Page 15

Thirty-six minutes after ending the call with Aliza, the headlights of her Mercedes led the rest of the whip into the parking spot beside me. Her favorite pair of Gucci sunglasses shielded her eyes from the viciousness of the sun.

The doors of the restaurant didn’t open until two, so it was a safe space. In fact, it was the place we met more often than not to avoid cameras, fans of the game, vultures, and journalists waiting for a new story.

I stepped out of my whip with her purse and lettuce wrap in-hand. She met me in between our cars. I avoided confrontation, although I wanted to check her about touching that handle with me standing just feet away.

“Saint, baby, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting. I got caught up with makeu–”

I silenced her with a kiss on the lips as her hands collapsed onto my shoulders.

“If I didn’t want to wait, Aliza, I wouldn’t have. No need to explain.”

“But, still– I hate when I keep you longer than necessary.”

“It’s all good,” I claimed, running my free hand up and down her frame.

She was thin as a sheet of paper. Discipline should’ve been her first, middle, and last name. Her dedication was borderline concerning. Aliza had one dream since a little girl.

Prima Ballerina .

Though she was well on her way, she hadn’t obtained the status yet. Because of it, she’d refined her life, diet, circle, and capacity to make sure she met the gold much sooner than later. I commended her dedication. It made her predictable, easy to please, and preoccupied.

With my schedule, her low maintenance partnership was ideal. We made the best of our conflicting schedules, carving time out for us to grow together while still progressing on our own. It made our time together more intentional. I appreciated that more than I let on.

“How can I make it up to you?” She asked, pulling backward.

Though her legs and torso were still pressed against me, her chest was inches away. Her pursed lips forced me to lean forward and kiss them before giving her space, again.

“Uhh–” I thought, tilting my head toward the right. After a few seconds, I produced results. “Dinner.”

“Dinner?” Aliza whined.

“You cook. At my place. Stay the night. We wake up in the morning and run before the sun beats us.”

“I’ll still be dead asleep when the sun wakes, baby. You know this already.”

“You can go back to bed before it comes up. Forty-five minutes. That’s all and we can turn back around.”

“And run forty-five minutes back?”

From the sound of her voice and the sagging of her shoulders, I knew that I wasn’t getting anywhere. I cut my losses while I had the chance. Convincing Aliza, or anyone else, to do anything for or with me was a boundary I wasn’t willing to cross.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Not next week.

Not next month .

“Dinner– let’s just go with dinner.”

“Baby, I can’t. Not tonight. I have this thing– you know. At the theater. And, as much as I’d love to be in your kitchen, I’d like to have you in the audience while I’m on stage.”

“You have a performance?”

“Not exactly, but family and friends are welcome to come. I’d like you there, honey,” she informed me. “A whole lot.”

“If you want me there, Aliza, then you know I’m there.”

It was the truth. I admired her craft as much as she admired mine. I respected it slightly more because of its level of difficulty.

“Okay. It starts at eight. And maybe dinner next week?”

“Works for me.”

“I cook and you wake me up with him–” she said, lowering her hand to my dick. “Before you go for your run. I go back to sleep and then we shower together once you return from your hundred hour run, yeah?”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

“Okay.”

She perked up. Her smile reached her eyes and then my lips. She pressed them into me before taking her purse. She bolted toward her door and began to lower her bottom into the seat.

“Your food–”

“I’ve decided against eating solids today. I have water.”

“That’s not healthy, Aliza. You didn’t eat yesterday either.”

“It’ll all be worth it. I’ll feast with you once this is all over.”

“It won’t be over for another three and a half months. Five, actually.”

“I know, baby, and I promise I’ll eat at least four times a week. A solid, hearty meal.”

“I’m going to start feeding you myself if you don’t.”

“You won’t have to. When my body tells me I’m hungry, I will eat. Pinky swear.”

She held up her pinky as she closed her door. Behind the glass of her whip, I watched her smile fade and her head turn to make sure the backup camera wasn’t deceiving her. When she confirmed no one was behind her, she blew me a kiss and continued out of the parking spot.

Sighing, I crumbled the top of the paper bag, making a mental note to toss it with the rest of the trash in my car from this morning. I also put a new mark in my mental calendar.

Day two .

If I didn’t keep track of Aliza’s eating habits, they would become an issue. The childhood images her parents had hanging on the walls of their home was a weekly reminder of her struggles with food as a child. She was born a whopping thirteen pounds.

By the time she was one, she weighed forty-three pounds.

It wasn’t until she experienced a Black ballerina on stage during a trip to Channing City that she realized where she wanted to be.

And, it wasn’t in her bedroom consuming food at least four times a day to satisfy her neverending appetite. It was on stage.

At age four, she began skipping meals. By five, she had lost more weight than her young mind could comprehend. It was halfway through her fifth year of life that she took her first ballet lesson. Aliza had been a beast ever since.

She was naturally gifted. Her rhythm was unmatched. Her body was made for the contortion ballet required. To make sure it was never a hindrance, she kept it lean and light. Her fat percentage was envious for some, but it was concerning for her family more often than not.

Though I was anxious to feel the hot beads of water on my back in the shower, a detour felt necessary. I took a look in my passenger seat, hoping I didn’t crumble the wrap that had been meant for Aliza. As I pulled up to the security booth, the yellow lift gate began to rise.

I tossed my hand in the air, thankful Ronny had noticed me before I made it to the booth. My parents weren’t expecting me, but were never opposed to my presence. They preferred it. I cut corner after corner until I reached the street where they reside.

Halting, I whipped my head in both directions. The stop sign at the end of the road had gained my respect long ago. I’d seen far too many cars folded or nearly tossed over the railing due to their disregard for it.

We were far from the plains of Clarke. We were on Mt. Clarke. One wrong move could land you in the hospital or the cemetery. I wasn’t in a rush for either, so I brought my car to a complete stop before proceeding.

A quarter of a mile down the road, the homes began to appear, each consuming acres. It was a full thirty seconds between each home, sometimes more. Just a minute before reaching my parent’s home, I slowed the wheels of my whip.

Without haste, the red and white moving truck turned into the driveway of the new construction home. For the past three months, crews worked tirelessly as if they were on a strict, unchanging deadline.

“They finished,” I whispered, stealing a peek at the beauty behind the fence.

Though it was tucked away and surrounded by a privacy fence and plenty of greenery, I managed to get a glimpse.

French . I noted.

“French Provincial Architect.”

A family of great wealth and exquisite taste had tasked the crew with the build. Even in the modern housing market where homes were built to break at a mere encounter with a gush of wind, the home was built to last.

For generations.

And generations .

Brick was chosen, straying away from the wooden homes that were being tossed up on every other corner of Clarke. With a degree in architecture, I understood the intricacies of building, mapping, and creating something phenomenal with numbers, shapes, and a patch of land.

They’d done an incredible job with all they were given.

I urged my wheels in the direction they were headed in initially, instead of turning into the yard out of peer curiosity.

I wanted to see more of the new home we’d been waiting patiently for the crew to complete.

Now that they had, a privacy fence was obstructing the view.

Nevertheless, I pressed forward. A half a mile down the road and I was beyond the gate of my parent’s home. My legs were out of my whip and my feet were on the ground.

Roof.

Roof.

Rooooof.

Roof!

Leo’s loud and boisterous bark echoed on the porch. Anxiously, he waited by the door for possible intrusion. I removed my keys from my pocket and pushed the gold and blue striped one inside the lock.

“Down. Down, Leo.”

As I pushed into my parent’s home, I warned our family pet of my presence.

“It’s me. Down, Leo.”

Slowly, he backed away from the door and waited for further instruction.

“Good boy.”

At nine years old, he was a solid boy. A rottweiler. A force to be reckoned with. His black and brown coat glistened under the sunlight. My mother kept his skin and hair in perfect condition with nightly rubs with a small dollop of coconut oil.

“Go get Momma.”

With his short tail wagging, he rushed off toward the kitchen where you could find my mother on any given day. I followed behind him, lettuce wrap in-hand.

“Sac– hey, baby. What brings you by?”

“Bringing you something to put on your stomach if you want it.”

“A crumbled up sandwich?”

“Nah,” I told her, kissing her cheek.

She was taller than the average woman, but still much shorter than my father and I. At 5’9, she was nearly a full foot beneath me.

“It’s not crumbled and it’s not a sandwich. It’s a wrap. One of those lettuce wraps you’re always making. It was Aliza’s but– Well–”

“Aleena told me. She isn’t eating right now.” My mother sighed.