He shook his head at my question, the wistfulness still there in his eyes. “It’s just me and my mom.” He pursed his mouth and then smiled. “Well that’s not completely true. I also have my three best friends, Nesto, Patrice and Juanpa, and their families.”
So a best friend, not a boyfriend. I could live with that.
“But my mom came from Cuba on her own. She was a Marielita.” His voice grew stronger when he said that, and I nodded, letting him know I understood what he meant.
“She must be a hell of a woman.” He smiled at me again. I was already addicted to pulling those out of him. That could be my new full-time job: making Camilo Briggs smile.
“She really is. My dad passed away from cancer when I was ten. He was Jamaican and other than my grandma, who passed when I was still a baby, he didn’t have any close family here. So it was just the two of us for a while.”
He paused there, like he was deciding on whether he should say whatever went next in the story, then he squared his shoulder and kept talking. “My mom started seeing this man, Ramon, who turned out to be very abusive a couple of years after my dad died. He was nice at first, but once he started helping her out financially, he got violent. Things were bad for a while, but the summer before eighth grade I came out to her and that lit a fire under her.” His face grew more serious then.
“I think her fear of how he’d react to me being gay, or the possibility he’d hurt me, was the last straw for her.” His brows dipped and I could tell whatever he was thinking of was not a good memory, but from one breath to the next he smiled again. “My friend Patrice’s mom helped us get settled in the Bronx where they lived, and the rest is history.”
“Sounds like you’re both survivors.” He shrugged trying to dismiss the compliment. The more I learned about Camilo Briggs, the more I wanted to know.
“Was that experience with your mom the reason you got into this work?”
At my question his face went serious again, not sad, just like he wanted to take his time with his answer. He leaned back and put his hand under his chin before finally responding. “Partly. It certainly had an impact on me, but I do this work because I love it and because I’m good at it.” His certainty and passion was intoxicating. I just sat there in silence, getting my fill of all the energy Camilo exuded.
“Thank you for sharing all that with me,” I said sincerely.
He broke eye contact then and looked down for a moment.
“I sort of Google stalked you.”
I laughed at how embarrassed he sounded. “You did?” I asked, surprised.
He widened his eyes at my question, a look of complete disbelief on his face. “Of course I did! I needed to know what to expect. You have to admit the circumstances around our meeting were a bit unusual.”
An image of him on his knees with his mouth stretched out from my cock flashed in my mind. The effect was like lightning, every nerve in my body lit up at once. I wondered if Camilo could tell what I was thinking.
I cleared my throat and tried to bring us back to the conversation, before I broke my promise to not make him uncomfortable.
“So what did you find out about me?”
He shrugged and took another bite of the plate he’d been working on. “Mostly stuff about your business, which was very impressive by the way,” he said raising an eyebrow. “I resisted the urge to go into Page Six or other gossipy sites. I just wanted some background and to make sure you didn’t get all your money running sweatshops or something.”
I laughed at that. “Fair enough.” As I was about to ask if he’d like to order something else, just so I could keep him with me a little longer, my phone went off. When I looked at the screen I saw it was Maxwell asking me to call him about something regarding Libe. I tried not to huff, but it was a close thing.
Camilo was staring between me and my phone when I looked up.
“You need to take that?”
I grimaced. “Yes, I’m sorry.” I’d promised myself I’d ask him if he was comfortable with continuing to meet, even if it gave him an out, so I made myself follow through. “Are you up for meeting again next week? Only if you’re comfortable, of course.”
He was already gathering his things, so he wasn’t looking at me when he answered. “Sure, this was a lot less painful than I anticipated.”
I laughed again, surprising myself. I was not usually this excitable, but Camilo’s presence was like oxygen in my blood, and I hadn’t gotten nearly enough. “Excellent. I’ll see you next week, Camilo.” I lifted my hand to ask for the check as he gathered his things and slipped out of the booth.
He looked at me as he got his messenger bag on and winked. “Next week then, Tom. This wasn’t much of a business meeting, but this is my favorite restaurant, and eating here is a rare treat. If you want to buy me chicken and waffles on the regular, I’m here for it. No wine though.”
I assented to his request. “No wine.”
For a moment we stood by the table. Closer than the purpose of our meeting warranted. All I wanted was to be able to kiss him. I looked at his mouth and he leaned in just a bit, like he could feel the pull too. We just stood there, wanting. Then the server came with the check, breaking the spell. We pulled back, both looking a little dazed, like we’d been caught off guard by the moment.
I lifted a hand again as he moved away from me.
“Take care, Camilo.”
He waved goodbye and walked out the door to Lenox Avenue. I stared after him mulling over the fact that this meeting had only increased my desire to get to know Camilo better.
But I wouldn’t rush it. I was in for the long game. Week by week we’d get to know each other, until I could tell him I wanted a lot more with him than just business.
Camilo
I stomped out of the Metro-North station in Yonkers musing over the events of the day. The meeting with Tom would’ve been a total success if the goal had been for me to go from solid attraction to full-on infatuation.
Every new thing I learned about him made him more human and intriguing. My heart had hurt for him when he talked about his aunt.
It was funny, with Tom, I’d imagined his money and position would put him at arm’s length, but every time I saw him it seemed like he wanted to move closer. I knew he was trying to get personal, and if I was smart I’d put a brake on it, but who was I kidding?
I wanted him.
My plan to heed Melissa’s cautionary tale and keep things professional for as long as this project was going went completely out the window the moment I set eyes on him. Which was ridiculous because Tom was a multi-millionaire, and I was a social worker living in a studio in Harlem. This could never work, our lives were too different. That reminded me about living right by Red Rooster. Harlem was booming these days, but it was still not the fashionable part of town for the rich and famous. Someone with Tom’s money only lived in Harlem if he made a very intentional choice.
Dammit.
I so wanted to dismiss him as just another rich asshole, but everything about Tom so far was wreaking havoc on my plans to hate him.
I was brought back from my thoughts when I walked into my best friend Juanpa’s condo and smelled the homemade pizza he’d promised for dinner. I was trying to tug my shoes off when I noticed lit scented candles on the coffee table and smiled. He bought this place in Yonkers last spring, and he’d been surprising us with his domestic side since then.
I called out since he was nowhere in sight, “I’m putting these bottles of wine I brought down and then I’m going to go look in every closet to see where you hid the boxes, Juan Pablo. You’re not fooling me into believing you made pizza from scratch.”
Patrice, our other best friend, was on the couch texting on his phone. He just smiled and shook his head at my teasing. Juanpa hollered from the kitchen.
“Fuck you, Camilo! You ingrate. Here I am kill
ing myself to make you a nice meal and you start disrespecting me as soon as you walk into my crib. Did you take your shoes off, motherfucker? I don’t want you tracking your subway filth on my hardwood floors.”
He was ridiculous.
“Oh my god! You’re so fucking annoying with this floor obsession. I came on the Metro-North, thank you very much, and I’m not wearing those stupid slippers you put by the door either.” I stopped in front of the couch where Patrice was still tapping on his phone. “Patrice! Get off the damn phone. I haven’t seen you in weeks and you can’t stop texting dick pics to Easton long enough to say hello.”
Patrice, as always, was completely unbothered by my ranting and finished whatever he was doing before getting up and coming to where I was to give me a double kiss and hug hello. He had his locs coiled up in a big bun today. He was wearing a Cornell sweatshirt, loose jeans and had his Malcolm X glasses on. I’d missed his face so much. I pulled him in for another hug before letting him go.
“I missed you, P.”
His usually unexpressive faced softened. “I missed you too. I was texting Odette about tomorrow.” I smiled at the mention of his mom. He always called her by her name, never Mom, they were so formal with each other. “Are you and Dinorah still coming to her place for dinner Friday?”
I rolled my eyes at the question. He knew that was a given. My mom and Patrice’s were still very close. Odette was the only one who could get her out of the house these days.
“We’ll be there. No way am I missing the annual Joumou night.” Patrice smiled at that.
“Good. I’ll have someone to back me up when she starts getting on me about not wearing ‘proper clothes.’”
I laughed at his annoyance and shook my head. “You need to get over that. You two have been having that argument since middle school.” He just glared in answer and I shrugged. “You know I have your back, but I’m not pushing, because that soup is too fucking delicious to mess with my standing invitation.”
Patrice smirked as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. I noticed the way his eyes widened at whatever he saw and I wondered if my teasing about the dick pics was more on point than I thought. But before I could ask, he shoved his phone in his pocket without responding to whomever had messaged him. “You know that Joumou night invitation will always be there.”
I nodded, because he was right, I knew that.
Every year his mom would make a traditional Haitian pumpkin and beef stew and invite our group over. Traditionally the soup was part of the New Year’s Day celebration our families always did together, but after we got out of college and were busy doing our own things, Odette started making it in the fall, when “we could all make it.” This year only Nesto, the fourth guy in our little crew from the Bronx, would be missing it.
Nesto moved to Ithaca the year before to try his luck in getting his Caribbean food truck to take off. He’d had massive success up there and this past spring opened his restaurant. Along the way he’d also met Jude, the love of his life, and they were happy as fucking clams up there in the boonies. I missed having him around but was so thrilled for him and all he’d achieved in the past year. He’d worked his ass off to make his dream happen and deserved everything he’d gotten.
Now Patrice was up there too. He’d finally finished his PhD at Columbia in May and taken a position as an assistant professor for the economics department at Cornell University. Although he assured us there was nothing going on, it didn’t escape any of us that from all the offers he had, and he’d gotten plenty, he chose the school in the town where a certain assistant district attorney he’d gotten tangled up with last year lived.
“What are you glaring at?” Juanpa walked out of the kitchen with a wine opener and three glasses, looking like Drake’s skinnier little brother.
“He’s been sexting with Hudson or whatever the fuck his name is since he got here,” he said, angling his head in Patrice’s direction. Juanpa refused to call Easton by his name just to get a rise out of Patrice.
“He thinks I can’t tell, but his eyebrows get mad twitchy when he’s up to something. You’re not fooling anyone, pa.” He cut his eyes at Patrice and we all laughed. I noticed Patrice didn’t even try to deny what Juanpa was saying though.
Juanpa turned to me after a minute as he poured us all some wine. “How was your meeting with the millionaire? Did he get creepy on you?”
I shook my head and sighed. “Nope, not at all. He cleared the air as soon as I got there, assured me he would be respectful and then we proceeded to have an hour of polite conversation. If anything now I’m more attracted to him.”
I took a big gulp from the glass Juanpa had just handed to me and slumped on the couch. “I’m such a hypocrite too, because I was actually disappointed. I was hoping he’d be all flirty, and suggestive and then I could just say he was the one who started it. But instead he was real and respectful and basically gave me no excuses to do anything stupid. Isn’t that fucked up?”
Neither of them answered, they knew me well enough to know I had to process all this to death and that I probably had more to say. “I don’t even know why I’m so worked up about this guy. What could possibly happen between us? He’s a rich dude with all kinds of privilege, it’s only a matter of time before all that rears its ugly head.” Even as I said it I felt like shit, because so far all I’d seen from Tom was that he was generous and incredibly down to earth.
The eye roll I got from Juanpa was so intense, his eyelids actually popped. Patrice just looked at me and shook his head like I was an idiot.
“Why do you need to take everything to the extreme, Camilo? Why can’t you just chill and see what happens?” Juanpa rarely chimed in when it came to relationships, so the fact that he was so fired up about this gave me pause. “Not everything needs to be decided and done with after two minutes.”
Not that I was going to admit to that to him just yet. “Like I’m taking advice from you. You’ve been in love with Priscilla for eighteen years and you still can’t make yourself say it.”
“We’re not talking about me right now though.” He jerked his thumb at Patrice. “And we’re not talking about how this one is upstate now, literally fucking with the Po-Po—
“He’s not a cop!” All three of us looked stunned at Patrice’s very out of character outburst and then Juanpa busted up, pointing a finger at him.
“Eeeey! Made you say it!” His glee at Patrice’s slip up was hilarious.
Patrice just glared and muttered. “Asshole.”
Juanpa just kept shaking his head with a huge grin on his face. “Can’t take it back, my guy.”
The interlude was fun, but we were supposed to be focusing on my fucking man problems. So I got up and waved my hands in between J and Patrice.
“Back to me, assholes!”
Did that shut Juanpa up? Nope, he jumped right back into his lecture.
“Nah. That’s where your shit gets problematic, Camilo.” He pointed his glass of rosé at me to press his point. It was really hard to take this asshole seriously sometimes.
“You’re too judgmental, pa. You create a whole fucking situation in your head. God forbid a dude says or does something differently than how you deem it should be done, then they’re dead to you. You don’t leave any room for people to be human, mi hermano. Under those conditions you will always be disappointed. Full stop.”
I was about to respond with something defensive, but before I spoke all the air went out of me. Because he was right. I was always anticipating disaster or predicting all the ways in which people would let me down before we even got started. There was nothing about Tom to dislike or judge. I knew he wasn’t perfect, no one was, but so far all he’d been to me was decent.
“Fine. I’ll try to keep an open mind.”
Juanpa and Patrice both widened their eyes after I said that.
“Wow. This guy must
be something,” Patrice said in a rare display of emotion.
Juan Pablo, who thought he was fucking hilarious, got up and put his palm on my forehead pretending to feel for a fever. I slapped it away and took another sip of my wine.
“Leave me alone, you idiot.”
He took his phone out of his pocket.
“We’re calling Nesto, because he needs to know there’s some molecular level shit happening with you. I mean you almost admitted to me being right about something, and if that’s not an indication we need to keep you under close observation, I don’t know what is.”
I just ignored him as Patrice laughed on the other side of the couch. Pretty soon I could hear Nesto.
“Yo, is that the new couch? It looks fly, man.” I immediately stood up and yelled at the phone before J could get a word in.
“Don’t believe anything Juan Pablo says, Ernesto, you know how he lies.”
Our best friend’s amused voice sounded through Juanpa’s apartment. “Oh shit, are you all drunk already, it’s like seven! How come you’re not at the stadium, J?”
Juanpa was a physical therapist for the Yankees and this time of year he was usually working all the time. He shook his head as he looked at the phone.
“I’m off tonight, working six days straight next week.”
Patrice stood up and calmly took the phone from J, which meant he was about to bring the conversation back to me.
Great.
He winked at me before smiling at Nesto’s face on the screen. “We’re not drunk. We’re just trying to gently tell Camilo he’s occasionally judgmental and impulsive.”
J and I sat down on either side of Patrice as he held the phone out, so we could all get a look at Nesto. I bit my tongue as our friend cackled. “Damn and he hasn’t slashed your faces with a rusty razor yet? Camilo, you’re losing your edge, pa.”
American Fairytale (Dreamers) Page 8
