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I basked in the warmth of his words before I looked up at him expectantly.
“Now, you have to tell me one,” I murmured.
“Do I?” he taunted softly,
Pursing my lips, I scowled at him. “Don’t play with me.”
He threw up his free hand as he laughed. “A’ight, killer. Why you so aggressive, lady? I don’t want it with you,” he said.
“Mm-hmm.” My fingertips smoothed across the fuzzy skin of a sun-warmed piece of fruit before I picked it from the tree, “Talk.”
“Damn! Okay.”
Despite his words, he took a minute, his head dropping as he thought.
“I have good memories with some of my cousins, too. Especially Monica and Sasha. I got so much love and respect for those two; they’re my babies. But my favorite memory. Hmm…”
“Yes,” I prompted.
“My mom is a professor of languages and linguistics with a specialty in Russian languages. I remember her teaching me Russian. One of the ways she’d do it was by singing to me. She’d pick me up and dance me around the room while she sang. That shit sticks out to me,” he said, the glimmer of a smile playing around his lips.
“That’s so sweet! Is she Russian?”
He laughed softly. “Joia Jones can trace her ancestry right to Black people from the Westside of Kansas City. It’s crazy, but one of her babysitters was Russian and talked to her a lot in the language. Then, she spoke it with that babysitter’s daughter. My grandparents bought her books and audio stuff, and she just really took to it, I guess.”
I thought about how he said it was his dad who called his mom “milaya,” so my nosy ass pushed a little.
“She met your dad as part of her studies?”
All traces of a smile left his face. “Something like that. She went to New York when she was in undergrad for an internship. He heard her speaking Russian in a coffeehouse and was fascinated. He’s from Saint Petersburg. My mom’s beautiful and my sperm donor ate that shit up. “
Surprised by his description, I chose my next words carefully. “Sperm donor? You don’t like your father?”
Targen scoffed. “I barely know the nigga. My mom left New York pregnant. She didn’t tell him because of what she suspected about his lifestyle. Plus, it was just supposed to be a fling.”
“Was she right?” I asked.
“About his lifestyle? Hell, yeah.”
I was quiet for a moment as I surveyed the tree, looking for more prime picks. Then, my gaze returned to him.
“Somehow, he found out about you.”
“Yeah.”
“And he sends people to protect you… because of his lifestyle,” I said, recalling the man at the McKinley’s house.
He angled his face and pointed at his scars. “He’s a little too late for that.”
His tone was blank as if he didn’t care about the damage to his beautiful face, but his eyes blazed.
“Targen—"
“Question number two: are you doing what you imagined you’d be doing when you were younger?” he interrupted.
Okay. So, he doesn’t want to talk about his father.
“So, this is 21 Questions?” I prodded.