Page 13 of The Best Man: Unfinished Business

Lincoln Center. Once a Black and Puerto Rican populated area of the city, over the years it changed to house classical music, jazz and ballet performances, and most important on this night, celebrity chef Kwame Onwuachi’s Black-owned Afro-fusion cuisine restaurant, Tatiana.

Harper stepped out of his Uber and shifted the massive package in his hands to walk through the chilly night air across the plaza.

A smiling patron held open the twelve-foot-tall glass door so he could enter.

The gust of warm air from inside was a welcome contrast to the outdoor elements.

From the vestibule in the dimly lit, yet super-chic eatery, the din of buzzing conversation and the driving pulse of hip-hop music, filled the space with high energy and spirited voices.

The ceiling was lofty and the space was airy, featuring ultramodern accents, bronze tables, café con leche–colored leather chairs, and a long thick underlit marble slab for the bar.

Light fixtures floated down from the ceiling, designed to look like pastel clouds in the sky.

It was the perfect setting for Candace’s birthday gathering—chic and soulful.

And the music was a vibe, the personification of grown and sexy catering to everyone.

There was something special about being in an upscale establishment that managed to keep it Black AF, which made it therefore cool AF.

Just as Harper approached the hostess stand with his super-expensive, massive “thoughtful” gift, a message from Robyn hit his smartwatch screen.

Hey, sorry for the delay. She loves soy candles.

You can personalize one to send. She’ll loveit.

Fuck. That IS perfect. Why didn’t I think of that?

Robyn’s message continued. Tell everyone I said hello.

Have fun. A fucking soy candle… Suddenly, his innovative Himalayan salt lamp seemed real lame in comparison.

The saleswoman had espoused all the health benefits—relieving allergies, improving mood, and something about better sleep.

What fifty-year-old parent doesn’t need that, right?

He handled the awkward gift, continuing to shift it in his arms. When he reached the coat check and finally put it down to remove his cashmere overcoat, scarf, and camel fedora, he thought briefly about checking the gift too. Nahh, just give it to her, he decided.

In his cream-colored fitted sweater and espresso slacks now, he craned his neck around the boisterous dining room searching for his crew and found them quickly.

His six friends were already seated in the center of the restaurant, laughing and having fun.

Even in a sea of well-dressed mostly Black clientele, his crew stood out in look and sound.

His peeps were the personification of Black Excellence.

But as he expected, the couples were seated across from one another, three neat sets of two, evenly slotted and spaced, gazing into each other’s eyes.

What did you expect, Harp? Boy, girl, boy, girl?

He was definitely the seventh wheel, the odd man out.

Harper shifted the gift once again and headed toward the table of the group that looked like the successful post-graduate members of the tribe of Barack and Michelle.

Harper weaved through the room, negotiating tables, servers, and that heavy-ass Himalayan salt lamp.

When he reached his friends, they were all transfixed on Quentin, regaled by his animated storytelling.

It took a full ten seconds before anyone even looked up at him.

Q had always been a great commander of attention.

“Hey, y’all,” Harper said by way of announcement.

As animated as they were prior to his arrival, the group lit up even further at Harper’s presence.

He was greeted with a chorus of “Harper! Harp!” The feeling was beautiful.

He bent down to kiss the lady of honor. “Happy birthday, Candace.” She gave her cheek, and so as not to smear her makeup with his slight scruff, Harper aimed a careful cheek-to-cheek air-kiss around the generous fluff of her hair.

Then he handed her the unwieldy gift. “Here you go. It’s imported… from Pakistan.”

“Oh…thanks, Harper.” Candace reached for the large gift bag with both hands, but once the weight of it transferred, Harper scrambled forward to help as she narrowly dropped it.

Murch swept in from the side to take the package from his struggling wife and to join Harper in placing it on the floor, just in time to save the moment.

Harper gestured toward it awkwardly. “Um, it’s a Himalayan salt lamp, supposed to light the room, help with sleep, allergies. Stuff like that. Makes you calm too.” Even as he espoused its benefits, Harper wished he could turn it into a simple soy cylinder.

“Maybe you should have gotten one for yourself, player,” Quentin commented. Everyone laughed and Harper gave a good-natured grimace.

“Ahh, you could have just gotten a nice bottle of wine like I told you,” Murch commented.

“Just trying to be thoughtful…” Harper shrugged.

Candace chimed in, “It was thoughtful. Keisha has terrible allergies. We can put it in her room.” She smiled brightly, looking beautiful in her strapless form-fitting black dress. “Thank you, Harper. It looks great. And so do you, handsome.”

“Come on, man, have a seat.” Murch directed him to the seventh-wheel seat at the end of the table. To exile, alone, out in the cold.

Lance stood to give him dap, a bro-hug, and of course, his generous smile. “You alright, dawg?”

“I’m good, bruh,” Harper assured him.

“Good to see you, Harp.” Quentin punctuated his greeting with a fist bump. Harper cheek-kissed and shoulder squeezed Shelby and Jasmine before making his way to the last seat.

“Whatcha drinking?” Murch bellowed over the din of crowd walla and the house remix of Janet Jackson’s “That’s The Way Love Goes.” The way the table looked, all perfectly arranged, with three couples basking in the glow of each other’s company, that’s the way indeed, Harper thought.

“Wine, I guess?” He gestured toward the red blend at the center of the table. Jasmine, the closest to him, took up the bottle and poured for him. Harper tried to protest with, “Oh, you don’t have to—thank you, Jasmine.” But Jasmine’s Caribbean lilt mildly admonished him.

“Ya know I’m in the hospitality business, so ya don’t fret.

” Harper nodded and raised his glass in toast and thanks before taking a sip.

“No date tonight, Hoppa ?” Lance smirked at Jasmine’s innocent inquiry.

Harper smiled at the pronunciation of his name and told some of the truth about his solo appearance.

“I was forbidden, Jasmine.”

“Forbidden?! Oh stop it.” Shelby waved a hand of carefully manicured stiletto-shaped nails in the air.

“Facts,” Harper pronounced. “But all good. This isn’t really the event for someone new. Intimate…”

“Hasn’t stopped you before,” came Shelby’s snarky retort.

“Ya seeing someone new, Hoppa?” Jasmine leaned forward with interest.

Harper delivered a high-pitched “Well…” He gestured his ambivalence. “Kinda…a couple…a few…” He struggled to find the words to characterize his active and yet struggle-forward dating life.

“What happened to the gyal ya braat to our New Year’s Eve paaarty?” Jasmine smiled. “The one with de generous backside.”

“Yah, I haven’t spoken to her in a while…”

“Take ya time, dawg,” Lance remarked as he rubbed Jasmine’s exposed brown shoulder.

She was wearing a simple yet stunning off-the-shoulder jewel-tone top that perfectly set off her skin, turning it copper.

Her naturally textured hair had grown out, creating a halo of curls on her head.

Both of them looked so comfortable and relaxed together.

Harper sighed. “Oh, no doubt. I know…I’m not even really looking like that.”

“Yeah, ol’ Harp getting his freak on. For all of us!” Quentin’s voice carried to the end of the table, creating another round of laughs. Harper cut his eyes back at his oldest friend.

“Shut up, Quentin. You get plenty freak where you stay too, nigga,” Shelby said as she gestured toward him before taking a sip from her wineglass. “Don’t make me bring one of these Dominican mami waitresses in here to double team your ass.”

“That’s cool, just no pegging,” Quentin joked. Everyone laughed again as Shelby playfully hit his shoulder and Quentin puckered his lips for a kiss. She obliged with a lover’s giggle.

“You might like it, boy,” Candace chimed in. “Shit, we getting past fifty. You better try some stuff so at least you know!” Candace winked and took a sip of her wine.

“Shiiiit. I know. Nobody playing with this dookie-chute. Save that for Murch,” Quentin joked.

“Mine is closed as well. And could we please not ruin our appetite with all that dookie-chute talk,” Murch pleaded.

“Shelby said you used to like a little ass play back in the day.” Quentin cut his eyes at Murch with a sly smile.

Shelby immediately slapped his arm. Quentin recoiled and cackled. “I did NOT say that!” She turned to Murch. “Julian, get your boy. Candace, I’m sorry.” Shelby reached toward them both with a forgive-me hand gesture.

Candace smiled like she’d just been told a secret. “Don’t be sorry. Shit. I’m thankful for the information. Things may get spicy tonight.” She turned toward Murch and dropped her hand down toward the back of his chair. He flinched noticeably but smiled at Candace. Then he shook his head at Quentin.

“See what you started?”

“You’re welcome.” Quentin laughed.

Harper took in his friends enjoying their respective partners’ flirty gazes, touches, and pet names. He had none of that to participate in. As a reflex, he cleared his throat. “So, umm is this a prix fixe menu? We doing family style, ordering a bunch of stuff?”

“Menu’s already planned, Harp,” Lance responded.