The Sweetest Charade

by Jadesola James

  “Yes, have you been?”

  “I used to go to the market there a couple weekends a semester when I was at Cambridge. It was a trip, but there’s this Nigerian-brand black soap that my aunt uses that I could only find there in those days...”

  “Dudu Osun?”

  Alexander nearly sprayed the table. “Yes! How did you know?”

  “It’s pretty popular,” Delysia chuckled. “You know, she can get it online.”

  He snorted, leaning back on his stool. “She was too afraid of getting fake ones. But she was...good to me, after my mother passed. I didn’t mind. Don’t know what she did after I graduated, though. I bought fifty bars and used half my luggage allowance lugging them back. Perhaps she hasn’t yet run out.”

  Delysia nodded thoughtfully, taking another swirl of cereal-studded ice cream and inhaling it in one go. “Aunts,” she said with a chuckle.

  “You said it.”

  The two chatted quietly over their snacks until the sunlight began to fade; easy, inconsequential things. The sugar and milk seemed to open Delysia up a bit, and Alexander found himself captivated by the soft modulated voice she favored when she wasn’t recording. She spoke of her childhood in Dubai, attending one of their many American prep schools, visiting countries in the Gulf on weekends, where her cousins had scattered about over the years. Her name actually was Delysia, named after—

  “The French singer,” Alexander guessed.

  “How the hell did you know that?”

  “I googled,” he said with a chuckle, lifting up the cell phone he’d held out of sight. She slapped his arm.

  “Well, you’re wrong. I’m named after a character in one of my mother’s favorite books. Maybe the author liked your singer.”

  “Perhaps.”

  They continued. She had no full siblings, but had several half brothers and sisters, all much older, scattered throughout the Horn and the Gulf with their families. She had one cousin in the Americas, but he lived far away in Montreal, going to school. Her father still lived in Eritrea and hadn’t left for years; her mother had been a nanny in Dubai until—

  “She’s in poor health,” Delysia said. A shadow passed over her face. She did not elaborate, and Alexander did not ask, though he felt quite sorry for her. “I’m only here until I...until I’ve saved up a bit. Then I’m going back to Dubai for good.”

  Ah. He wondered if that explained the tiny apartment, devoid of any personal touches; perhaps it felt temporary to her. In a way, Alexander could sympathize. He knew what it felt like to be alone.

  “You’re very strong,” he found himself saying, and Delysia flushed. The rose-tinted copper of her skin glowed against the background of the fading light of day, and Alexander was startled into looking down at his watch.

  They’d been there for almost two hours.

  “Goodness—I’ve kept you forever,” he said, and stood up, hastily stacking their bowls with their dregs of sugary cereal, piling used napkins on top. “I am sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was nice.” Delysia’s head was resting on her hand, and she lifted her lashes slowly, languidly. “Thank you, Alexander.”

  “My pleasure.” They were silent for another moment, but this one was companionable, rather than awkward. Alexander took a breath. “I should be going.”

  “Me, too.” She stood and collected her handbag. Alexander piled the plates neatly in the tray over the bin reserved for that purpose, and the two headed out into the crisp fall air.

  He turned to her and smiled. “See you at the launch, then?”

  “See you,” she parroted. Then, to his shock, she took a step closer to him, stood on her toes, and pressed her lips to his in a brief closed-mouthed kiss, hardly a kiss at all. It was sugary and cinnamony and very gentle.

  “Good night,” she breathed out, and headed off quickly, hair fluttering in the wind.

  * * *

  When Delysia got back to her apartment, the sleepiness that had begun in the Cereal Bar weakened her completely, loosening her limbs, making her feel as if everything was moving in slow motion. She drew a hot bath in her apartment’s tiny tub, stripped off and folded her clothes with ritualistic care, and sank into the water after tipping most of a jar of lavender bath salts into it.

  This was overindulgent; she had too much to do tonight. A natural hair company that had just broken into major retailers had asked her to cover a curl shingling cream, and a jeweler had sent her a delicate gold necklace with her initials dangling from the gossamer-thin chain. That she could do, she decided—she was already wearing it, after all.

  She listlessly positioned her phone, allowing one shoulder, her neck, and just the faintest hint of the swell at the top of her breasts to show. The delicate piece would look even lovelier silhouetted against miles of wet skin, and she could plug the bath salts, too. She captioned the photo quickly and posted. Done.

  Were she back in Dubai, after a night at work, she would probably hit up one of her numerous cousins, or go to an aunt’s house for dinner, or catch a movie, or... She sighed, shifting in the water. In her first couple of years in New York, she’d enthusiastically thrown herself into the city’s social scene. Then her mother had gotten sick, losing weight and sleeping badly, and it all had culminated in that awful, dreadful day when Mama fainted in the shopping mall.

  Delysia sighed and shifted again. She didn’t even know what had happened to those early, tenuous friendships in New York. Most of those people had gone to school with her, or were connected to things that didn’t really matter anymore. Her one obsession had been with making enough money to pay for her mother’s treatment. Stumbling into a relationship with Nicky had been a curse, but she had to admit, it had shown her she could make a living, and not have to wait for a career that would leave her hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt.

  She’d quit medical school the day she crossed one hundred thousand followers. And now, three years later, over a million people viewed, commented, watched her every move on a daily basis, consumed the life she created for them. They loved it, hated it, criticized it, shared it. It left no time for hobbies. It left no time for school. It left no time for friendships that weren’t based on reciprocal likes. For Delysia, this was no hobby; this wasn’t even a business. It was literally her mother’s lifeline.

  And it wasn’t anybody’s fault but hers that she was so lonely, she told herself. Plenty of content creators had lives outside the business; in fact, at the events where they met and danced and drank and gossiped and shared sponsorships and built those artificial relationships for the net, most were going home to siblings. Partners. Relatives. People that they were eager to shed the glittery facade for, people they could crawl in bed with and gossip with and make love to and talk about real things with.

  Delysia had hoped Nicky—and Eden, by extension—would be those people for her, in this place that seemed all the more alien to her with every year that passed. But they weren’t, and Delysia stopped hoping for anything, except perhaps an end to all her expenses, so she could move back home.

  Home.

  She slowly rinsed off, dried herself, pulled on shorts and a tank top, and padded out to her living room. Something of Alexander’s essence had lingered, in a way; there was a clean spiciness in the air she had begun to associate with the smell of his skin.

  She had kissed him. With no more heat than she would any friend, but—still. She’d kissed him. His scent and serious, thin face had drawn her in again. She’d also seen a softness in his expression that night, over their bowls of disgustingly sugary cereal, that was open enough to worry her. Despite his age and occupation, Alexander couldn’t hide his expressions any more than a kid could, and she sort of liked him very much for that.

  She shook away the thought with so much violence that her hair swished over her cheeks, and went over to her desk, where a pile of bone-white envelopes stood. />
  As she did once a week, she separated them into piles, opened a black-and-white composition notebook that acted as her ledger. There were her utility bills, her credit card bills that represented the first few months where she’d tried to go to school and take care of her mother’s care at the same time. There were her student loan bills, for a degree she’d never get to use, a career she’d never have. And there were the royalty statements from her endorsements, little white slips of paper that Faye mailed her for her records. It was always a thrill, those few minutes or hours the money was hers, before it was distributed to one of her many obligations.

  A few years ago the sight of that pile of envelopes made her sick to her stomach. Now she had the means to chip away at it, just a little at a time. When she was tired and didn’t want to record, or didn’t feel like going to a party, or had no desire to open one of the cardboard boxes that arrived with items for her to review, she looked at how many envelopes there were still in the obligations pile, and it put things right back in perspective.

  Now, thinking about Alexander and his soft lips and quiet expressions, she focused hard on her obligations pile. This trip would mean a windfall, both then and after, and was worth, she told herself, a few messy feelings that he probably didn’t share.

  The sooner this trip was over, the better it would be for both of them.

  Chapter Six

  Boston, Massachusetts

  The day the Gilded Express launched, Alexander found himself quite in awe. He could barely believe it, seeing it all come to life from the pages and diagrams and documents and plans; it felt akin to seeing a fairy story from one of his old picture books come to life.

  The Boston train yard they’d selected for the launch was absolutely overrun—with camera crews, photographers, tourists with cameras. Faye, along with the planner (Kim Kardashian’s, solicited by Delysia via her account after a week-long competition for the honor) had attached an “Old Hollywood Glitterati” theme to the day. Ten influencers—and their partners—for the trip were milling about, dressed like stars from times past.

  Alexander identified Marilyn Monroe, Doris Day, Dorothy Dandridge, and what looked like a generic Hitchcock heroine (which made sense for a train, he supposed). A brandy-fortified Buster Keaton had to be restrained with some effort from posing with rope on the tracks, and cocktails were flowing freely, passed round by white-coated servers in black bow ties, along with steaming canapés. It was giddy, unrestrained madness, and the cameras were recording everywhere. Alexander had to force himself not to flinch.

  He recognized Delysia the moment he saw her, despite her costume. She was perched on the stairs leading up to the platform, wearing a stark, tailored wool suit with a long straight skirt and sleek black pumps. A white cloche sat on top of her hair, which was slicked back into a low bun. Her mouth was a full slash of red. She cradled a tiny white terrier in her gloved hands.

  He tilted his head, considering for a moment; then he walked over, shoved his hands deep in his pockets. He did not speak; instead, chose to watch her for a moment. She was laughing, looking up at the camera shyly, turning to find the most becoming angle. Her photographer, a woman swathed in a fur coat that reached the floor, saw Alexander before she did and lowered the phone.

  “Your Humphrey Bogart’s here,” she said dryly, and Delysia whirled around. When she saw Alexander, her cheeks crimsoned. She blushed very easily. That was another thing he’d noticed over the past few weeks. It was quite sweet, he thought.

  “Sabrina Fairchild?”

  “Very good.” She sounded a bit short of breath; it was windy, he supposed.

  “My mother loved the film. I’ve seen it several times.”

  “She had good taste then.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, a bit awkwardly. Then he gestured at the wriggling puppy in her arms. “Will he be joining us?”

  She started, then laughed. “No. Hired for the shoot.”

  “Shall we get one of you together then?” asked the photographer.

  Alexander lifted a brow. Delysia nodded, patting her cheeks with her free hand. He made his way down to her and took the pup from her, allowing it to baptize him with a silky warm tongue. He could feel tension radiating from her body. When he bent closer, he smelled soap, gardenias, just enough to be warmed by her skin, envelop her in a halo of scent. He was surprised to have to resist an impulse to press his lips to the warm copper skin of her neck. She turned those large brown eyes on him; to his surprise, they were slightly wet. His thumbs went below them to her cheekbones, almost automatically. She blinked hard once, leaned away from him slightly.

  “Please,” she said softly, and he knew in an instant this had nothing to do with the narrative they were trying to create. It was want, pure and simple. It heralded back to all those times when they’d been close enough to do this but hadn’t, and it made something ache deep in his chest. “You can kiss me. Make it good.”

  It was as if someone else had taken over. He cupped her cheek in his hand before leaning in. The jolt of warm flesh on flesh made them both rigid for a moment, then relaxed. She tasted sweet and rich and fitted against him perfectly. When his tongue teased the seam of her full lips she opened them eagerly; his hands dropped to her waist to draw her close, and she let out a soft exhalation that he felt in the deepest part of him.

  “Delysia, sweetheart,” he found himself murmuring, and pulled away from her, lifted her chin.

  She bit her lip and was about to answer, but they were interrupted by a squawk. “Professor Hill!”

  He looked and to his horror recognized a gaggle of girls from the university, waving a sign he had no interest in reading. Delysia’s low laugh rang out. Her fingers closed over his, and she leaned in to press those full lips to his ear.

  “Take me inside,” she said softly, and in an instant he knew he was screwed. Undeniably so. He took a moment to let her go ahead of him, keeping his eyes squarely on the back of her head and nowhere else, forced rationality back.

  This was play-acting, this was for his career, and he had no interest whatsoever in pursuing anything with Delysia Daniels.

  * * *

  We need some ground rules.

  Especially me, she thought.

  She’d been quite naughty—very naughty, actually. But she hadn’t expected the retiring professor from Long Island to take her game and one-up it.

  After their searing kiss on the platform, Alexander said little, just reached for her hand and grasped it tight in his. “We’re toward the rear,” he said, after clearing his throat twice. “Do you think you can recognize my cars?”

  “You know I can’t,” Delysia said flippantly, trying to lighten the mood. Alexander’s thumb was passing back and forth over her wrist almost absentmindedly; she wondered if he could feel her pulse beating wildly there.

  Alexander introduced himself to a porter, who nodded and gestured that they should follow him. It was a slow trip, with pauses for Alexander to point out condensers, and indicators, and brake frames...

  “You are such a geek,” Delysia said, and nudged him.

  “That is factual.” He shot her a smile; his face nearly stole her breath. She hadn’t seen him so alive since this whole thing had started. “There she is,” he said as they came upon their suite, and he waved the porter away. “You ready?”

  “I’m ready.” Delysia was also incredibly amused. “Is this what gets you going?”

  “I literally have been waiting for this moment all my life. And I’m only about half-serious when I say that. Up you go,” he added, indicating the retractable stairs that led to the door, but Delysia shook her head.

  “This is your moment, Alexander. You first.”

  He grinned and cleared the entrance in about two steps, then pushed the door open. Delysia reached his back, then swayed a little dangerously on her heels. He hadn’t moved.


  “Alexander?” she asked, and touched his shoulder.

  Wordlessly, he went forward.

  The suite looked completely different, and yet very familiar. They were in the same seating area Alexander had taken her to in Southampton, but it had been completely restored. The wood and gold fixtures gleamed, the carpets and upholstery were bright and vibrant. A fire crackled in a small electric fireplace installed in one wall, and two overstuffed chairs, bolted to the floor, were drawn cozily close.

  “Alexander?” Delysia said again, but quieter this time. He was still looking around, an expression of wonder on his face.

  “I’ve been working on it, I’ve seen it,” he said, as if trying to talk himself out of the emotion that had closed his throat when they’d entered. “But I left the setting up to the staff, I wanted to be surprised...”

  “Looks like they did that pretty well,” Delysia said lightly. She couldn’t take her eyes off his face; it was one of the few times she’d seen him looking anything but stoic. He was trying to smile, forcing it, but his eyes were dark with emotion.

  “It looks exactly like—” He broke off.

  “Exactly like...?”

  “Like my father wanted.” Alexander took a deep breath, then managed to smile. “I apologize. He wouldn’t have believed this. He’d have been so pleased. So pleased,” he repeated, and his voice grew a little rough.

  Working completely off of impulse, Delysia reached out and took his hand, then squeezed it once and let it go. Alexander coughed and squared his shoulders as if the touch had brought him back to himself, and cleared his throat yet again. “Well! Let me show you around.”

  Their suite included both a lounge and sleeping car, and he would, he explained in that odd formal way of his, be very comfortable sleeping in the sitting-room area, which had a sofa bed. The car itself was beautiful—modeled after Queen Elizabeth’s Victorian suite, featuring the most luxurious of fabrics, of fittings, of design. She barely recognized it. He’d been chattering away about original brass fittings and tubs and fabrics flown in from France and the effects of a swaying train on a four-poster bed, but Delysia was content instead to look at his thin face. It was animated with the excitement of the moment, and she felt warm inside at his happiness, and more disturbingly, at the memory of the kiss they’d shared less than an hour ago.