Page 13 of Tell Me I'm Not Dreaming
RANSON
T hey enter the room, and Lyric closes the door behind her. Ranson looks around, and it reminds him of the made-up model bedrooms for children found at Ikea. There are rainbow drapes and a bunk bed. The color palette is white and yellow like her house.
“This is the room I would always sleep in whenever we visited Uncle Doc. I always got my own room. One of the many perks of being the only girl grandchild,” Lyric explains.
“Nice. You really like white and yellow,” Ranson remarks.
“I love daisies.”
“I’ll remember that. I’d like to see you in white and yellow. I bet it makes that smooth brown skin of yours pop.”
“It does.” She beams.
They share a chuckle.
She continues, “I brought you up here for a moment alone. More people are going to be coming, and it’s about to be really overwhelming. You’re doing really well.”
“Yeah, when your dad called me son , I tried to keep it humble, but I was definitely feeling myself a bit,” Ranson jokes.
“Thank you for offering to pay off my two biggest expenses.”
“Lyric, it’s my sincere pleasure.”
Lyric bites her bottom lip.
Ranson wants to kiss her. Real bad. But they’re visiting her family, and that wouldn’t be cool. His mother raised him better than that.
She doesn’t seem to care though because she approaches him and presses her lips against his. They fall back on the bed with her on top of him and his hands all over her, exploring her back and ass.
“Mmm,” Lyric moans.
“Mmm-hmm,” Ranson moans in agreement.
“Mmm?” Lyric moans as a question as if to say, You like ?
Mmm-hmmm,” Ranson moans in response slower and at a lower register as if to say, Hell, yeah .
They break apart and ogle each other.
“You know …” Ranson kisses her. “I can be quiet.” He kisses her again.
She kisses him. “You know … there’s no way that’s happening. My family is nosy as hell. C’mon, money bags. Let’s hit it. Dinner will be ready soon.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lyric wasn’t kidding, more people arrive in time for dinner. Her cousin Floyd arrives with his brood, which includes five kids all under the age of ten.
I hope that man treats his wife like a queen .
A little girl walks up to Ranson and smiles at him. He smiles back.
“Are you Cousin Lyric’s boyfriend?” the pint-sized cutie asks.
Ranson kneels so he’s at her level. “Yes, I am.”
The little munchkin leans in and whispers. “She yells at white people.”
Ranson has no idea how to respond to that.
“Thanks for the heads up. I’ll let my white friends know,” Ranson replies.
The little one seems satisfied with his answer and walks away.
Ranson stands up trying to make sense of his interaction with little cutie, when Floyd’s wife approaches him with a baby that looks to be at least one.
“Hi! You’re Ranson, right?”
“Yes, it’s nice to?—”
“Great, can you hold her please? I have to pee.” She hands him the baby and rushes off.
I guess I really am part of the family since they’re putting me to work .
The little one reaches up and touches Ranson’s face. “Hey, little bit. Are you about to tell me Lyric yells at white people, too?” he coos.
The baby pinches Ranson’s eyelid.
“Ow! What is with this family and pinching folks?”
She does it again.
“No, no. No pinching Uncle Ran Ran.” He gives her a tickle.
She giggles and stops pinching.
“Thank you, little bit.”
Now she plays with his beard. He smiles at her, and she smiles back with only a few teeth. Her mother returns and takes her.
“Woo! Thank you. I was holding that in for a minute. Once you get on the road with that many kids, you don’t want to make too many stops or else you’ll never get to where you’re going,” she says.
“It’s no problem.”
She smiles, then walks away with the baby.
Ranson looks around and sees love and laughter abound. He feels comfortable and at peace around Lyric’s people.
Lyric approaches him. “You doing okay?”
“I’ve been informed that you yell at white people, and a baby pinched my eyelids,” Ranson tells her.
“That means you’ve met little Charae and baby Penelope.” Lyric cracks up. “Yelling at white people is what Charae thinks I do for a living.”
Ranson barks out a laugh.
Everyone is told to take a seat—dinner is ready. On the menu is mashed potatoes, green beans, baked chicken and buttered yeast rolls.
They all talk in individual conversations. Lyric is talking to Floyd’s wife when the little old lady who was pinching Big Head earlier sits on the other side of Ranson.
“You Lyric’s man?” she whispers.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. You gon’ help me find Doc’s stash of shine,” she says.
Ranson looks over at Lyric who is seated on the other side of him.
“Stop looking at her. You’ll give us away,” the old lady says.
“Um, Ms. Gigi?—”
“Just Gigi.”
“Okay, Gigi. I don’t think I should?—”
“You want to impress me, don’t you? I’m Lyric, Big Head and rest of ’em’s great-grandmother, and I’m a hundred and five. If the shit kills me, then it was just my time to go.”
“Gigi, please stop trying to get Ranson to get you moonshine,” Lyric leans over and tells her.
Gigi waves her off and pouts.
Lyric leans into Ranson with her lips right by his her. “Do not get her any moonshine.”
Ranson looks at Gigi. She winks at him like they’re already accomplices. Ranson shakes his head. Gigi squints her eyes and nods. He keeps shaking his head.
“Ranson!” Eckhart calls out.
“Yes, sir.”
Eckhart smiles. “You’re joining us out on the lake tomorrow morning, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“Great. It’s going to be me, Doc, Jamar and Big Head.”
“Yeah, I told money bags we ain’t going easy on him either,” Big Head says.
“And as I said, I’m up for anything you throw at me.”
“Ranson, if you don’t have a fishing rod, you can get one from me. I have spare ones,” Doc offers.
“Thank you, Mr. Fuqua?—”
“Just call me Uncle Doc. Everyone here is named Mr. Fuqua. That’ll get mighty confusing real quick,” Uncle Doc says.
“Of course. And no worries, I have my own.”
Eckhart nods. “Alright, we wake up at 4 a.m. tomorrow, so be ready.”
“Yes, sir. I stay ready.” Ranson grins with excitement. It’s been a minute since he’s been out on a lake. Patrick and his brothers are not fans of fishing.
“I have a business idea I’ve been tinkering around with, Ranson, if you want to hear my pitch. It will make millions,” Uncle Scoop says.
“Uncle Scoop, please,” Lyric laments.
“What? The nigga invests money in Black businesses all the time, and this idea is a goldmine. So, check this out, you know how you have to pee in the middle of the night, but you don’t want to get up?”
“I guess,” Ranson replies.
“Well, my idea is like a pocket-sized toilet. It’s a contraption you connect to your wing-wang or hoo-ha, and you pee in, then when you wake up, you can dump the waste later.”
“Uncle Scoop, that’s gross,” Jamar cringes.
“And that already exists. You basically just described a catheter,” Big Head says.
“Naw, but this is different. Y’all just don’t get the vision,” Uncle Scoop complains.
Ranson leans into Lyric with his lips close to her ear. “I love your family.”
“I knew you would.” She smiles.
Ranson wakes up the next morning and heads to the shower. He’s not about to be caught slipping. He set his alarm clock for 3:30 a.m.
Ranson kisses Lyric on her forehead as she sleeps, before slipping downstairs.
He has on jeans and a Henley with a pair of sneakers and a light jacket. He’s making breakfast sandwiches with bacon, eggs and cheese when he hears a door closing. Next, he hears the shuffle of feet and looks to see where it’s coming from.
“Hey, Lyric’s man. It’s time,” a gruff voice says.
Ranson looks down and sees Gigi.
“Ms. Gigi?—”
“Gigi! It’s just Gigi, nigga. Damn.”
“Sorry. But I can’t help you.”
“You really going to let me die without having one last taste of shine. It was my husband’s specialty. He taught our boys and our grandkids to make it. It’s all I have left of him.”
“Dang, really? You gon’ hit me with a guilt trip?”
“Is it working?”
“I guess. But I don’t know where the shine is, so I can’t help you anyway.”
“I found out it’s in the garage. We just have to get it. Now, c’mon.”
They enter the garage. Ranson looks around and sees a jar with a clear liquid on a high shelf. He grabs the jar and hands it to her as the lights come on, and Uncle Doc, Big Head, Jamar and Eckhart stand in the doorway of the garage. All of them snickering.
“Alright, Big Head. I owe you twenty bucks,” Uncle Doc says.
“I told you she’d get him to do it.” Big Head shakes his head.
The men all laugh at them.