True to her nature, Whitney fights with me on the idea of having my mother orchestrate the event, but this time when she pushes, I push back.
“You seriously want to pick a fight about this?” I make no effort to hide my disdain.
Her mouth drops open, as if I should’ve already seen her disapproval coming. She sits at the whitewashed vanity table she’d requested as an engagement present. She says she needs to sit down when she does her hair and makeup, because her legs hurt when she stands for too long.
“I don’t want to fight,” she says. “I’m just saying we can get there when we’re ready to.” She turns back to the mirror and continues to brush through her freshly curled hair. “It’s our party, not your mother’s.”
I look at my watch. We have to leave in forty-five minutes in order to arrive at the time my mother requested.
“Forty-five minutes until I walk out the door. It doesn’t matter to me if you’re with me or not,” I say as I head for the door.
She looks at me through the reflection in the mirror. “You’re going to leave me?”
I already have. Thirty minutes later, she walks into the living room with her shoes and handbag in her arms. She is polished and pristine from head to toe; everything she’s wearing looks new.
“You ready?” she asks, twirling in front of me. She looks beautiful. Pregnancy agrees with her.
“Yeah, c’mon, I don’t want to be late.”
When we step outside, the wind throws an impetuous breeze through her hair. I catch the scent of a banana-coconut shampoo. I smile at her because she looks beautiful, and I wonder if this gorgeous appearance is all for my benefit. She smiles back, revealing freshly whitened teeth. I hold out my arm to her as we head for the car.
Clifton, a friend of my mother’s, owns a house on two green, gated acres. My mother thought it would be—her words, not mine—“a beautiful change to have the party at the ranch.” She even has him bring some of the nicer horses up front for scenery. There are plenty of relatives and friends available for us to mingle with once we arrive, all excited to see me in honor of my turning twenty-five.
“This is nice,” Whitney says.
She’s impressed as she looks around, surveying the outside setup. “Twenty-five. Happy birthday, baby.” She kisses me on the mouth.
“Thank you.” I blush. It’s a good moment between us despite how brief it is. “Thank you, Lord. I’ve made it another year,” I say, pointing a finger toward the sky. My girlfriend is unmoved by my gesture of gratitude toward God, although she grins her way through it.
“I like an older man,” she announces.
I put up two fingers, signaling our two-year age difference. “By this many years.” I laugh. I look at her stomach. “There should be plenty of food, lots of Mexican food. I know you might be a little burned out…”
“Um, actually, I asked your mom to take the Mexican food off the menu,” she says. She goes on complaining about how she doesn’t want to gain too much weight and that seafood and light pasta are a better choice.
I stop listening but not on purpose. I am distracted by the buzzing of my phone. As I pull it out from my pocket, Zina’s name lights up across the screen.
Am I still invited?
I type back.
Yes, of course.
Zina doesn’t respond immediately, so I’m left with Whitney’s ramblings about food and gaining weight and how the quarrels with my mother about changing the menu gave her migraines. Instantly, my twenty-fifth birthday party had become Whitney’s informal engagement celebration. I stare at her.
“I thought you loved Mexican food,” I mutter impatiently.
“We have other foods.” She smiles. “I asked Clifton to order seafood and…” She snaps her fingers, recalling her reworked version of my original menu. “Veggie kebabs.”
Veggie kebabs? What the hell! “There’s still barbeque, right?”
“Yes, Zack.” She rolls her eyes.
As I wait for Zina’s response, I move quickly to get Whitney situated and fed. I serve her a small plate of fish and pasta sautéed with peppers and onions and find a table away from the exits. As I take my place next to her, I check my phone while she nibbles at her food.
“Your mother looks happy.” She gestures at my mama.
“Yeah, she does.” My phone vibrates in my pocket. I let it alone.
“She’s accepted us—finally,” she says.
“She has.” I nod.
“Have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Accepted us.” She rubs her stomach. “That this is how it’s going to be—you, me, and the baby?”
“Of course.”
“You want me for me…it’s not just because of the baby, right?”
“Yes. I absolutely want to be with the mother of my child,” I say.
My phone vibrates again.
Zina: Address?
Me: 3720 Freedom Drive, 77589
Zina: Thanks!
Whitney confesses that she’s afraid to drink wine, although her doctor said it was okay in moderation. But with my nerves going crazy waiting for Zina’s arrival, I suggest we have some. I fill my glass to the rim and fill Whitney’s halfway. She finishes her glass before I can chug mine and reaches for the bottle. I let her pour a little more wine before I take it away.
“Slow down,” I say, sitting the bottle on the table in front of me as my phone goes off from Zina’s text.
I’m lost. Is there a ranch somewhere?
I step away from the table and press the call icon above her text. The phone only rings once before she picks up.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, hi, it’s Zack. Where are you?”
“I don’t know. I just drove by a big ranch—with horses and shit.”
“That’s it.”
“That’s it? You own a ranch?”
“I wish.” I grin as I get up from my chair, ignoring Whitney’s insistent tugging at my shirttail.
“Turn around and come back to the ranch. I’ll come meet you.”
I stuff my phone back into my pocket and run my hands through my curly hair.
“Who’s that?” Whitney asks.
“One of the customers from Rico’s,” I reply.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I invited her. Seems like she’s been having a hard time with things…” I shake my head as I remember the night outside Rico’s—the night I found out I would become a father; the night I left Zina with the green-eyed boy. “I think she needs someone to talk to.”
The twinkle in Whitney’s eyes dies.
“Her? You invited a her to our engagement party?”
“Whitney, she’s just a kid. She needs someone to talk to.”
“And why are you that someone?” She frowns. “Where’d she come from?”
I bite my tongue. I wouldn’t dare give the real reason.
“She reminds me of my mother,” I say instead.
“How so?”
“She’s a resilient kid. My mother’s a resilient woman.”
As Whitney and I navigate through the crowd, I’m nervous and not at all comfortable with her coming with me to find Zina. Whitney is leading the way, and every so often she’ll turn around and smile and thank me for agreeing to celebrate our engagement and my birthday together.
Zina is standing by the fence, underneath one of the light posts. When I let go of Whitney’s hand, she snatches at me, tugging me backward as her lips curl into a nasty frown. She glares at Zina.
“Do not provoke her, Whitney. She’s our guest.”
“She’s your guest.”
I manage to shake free of her and hurry forward to greet Zina. As I approach her, my stomach drops into the crotch of my pants. This hasn’t happened since I was fifteen. She looks so differen
t than Whitney: wild and authentic, rather than prissy and polished. Her high-school demeanor is gone; she looks twenty years old. The makeup she’s wearing makes her dark brown eyes resemble torches in the moonlight. Her mouth, painted red, welcomes me with a huge grin. The cutouts in her sapphire skirt and shirt expose her smooth, bare stomach, rounded shoulders, and shapely legs. Her skin is smooth and creamy, like dark peanut butter, and her hair is loose, its thick, wild waves frolicking in the night breeze. I can taste her already. She sees Whitney and me walking her way and does not look pleased.
“It’s cool that I came?” She searches Whitney’s eyes and finds nothing favorable. “Family stuff.” She laughs nervously. “I kinda just wanted to go out and have a little fun.”
“Yeah, of course, it’s okay. There are plenty of cool people here—and food,” I assure her.
Zina looks rattled and unsure of what to do, as my girlfriend eyes her with disapproval. She stands there swiping her finger over her phone screen, until Whitney finally speaks to her.
“So,” Whitney says, “how’d you meet my fiancé? Better yet, who the hell are you?”
Zina steps away, her eyes on Whitney, but she doesn’t reply. She clears her throat and mumbles something about “…this bullshit…” and storms off toward her car.
I chase after her. “Whoa! Wait, where are you going?” I reach out for her, but she dodges me. I glance over my shoulder and see Whitney standing off to the side, glaring, her French-manicured hands planted on her hips. “You don’t have to leave. There won’t be any problems,” I say in one long breath.
“I’m leaving. Fuck your party.”
I frown, yelling after her, “My party didn’t do anything to you.”
“Shut up!”
“You know, your temper tantrum is immature and unattractive,” I say.
She turns around. “Duh! I’m seventeen years old, you idiot!”
She makes a good point.
CHAPTER 29
ZINA
I drive around in circles for almost two hours, annoyed as hell. On first impulse, I would’ve run straight for Tony’s, but he’s taken that option away. The argument we had a few days ago weighs on me in a different way than this thing with Shannon does. I can’t handle him thinking I’m some wicked thief. I miss him, and I don’t want beef. If I haven’t apologized already, I need to. I can’t remember, because it happened so fast. I hope it’s not too late. I get on the freeway, heading in his direction.
When I get to his place, I park as far away from his building as possible. But I make sure his living room window is still in view. The light is on, and he passes the window twice. I sit in my car, wondering if he’s alone, envisioning Natalia comforting him in ways that I can’t. I take my phone from my purse and finger it nervously. I text him.
Can you please forgive me?
Six minutes pass with no response, and it shatters what’s left of my heart. I turn the key in the ignition, glaring at his living room window. He hasn’t come near it since I texted him. I kill the car’s engine, get out, and walk across the parking lot to Tony’s building. I sit on the sidewalk in front of his place. I text him again.
Do you know what this is doing to me? I don’t know what to do. C’mon.
I grip my phone and bury my face into my knees.
Please.
My phone alert vibrates.
Come see me, it says. I gulp.
I’m outside your window, I text back and wait.
He draws back the curtain, glances down at me, and disappears. I hear his footsteps coming toward me, but I’m afraid to look. As he walks, his stride is rapid and alarming. I look at him, and he stops cold as soon as our eyes meet. He shoves his hands into his pockets, hesitating as if he’s scared of me. He winks at me, and I stand, dusting myself off. He turns and walks back to his apartment. I run to catch up with him, falling into rhythm, trying to close the distance between us.
When I turn the corner, he’s standing underneath the porch light, waiting for me to catch up. He hides his eyes, as if he’s not ready to look at me. I stand as far away from him as I can.
“Where are you coming from?” he asks.
“I was invited to a party.”
“Did I buy that for you?”
“Buy what?”
“What you’re wearing.”
I look down at myself and shake my head.
He stares at my outfit and then unlocks the door and walks in. I hold my place on the front porch.
“What are you doing? Come on,” he beckons, his voice low and husky.
“You didn’t say that you have forgiven me.” My lips tremble, and my eyes sting.
“You came all the way here to stand on the porch?”
“I’m scared. I don’t want you to throw me out again. You can’t do that.” I sniff, fidgeting under his glare. “What we did…what I did was wrong. I’m s…sorry.” My voice cracks as he stands in the doorway.
“I’m sorry too,” he says.
I sob, walking over to him. He grabs my wrist, pulling me forward.
“I still need you to protect me…” I say.
He kneels down in front of me. “I will always protect you, Zina,” he says. “Why don’t you know that by now?”
It was still early, even though an hour had passed since I’d arrived at Tony’s. I spent that hour on his balcony, thinking about the evening, questioning if I’d been stupid with Zack for no reason and wondering what he saw in his malicious, fire-crotch fiancée. Still, I like Zack; he’s been good to me. I won’t blame him for who his girlfriend is. I think he even tried to protect me from her. I get lonely on the balcony and go back inside with Tony.
“First you want to stay on the front porch, and now you’re hiding out on the balcony. I thought we were good,” he says when I walk into the dining room. He sets his paperwork down on the table.
“We are, duh.” I plop down on his couch as he gets up from the dining room table. “I’m sorry for stealing from you.”
He comes over and pulls me from the couch. My wedged platforms put us nearly eye to eye.
“You don’t have to say it again. I know you regret it.”
I’m relieved to hear him say this.
“I reacted badly. I was harsh. I should never have treated you that way.” He shakes his head at the memory.
“I understand why you did,” I say. “I…we messed up.”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Let this be the end of it,” he says.
I nod. My toes hurt in my shoes, so I lean against him while I adjust my footing. He wraps an arm around my waist, supporting my weight.
“So I’ve thought about what you asked me to do before the ugliness between us happened,” he says.
“What?”
“About your brothers…”
I step away from him. I remember now. He looks at me, sorrow drawn over his face.
“I don’t want you to be the kind of human being who wishes death on someone,” he says.
“My mind hasn’t changed,” I say. “The world would be a better place without the type of niggas who shoot kids dead in the middle of the street.”
“Someone could say the same about you—that the world would be a better place without someone who sees violence as a means to an end,” he says.
“I don’t give three fucks about what someone says about me. Fuck them,” I whisper. “Why do murdering motherfuckers like that get to live?”
“Don’t ask me for this,” he says.
Our eyes meet. He sees my refusal to relent. “It doesn’t have to be you—just someone. Please do it. Now.”
He leans in closer as my chest threatens to implode from the cataclysmic heat rising between us.
“Why do you think it’s so easy to take someone’s life? Why do you think I can do this? You ask li
ke it’s nothing.” My eyes narrow. He steps closer and kisses me gently on the mouth. “You’re asking for something I can’t give.”
The kiss throws me into another world, one not shared between an adopted niece and her uncle. I’m too dizzy to press the issue. I stare at him, mouth open and woozy. He has no idea what he just did to me. He lowers his face into my hair and presses his hand into the small of my back.
“Tony,” I whisper, “I hate them.”
“I know you do.”
“But this is how you protect me right now.”
He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the couch.
“Sit,” he says, pulling me next to him. “Listen to me. I’m not going to do this.”
I jerk my hands from his and jump to my feet.
“No, wait,” he says.
“Wait for what?” I snap. “This sucks.”
“Zina…you can’t be involved in a shit like this. It’s chaotic and filthy as hell. It’s bad enough you took what you took from my safe.”
“I said I’m sorry. I thought you weren’t talking about it anymore.”
“I know you’re sorry—it’s not about that. If I let this murder situation happen, it would change you,” he whispers. “I can’t.”
I am convinced that he’d do this, so I push my anger and grief away and wait for revenge to replace it. But it’ll never come, and I’ll never heal. Tony’s refusal is more devastating than being thrown out of his life. I sit down on the arm of his sofa.
“Don’t be upset with me,” he says.
“I’m not. But can I ask you about something?”
“Yeah, anything.”
“The safe, the dope we found…where’d you get it?”
“It’s mine.”
“All of it? The guns too?”
“Yes.”
I stop asking questions. Tony’s relieved when I do.
I don’t think much about Uncle Tony being what or who he is. Who am I to pass judgment? But knowing what I know and finding the safe in his apartment brings me to a pretty far out realization. He’s able to take care of me and pick up my mama’s slack because he’s in a business that never dries up. The dope we took from him hasn’t hurt his money one bit.
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