Finding Yvonne

by Brandy Colbert

  “Hey, y’all! We’re just about ready to start. All musicians to the front!”

  Before I know what’s happening, Omar’s fingers are lightly wrapped around my wrist and he’s pulling me forward with him.

  “What are you…” But my words are lost as we cut through the crowd.

  And when we get to the front of it, I’m standing face-to-face with Keely. Her big smile shows off her high cheekbones, and she looks happier than I’ve ever seen her at the boardwalk. I realize with a start that she was the one who let out that whistle. She’s the one taking charge and bringing everyone together. It’s a surprise because Omar seemed to be their spokesperson at the beach.

  She blinks at me a couple of times before turning to Omar. “You ready?”

  He nods. I wonder if he told her I was coming, but before I can think about it too much, he touches the back of my elbow, sending a delicious shiver up my arm. “You’re cool?” he asks.

  I smile. “I’m cool.”

  Omar and Keely are joined at the front of the room by a guy with bongo drums, a girl with a trumpet, a man who looks as old as my father with a bass guitar strapped over his shoulder, and another girl standing behind a keyboard. It’s not the strangest combination of instruments I’ve ever seen, but the people playing them don’t look like they belong together in any way.

  As soon as they start playing, I know it’s going to work. Keely and Omar start off with a slow, haunting duet. I try to just listen to the music, like the guy on my left with the giant red beard, who’s nodding along with his beer raised. Or the girl on my other side, who’s swaying along to the melody, her eyes closed.

  But as they pick up speed, I can’t help but look at their technique. At Keely’s exquisite bowing, how her wrist never seems to stiffen up like mine does when I play in front of people. How every note that slides from her viola is perfectly in tune—effortlessly so. She’s barely paying attention to her own strokes; her eyes are glued to Omar as they play.

  He’s looking at her, too. It’s like they can’t look away from each other at all. It’s different from when they were on the beach. More intimate, more intense. Omar grins at her as he launches into a solo, showing off the deftness of his spiccato. He was right. I would assume they were together if I didn’t know them.

  I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth as I remind myself that he said he isn’t into her like that. And that he wants to get to know me.

  One by one, the other musicians join in, and the energy shifts away from Keely and Omar. But still, I watch them. I’m not sure why I’m looking when I should be listening instead. I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for.

  But when Omar swings his body toward where I’m standing and looks right at me, a smile lighting up his face, all my anxiety about the two of them melts away. Just for those few seconds, just when his eyes are meeting mine. That look makes me feel like I made the right choice by coming over tonight.

  The guy next to me passes what I think is a joint but turns out to be a spliff. The tobacco mixed in burns the back of my throat; I take only one hit before passing it on. I close my eyes now and keep them closed as the strings take the lead again. The best way to enjoy the music is without having to watch how well Omar and Keely vibe with each other.

  When they’ve played their last notes, the room is pulsing with energy and humid with sweat. It starts to air out a bit once people begin leaving the room, but not much. Omar stashes his violin in the case sitting in the corner and jogs over to where I’m standing by the window, trying to catch a breeze. His eyes are bright, forehead damp.

  “What’d you think?”

  “It was great.” I fan myself with my hand. “Really great.”

  “Hot in here.” He wipes his forehead with the back of his arm. “Want to come outside with me? I need some air.”

  I sneak a look at him as we walk next to each other. He has a nice profile: a strong chin and broad nose and long lashes that brush his cheeks when he blinks. I can feel the heat emanating from his body, and I hope we’re alone outside. I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to kiss him.

  The backyard is just as sad as the front. Maybe even more so. The porch steps are crumbling at the edges, and there’s an even bigger plot of grass that needs to be cut. But we are alone.

  Omar touches me again, this time taking me by the hand. I hold tight as we walk across the yard to an ancient swing set that has been here long enough for the legs to rust into the ground.

  “Is this safe?” I ask as he brushes leaves off the swings.

  “Safe enough for sitting.”

  He plops down into one of the U-shaped seats. I gingerly sit next to him, holding my breath as I wait for the whole thing to come crashing down around us.

  He tugs on the chains of his swing. “Promise I’m not gonna let you die on this thing.”

  We sway, keeping our toes planted firmly on the ground. He turns so that his legs are diagonal, his knees touching mine as he moves slowly back and forth. He dips his head to look at me.

  “I’m glad you came.”

  “Me too.” I am. But as much as I want to enjoy being alone with him right now, it’s hard to forget the looks he was sharing with Keely while they played.

  “Honestly, I wasn’t sure it would be your kind of thing.”

  I turn my knees inward so they’re pointing toward him, too. “What’s my kind of thing?”

  He tries to hide his smile. “Keely thinks you’re rich.”

  “What?” It catches me off guard, the fact that Keely was talking about me and that he’s being so open about it.

  “Yeah. She said your clothes are really nice.”

  “She did?” I’m wearing jeans, knee-high boots, and an oversize gold sweater that falls off the shoulder. Definitely not the nicest outfit I own.

  “I think she used the term high quality.”

  I shrug. “My dad makes good money, but we’re not rich rich. Eastside comfortable, maybe.”

  Omar shakes his head, but he’s grinning.

  “What?”

  “You’re different from who I normally hang out with.”

  I stare at him. “How?”

  “You know, half those people who were here tonight have trust funds waiting for them, but they’d rather die than admit that to me and my roommates. Hell, I know a couple of people who stay here have money, too. But they’re weird about it. Like, they would have gone on some long rant about how they’re not really rich and that it’s their parents’ money and blah fucking blah. You’re real about what you have. It’s nice.”

  I guess I’ve never felt the need to be embarrassed because my father isn’t. He’s honest about how much he had to sacrifice to get where he is and how much harder he has to work as a black man to succeed.

  “Tonight isn’t my kind of thing,” I say slowly. “But it’s been fun.”

  “I must really like you. I normally wouldn’t invite someone over so soon. This place is… a lot for some girls.”

  “All the roommates?”

  “The roommates, the chore chart, the way it looks outside… And a few of the people who live here are freegans, which means mealtime is usually interesting.”

  I can’t help making a face.

  Omar laughs. “You’re not into freeganism?”

  I look down at the grass, hoping he doesn’t think I’m a total snob. “I guess it wouldn’t be my first choice….”

  “Some of the stuff they bring home isn’t so bad, but I stay away from anything with dairy in it. Anyway, communal living isn’t for everyone, but it works for me.”

  He nudges my knee with his and when I look up, he kisses me. It’s what I’ve been wanting since I first showed up, and yet I’m caught off guard. It takes a moment for me to kiss him back. I keep thinking how it’s weird that he’s not Warren, and it’s also weird how much I’m enjoying that he’s not Warren. I’m enjoying his lips, how they feel even better than I thought they would, firm but tender at th
e same time. I’m enjoying the way he leans his body closer so he can frame my knees with his on either side. I’m still holding onto the cold metal chains of the swing, and I’m glad, because when we pull away, I need something to hold me up.

  He leans his forehead against mine. “Sorry… for surprising you like that.”

  “I don’t think anyone needs to apologize for what just happened.” I pause, but not for too long, because I don’t want to lose my nerve. “Omar, do you want to go to the L.A. Phil with me? I have tickets. They’re good seats. In the front orchestra.”

  “Eastside comfortable, huh?” he says, but he’s smiling.

  “They were a gift. And I want you to come with me. If, you know, you’re still into that classical shit.”

  “Yeah. I’m still into that classical shit.” He tugs lightly on one of my braids. “I’d love to go with you.”

  He moves his hand from my braid to my neck, gently stroking my skin with the pad of his thumb. I kiss him again, and for the first time in a long time, I feel full.

  Of life, of craving, of something new.

  And for the first time in a long time, I am happy right where I am.

  14.

  I haven’t quite forgiven Warren for leaving me alone on my birthday, so I’m surprised to find myself back at his apartment so soon. But when he tells me his interview has been published, I drive over after school.

  He didn’t sound so good on the phone, and he doesn’t look any better when I get there. He’s pacing across his studio, from kitchen to bathroom and back again. His skin is wan, a paleness that dulls his eyes, too.

  I stand by the door, watching him tread back and forth. “What’s wrong?”

  He points to a tall stack of SoCal Weekly issues centered on the coffee table. “Read it.”

  I take a seat on the futon and pick one up. “Warren! You’re the cover story?”

  He nods, biting at his fingernail.

  I like the picture of him on the cover. He’s standing outside my father’s restaurant in his beloved chef coat, arms crossed over his chest. His mouth is set in a straight line, not frowning or smiling, and his brows are furrowed but his eyes are alive. THE NEW WONDER OF THE FOOD WORLD is emblazoned under his arms in blocky white letters.

  “You look like a badass,” I say, grinning, and then I’m annoyed at myself for falling back into flirting with him so easily.

  I wish I could stay mad at him, the sort of anger that would let me cut off all communication and feel good about it. But as tough as I want to be when it comes to Warren, my heart is too soft.

  “Yeah, and white, apparently.”

  “What?”

  He waves his hand in the air. “Just read it.”

  I do. It’s a well-written piece, and even though I know just about all there is to know about Warren, I read every part of the article with interest, as if he were a stranger. It doesn’t dig much into his personal life, just saying he was raised in L.A. by a single mother.

  “My dad gave them quotes for this?” I ask when I get to the middle. “He hates talking to reporters.”

  “I hope that means he won’t read this, then.” Across the room, Warren grimaces.

  “Okay, am I missing something?” I’ve reached the end. I peer at the photos of him interspersed with the text. In one, he’s in the kitchen, bent over as he painstakingly adds herbs to a saucepan. I guess I never realized how photogenic Warren is because he hates being in pictures. I’ve only seen a handful since I’ve known him. But even in newsprint, Warren looks good. “This is basically a perfect article.”

  He stops in the middle of the room and stares at me. “You didn’t notice that they never mentioned I’m black?”

  “Of course they did.” I flip back to the beginning and skim through, paying particular attention to the paragraphs that quote or mention my father. But he’s right. His or my father’s race is never mentioned at all. “Did you guys talk about it during the interview?”

  “I thought we did, but maybe not. I can’t remember. It’s all a blur, you know? I didn’t even remember where we had lunch until I read the article.” He puts his fingers up to his mouth again and looks down at them, disappointed when he discovers there’s nothing left to bite but skin.

  “It’s still a good article, though. I mean, besides that, are you happy with it?”

  “I don’t know how I can be happy with a story that erases who I am. It’s not like being black is the only interesting thing about me, but it’s a big part of me. And it’s not every day that someone like me comes up under someone like Sinclair. That should have been part of the story. Or they should have mentioned it, at least. Los Angeles isn’t crawling with a bunch of fine-dining restaurants run by black men.”

  I hesitate before my next question, because I don’t want to upset him even more. “Do you think she knew you were black?”

  “I thought everyone knew!” He sighs, and it looks like his whole body is deflating. “Or at least someone who’s writing a cover story about me.”

  He walks to the counter that separates the kitchen from the main room and plops his elbows down, resting his head in his hands. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Warren upset like this. I don’t like it.

  I place the paper back on the table and walk across the room. I stand behind him for a couple of moments before I slip my arms around his middle and press my cheek to his back. “I’m sorry, Warren. But maybe this is just the beginning. Someone could be reading this right now, wondering why they didn’t mention you’re black. Maybe another writer, who can do another story on you.”

  “I’m not that big, Yvonne,” he says, his voice low.

  I don’t realize that I’m counting the beats of my heart against his back until he takes my hands and turns around to face me. He rubs his thumb over my cheekbone, and when I look up into his eyes, I know he’s going to kiss me.

  There’s an insistence behind his kiss that I’ve never felt before. Like he’ll lose me forever if our lips part. Kissing Warren is safe and familiar, and I guess maybe that’s why I don’t stop. I can’t be mad at him anymore. Warren feels like home.

  We end up on his bed, sitting at first. He kisses every inch of skin from my chin to my collarbone, and I want to melt right into him. I wonder if I should tell him about Omar; I’ve never mentioned any of the other guys I’ve kissed, but Omar seems different. Like maybe he’s going to be around for a while.

  “What’s wrong?” Warren asks, sensing my hesitation.

  “Nothing.” I tug on the hem of his shirt. He smiles and raises his arms so I can pull it over his head.

  He undresses me until I’m wearing only my underwear. His hands trail slowly down to caress my shoulders, my breasts, my waist. When he gets to my hips, he hooks his thumbs on either side of my underwear and slides them slowly over my thighs. I look at him for a long moment, both shy and expectant, before I lie back.

  I feel his breath, warm between my legs, and then Warren’s mouth is on me. It feels wonderful and strange all at once. New for us. I stare at the ceiling, and then, once I’m used to the rhythm and touch, I close my eyes. Warren’s hands slide up and down my legs, and my whole body is warm and I’m breathing so fast, I wonder if I’m hyperventilating. But then my legs tighten and I murmur his name and squeeze his shoulders, and the most pleasurable feeling rolls through me in waves.

  He slowly eases off, kissing my thighs as he pulls away. I close my eyes again to get my bearings. When I open them, Warren is lying next to me. He stretches my arm over his chest, stroking the inside.

  “That wasn’t the first time you got off?”

  “No. Well, the first time from someone besides myself,” I say, looking at my arm instead of him.

  “Ahh.” I can hear the smile in his voice but also the apprehension. “You liked it?”

  “Obviously.” I flick his arm and he leans over to kiss my shoulder.

  Again, I wonder if I should bring up the fact that I’ve started seeing someone else. But it’
s not like Warren and I had actual sex. And Omar and I haven’t even gone this far. I don’t want to get too ahead of myself or upset Warren for nothing. He knows I’ve been with other guys, but now that my age is no longer a factor for him, it feels different between us. Like every moment is filled with more meaning because it could lead to something real.

  I don’t want to ruin the moment. As much as I’ve tried to distance myself from Warren since my birthday, I still care about him, and what just happened between us was special. Something I’ll remember forever.

  “Warren?”

  “Hmm?”

  I don’t know what I want to say. He doesn’t ask me about it. I curl into him, and he lightly rubs my back, and we lie together in his apartment, bathed in the early evening light.

  15.

  Lemon meringue pie has never been one of my favorite desserts, but I like it—the tanginess of the lemons paired with the sweetness of the tall, fluffy meringue. The pies always catch my eye in pastry cases, yet I can’t say I’ve ever thought of making one. The meringue looks so precarious, and I know from watching enough baking shows that it can be difficult to perfect.

  Lou didn’t give me any pointers, so by the time I get up on Saturday, ready to bake, I’ve read through the recipe in my mother’s cookbook and looked over a few more online. Still, I carry the book under one arm and my laptop in the other as I head to the kitchen.

  I put on a pot of coffee and open the book. The page is free of my mother’s scribbles, so this must not have been a recipe she made often. I’m oddly comforted. Sometimes looking at her handwriting brings up too many feelings.

  I pull out all the ingredients for the crust, but I don’t get started until I’m halfway through my first cup of coffee. I never realized how therapeutic making pie dough could be. I love the way it feels to work my fingers through it and how I can get lost in the task, forgetting about everything taking up space in my head. I used to feel that way about violin, when I was younger. I could lose myself in the emotions of the piece rather than focusing so much on the technicalities of playing.