by Love Belvin
His eyes shifted up to me, brows meeting. “Dinner. I’m a point away from starving.”
“Is this why you asked for the list of ingredients for my family’s spaghetti?” Why did I not find anything strange about that the night before my birthday when he had asked for a list? “You plan to cook it?”
He shook his head, placing his phone on the counter. Next, he wiggled out of his coat and placed it over mine. Ashton opened a couple of cabinet doors until he pulled out a wine glass and a regular one. “No. I plan to watch you cook the meal I stole you from on Thanksgiving.” He moved on to another cabinet below, where he pulled out a bottle of wine and dark liquor I’d seen him drink before. Then he began looking through drawers. “I plan on watching to hopefully learn why an American—no, Black American—family would prepare spaghetti for a Thanksgiving meal.”
“Oh, you got jokes?” I couldn’t help the goofy smile on my face.
His hairy cheeks lifted and eyes narrowed. “Nope. I’m just waiting to learn a new culture.” His head cocked to the side when he pulled out a bottle opener. “And what the hell does chicken have to do with this dish?”
I nodded, feeling challenged. “Okay. Have a seat, South Orange boy. Let me learn you something, my Margaret Maureen McNabb’s style.”
I kicked off my shoes, toeing them into the hallway to get comfortable before getting started. Then it was my turn to rummage through the cabinets to find pots and pans. Though I shouldn’t have, I was blown away when finding ones that hadn’t been used. They were stainless steel, something I didn’t prefer, but I’d work with them.
“So, how many famous people do you know?” I asked, still on that Tyler Thomas kick.
Ashton poured the wine into the glass. “Not many.”
“Really?” I asked, still separating what I needed to warm the oil then put the breakfast foods into the fridge and freezer. “I don’t believe you.”
He chuckled while pouring the other drink. “Why?”
I caught his versed movements. He was confident and experienced beyond what I should have been comfortable with. Shit, I was out of my league! Ashton may have been twenty-two, but he had an old soul to him. Most guys and girls my age drank fruity, mixed drinks or Hennessy from the bottle. Not him. He poured wine I couldn’t name and Courvoisier, what the rappers rhymed about.
Suddenly, I felt lightheaded, but just for a moment. A wave of giddiness washed over me out of nowhere. It made me question my sobriety. I hadn’t even taken a drink of anything yet. I felt warm all over, and…safe. I felt safe and welcomed.
“Because,” I finally answered, fighting not to leave this mental and emotional headspace. I wanted to be here. God, don’t let me blow it. “your dad was a freakin’ millionaire. He was Mr. B-Way Burger, a Black man in America with a white man’s privilege.”
“Ahhhh!” He smiled, demeanor sound, collected. “Someone was paying attention to Thomas earlier.”
There was that giddy feeling again. I nodded hard, trying to measure the oil I was pouring into the pot. “How could I not. He made me feel similar to Brielle at her concert. Brielle made me expect to be successful with fighting. Like I could go far if I work for it and…see it. Today, Tyler Thomas made me feel like I had to see it. Like it’s my responsibility to everyone before me and behind me to dream and achieve.” Ashton handed me the glass of wine. “I feel good to be Black.”
“That’s the beginning of privilege,” he murmured, taking a seat at the bench near the hallway. “It happens when you leave your city or small town where there’s little opportunity. It’s when you have the advantage of receiving the energy of, and possibly blueprint from, successful people, and realize you can achieve at a high level, too.” His eyes slanted in that way they did when talking to me in bed.
“I do!” I admitted while preparing to clean the chicken. “I feel like this fighting thing can really happen. Like I can really show the world I’m unbeatable.” He nodded before taking a sip of his drink, total attention on me and not the buzzing of his phone. “That’s your phone.”
“I know.” His voice soft, eyes set on me. “It’s my birthday. I’m in the middle of celebrating it.”
“Oh!” I couldn’t believe I forgot. “I have a gift for you.”
“Later.” He took another sip. “Tell me more about these new revelations happening in your head.”
I shrugged shyly while moving around the kitchen. Still, I felt woozy, but could fight through it. Taking a sip of the wine seemed like a good idea until I did it. It was sour, tasting like lemon juice flavored with a smidge of apples and grapes. I wouldn’t complain, though. I decided I’d finish the glass and wouldn’t have more. There was no way I’d ruin this moment.
“Well, the only famous person I know is Alton Alston. He’s such an asshole, I hear. My cousin’s cousin went to high school with him and lived right around the corner from him, too. He said before Alton got drafted, he got a high school senior pregnant and left her high and dry. He never visits Millville. Ever.” I couldn’t stop talking if I wanted to. “He came home for a visit like three years ago, though, but that was to get the key the mayor gave to the city. He had the nerve to bring Stenton Rogers. We think he did it to show off his new status. But in the end, we were grateful to have a real star in our town. StentRo is the real star of that team anyway. Alton can play, but he’s an ass.”
“StentRo has a past, too.”
I gasped. “You know him?”
Again, Ashton chuckled lazily, looking like a grown-ass man. I shouldn’t have been so attracted to him, but I couldn’t help it. He was damn fine.
“Not really. He’s from my hometown. I’ve seen him around lots. He rides for Brick City.” His smile could start a fire between my legs—but I couldn’t focus on that!
Ashton didn’t want me in that way.
“You didn’t answer if you knew him, though.” I squinted my eyes his way, not believing him.
More chuckling from him before he pushed up from the counter and ambled into the living room. “I don’t have his number, if that’s what you mean. I’m sure A.D. Jones does. Positive my old coaches from Ellis Academy do, too. He’s a Newark nigga.” Ashton found a couple of remotes and tested them out. The radio. That’s what he was looking for because when that played, he found an old school R&B station and adjusted the volume to a low level that we could still hear. Then he came back to the counter. “My point was, Stenton Rogers was like the biggest bad boy in the league at the time; arrests, leaked nude pictures, heavy ass drinking, and partying.”
“But I’d never heard he was a terrible human like Alton. StentRo’s from your ‘other’ hometown and you can be proud of him. Alton’s from mine and he’s shitty. Anyway…” I let out a breath while dicing up the green pepper. “I’m not going to be like that when I make it. I won’t be nasty and I won’t forget about Millville. Maybe I’ll be like you: think I’m from two different places and give back to Millville and New Brunswick.” I shrugged.
Ashton nodded before going for his drink again. He looked stupidly adorable.
“My mom once met Diddy at one of the casinos. She’s met a lot of people over there in Atlantic City. That happens when you work down there. Well, at the right casinos. The boring ones have nobody.” I rolled my eyes, sautéing the vegetables with minced garlic. “My Margaret Maureen used to work at the Golden Nugget back in the ‘90s. That’s when she was a housekeeper. She met Mike Tyson lots. Said he kept a disgusting room. He stayed there a lot. She met Whitney Houston, too. That’s when A.C. was big. I remember when everybody wanted a job…” I talked and talked, chatting more than I was used to.
I talked about my grandmother’s retirement party when she left the casinos and her birthday parties at the jobs she took after because she didn’t fully retire. I talked about my last street fight with Paul’s daughters—without mentioning Paul—and how Renata was going into the army, all while Ashton sat and listened, not even going beyond his first drink. Mine took forever to fi
nish, but I did mid-way frying chicken. I stewed the spaghetti sauce through Keyshia Cole’s “Love,” which I didn’t find “old school,” and fried chicken through SWV’s “You’re the One.”
When it was all done almost an hour and a half later, I may have been all talked out. As I plated the last crispy chicken wing, Ashton was reaching in a high cabinet for plates. He’d begun setting up the dining room table for us to eat as Mint Condition sang “What Kind of Man Would I Be.” I watched him mutedly go about preparing for his birthday meal like we’d done it so many times before. A bucket of reality doused over me. How did I get here? What was this? This felt too easy, too natural. But it wasn’t. It felt too good and so wrong at the same time. That, it was.
“You okay?” he asked when chancing a look at me.
I was and I wasn’t. That high? It was still there, but temporarily still, giving me a moment to take it all in. This was a personal recipe I’d just made with gusto for this guy who I’d just met three months ago. The one who started out as my bully and was now…my fantasy. A fantasy who didn’t want me the way I did him, and who’d had a girlfriend—that he thought he’d broken up with.
I scratched a sudden itch on my arm, thinking of an answer. “I am.” My face tightened. “You mind if I get out of these clothes? I smell—feel—like a short-order cook.”
I abandoned the bubble. Stupid me was thinking too hard on what felt good to me. Why couldn’t I feel good? No, he didn’t want me that way, but he wanted to be cool. Why couldn’t I accept that and be happy?
He nodded, pushing his hands into his pant pockets. “Take your time. I’ll wait.” Calm, collected, and hella sure of himself. He tossed his chin. “Your bag is right there. The main bathroom should be in the bedroom, just off that way.”
I’d forgotten he’d been with me the whole time I cooked, listening to me do something I’d only done with my girls. Feeling off, I nodded, then turned for my bag. The bedroom portion was huge. It didn’t have a door, but there was a large walk-in closet on the way to the bathroom. I tried not taking in the place too much, not wanting to have him waiting on me long. I rushed through a shower and changed into a large BSU tee and biker shorts. The shower was what I needed to snap out of my weirdness. On my way out, I snatched out my ponytail to loosen the tension in my scalp. I had to stop tripping.
Everything’s cool. This is Ashton…
There were candles on the table. That was the first thing I noticed. Ashton was leaned over the counter in his Blackberry.
“You need these to write on your phone, too?” I teased.
His head whipped my way, eyes widened, and he stood. At first, Ashton seemed spooked, then he cocked his head to the side and squinted. “It’s my birthday, McNabb. I’m worth a candlelit spaghetti dinner. Ain’t I?” I couldn’t help my laugh and rolled my eyes. “C’mon. I’m hungry.”
I was in action, taking the seat near the wall. He brought out the spaghetti sauce and pasta in bowls and the chicken on a platter. They were plain white, but looked fancy. We didn’t have these at home. We served food out of pots and pans or regular plates.
“So…” Ashton started, bringing a bottle of cranberry juice I’d put in the fridge earlier to the table.
“So,” I mocked him. “Do I give a happy birthday toast or something before we rip into this delicious food now, or wait?”
“Rip?” He puffed out a breath. “Who said it’ll be all that?”
My smile was big. “I did. My Margaret, too.”
“I’ll be the judge of you doing Margaret Maureen McNabb’s recipe justice or not.” His tone was crazy serious.
But he’d said her name. He spoke it like she was real to him, too. I missed that lady too much, but Ashton didn’t make me feel weird about it.
“We can save that for later. I’m going to pass out if I don’t grub now.”
And that’s what we did. We took turns drawing from different bowls and the chicken platter. Then we started to chow down. As I sucked the ends of a few pieces of noodles noisily into my mouth, I watched Ashton use a big spoon to wrap his pasta around his fork. He chuckled, eyes on his task.
“What?” I asked with a mouthful.
“You’ve got horrible table manners.” His voice was lazy.
I rolled my eyes. “Those aren’t the only manners of mine that are horrible.” Shrugging, I argued, “It’s spaghetti. It’s what you do.”
“Mmmhmmm,” he replied before feeding himself. Ashton seemed unimpressed by my answer, but that was him. Arrogant human sometimes, too. After taking a bite of my chicken, I caught him staring at my hair. His eyes were low while doing it, and again, I couldn’t read his thoughts. Oh, well. I put my foot into this food! “It’s December,” his deep vocals rang out.
“Yeah. I know.” His birthday was the first day of December.
“That means there’s only about two weeks left of the semester. How do you think you did?”
“As far as school? I’ve done better in college than I did in high school grade-wise. So, I’d say good.”
“Thanks to yours truly.”
“For one writing class.” I rolled my eyes. “Oh, and a fake boyfriend, and mad new gear.”
He asked, “Will you be coming back in the spring?” before taking a bite of chicken.
I nodded and chewed, mouth full. “I can’t say I had the best time here or I fit in, but I still think it was a good decision.” I was able to look at him.
Ashton froze while I answered. “That’s cool. Blakewood was the best decision for me. The academic experience is unparalleled, and the athletic department is the best on the planet.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Mr. BSU. You’re a walking pamphlet,” I joked. Then a thought hit me. “People talk about your schedule. I hear you won’t be here next semester.”
He shook his head, attention back on his food. “I start workouts for the Combine right after the New Year out in Jersey. There’s a gym in Upper Saddle River for training. Then the Combine in February.”
“What’s that?”
“The event where players go and show off their abilities for coaches, GMs, and other League heads. They test to see who’s got the goods for the League.”
“So, a whole day?”
“A week.”
“You’ve got to be tested for a whole week?”
“It’ll basically be me showing them what I got. That’s where my draft stock will be established, and when teams can officially look at me to see I’ve got what it takes.”
“You’ll be a lab rat.” I understood.
“Pretty much. So while you’re kicking off your second semester, I’ll be in camp training in Jersey getting ready, then in Indianapolis showing my ass. After there, I have a few obligatory events, then comes the draft in April.” He shrugged, going for the last of his spaghetti.
I nodded, loving his confidence. Ashton had lots coming up. I wouldn’t see him. What would that have meant for Aivery before their “break up?” That was something I still wasn’t convinced would stick. I’d only known them for three months and, in my mind, they were permanently together. It was how I met them, how, for weeks, I wanted to leave them.
“What’s the matter?”
I glanced up to find his eyes on me.
Shrugging, I went for my chicken. “Nothing. Just realizing I won’t see your ugly, bossy, moody, controlling human form after a couple of weeks.”
“Awwwwww. Does that bother you, Nabby-girl?”
I blinked, brows in the air as I shook my head. “Why would something like that bother a tomboy?” Seriously wounded by that reality, I wouldn’t look at him. I was pissed.
Shit…
“Oh, right.” He sat back, swinging his arm over the back of the chair, sporting an amused expression. His head fell to the side. “The tomboy, who loves when I play with her pussy.” He nodded.
Arrogant human!
“I’ve changed my mind. I’m into girls.” No words had ever been more stupid coming from my face. My
eyes were to my chicken, though my appetite was gone. “Besides, I’m sure I can find one who can do better things with my ‘pussy’ than you, seeing they have one in the first place.”
“Like Trisha Gaskin’s friend, who tried to hit on you at the top of the semester?”
“Oh!” I sang dryly. “Definitely her. She’s old, too. You know old is experienced. I’m sure she can teach me a thing or two a twenty-one-year-old college guy can’t.”
“Twenty-two,” he stated calmly, then threw his napkin into the empty plate. “Today’s my birthday, making me twenty-two. And I’m ready for my gift. You ready to hear it?”
At first, I sat there like a confused idiot. He was ready for his gift? Okay, but it sounded like he had a choice of what it was.
“Okay…” I tried for strength, not knowing where he was going.
“I want you.”
My heart thundered in my chest. “Me?”
He lowered his chin. “You.”
My eyes bounced all over, not totally understanding, but so with it. “Okay.” I nodded. “Okay.”
“Do you know what that entails, KaToria?” When I didn’t respond, he clarified, “You. Your body. Tonight. Intercourse. All the way.”
I couldn’t hear the last two words because a damn siren sounded in my ear, my pulse was so strong. “Okay,” my voice cracked, and a wave of nausea had me sway a bit.
His face darkened, almost like he was angry. Or concerned. “I’m going to give you a minute to think about it. The last thing I want you to feel is pressure. You can say no whenever you want. Don’t worry about disappointing me.”
“Okay,” I squealed again.
Ashton slowly lifted from his seat. “I think your Margaret would be proud of how you’ve carried her recipe. This was delicious.”
He didn’t take his eyes off of me until he turned for the bedroom. I was left alone with a dry mouth and flipping belly. Slow music, candles, and good food. Ashton Spencer wants to have sex with me. Nervous energy surged my veins and I had to do something. So, I got up and began cleaning off the table, then I did the kitchen. When I was done, I made my way out into the living room with fidgety hands. Blindly, I watched the television that only showed the name of the artist and track playing until I heard slow footsteps behind me.
