Page 90 of This Could Be Us
Lola flashes a look at the girls managing their cooking assignments and grabs my and Hendrix’s elbows, dragging us out of the kitchen and into the living room. Hendrix and I sit on the sectional, and Lola plops onto the tufted ottoman in front of us.
“What has my little sister told you?” Lola asks, eyes narrowed, but a smile playing on her lips.
“Only that you’ve fallen in love with your best friend.” Hendrix grins. “I hope that was okay.”
“It’s fine. I could use some advice, actually. We kissed.” Lola bites her fist, wide eyes pinging between Hendrix and me.
“Oh, my God, ” I say. “Isn’t Olive straight, far as we’ve ever known?”
“She did experiment in college,” Lola corrects. “Unfortunately never with me, but yeah. She’s only ever been in relationships with guys. We were packing up some boxes at her house for the move and it just happened.”
“How was it?” Hendrix asks.
Lola sighs dreamily, leaning back on the heels of her palms. “It was like… coming home. I know I can be dramatic sometimes…”
“Sometimes?” I lovingly scoff.
“But,” Lola says pointedly, “when we kissed, it felt like this was what every other kiss in my life wished it could have been. It was natural, but otherworldly. I can’t describe it.”
“You just did. Very well,” Hendrix says. “And now I want a kiss like that. I met a couple of guys at this mixer tonight who could get it if they play their cards right. May have to put some girls on the roster too.”
“As a happy hybrid”—Lola grins salaciously—“I ten-out-of-ten recommend expansion-league dating. I’ve tried ’em both, and can say with all confidence, pussy is superior.”
The three of us laugh. Hendrix and Lola have a lot in common, not the least of which is their outrageous sense of humor.
“What about that guy you met on Tinder?” I ask Hendrix. “He was cute.”
“He pronounced the ‘l’ in salmon.” Hendrix sucks her teeth and shakes her head, disgust evident. “I said check please immediately. You mispronouncing fish. How can I trust you?”
“What about that guy you met at the Black Entrepreneurs Summit?” I ask.
“His rich ass,” Hendrix says, “flying private and driving a Lambo, had the gall, the Black-ass-ity, to say we should split the check. Making all that money? If you ain’t splitting the check with them light-skinned chicks, them white girls, them skinny li’l hos you Instagrammed on the yacht in Saint Bart’s, don’t try to dutch nothing with me.” She gestures to her ripe figure. “Getting more fabulous for your money and gon’ be cheap? Not over here.”
“I know that’s right.” Lola high-fives Hendrix and cackles. “Know your worth,dulzura.”
“Um, and the guy your cousin introduced you to from church?” I suppress a grin, already anticipating an excuse for why this onealsofailed to meet Hendrix’s exacting standards.
“Ihad bigger dick energy than that man, which means we were basically unequally yoked.Howcan I be my ancestors’ wildest dreams settling for some mid dick? I can’t let them down like that.”
“It’s the dickmatization of it all,” Lola laughingly agrees. “If I want it like that and there’s no man around worth my time, I can always grab a strap-on.”
“Please keep your voices down,” I hiss, throwing a cautious look back toward the kitchen. “I don’t want to spend Christmas morning explaining strap-ons to my eleven-year-old.”
“I’m just saying,” Hendrix whisper-laughs. “I told Santa all I want for Christmas is an orgasm that rolls my eyes back past my lace front. Something I need three to five business days to recover from.”
“Oh, my God,” Lola gasps. “I see why Sol loves you so much.”
I shake my head at them both and try one more time. “What about that manager you met on set with your housewives, Hen? He seemed to have some potential.”
“My first foray into the palm-colored of the male species.” Hendrix crosses her long legs. “He was attractive, but he said ‘malarkey’ and ‘rigamarole’unironically. My Blackness won’t let me, at least not with him. If I’m dating a white dude, he better be invited to the cookout. A man with that Christopher Jamal Evans energy.”
“While we’re on the subject of white men we never shoulda let in our drawers,” Lola says caustically, “how’s Edward doing in that low-security resort of a prison?”
That sucks all the fun out of the conversation for me.
“I have no idea, and that suits me just fine,” I reply, not even trying to strip the bitterness from my voice. “He’s pissed at me, of course, and has only talked to the girls a few times. He doesn’t want them to visit him in prison, which… good call.”
I flop back against the cushions, fixing my stare on the coffered ceiling.