Chapter Seven
Dean
Saturday afternoon, I’m sitting in my office prepping for an appearance in one of my landlord-tenant clinic cases when I get a text from Max:
I heard.
It’s been two days since Solange agreed to be my fake girlfriend. I’m surprised it took him this long to start poking his nose into the situation.
Me: Heard what?
Max: About you and Solange. The scheme. Shit like this never works. Lina and I know.
Me: I don’t have a choice. I fucked up. You know what making partner means to me.
Max: Right.
Me: This isn’t a game, it’s my future.
Max: I know.
Me: It’s only a few fake dates.
Max: Make sure it stays that way.
Me: Okay.
Max: I mean it, D. You do not want to get on Lina’s bad side.
Me: She has a good one?
Me: Kidding.
Max: Line. Crossed. I’m kicking your ass the next time I see you.
Max: Listen, I don’t know the details, but I know Solange doesn’t need your brand of bullshit.
Me: What the hell. I’m an honest guy.
Max: Says the man who just agreed to fake a relationship.
Me: Honest about my feelings, asshole.
Max: Semantics, dude.
Me: Are you done?
Max: Yes.
Me: You have nothing to worry about. Check in when you have something useful to say.
Me: Are we still on for basketball tomorrow?
Max: Yeah.
I toss the phone and my reading glasses on the desk, then massage my temples, the eyestrain from staring at a computer all day finally getting to me. Now’s as good a time as any to make my way over to Solange’s. Taking a quick tour of her apartment and eating carry-out together at mine sounds like an ideal way to spend the evening. I’m glad Solange suggested we do this; it reassures me that we’re equally committed to the success of our ruse.
As I pack up to leave, I can’t help smiling about our conversation at the café. She’s a bright woman. Confident. Takes pride in her convictions. Deploys her sarcasm with the skill of a seasoned trial lawyer wooing a jury. And she’s definitely a good sport for helping me out. But in the end, Solange has a wanderer’s soul, and she’s obviously still finding herself. Can’t wait to see what she does when she finally figures out her place in the world.
At this stage in my life, I’m looking for someone just as goal-oriented as I am, a person who knows what they want and is well on their way to getting it. Without the baggage of being in love with someone else, of course. So as much as I hate to give Max credit, he’s absolutely spot-on about this: There is no point in blurring the lines with Solange. Good thing is, I’m not inclined to anyway.
* * *
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the guy who’s trying to steal my girlfriend.”
The Black man at Solange’s apartment door looks me up and down as a dozen thoughts crash into my head at once: What the hell is going on? I thought Solange wasn’t dating. How is our pretend relationship going to work if she’s with someone? Did Solange tell him about our arrangement? And how is his goatee so damn perfect? There isn’t a single blemish on his dark brown skin. Does this man even eat sugar? Should I dodge and weave now or protect my jaw and back out slowly?
The stern expression on his face slips, and he grins at me. “I’m just fucking with you, man.” He gestures for me to come inside and puts out his hand. “I’m Brandon. Good friend and roommate. Occasional fake boyfriend when she needs me.”
The tension in my muscles dissipates. “I’m Dean,” I say as we shake hands. “Good to meet you.”
Just when I think the situation’s clear, he plants his legs wide and glares at me. “Full disclosure, though: Between us, I’m secretly in love with her, and I’m not happy about this little game you’ve drawn her into. Sounds like you’re using it as an excuse to get close to her.”
It’s a standoff, and I have no idea what to do next, so I meet his gaze and wait.
“And . . . scene.” He shakes his head, his mouth twitching in amusement. “Again, I’m messing with you.”
Solange strides into the room from down the hall, an empty laundry basket in her hands. She’s wearing a light blue dress that hugs her curves, and her feet are bare. “Brandon, they asked you to work an emergency shift for a reason. Get your ass in gear.”
Brandon swipes a wallet off a table in the foyer and tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans. “True, indeed. My patrons and their alcohol-induced confessions need me stat.”
Solange flicks her gaze upward as if to warn me against being fooled by her friend’s melodrama. “Brandon’s a bartender and aspiring actor who isn’t ready to live in New York. That should explain a lot.” Lifting the basket, she adds, “I put my clothes away in your honor. Otherwise, I usually treat this as my dresser for the week.”
She doesn’t say hey, or hello, or anything, and for some reason that omission eases my nerves. If she’s this casual with me now, imagine how she’ll be after we actually get to know each other. It also suggests she isn’t worried about our scheme, and I could use any extra bravado she has to offer. I place my hands over my heart and bat my eyes. “I’m flattered.”
Solange and I smile at each other. It gives me the opportunity to look at her. Really look at her. Without the spectacle of a canceled wedding in the forefront. Without the prospect of her saying no to my pretend-relationship proposition ratcheting up my anxiety. There’s so much to admire too: Her eyes are the kind of brown that feels sumptuous—like the center of one of those molten lava cakes you’re advised to order even before you’ve had the entrée because it takes thirty minutes to prepare. And that hair. It’s everywhere. Big curls in different shades, from caramel to walnut; they deserve their own zip code, and I’d fucking live in it if I could. Now, I don’t dare stare at her mouth—feels too intimate—but I do register her high cheekbones and the smoothness of her brown skin. Ironically, Max’s warning prompts me to think about leaping over the lines I claimed just an hour ago I had no intention of crossing. Who would blame me? Not a goddamn person, that’s who.
A throat clears, snapping me out of the moment. Oh, right. The roommate’s still here.
“I’m out, people,” Brandon says, a knowing grin suggesting he can easily guess where my head’s been. “I’m covering for someone who’s running late, so I’ll be back soon. Just in case you need to sync your activities with my whereabouts.”
Solange purses her lips at Brandon, then dismisses him with a wave. “Tchau.”
“Good to meet you, Dean.”
“Same, man.”
After Brandon leaves, Solange crams the laundry basket in a standalone utility closet by the fridge, using her backside to ram the door shut. “Can I get you anything? Water? A beer?”
“I’m good for now, thanks.” I spin around and study her space. “You know, we’re practically neighbors.”
She nods. “I saw that in the dossier. The backstory is that Brandon’s parents own a couple of properties in the district. This is one of them.”
“Now that’s a sweet deal.”
“Yeah, especially considering my salary.” Her eyes suddenly grow wide, and she points in my direction, backing away slowly. “Oh my God, what are those?”
“What?” I say, holding up my arms and scanning the area around me.
“Are those . . . jeans? I thought you only wore button-downs and slacks because they’re more your”—she makes air quotes—“‘style.’”
I tilt my head and flatten my lips. “Really? Right when I was beginning to like you . . .”
She wrinkles her nose and gives me an impish smile. “Just glad to see you know how to be casual. I’ll be good from now on, I promise.” Expanding her arms wide, she adds, “Okay, so this is my place. Feel free to inspect everything except Brandon’s room and my underwear drawer. Any questions, ask away. I’d shadow you around the apartment to make sure you don’t steal anything of value, but there isn’t much that falls in that category.”
“Where should I start? Bathroom?” I give her a wicked grin. “Your medicine cabinet?”
“Jesus, Chapman. That’s a little forward, don’t you think? You haven’t even taken me on a date yet.”
“Apologies. Bedroom, then?”
“That’s more like it,” she says with a wink.
I was kidding before. I’m not beginning to like her; I do like her. She’s unassuming and witty, and I can’t stop smiling at whatever happens to tumble out of that gorgeous mouth.
No.
It’s just an ordinary mouth, dammit.
She racewalks down the hall, then opens a door with a flourish. “Ta-da. Welcome to Casa Solange.”
I stand at the threshold and take in the space. Fuck me. It’s sexy as hell. The focal point is the queen-size bed, which is framed by a floor-to-ceiling headboard upholstered in midnight-blue velvet. Nothing is sleek; it’s just texture and more texture. From the fuzzy blanket at the foot of the bed to the three-dimensional metal wall art above her dresser. But there isn’t much else here. A few flat U-Haul moving boxes are propped up against her closet; they’re a reminder that her furnishings are probably sparse because it makes it easier for her to pack up and head off to her next destination.
Looking for an item to distract me from the allure of Solange’s bed, I settle my gaze on a photo collage on the opposite side of the room. “What’s that?”
“Just some photos of people I met during my travels,” she says in a detached tone.
I point inside. “May I?”
She swallows, then shrugs her shoulders. “Be my guest.”
I’m not sure why I’m drawn to the collage. Maybe it’s because I think it’s going to give me some insight into Solange’s personality beyond the information she sent me. Now that I’m close to it, I can see that Solange is in every one of them. Looking relaxed and content. With people of different ages and racial backgrounds. All smiling proudly. “They’re wearing hotel uniforms.”
“Yes,” she says, appearing at my side, her arms crossed over her middle. “They’re the folks who clean the rooms. Or the bellhops who bring up people’s bags. When I was a child, my mother would always task me with finding out the name of the person who was responsible for cleaning our hotel room. Before we checked out, she’d leave a tip, and I’d leave a note, usually consisting of a terribly drawn picture and a thank-you scrawled across the page. ‘We can’t forget the people who work in the shadows,’ she would say. She cleaned houses herself when she first came to the U.S., so I think she knew how important it was to be acknowledged, and she certainly knew the value of an extra few dollars in her pocket.”
“Then you started taking pictures of these people on your own trips?”
“Yeah. Whenever I visit a new place, I take tons of pictures. Of beaches. Of beautiful sunsets. Or mountain ranges. Or even a fantastic meal. All in an effort to capture my experience. One day, I realized what was missing: the people who make the bed or bring you towels or do a million other tasks we take for granted. So I started capturing them. With their permission, of course.” She shrugs again. “Just something I do.”
It’s a tic of hers, I now realize. Whatever follows that shrug is important, but she doesn’t want to let you in on that fact. I also realize something else: Solange may be unsure where her future will lead her, but being a good person is her moral compass; that’s a level of success some people never reach. “It’s incredibly considerate, and it speaks volumes about you.”
“I’m a messy bitch sometimes, so don’t get too carried away,” she says, her tone playful again.
“Definitely noted,” I say, wanting to lighten the mood as much as she apparently does. “You know, it’s not the eyes that are the windows to your soul, it’s the stomach. Let’s see the kitchen next.”
She gives me a shaky laugh as she nods her assent. “Sounds good.”
I make small talk as I follow her down the hall. “Miracle Whip?”
“Gross,” she says over her shoulder.
“Mustard?”
“Only on a soft pretzel or a Cubano.”
“Ketchup?”
“Of course. It’s a base.”
“What the hell for?”
“Mayo, ketchup, and garlic. Whip ’em together and you have the best dip for yuca fries or tostones.”
“Gross.”
She stops short and stares at me over her shoulder. “I will kick you out of this apartment for that kind of blasphemy.”
“Delicious, then,” I say, rubbing my stomach.
We reach the kitchen, and my gaze immediately homes in on the dozen or so small appliances that sit side by side in the compact space. “Think there’s enough on that counter?”
“Hush,” she says, grinning.
“Why all the coffee gadgets?”
She grimaces, turning her nose up in disgust. “Brandon swears by his Keurig, but I like to prepare my coffee the old-fashioned way.” She opens a cupboard: One shelf is crammed with mugs, the middle shelf houses K-Cups organized by flavor, and the top shelf holds a dozen red boxes labeled “Pilão.”
“What are those?” I say, pointing to the boxes.
“That’s the coffee my mother and tias sell at Rio de Wheaton.”
“The place they’ve been running since 2003. You and your cousins did homework there after school.”
She raises a brow. “I see someone’s been studying the Solange Dossier.”
“I have.”
Gleaned a lot from it too: a year abroad in Argentina during her senior year; a stint as a census field worker on both coasts after college; next, two years at Building Futures; then, graduate school and this DC placement to fulfill her fellowship. In that same time, I’ve had one and only one job—as an associate at Olney & Henderson. Some people plant roots; others sprinkle seeds and let others tend to the growth. Solange seems to be in tune enough with herself to know she’s more suited to the latter. I admire that about her.
“Well, if you’ve been a diligent student,” Solange says, “you also know my mom and tias are my suppliers for just about any Brazilian product I want.” She closes the cupboard. “But for your purposes, the key is this: I like my coffee strong. Black. No sugar. If we’re at dinner and you pour creamer into my cup, I won’t drink it.”
“That’s important,” I say, pretending to jot that tidbit in a pad. “And just so you know, I like mine sticky and sweet. The more caramel drizzle, the better.”
She stares at my lips, as if she’s having trouble processing my words, so I wave a hand in front of her face, and the movement appears to clear the mental fog. She blinks twice, then shakes out her arms and says, “Sounds like a cinnamon roll, not a beverage.”
“Okay, you know what? Your animosity for my coffee preferences is getting out of hand. Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s rude to yuck someone’s yum?”
“I’m a fan of swallowing, so no. Plenty of people seem to enjoy when I yuck their yum, actually.”
“Are we talking about the same thing?”
“Probably not,” she says, holding back a smile.
I jam my thumbs into the front pockets of my jeans. Jesus, my head’s spinning. “Honestly, I can’t keep up with your brain. Just when I think our conversation’s headed in one direction, you take a sharp turn.”
“It requires some getting used to, I’ll give you that.” She tilts her head and studies me. As if she’s sizing me up. Then she snaps her fingers. “I have an idea! We should go out. To a bar.”
Spinning, spinning, spinning. “I thought you wanted to head over to my place.”
She dismisses my question with a flail of her hands. “We can do that later. For now, though, I think it would be wise to get in some practice. In an unrehearsed scenario. We’re not going to have dossiers or the benefit of a script for any of these outings with Kimberly Bailey, so we should get comfortable winging it. Somehow I don’t think that’s one of your strengths.”
She’s not wrong. That my first instinct was to make up a sketchy story about my canceled wedding is proof alone of that. Besides, spending time with Solange isn’t a chore. So, yeah, if she wants to simulate a night out on the town to help us work out any kinks, I’m all for it. I look down at my attire. “I’m probably not dressed for what you have in mind, though.”
“This place is casual. You’ll fit right in.”
“Let’s do it, then.”
Practice is a good thing. And given what’s at stake, I appreciate that Solange is willing to put in this extra effort. Besides, it would be better to stumble through our performance now than when it actually matters. I mean, how much trouble can we get into in a bar?