by Nia Stephens
“You’re Rashid Black’s daughter?” Justin asked instantly.
“Um, yeah,” Bree admitted, only now realizing he’d seen her full name in her e-mail address. She hadn’t meant to mention her dad so soon, but if Justin’s parents were big-time entertainment lawyers, he wasn’t going to be wowed by the fact that Rashid was a producer.
“I’ve met him a few times. He seems very . . . calm compared to most people in the industry.”
“Yeah, Dad is calm all right,” Bree said, smiling at the memory of her father mumbling prayers under his breath as he jogged along the beach. “Very weird, but very calm. What are your parents like?”
“They’re intense. They don’t know how to do anything halfway. I can remember nights when they slept at the office, working through some hundred-page contract on a deadline. But they were good about spending some time with me and Jason every day, even if it was just a phone call at bedtime.”
“Jason’s your brother?” Bree asked. “I bet you’re older.”
“How did you know that?” he asked.
She shrugged. “You just seem like an older brother.”
“Interesting,” he said, tapping his menu against the table. “You know, you’re a very interesting woman, Briona Black.”
“Everyone is interesting if you know them well enough,” Bree countered. Justin laughed, but she was sincere. “Seriously, no matter how boring someone’s life might seem, there’s beauty there. You just have to get people to talk to you. Some of the most fascinating people I know are chauffeurs, or doormen, or maids. The woman who cleans my friend Kylian’s apartment is also a voodoo priestess, and this guy, Sam, who drives people around all night, has had poems published in The New Yorker.”
“But surely you would agree that some people are more interesting than others?” Justin countered.
Bree considered it. “I would agree that some people have had more interesting lives than other people, but that’s not the same thing at all. I mean, what does interesting really mean? Just that you happen to enjoy the same topics as someone else? Stamp collecting isn’t all that interesting to me, but there are thousands of people who think it’s absolutely fascinating.”
“Some people may think stamp collecting is interesting, but they’re just wrong,” Justin laughed. “The movie industry is interesting. That’s why millions of people read People and Entertainment Weekly, and buy any magazine with an actress on the cover. Maybe a thousand people read Stamp Collecting Times. Professional sports? Interesting. That’s why athletes make more money than baristas. No one thinks pouring coffee is interesting.”
Bree bristled. She had spent a day behind the counter at Starbucks to prepare for her bit role as a barista. After only a few hours of experiencing the grace and precision needed to deal with the pressure, she thought their work was very interesting—and not just because she was playing one when she met Orlando Bloom. But that wasn’t the point she wanted to argue.
“Professional sports may be the most boring thing on TV,” Bree said shortly, trying to make Justin realize that interesting was a relative term.
“It’s not as great on TV as it is live, I’ll admit that. But Lakers games, back in LA—”
Justin launched into a long story about Magic Johnson, which Bree ignored from beginning to end. She didn’t want to have an intense debate, so she decided it was easier to smile, nod, and enjoy the view than to try to change the subject. And it was a nice view. Justin was beyond hot: he was handsome, elegant, almost intimidating. And, once he finished with sports, he wasn’t boring either. He had seen almost as many movies as Bree, and often knew interesting bits of backstory about the filming that only lawyers heard about. And his experience in an LA prep school was nothing like Bree’s adventures at Rittenhouse—instead of debutante balls and parties at clubs, his social world revolved around beach houses and yachts and movie premieres.
“Really? Cotillions?” he asked after Bree told him about their school traditions. “That’s so old-fashioned.”
“Not really,” Bree began, but before she could explain how fun and bizarre the debutante thing actually was, he had gone back to describing an Oscar party where he met Halle Berry. This was a bit annoying, but Bree was used to other people dominating the conversation. Sutton did it all the time. Maybe it has something to do with having lawyers for parents, Bree wondered as Justin went on and on.
“We’re going to be late for the play,” he said, suddenly interrupting himself. “It’s so nice talking to you, I completely lost track of time.”
Bree and Justin had to speed-walk through the icy air to reach the theater on time, arm in arm for warmth, going too fast to talk about anything. Bree’s mild annoyance with Justin faded to wonder once the play actually began. The stage was awash with colors as seven women began to speak about different aspects of the life of a woman of color. Bree didn’t even think about Justin until the final curtain fell, even though he had been holding her hand almost the entire time.
“So what did you think?” he asked, though Bree had already climbed to her feet for a standing ovation.
The fact that I’m clapping should be a hint, she thought, but she said, “I thought it was brilliant. What about you?”
“I liked it,” he agreed. “Of course, the director is my brother.”
“Really?” They had been too late to grab programs on their way into the crowded theater—they were lucky enough to sneak in while the announcer was still explaining to the audience how to escape in case of fire. “You didn’t mention that your brother went to Columbia too.”
“Yeah, Jason’s here. In fact, he invited me to the cast party tonight, if you want to go. But it’s far awaysomewhere . . . at NYU,” Justin said rather slowly. Bree picked up on his reluctance immediately—Justin did not want to go to this party. Unfortunately for him, that was not true for Bree.
“I’d love to!” she gushed happily. There was an off chance that she would wind up at Columbia, and with her professional goals, she knew that it was always wise to network with actors and directors. “Why is it at NYU?”
“It’s part of the Collaborative Black Theater Project,” he explained, taking her by the elbow to lead her out of the theater. “Several colleges are involved, and some professionals too.”
“Sounds great,” Bree said.
Justin did not appear overly excited about the prospect of hanging out with a bunch of theater geeks, but he didn’t try to talk Bree out of going. In fact, he hailed a cab with surprising speed and directed their driver to the cramped downtown apartment just off-campus where the party was being held. Once they arrived, Justin seemed to relax a bit. He and Bree each had a glass or two of warmish, very bad chardonnay, and spoke to more people than Bree would ever recall. The one person who was notably absent was her date’s brother; Jason had apparently stayed at the theater with a few of the techs to fix some subtle problem the lights.
Bree was a bit disappointed to see that she didn’t recognize anyone at the party. She went to a lot of plays and made a point of putting names with faces. But most of the NYU students seemed to be film majors, not drama, so it wasn’t entirely surprising. She was surprised, though, when the one film major at NYU that she did know walked in the door.
“Wow! Bree!” Sean said, immediately bounding over. “I looked you up in IMDb! You really were in Tomorroworld!”
“Um, yes,” she said, sliding a bit closer to Justin. “Sean, this is Justin. Justin, Sean.”
“What was it like, working with Thandie?” Sean asked her, completely ignoring Justin. Bree was afraid he would be a bit weird, running into her with another guy so soon after their date. But apparently all he cared about was Thandie Newton.
“Fine,” Bree said, wondering how she was going to get out of this one. “But I was only on set for two days. It’s not like I really spent much time with her.”
“I had dinner with her twice,” Justin said, surprising both Bree and Sean and giving Bree exactly the exit she
needed. “She’s one of my mom’s clients.”
“Really? God, I’m so jealous,” Sean said. Now he was staring at Justin as if Bree didn’t exist. Bree took the opportunity to wander off in search of another drink while Justin told Sean every single detail of those two dinners. He was still going when Bree came back.
“Sean, why don’t you tell Justin about your movie?” Bree suggested, quickly realizing that every man considered himself the most interesting topic in the world. It was true for Justin, and it was true for Sean. Even his beloved Thandie could not compete with his own work. Within minutes, Justin’s eyes had glazed with boredom, and he turned back to Bree.
“Is there some special time when I’m supposed to bring you home?” Justin asked Bree. It was just after two.
Bree hated to admit it, since she was having a great time—at least until Sean had showed up—but she couldn’t lie. “Well, yes.”
“When?”
“Twelve minutes from now,” she admitted, checking her cell phone.
“Is it possible for you to get there on time?”
“Not unless a wormhole opens up between here and Central Park.”
“What?” Justin shot her a confused look.
“Never mind,” Bree giggled, finishing off her glass of wine. “It’s something my friend Kylian says. Sci-fi joke. But my point is, I’m late, no matter what I do now.”
“Is that going to be a problem?” he asked with some degree of concern.
“Not really. But I’d better call for a car now.” Bree slipped into the tiny bathroom to make the call. In the living room, most of the cast were singing along with old Marvin Gaye records, making so much noise Sam would never be able to understand her.
“He’ll be downstairs in five minutes,” Bree reported, rejoining Justin a few minutes later. “Your brother still hasn’t shown up?”
Justin shrugged. “He’ll turn up sooner or later. What about you? Any chance I can see you again?”
“Sure,” Bree said instantly. This hadn’t been the greatest date by any means, but it was certainly a pretty good one. Justin was pleasant, polite, and he had made sure that she had a good time, even when that meant doing something he didn’t really want to do. Weren’t real relationships about compromise? She could see a future with Justin in it—a future involving lots of compromise, on both sides.
“Would tomorrow night be too soon? I happen to have a couple of tickets to the Knicks game—courtside seats. And like I said, sports are amazing live.”
“Sure,” Bree said, a little more slowly this time. Basketball was not exactly her idea of a good time. She let her father drag her to a Knicks game once in a while, but she spent the whole time reciting monologues from Shakespeare to herself. But it wouldn’t kill her to do something different for once. Plus, hadn’t Justin come to the drama party for her sake?
“It’s a date, then. Call you with details tomorrow?”
“That’s fine,” said Bree. “I should be getting downstairs . . .”
Justin took her arm again, which was a little old-fashioned, but also rather cute, and walked her to the stoop. There was nothing old-fashioned about the way he kissed her goodnight, however. Waiting on the building’s steps for Sam, the frosty wind froze her skin, except where Justin touched her. He seemed to carry the heat of the LA sun within him—his hands were burning against her cheeks, his kiss like a mouthful of Red Hot candies. She could almost taste fiery cinnamon.
Bree finally noticed Sam honking a few yards from where she and Justin stood.
“Oh! I have to go. ‘Night, Justin!”
“Goodnight, Bree.” He kissed her again, briefly, on the cheek, when he leaned over to open her door. “See you soon!”
Bree blew him a kiss as Sam pulled away from the curb. “Love life turned around?” Sam asked.
“At last!” Bree said happily. She was still feeling a little fluttery. She knew perfectly well that a kiss, however hot, didn’t really mean anything. But she also knew that this was why people were willing to compromise—a deep attraction that had nothing to do with preferring theater over basketball, or basketball over theater. She might be willing to compromise a great deal for heat like that.
As the clock on the dashboard clicked to two-thirty, Bree’s cell phone began to ring.
“Yes, Mom . . . I know, Mom. I’m on my way home now . . . with Sam . . . A party at NYU . . . No, I’m not drunk . . . No, Mom, really. Not drunk. At all. Two glasses of wine . . . No, you can’t speak to Sam, he’s driving! I’ll be home in fifteen minutes, you can decide whether I’m drunk then! Fine, fine. Whatever. See you soon.”
Bree had a hard time taking her curfew seriously. Half the time, her mother wasn’t there to check anyway. And the reason why her mother did leave her home alone some weekends was because she knew she could trust Bree not to be an idiot. But when her mother was around, Ameera felt obliged to pretend to enforce her curfew.
At two thirty-two, Bree received a text message from Kylian:
How was For Colored Girls Who Tried Online Dating
When the Rainbow Was Not Enuf?
Bree laughed, and read it aloud for Sam.
“So what do you think about online dating so far? Better than suicide?” he asked her. In addition to reading and writing poetry, Sam had an interest in contemporary theater.
Bree grinned at him in the rearview mirror. “Better than Cats!”
Chapter 6
Soap Opera Love
“I don’t get it,” Sutton said, sprawling on Bree’s couch while Bree carefully applied foundation. Bi-weekly trips to Spa Kenya in Harlem for facials kept her skin fairly clear, but it wasn’t flawless, and Bree wanted it to look flawless.
“What is there to get?” Bree asked, blending the foundation carefully at the edge of her chin. “He’s nice, he’s cute, he wants to spend more time with me. Why wouldn’t I go out with him again?”
“Because he doesn’t talk about anything but himself? Clearly, he thinks you’re just arm candy.”
“Just what?” Bree applied a cream blush from Tarte to both cheeks. It was almost invisible, which she adored, and looked like she was actually blushing.
“Arm candy. Something pretty to hang on his arm, like a nice watch,” Sutton supplied.
“That would be arm jewelry, not candy.”
“Whatever! The point is that you’re supposed to be looking for true love, not just another cute guy.”
“‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’” Bree quoted, trying to decide between a smoky eye and plain black liner. Reasoning that smoky eyes might be a little much for a basketball game, she applied black pencil with a bit of gold glitter, Urban Decay’s Midnight Cowboy.
Sutton sputtered furiously in the background.
“This is exactly what you always do!” she griped. “You go on a sucky-to-lukewarm first date, but you’re so tender-hearted, so, ‘Maybe things will work out after all!’ So . . . so Pollyanna that you agree to go out on date two, date three, all the time knowing that it’s not going to work out. Why do you even bother?”
“You and Jordan were just friends for sixteen years, and then, last summer, things changed.” Bree blinked both eyes carefully, making sure that they matched. The hardest part of her daily routine was getting the lines equally thick over the center of her eyes. “Things do change, if you give them a chance.”
“That’s different. Jordan and I always liked each other. It doesn’t sound like you really like Justin.”
“I like him well enough for a second date,” Bree said, applying a single coat of mascara to her top lashes. She only wore it on her lower lashes if she was going to be on-screen. Otherwise she thought it made her eyes look spidery. “And that kiss!”
“I give up!” Sutton sighed. “You’re hopeless!”
“‘Hope springs eternal.’” Bree smiled at Sutton in her mirror.
“There you go, quoting Shakespeare at me when you should be checking out other guys online. You’re making
a big mistake.”
“I think it would be an even bigger mistake to miss out on The One after just one date.”
“What about your friend from Ikea? You plan on giving him a second chance?”
“That disaster was your fault, Sutton, so don’t remind me. This thing with Justin’s different.”
“Yeah. You already know what a great kisser he is.”
“Speaking of . . . which do you like better?” Bree held up two tubes of lipstick, both picked up that morning at Chanel. She might wear blush from Tarte and eyeliner from Urban Decay, but for lipstick and perfume, it was always Chanel.
“The one on the right. Are they both kiss-proof?”
“You bet.” Bree carefully painted it on her lips with a tiny brush, then topped it off with a color sealant, just in case.
“Well, you look fantastic,” Sutton said with a sorrowful shake of her head. “I hope you have a good time.”
“At a basketball game?” Bree shrugged uncertainly.
“What happened to ‘Hope springs eternal’?” Sutton teased, climbing off the bed to brush Bree’s hair. They had spent half their childhood playing with each other’s hair.
“It’s still springing. Just not about the ball game.”
“Well, good luck anyway. Maybe it will be great.”
Bree grinned bravely at her in the mirror.
Three hours later, Bree was still trying to be brave and hopeful, but she was mostly bored. The Knicks were getting killed, and Justin was actually cheering for the Celtics.
“What are you? Crazy?” Bree hissed when Justin whooped for the Celtics’ first two points.
“What? I like Boston. I was born in Boston,” he shrugged.
“You’re in Madison Square Garden,” Bree explained, though she thought that point would be obvious. He wasn’t kidding when he said he had good seats. They were sitting six feet from the court. “I may not be a big sports fan, but I know the cardinal rules of living in New York. Here, you cheer for the Knicks.”
