Page 2 of Lovetown, USA

Lane

Man, fuck Britt.

I immediately regret everything.

Lovetown, USA looks like somebody was driving by when a cupcake factory exploded, gave the fallout a name, and called it urban planning.

The houses are pastel-colored confections. My mouth hangs open as I stare out the window of my Uber at mint green Victorians, buttercream yellow colonials, soft pink cottages with baby blue scalloped shutters.

And the business aren’t much better. The colors aren’t too crazy, but almost all of them have chalkboard signs out front with pithy messages and hearts drawn all over. There are so many fucking hearts. It’s gross. Even the fast-food places…their marquees…it’s insane.

Then there are the billboards. They’re everywhere, and plastered with things like:

FIND YOUR PERSON IN LOVETOWN

WE BELIEVE IN LOVE AT FIRST ZIP CODE!

YOUR SOULMATE MIGHT BE BUYING FRUIT AT OUR FARMER’S MARKET! EXIT 36

I’m gonna throw up.

Even the air smells sweet, like pastry and honey. I’m lowkey offended. Where’s the smog? Where’s the aroma of dog shit? Where’s Florida man to streak past me naked and on bath salts?

Lovetown is not a real place.

My hotel is normal, at least. Must have already been here before Satan took over the town. But as I look around, I realize the walls are covered in oil paintings of couples in various stages of courtship, and the pillows on the waiting room chairs are heart-shaped.

Fuuuuuck.

“Welcome to The Standard!” is what the young Asian guy at reception loudly greets me with. “Let’s get you checked in!”

Reluctantly, I nod.

Thankfully, my room is normal. I look around and feel like I can breathe again. Then I dump my suitcase and march straight to the bar, which, thankfully, also looks pretty standard. There’s a couple slow dancing in the corner—in the middle of the damn day—but I’m gonna assume they’re drunk.

Like I’m about to be.

I slide onto a blue velvet barstool and say, “Martini. Blue cheese olive. Very, very dirty.”

The bartender flashes me a sunny smile. “Rough travel day?”

“No. I just hate it here.”

She laughs like I’m joking.

I’m not.

I’m halfway through my drink and Googling “has there ever been a cult that took over an entire town?” when a sharp voice behind me says, “Lane Washington!”

I turn and find myself face-to-face with Mayor Daphne Davis.

I recognize her from the front page of Lovetown’s website.

I’ll give her this: she’s bad as hell. Smooth brown skin, big doe eyes, makeup expertly applied, and she’s a certified brickhouse.

During my preliminary research on the town, I was pleasantly surprised to see a black woman in charge, but also a little confused about why a black woman would wanna be in charge of this shit.

“Nice to meet you, Your Honor.”

She must have been in the fallout radius of the cupcake blast, because sis is in pink from head to toe. Soft pink power suit, pink ribbon in her shoulder-length silk press, pearl necklace, and a pink lip combo I hate to admit is bomb.

She clasps my hand in hers. “We are so thrilled to have you here!”

“Thanks,” I mutter. “How’d you even know I was here?”

“I know everything that goes on in my town,” she says with a wink. “Should we take a table so we can chat?”

She’s clearly not asking, so I grab my drink and bag and follow the cloud of Prada Candy to the table Mayor Daphne has just settled at. For the first time, I notice the large man standing near and realize he’s her security.

She orders a rosé. Of course.

“So, I take it you know why I’m here.”

She smiles again. “Of course I do. Melanie assured me the piece would be complimentary, and I assured her I would give you whatever you need.”

I nod and pull my trusty recorder out of my bag. “Mind if I take some preliminary notes?”

“Of course!” she says, all twinkle and bright white teeth.

I hit record. “So, I’ll just jump on in. Eighty-seven percent. That’s an interesting number. Where did this data come from?”

“That’s a good question,” she gushes. “It came from a combination of census data, the National Health Center, and our local vital records office.” She pauses to take a sip. “We aggregated the data and the rest is history!”

Her fingernails are painted pink, too, with little red hearts airbrushed onto her pinkies. “And how do you feel about the findings?”

“I’m very proud,” she says, coquettishly tucking her hair behind her ear. “We create the conditions for love. Community events, couples mixers, speed dating, and our annual Lovetown Ball.”

“And people move here just to get married?”

“Well, not just for that,” she says, waving it off.

The rock on her finger catches the sun just then, gleaming so brightly, I squint for a brief second.

“The city itself is very attractive to the upwardly mobile,” she continues.

“Newcomers tend to fall in love with the town, then fall in love with a partner. They settle down, buy homes, start families. Even businesses. Every institution here has seen immense benefits.”

I narrow my eyes. “So, all this love is good for the economy, then.”

She takes another sip, unbothered. “Happy accident.”

The glint in her eye says otherwise.

I resist the urge to smile as I realize I’m right on target with my story.

This city is a heart-shaped racket.

“I appreciate you answering my questions,” I say as I hit pause on the recorder. “One more question. Off the record.”

Her perfectly laminated eyebrows shoot up.

“Where’s the black side of town?”

She blinks, and for the first time, her perfect pink smile falters.

“Oh, goodness,” she says with a forced laugh. “We don’t really have…sides.”

I tilt my head. “Come on now, Mayor Daphne. Sis. Every city has sides.”

“Lovetown is very diverse,” she insists. “And we love it that way!”

“Okay, then.” I switch gears, skinning this cat another way. “Where do the black folks in Lovetown hang out?”

Mayor Daphne clears her throat not once, not twice, but three times.

“Um…well…let’s see…there’s a wonderful jazz club called the Velvet Note.

It’s just off Cupid Parkway. There’s also a wonderful soul food restaurant called Generations.

There’s High Rollers, which is a skating rink. ” She pauses. “I could get you a list.”

“I think you’ve given me enough to start with.”

We finish our drinks in silence before I hit the button to continue recording and hit her with my next question.

“You mentioned diversity. Does that eighty-seven percent apply to queer couples as well?”

She looks mildly taken aback, but she covers quickly. “I’d have to ask vital records, but—“

“Oh, I can ask. No problem.”

She nods.

“And what about black folks? I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that our marriage rates are pretty abysmal right now.”

“Well, again, our data are aggregated, so I can’t give you exact numbers. But anecdotally, we’re also doing great here.”

“Good to know.”

Once we’ve finished our drinks, we stand at the same time, but she ignores my outstretched hand in favor of grabbing me in a hug I didn’t ask for.

“Welcome again to Lovetown! By the way, you can call me Daphne.”

I pull back and give her a genuine smile. “I appreciate that, but I enjoy using black women’s titles. I know how hard we work to get those.”

Dammit. See, this is what I get for being genuine; she pulls me right back in for another hug.

Finally, she unhands me and we make our way to the hotel lobby with her bodyguard on her heels.

“This is where I leave you,” she says. “We’ll talk again soon. I can’t wait for your story!”

That makes two of us.

Mayor Daphne didn’t lie about the Velvet Note.

The dim lights and blue walls appeal to me the moment I walk in. The band is already playing a sultry tune, and everybody in here looks like they could be background characters in a Love Jones sequel.

I ease through the crowd and take the last seat at the bar.

I’m a little perplexed by the lack of stares; this tight black dress usually gets the people going.

I got a little ass on me, titties pushed up, hair and out down around my shoulders.

But when I get settled and take a look around, I see the problem immediately.

Almost every man in this building is wearing a fucking wedding ring.

And their wives are smiling . Nobody’s on their phones. They’re all…talking to each other. I feel like I’m in a parallel universe.

Oh, shit.

It just hit me.

I’m in Stepford.

I order a dirty martini and scan the room like an anthropologist observing a rare mating ritual.

Then someone slides onto the stool next to me.

“I haven’t seen you here before.”

The voice is deep enough to get my attention.

I turn to my right and stare at the man next to me. I know he’s fine as hell, because I haven’t gotten my drink yet and I’m still interested. This negro is sober fine. Cocoa skin, crisp fade, smells good. My eyes flicker to his left hand. Bare ring finger. I guess he hasn’t been here long.

“Do I stand out that much?”

He smiles, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth and a dimple in his left cheek. “I think you stand out wherever you go, but yes. You do.”

The bartender sets my drink in front of me.

“Finally,” I sigh, taking several sips.

The man smiles, then signals the bartender to come back. “I got her. Whatever she wants.” He brings his eyes back to mine. “Long day?”

“The longest.” I set my drink down and turn my body toward him. “And you’re right. This is my first time here. I’m visiting.”

He nods. “How are you liking it so far?”

“I’m not. All of this,” I gesture around me. “It’s a lot. The joy. The love. The rings .”

He holds up his left hand. “Check it out. No ring yet.”

“Yet?” I shake my head. “So, you’ve fallen for the propaganda, huh? How long have you lived here?”

He chuckles. “Moved here two years ago after my divorce.”

“Uh oh. You only have a year left, my friend.” I take a long sip. “So, how does it work? When it’s your time, does your future spouse show up on your doorstep like you Doordashed a wife?”

His deep chuckle rattles me. “Would that be so bad?”

“It would to me .” I take the rest of my drink to the head, then signal for another as the band starts playing a sexy, jazzy rendition of “Best Part” by H.E.R.

“And if you didn’t get married when three years rolls around, what would happen? Would they show up with the sheriff to throw your black ass out?”

His eyes roam my face, then fall slowly to my cleavage, where they linger. “If I say yes, would you save me?”

“Nope. Sorry. We don’t save hoes. Yall don’t wanna be saved.”

He laughs, and I sway back and forth as my muscles relax. The bartender brings me another, which I drink quickly.

“So,” I say. “Why’d your wife leave you? Dick too small?”

The dimple appears again, and so does a little twinkle in his eye. “How ‘bout you come home with me and find out for yourself.”

I feel a little tingle down below, and him staring at me doesn’t help matters. His eyes fall again, but lower this time, sweeping over me in that way men look at you when you’re seated and they’re trying to figure out how nice your ass is.

Before I can speak, Rashid’s face pops into my head. Just two mornings ago, I said I was gonna stop doing this, and I will. Right now. This man is Aaron Pierre That’s Mufasa sexy, but I’m not getting drunk and having sex with him. Not even for research purposes.

The small dance floor begins to fill with couples, but I make my way over there anyway, never one to let the lack of a partner prevent me from doing anything I wanna do.

I close my eyes and dance like nobody’s watching. And with all these happy ass husbands in here, it’s probably true.