my direction.
“Who could that be?” she whispers.
“Not sure,” I whisper back.
Outside, a voice says, “Dean, Solange, it’s Ana and Carlos. We were going to use the key, but then we heard a . . . scream . . . and uh, we just wanted to be sure it’s okay to come in.”
No, we aren’t having sex, but I am buck naked.
Solange, without any regard for my dignity or safety, spins me around, slaps my ass, and propels me down the hall. “It looks even better when it bounces,” she whispers.
“Oh, man, you’re going to pay for that,” I whisper back before scrambling out of sight. I gua-ran-tee it. It’s a shame we were interrupted, but I’m already envisioning an encore.
A half hour later, Solange and I are in bed. She’s reading a novel; I’m reviewing my notes for a hearing in one of my pro bono cases. But nothing’s sinking in. Because I can’t stop thinking about the woman beside me. I can easily imagine our being together this way each night. Even when Ana and Carlos are no longer here. But that’s ridiculous, right? Solange and I already agreed this isn’t that kind of party.
After a period of comfortable silence, she drops the book onto her lap. “What are you reading over there?”
“I have a hearing in a landlord-tenant case on Tuesday. I’m preparing a cross-examination.”
“That’s when you question your opponent’s witness?”
“Yeah. This time it’s the landlord.”
Solange turns on her side, snuggles into the blanket, and rests a hand against my chest. “Can you tell me what the case is about?”
For a moment, all I can do is stare at her. She’s looking up at me, her dark eyes alert and curious, her lips parted as she waits for me to respond. She’s so damn lovely. And she’s interested in my work. And I’m interested in her. And holy shit, my pulse is racing, and my brain is fuzzy right now.
“Dean?” she prompts.
I rub my temples, then take a calming breath. “Sorry. It’s a typical scenario. Landlord claims he gave proper notice that my client violated the lease by handing the notice to my client’s teenage son. Which was impossible since the kid was at an orientation for his new job at the time.”
“Oh, wow. The landlord flat-out lied. Will the hearing be open to the public?”
“Should be. Why?”
“Would it be okay if I told my students about it? I keep thinking of ways to make the class more interesting. Maybe seeing you in action would do that. Or would that be too embarrassing for you?”
I’m touched, actually. Solange has never seen me in the courtroom, yet she has enough confidence in me that she assumes it won’t be a disaster. “I wouldn’t mind at all. I’ll send you the hearing info. I can even chat with them if they find me afterward. So long as they promise not to snore in the courtroom, that is.”
She grins. “Thanks for being receptive to it. I mean, I’m not sure anyone will show up, but I’d like to offer it as an option. They’d be doing it on their own time.”
“And I’m sure they’ll appreciate it. It never goes unnoticed when someone goes the extra mile. Your students are lucky to have you.”
“If not me, it would be someone else. With the right curriculum, another person could do what I do in their sleep.”
The notion that this woman can be easily replaced by someone else strikes me as ludicrous. But Solange wants to believe it. Or maybe she needs to believe it—because it’ll make it easier for her to leave the academy at the end of the summer. “You know, I bet your students would disagree. They’re going to miss you, Solange.”
Hell, I’m going to miss her too. And in that moment, I realize something else: I want this woman in my life. Forever. As a friend, of course, but still. I’d like to be a part of her village; I’d like her to help me build mine. My chest tightens, and my breathing grows shallow. Damn, what the hell is wrong with me today? Maybe I just need a good night’s rest.
I turn off the lamp on my nightstand, and we settle in for bed.
“Need me to rub your belly?” I ask. “Would that help?”
“You’re the sweetest. Sure.”
“Get on your side, then.”
The sheets rustle as she positions herself. Once she’s still, I blanket her body from behind, snake my arm over her waist, and place my hand on her stomach. I rub in circles, hoping the sensation will distract her. “Is that good?”
“Yeah,” she whispers.
A minute later, she covers my hand with hers and draws our entwined fingers inside her drawstring pajama pants. “But here’s where I really need it,” she says, dragging my hand across her lower belly.
I scoot back, afraid that I’ll grow hard and that she’ll think I’m doing this for me. This is for her. Only for her.
It’s so quiet I can hear every breath she takes, each contented sigh. But then the unmistakable sound of wailing fills the room, and I jerk my hand out of her pants as if I’ve been scalded.
“Oh God,” Solange says, pulling the pillow out from under her head and covering her face with it.
“Jesus, it’s like we’re right there with them.”
She turns toward me and peeks out from under the pillow. “I know.”
“I think I can get them to stop,” I tell her.
“How?”
“Well, if they heard us, maybe they’d realize how thin the walls are.”
Her eyebrows snap together. “Good try, buddy, but no. I’m not having sex with you so they can listen to us.”
“You won’t have to. I’ll just fake it like Sally.”
She draws her head back and leans up on her elbows. “Who?”
“You know. Harry. Sally. When she faked an orgasm.”
“Oh, Lord,” she says, raising her gaze to the ceiling. “This, I must hear.”
“It won’t embarrass you?”
She gives me a deadpan expression. “You know me better than that.”
Right. Solange doesn’t embarrass easily—if at all. As I sit up and arrange my pillow behind me, I begin to moan. “Oh, that’s it, Solange.”
She shakes her head. “If we were actually having sex, you’d be much louder than that.”
Fair point. I narrow my eyes at her, picturing the way she owned my body just this morning. Channeling the energy I felt when she rocked against me earlier, I try again. “Yes, yes, motherfucking yes.”
“That’s better,” she says, her expression smug.
“What’s that, baby? I’m too big to fit?”
Her eyes go wide, and she grits her teeth. “Too big to fit, my ass,” she grumbles.
“Don’t worry, Solange,” I exclaim, panting heavily in between each word. “It’s not. Too big. To fit your ass.”
“Ew. You sound like William Shatner.” She punches me in the shoulder. “And anyway, that is not what I meant.”
“Oh, sorry,” I say, grinning sheepishly. “I didn’t hear the comma.”
She cackles on the inside, her mouth open and her chest heaving from the effort not to laugh out loud.
“Oh, fuuuuuuuck,” I say, pounding my hands on the mattress.
After a few more expletives, I ask, “Are you trying to insult me?”
“No, why would you say that?” she whispers.
“We’re supposed to be having sex, and you haven’t made a peep.”
“Oh, right.” She rolls onto her knees, grabs the headboard, then starts rattling it as if it were a fence. “Yes, yes, yes! Big Daddy, yes.”
“Big Daddy, eh?”
“Just go with it, Chapman,” she says, then she screams, “Ooh, right there. Yes. That. Is. Motherfucking. It.”
“Damn, I’m better in your fantasies than I am in reality.”
“True, true.”
I tackle Solange to the bed and tickle her until tears are streaming down her face. Eventually, I help her up as I listen for any sounds from our guests. It’s quiet again, so I assume Ana and Carlos got the hint . . . or finished.
Solange and I give each other a high five, then I kiss her forehead. I can’t recall ever being this silly with any person I’ve dated in the past. Not that Solange and I are dating. She’s a friend. A friend I have sex with. A friend I have fun with. And I can’t forget that she’ll be leaving town for who-knows-where in just a few weeks. My brain wants to skip over that part, though.
She makes a big production of rearranging the pillows and comforter just the way she likes them, which is to say she hogs them, then she drops onto her back and lets out a satisfied sigh. “Now we’ll be able to sleep. And think about it: All we have left is dinner with the family tomorrow night, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
I guess that’s supposed to be good news. My stomach dips when I realize it isn’t.