Unrequited Page 5

  Quentin didn't laugh. Only took a swig of his water and looked at me. Not willing to meet his stare for too long, I turned away first, focusing on the year-round skating rink, positioned in the middle of the food court.

  Quentin and I finished our pizza in silence, and like at school, people seemed to gravitate to him. Many recognized him from his family or his volunteer work. I watched with intrigue as Quentin effortlessly navigated every interaction by becoming whoever he needed to be at that moment, seeming older than his eighteen years. He remembered mundane tidbits of information about the people he spoke with—things they probably mentioned to him in passing, and never expected him to remember.

  He asked one woman how her dog, Dox, was doing. From their brief interaction, I gathered that she had adopted Dox from an animal shelter that Quentin used to volunteer for three years ago. In another conversation, he asked a man about his ailing mother and her rehabilitation after hip surgery four months ago. The concern etched on Quentin's face was priceless. And when another person angrily comforted him and asked him about his father's controversial vote in a recent senate trial, Quentin expertly maneuvered through the conversation with poise and skill. With every person that came to our table, he effectively included me in the conversation. I didn't feel left out, and he also made the other person feel like the conversation was all theirs. He was a natural. A politician in the making. The golden James' boy with a promising future.

  Quentin often reminded me of an actor on a movie set. When he was in character, he knew all of his lines, and his delivery was natural and on cue. But when the cameras stopped rolling, and it was only he and I, he would snap out of character and rest between takes, just like an actor who got five minutes before the next scene.

  "Why do you always do that?" I asked once we were alone again.

  "Do what?" Amusement swam in his hazel eyes, the scattering of gold, green and brown changing form as he furrowed his brows.

  "Why do you pretend to be this nice guy."

  "You think I'm pretending? Damn, Fatima. I'm hurt."

  I pursed my lips at him. "Dude, you are full of shit. I know that was all an act."

  "An act?"

  "Come on, Quentin. You're the guy," I lowered my voice, "who likes pain."

  "I was honest with you about the one scar you saw, and now you think I'm damaged, or some shit. It was only one time when—"

  "When Colton killed himself," I said so that he wouldn't have to. Quentin winced. These days, we never talked about Colton. He didn't want to, and I accepted that. "Let's not forget you punched Brent Tatem. Nice guys don't punch people," I tsked, shaking my head. "You're also the guy who likes group sex with random girls. You, my friend, are a playa."

  "They're not random. And a player?" He chuckled. "How am I a player when they all know about one another?"

  "It's playa," I annunciated.

  He rolled his eyes. "Whatever. But Brent had it coming. He called you a bitch."

  I nodded in agreement. "True. But it wasn't your fight."

  "Someone had to stand up for you."

  "I can take care of myself, Quentin."

  "Like you did at the lake?" He cocked his head to the side. "Why the hell were you there anyway?"

  "Oh, I see. You can have fun with your fuck buddies, but I can't?"

  "You can do whatever you want," he deadpanned.

  "Exactly." Why was there tension? More importantly, why was I alluding to something that never happened? Did I want to get a reaction out of him? Make him jealous? Yes. Yes, I did.

  "You should be more selective in the company you keep. Clearly, you're attracted to assholes. Hence Brent, Kevin, and whoever the prick was that ditched you at the lake. Who was he, by the way?" His jaw ticked.

  "Not that it's any of your business, but I wasn't ditched at the lake by a guy."

  "You were ditched by a girl, then?" His eyebrow arched wickedly.

  I threw my crumpled napkin at him. "Marley ditched me because she was too busy hooking up with one of your douchebag friends. And Kevin is not an asshole."

  "You're defending the guy who called fifteen times a day for a month after your breakup?"

  I shooed my hand at him. "He was having a hard time processing the fact that it's over between us."

  He cut in, "And going with him to prom didn't help matters, did it?"

  "You went with big-boobed Chelsey! Everyone knows she doodles your name in her Calc book during class." I shook my head out of frustration. "And for your information, Kevin kept calling my cell because someone is always cock-blocking when we're at school."

  "Oh, I'm the one cock-blocking." He shook his head and chuckled.

  "Okay, I'm not even going to dignify that with a response. This is about Kevin and the fact that he is not a stalker. He says he's still crazy about me. That he can't stop thinking about me," I egged him on.

  "You seem to have that effect on men."

  "Some."

  He didn't say anything to that, but I didn't expect him too.

  "So… Amber. She seems nice."

  "It's just sex," he said matter of factly.

  "Is her two months almost up?"

  "Two months?"

  "Yeah, that's about the time of their expiration date."

  "I didn't know you were keeping track of time."

  I snorted in derision. "I'm not. You told me that."

  He slowly shook his head. "I've never told you that."

  "Ummm, yeah, you did. How else would I know that?"

  "No clue." The corner of his lips twitched in a smirk.

  ∞∞∞

  "YOU'VE GOT TO BE kidding me," I said, feigning offense. We'd long finished our slices of pizza, and my Slurpee was almost completely melted. "You think 90's and 2000s rock is better than 80's rock? Quentin, you are killing me right now. Third Eye Blind, The White Stripes, and Nirvana can't hold a candle to Guns N' Roses, Metallica, and Aerosmith."

  "Aerosmith is from the '70s."

  I shook my head defiantly. "Whatever. Not the point. The point is," I paused for effect, "you have to respect your elders. Give credit to the O.G.'s." I slapped the table with the palm of my hand.

  "You don't even like rock music," he said emphatically, talking with his hands.

  "Not the point! Old school is always better than new school. No matter the genre. Now, don't get me wrong. I love today's R&B. Aaliyah, Musiq Soulchild, Ericka Badu, and 112 are all fire. But they can't hold a candle to Donny Hathaway, Gladys Knight, The Temptations, and Lenny Williams."

  "Who's Lenny Williams?"

  "How dare you? We've been friends all this time, and you have the nerve to ask me who Lenny Williams is? Tower of Power?"

  He shook his head.

  "Quentin, I have failed you. You've just been subtracted ten cool points for asking me that." I scooted my chair to his side of the table. "Let me school you, right quick."

  I put an earbud up to his ear and leaned my ear against his. Scrolling through my iPod, I searched for Lenny Williams' Cause I Love You. I hovered my finger over the play button and closed my eyes. "Close your eyes. You have to block everything out before I play it." I opened one eye and peeked at him, only to find Quentin's eyes boring into me.

  I bit back smile. "This is serious business, Quentin. I'm going to let you borrow my black card for about twenty seconds. Okay, maybe not borrow it, but I’ll show it to you."

  He laughed heartily and closed his eyes. I closed mine again. "Okay, are you ready?"

  "For fuck's sake, Fatima. My eyes are closed. Just play the damn song."

  I pressed play. The opening cords struck, and the soul-stirring melodies drummed between us. "Lenny hasn't even sung a word, yet you already know this song is about to mess you up." Memories of my dad invaded my mind. This used to be his favorite song. It was on frequent rotation in our home before and after my mom left. In happier times, Lenny's voice would float through our home, and dad would pull mom into his arms, showering her with kisses. She would appea
se him through giggles, letting him embrace her for a spell, before swatting him away playfully.

  After mom left, Lenny's voice no longer blended with sounds of laughter and words of adoration. Lenny's voice competed with the sound of my father's cries. He thought I was asleep, but I wasn't. I was on the other side of his office door, crying my own tears and missing my mama.

  The masochist in me loved this song because it made me feel closer to my parents. It also reminded me of love. Raw, reckless love. Unapologetic love. The kind of love that my dad had for my mom. But it also reminded me of crushing, heart-wrenching pain and desperation. My mom had my dad's heart. My dad didn't have hers.

  In the middle of the song, Lenny Williams stopped singing and began to talk about the problems he was having with the love of his life. Quentin and I listened a little while longer before I paused the song. "Anyway." I moved the earbud from against our ears. "This song is a classic. Arguably one of the greatest love songs of its generation."

  "It sounds depressing," Quentin said.

  "Love is depressing," I said nonchalantly with a shrug. "Lenny is so vulnerable in this song. It's tragic in a sense. It's like he loves her more than she loves him. Unrequited love is a bitch."

  Quentin grunted his approval while taking a swallow from his water bottle. His eyes skated to my lips for the briefest of seconds, before turning his attention back to the skating rink. The moment vanished so quickly, maybe I imagined it.

  "I'm tired of this sneaking around shit. No more." His eyes were still focused straight ahead. "We're graduating soon. Possibly never seeing each other again."

  I swallowed. The thought of never seeing him again was sobering. "I don't know, Quentin. There's the whole cock-blocking thing," I teased, desperately trying to make light of where this conversation was headed.

  "I'm not asking you to go steady, Fatima," he softly mocked.

  "Good. Because you're not my type." I snorted a laugh, even as I cringed on the inside. I was such a liar and a bad one, at that.

  "You're not my type either," he added casually, sucker-punching my ego. "You're beautiful. You know that. But I'm not trying to fuck you. Already did that, remember?"

  That landed him a punch in the arm. He clutched his arm, pretending he was hurt. I could feel my cheeks heating. "I swear I can't stand you sometimes."

  "Come on, Fatima. You know you love me," he joked.

  "You wish."

  His eyes skated to my lips again, this time lingering a bit. "Seriously, Fatima. We graduate in two months. Let's make it count."

  I sighed, and my mood turned a bit more somber. "My family can't find out that we're friends. I mean, Novalee knows, but she doesn't know what happened."

  His jaw ticked. "Fine. If that's what you want."

  "It's not what I want, but it's the right thing to do. Like you said, we have two months together. Let's make it count, but not add any unnecessary drama."

  His shoulders relaxed a little. "I hear you."

  We clinked our beverages in agreement.

  Chapter 7

  FATIMA

  I PULLED INTO THE parking lot of the Brathwaite Hotel and headed around back. I noticed Quentin right away, casually leaning back against the exterior wall with his legs crossed at the ankles. With his head down, he focused on his phone. He unknowingly looked as if he were posing for a preppy collegian clothing magazine. Most guys our age didn't dress like him. His style would have looked corny on them, but on Quentin, it looked classic. Tailored pants fit his long legs to perfection. His slim fit button-down shirt was tucked in, showcasing his flat washboard stomach. His shirt sleeves were carelessly rolled up to his forearms, revealing hard muscle.

  Me, on the other hand, looked like the third member of an all-girl hip hop trio. My dreads were separated down the middle with two large French braids on each side. Large silver hoop earrings dangled in my ears, and a silver chain adorned my neck. I wore a tiny white cropped Fendi t-shirt, Guess low-rise jeans, and Gucci platform flip flops. My lips were slick with brick-red lipstick, and thick cat style eyeliner framed my eyes. I had the top down on my convertible, and Q Tip's Vivrant Thing blasted from my stereo.

  I drove up at a snail's pace. Quentin's eyes were on me the whole time, and a crooked smile curved his lips as he took me in, in all my extraness. I blew a big bubble with my gum, lowered my sunglasses to the tip of my nose, and flashed Quentin a mischievous smile. The sight of Quentin disarmed me, as it did every day. Over the past three weeks, we spent time together in public places. Our families had yet to find out, but that could soon change with me picking him up from his father's town hall meeting.

  "It's about fucking time." Quentin pocketed his phone as he straightened from the wall.

  "I got here as soon as I could. I was doing my nails when I got your text. They had to dry." I dangled my long, natural, purple-polished nails at him.

  He rolled his eyes as he headed to my car. "Such a princess."

  I stuck my tongue out at him, put the car in first gear, and killed the engine. "You drive." I got out and tossed him my keys, which he deftly caught.

  "Fine. But we're picking up my truck from home. There's no way in hell I’m driving a purple convertible through town."

  "It's mulberry. And my car is badass, by the way. Way more badass than your hillbilly truck."

  "Let's not get carried away." Quentin held the passenger door open for me.

  "Wanna put your money where your mouth is, pretty boy?" I stepped to him, inhaling his unique scent of mint and soap. The heat between us was scorching, like invisible bolts of current zapping back and forth between us. I angled my neck up to him. "One hundred bills says my car is faster than yours."

  He towered over me and arched a brow before gently tugging on my chained navel piercing. "Let's do it," he said, causing a shiver to run through me as my mind swam in the pits of the gutter.

  I narrowed my eyes at him and bit the corner of my bottom lip. His eyes briefly flashed to my mouth.

  "Don't think I’m going to let you win because you're a girl."

  "You better not. I can handle it."

  He stepped closer to me in an instant, and his body pressed against mine. "Sure about that?" There was a hint of challenge in his voice, fused with a conflicted look in his earthy hazel eyes.

  A man's voice called out Quentin's name from behind. I stiffened, and Quentin immediately took a step back from me.

  "Quentin. Your father is looking for you. He's requesting your presence for a few photos with the press."

  Quentin stepped aside. An older man, with a tailored black suit and thinning silver hair, stood by curiously watching us. He looked very regal and presidential. "No, can't do, Charles. I have other plans. I'll see him tonight."

  The man looked surprised at Quentin's decline. I did too, frankly. I knew that Quentin never turned down a request from his father. "He won't approve. He's leaving for D.C. this evening."

  "I can wait in the car," I offered, my voice low.

  At my interruption, the man took a lingering look at me, causing me to straighten my spine. I offered a curt nod with a small smile. In response, his brows knitted together. Quentin and I both noticed the change in his demeanor, and our eyes met briefly before both turning back to him. He knew. He knew about the scandal.

  "Charles Baxter, Fatima McKay," Quentin introduced. "Charles is my father's Chief of Staff." Quentin looked down at me, offering me a comforting smile. "Fatima is a good friend," he said to Charles, before catching me completely off guard and lacing his fingers through mine. The gesture seemed protective, and it pleased me. Probably more than it should have. Over the last three weeks, there had been an increase in body contact. Hugs, light fingertips brushing across my face, and hands threading through my hair. I liked it. I liked it, a lot.

  "Miss McKay," Mr. Baxter greeted, giving a curt nod. "It's very lovely to meet you." His voice was formal and seemed mechanical and rehearsed. His eyes drifted to our joined hands.

 
"Let's bug out," Quentin said to me, turning away from Charles and gesturing me towards the open car door.

  After getting in the car, I watched through the side mirror, as Quentin and Mr. Baxter exchange a few brief words at the back of my car. I peered at them through the mirror. They both looked over in my direction at the same time, causing me to assume that they were talking about me. I itched to turn the radio down, but I didn't want it to appear obvious that I was straining to hear them.

  "Everything okay?" I asked Quentin as we buckled our seat belts.

  "Yep." He lit a cigarette and took a deep inhale, before blowing the smoke in the opposite direction of me.

  As we rode out of the parking lot and turned the corner, I noticed Mr. Baxter standing in the same place, staring after us.

  ∞∞∞

  AFTER OUR IMPROMPTU RACE in which Quentin beat me by a nose hair, he bought us burgers, fries, and milkshakes. He refused to take the money I owed him for losing the race, but I planned to sneak it in the glove box of his truck when he wasn't looking.

  We devoured our food while sitting cross-legged on my kitchen table before ending up on the roof, where the tall trees cocooned us. The stars seemed closer this high up, and the breeze felt cooler on the sloped rooftop outside of my bedroom window.

  Sounds of music drifted from my bedroom as we lay side by side on a blanket, staring out into the dark sky. Our shoulders touched, and I could feel the flex of his muscle as he brought a lit joint to his lips. This had become one of our favorite evening past times—laying on our backs and talking into the wee hours of the night as we stared up into the big Texas sky. Dad was away on business for another weeks-long trip, and Quentin and I ended up here every evening, doing just this.

  "Is Kevin going to be a problem for you?" Quentin asked.

  Kevin had called me eight times today and left three text messages when I didn't answer. I thought about Quentin's question before turning my head to look at him. The moonlight and the illumination from my bedroom light cast highlights over his strong jaw. "Nah. He'll get the point when I don't respond. He's just in his feelings right now." I turned my eyes back up to the sky, just as Quentin turned his head to look at me.