Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
“’No worries. I need to go, too. We can correspond by email if you have any more questions. Make sure to copy my agent.”
At the abrupt formality of my words, her easy smile wobbles and her eyes cool some before she offers a brusque nod. “Will do. Guess I’ll see you at homecoming.”
I hang up and can’t shake the feeling that I missed my shot . . .again.
CHAPTER FOUR
niomi
“So glad you’ll get to experience your first real homecoming,” Janelle tells Ron in the small room inside Finley’s student union.
We’re about thirty minutes from the interview beginning, and as nervous as I am, you’d think I’m about to sit down with the leader of the free world.
“I mean, I went to homecoming at State for undergrad,” Ron asserts. “That wasn’t an HBCU, but how different can it be?”
Janelle and I catch eyes in the mirror as I put the finishing touches on my makeup, sharing a knowing smirk. I stand to face my cousin and pat his shoulder. “Like she said, your first real homecoming.”
Ron rolls his eyes and laughs good-naturedly, receiving the teasing in the spirit we gave it.
“Alright, cuz,” he says. “Then I’m counting on you for the full experience.”
“Oh, you’ll get it.” I run a brush through my blow out before grabbing the lapel mic and fixing it to my collar. “You still down for the step show tonight?”
“I’m down for whatever,” Ron says, sending a meaningful—and if I’m not mistaken, slightly lascivious—glance Janelle’s way.
“Be careful what you ask for, lil’ boy,” Janelle chuckles, shaking her head and sending her braids swinging. “Might get more than you can handle.”
“Why’d you have to tell her how old I was?” Ron grumbles.
“She didn’t tell me how old you are,” Janelle corrects. “She told me how young you are.”
“What’s ten years?” Ron steps close to Janelle and tugs one her braids, his eyes warm and teasing. “Dating me won’t send you to jail, though I do have some handcuffs if you’re into that kind of—”
“Alright.” I cut in, stand and walk toward the door. “I’m not sure which is more embarrassing. Your abysmal lack of game or that Janelle actually looks interested.”
“I mean, pickings is slim out here, Ni.” Janelle runs an assessing glance over my cousin. “And it is homecoming.”
“Aren’t you like on duty or something?”
“Duty don’t prevent the booty.”
I gag a little, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth like I might be sick. Not sure I’m faking because ewwww.
“Fun is over.” She winks at Ron. “For now. Come on, Ni. Time to interview the man you had a massive crush on from the day you laid eyes on him in freshman orientation.”
“Not true.”
Janelle rounds on me, eyes narrowed and knowing. “Did you or did you not predict at the freshman pre-dawn party that you and Touré would be married by age thirty and have a boy and a girl, Carver and Octavia?”
“I was drunk.”
“Were you drunk on that Zoom call a few weeks ago when you were looking at Touré like this?”
Janelle flutters her lashes and puckers her lips and pants. It’s confusing and disgusting and amusing. Ron and I both laugh, but I stop almost immediately because I probably was panting, seeing Touré for the first time in so long. The man is still fine. Like fine fine. Not to mention intelligent and funny and sophisticated in that world-weary way that makes a woman want to soothe his troubled brow. That troubled brow trap.
Over the years, I made peace with how Touré left and never looked back. I thought of the globetrotting man who found acclaim risking his life for the story in distant lands as different from the one who helped me pass history class by setting facts to music. 50 Cents’ “Magic Stick,” to be exact. But on that video conference call, I could not trick myself into separating the guy I knew from the one who was in front of me.
“He’s here!” Janelle squeals, waving her phone at me. “Looking for us. I’ll be right back.”
“Here?” I ask, keeping my tone calm like the Emmy-award winning journalist I am. “You’re bringing him here now?”
“Uh, yeah. Where else would he go? I’ll be right back.” Janelle sweeps past us and out of the room.
I check my reflection in the mirror. Thanks to my girls Pat McGrath, Bobbi Brown, and Charlotte Tilbury, the makeup is on point. Face card approved. The bright pink Zac Posen dress slides over my shapewear-engineered curves and hits just above the knees. It’s sleeveless, but the cardigan I slipped on over it will protect me from the cool autumn air out on the Yard.
“You look good, cuz,” Ron assures me. “You’re not nervous, are you? A college campus? You could do this interview in your sleep.”
“True, but Touré will probably win a Pulitzer someday. Not to mention the fact that he’s given maybe three interviews in twenty years. I don’t care if this interview is taking place at the Waffle House, it’s a big deal. My producers are thrilled. They’re out there chomping at the bit.”