Page 5 of Missing White Woman

“Come here.”

He did, pretending to be disgusted as I pecked at him like a bird. Finally I retreated, and he sat a few feet away at the edge of the bed, casually rubbing my leg through the covers.

“The good news is that I’m done with work. I’m all yours this weekend.”

He better have been. “Promise?” I said.

“On my mama.”

I smiled then, even though I didn’t believe him for one minute. I said nothing as he began to get undressed, starting with his shirt. He zoned out for a second as he undid the buttons, lost in thought as he scratched the scar on his stomach. I should’ve asked what was going on. Instead, I enjoyed the opportunity to take him in. I was smiling when he zoned back in and noticed me looking. “You’re admiring my skin, aren’t you?”

“Something like that.”

“Thanks. Been using this gunk my girlfriend made for me.”

The “gunk” was a recipe of essential oils and shea butter I’d whipped up in my sliver of a kitchen. I didn’t know if I was more pleased that he actually was using it or that it was working so well on his hyperpigmentation. “Gunk, Mr. Franklin?”

“Gunk.” He got serious as he took off his shoes, then pants. “Did you apply for that grant yet? Deadline’s coming up.”

I hadn’t, but at least the printout was in my suitcase. I’d been “meaning to” mail it for two weeks now. I searched for any excuse. “I still need a name for my product line.”

“I just gave it to you. Gunk.”

“It is catchy.”

“The name doesn’t have to be final for you to apply,” he said.

I didn’t want to keep talking about it so I went for a subject change. “Hamilton.”

“I like the name Gunk better,” he said.

I ignored that. “You got us tickets to Hamilton. And you want it to be a surprise. That’s why you haven’t told me what we’re doing tomorrow.”

“I’m not telling that easy. You follow my packing instructions?”

“Of course. Brought lots of ‘nice shit.’” I used quotation marks.

“And the shoes?”

“Two pairs. Cute but walkable.” I’d even done a test run. “The Lion King.”

“The movie? If you want to Netflix and chill, then we can do that.”

“Of course it could also be that place where they shoot Saturday Night Live…”

“Rockefeller Plaza.”

“Yes. Are we going there?”

He shrugged.

“You gotta give me a hint.”

“Sure. It’ll be in Manhattan.”

I lobbed a pillow at him. “Thanks.”

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