Femme Like Her Page 3

  “For you?” I glance at her over my shoulder. “Absolutely.”

  1

  As soon as I set foot inside the crowded seafood restaurant, I hear Pauline’s shout above the low roar of other voices. “Nailah! Hey!”

  She’s short but I see her right away, flapping her hand at me from a window booth, the top half of her covered in her latest Hawaiian shirt, this one blue with bright red tropical flowers. I wave back, smiling, game face on.

  I’m tired today, and it’s from more than just my mentally exhausting day job.

  “It took you long enough to get here,” she says in her gravelly voice when I sit across from her, sliding my briefcase to the corner of the booth. I should’ve left the damn thing in the car, but my brain was too tired to make much sense of anything.

  “Traffic.” I lean back in the chair and take what feels like my first deep breath all day. “When you said meet you at your favorite crab spot, I didn’t realize you meant one the next state over.”

  A slight exaggeration, but really, why do all her favorite places to eat have to be forty miles outside the city limits?

  “Glad you finally made it.” Pauline shoves a little plate of sliced lemons toward me. She knows I like a million of them in my iced tea. “I was about to get started without you.”

  “You didn’t?”

  She’s got a nearly empty basket of hush puppies in front of her along with a pitcher of iced tea, also half gone. “The crab legs, girl,” Pauline says with a shake of her head, like I’m slow. “That’s the whole point.”

  “Right.”

  The waitress must have been keeping her eye on Pauline’s table, because I’ve barely reached for the empty glass on the table to pour myself some of that iced tea when the young girl appears.

  “Yay, you’re here! Pauline here was getting restless without you.” The waitress is young and pretty, with bouncy hair and a thick Atlanta drawl. She waggles her eyebrows at Pauline, who grins back wide enough to show the new gold over her canine teeth.

  My friend is the waitress whisperer. Even when she’s not trying to seduce them, she still manages to make them like her.

  “What can I get you?” The girl’s notebook appears, pencil poised just over it, her attentive smile on me.

  After Pauline and I order, the girl bounces off with a sassy twist of her backside, which Pauline takes the time to thoroughly appreciate.

  “You look like shit,” she says once we’re alone. “You sure you just don’t want to quit that job before they fire you?”

  “It would be a layoff,” I say automatically, although I’m not fooling anybody but myself.

  My company has been dragging out the pending layoff of my department for months. Nearly everybody else cracked under the pressure, quit to find other jobs, or just stopped showing up, eating up their vacation days at home instead of coming to work every day, where the tension was thick enough to make it hard to breathe.

  “Anyway, it’s fine. I still need to figure out my next move.”

  “Well, you better try to move a little quicker before that company just rolls right on over you. It’s a matter of time, and you know it.”

  “Not all of us can have our own business, my girl.”

  Pauline rolls her eyes. “Don’t give me that crap again. You can do whatever you want.”

  “Tell that to my mortgage and car payment.”

  Thick silver rings on her equally thick fingers glint as she waves a dismissive hand at the things I’ve been obsessing over for the last few months. “You know how to make money and you have a savings account most people would kill for. You’re just being a pussy about moving on.”

  “Thanks, friend. Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”

  Our food arrives just a few minutes later, and we dive into the pile of crab legs, buttered potatoes, deviled eggs, and corn on the cob. It’s a good thing, because even though we go through the same verbal dance about my job every time we talk, I still don’t know quite where to take it from here.

  The unemployment line? My boss’s office to beg her to keep my job? YouTube to start a channel for world-class procrastinators? My options all sound equally sad, equally impossible.

  We’re both about three servings into the all-you-can-eat crab-legs buffet when Pauline jumps up. “Quick, switch places with me!” Faster than she normally moves, she drags me out of my side of a booth, her hand slick with butter on my wrist.

  Because I know Pauline and the way she attracts drama like daytime TV, I go with it, quickly moving to her side of the table, a meaty crab claw dripping butter still clenched in my hand. Eyes darting from side to side like she’s searching for something she doesn’t want to find, Pauline drops down into my side of the booth, where a massive cutout of a smiling crab jumping into a pot of hot water hides her face from anyone passing by.

  “Good. I don’t think she saw me.” She breathes an over-the-top sigh of relief.

  “Who?” Then I remember again who I’m talking to. “You know what, don’t worry about it. I just hope some woman isn’t going to key my car just because she sees me with you.” A spike of worry in my gut for Earl, my beloved Camaro, makes me lean toward Pauline. “Right?”

  “Right, right. Nothing like that’s going to happen. I just might have told this chick I was coming here tonight. I just didn’t feel like the drama”—I make a disbelieving sound at that—“so I asked for a rain check. Still wanted my crab legs, though.”

  I laugh because this is just like Pauline.

  Her stomach will always rule, even over the many women she usually ends up in strange situations with. Something simple and predictable I appreciate about her. You never have to wonder where she stands with certain things.

  After another quick look around the cutout of the suicidal crab, she settles back into place, helping me switch our food to the proper side of the table.

  “Anyway, back to what we were talking about before—”

  “I thought we were done with that.” The job thing is old news. We flog that dead horse every week, and I’m well tired of it. “Can’t we just chill with this good food and let all that bad shit go?”

  “Nope. You’re not a big talker about feelings. The only time I can get your ass to open up is over food, so here we are. Every time I call you, it’s all ‘I’m good’ or ‘nothing’s up.’ I need to get the real deal out of you, otherwise you’ll be moping for the rest of your life. Besides, they say confession is good for the soul.”

  “Whoever they are, I don’t like them,” I mutter. “Confession sounds Catholic, which sounds like pedophiles, and I don’t want anything to do that.”

  “Stop being an asshole. Tell me, for real, what’s up with you.”

  “I told you, nothing. Just like when you asked me last night.”

  How she manages to roll her eyes while aiming a sliver of crab meat into the tiny butter tray, I’ll never know.

  The glistening piece of crab meat disappears into her mouth as she watches me, eyes narrowed. I drink my iced tea and feel the sugar giving me back some of that energy I lost in the day at work.

  “It’s that chick from the other day, isn’t it? That femme.”

  I almost choke, because she’s right. “What are you talking about?”

  “Yep!” She crows in triumph like she just won big at the nickel slots in Vegas. “I knew it! That chick rocked your world in more ways than one. What was her name? Ross? Rossie? Something like that. Just tell me the story already. You’ll feel better.”

  Now, it’s my turn to roll my eyes. She already knows everything. At least everything I’m willing to tell. “Her name is Scottie, and it’s old news, Pauline.”

  But my stomach shimmies as I say her name. Scottie. Naima Scott. A woman who pursued me harder than any aggressive butch or stud ever had and made me break one of those unstated rules in our queer community. Butch-femme couples are the only acceptable couples. Femme for femme? Butch for butch? Too gay for us gays.

&nbsp
; “The news is not old enough for you to stop acting like someone stole your cat and served him to you for dinner.”

  “I haven’t been acting that bad.” I’ve been through worse with women, women I’ve invested way more time in.

  “You should see your face right now. All tight and upset. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been more beat down about what happened with this Scottie chick than the bullshit at your job.”

  Sometimes I hate that she knows me so well. “Just shut up and eat your food already.”

  But once Pauline thinks she’s onto something, she won’t let it go. She’s worse than a pit bull with a handsy baby.

  “So what if she dipped before you even finished your dinner that one time? She probably had some emergency she had to take care of.”

  Okay. I guess we’re going to be talking about this for real. I sigh just to let her know I’m not happy about this. “Not that she told me. At dinner, all she said was that she had to go, then we never got together again.” Over the next few days, Scottie and I exchanged a few brief phone calls and promised each other a rain check, but that rain check never happened.

  But it’s cool. Shit happens. It’s not like I expected her to really feel all that stuff she was talking about, wanting to try with me, do something more than a quick finger bang in my bedroom.

  My fingers clench around my fork and I force a smile.

  “You should call her,” Pauline says, not returning my fake smile. This is her being serious. She’s not even shoving food into her face anymore. “Even though you’ve been on that ‘no femmes’ bullshit since Raven kicked you to the curb”—I wince at the mention of my ex best friend—“she’d be good for you. That’s why I gave her your number in the first place. Even with all that went down, you still like her. It’s obvious.”

  Maybe. My pride can’t take another unreturned call, though. It’s not like I didn’t try to connect with her after that shitty date. I was the last one to reach out. I’m a lot of things, but a masochist isn’t one of them.

  “The date with Scottie was almost two months ago.” I squeeze the words past my suddenly dry throat and reach for my iced tea. “My mortgage is about to be due again, and the clock is ticking down at work. I have more important things to occupy my mind.”

  “Whatever, woman. You already know what I think about those excuses. Call the chick already. Get rid of that frown you’ve been wearing since she dipped. Even if it’s just a hookup. Before her, you haven’t gotten any since that stud you met at the airport. Remember, that one who wanted you to fake-marry her for a green card?”

  My cheeks heat up at the reminder of that monumental embarrassment from last year.

  “Seriously, Pauline. You’re bringing that up now?”

  Greta, the airport woman, was a mistake. A year plus without a regular girlfriend made me careless and a little desperate. After only a couple of dates and one forgettable night of sex in her room at the Travelodge, Greta asked me to help her get a green card. If the sex was better, I might have seriously considered it.

  Two rounds of oral and some mutual masturbation with Greta were nothing compared to the mind-shattering experience I had with Scottie. With just her fingers and a few incendiary words whispered in my ear, Scottie sent a shock wave through my entire world. Now that was worth a wedding ring, green card, and basically anything else she wanted from me.

  Not that I’d tell Pauline that. Or anyone else, for that matter.

  “You’re thinking about her now, aren’t you, that Scottie chick?” Pauline’s butter-smeared smirk isn’t attractive at all.

  A little embarrassed to be this transparent, I throw a balled-up napkin at her, but she ducks out of the way, giving one of her big belly laughs.

  “Even though it probably won’t happen, in case you decide to track her down for part two…” Pauline wipes her hands and pulls a folded piece of paper from her wallet. “Here’s the Groupon I was telling you about.”

  She shoves the piece of paper across the table. It’s a printed Groupon for a lingerie fitting and two custom bra and panty sets from some fancy boutique in Buckhead. Pauline’s a Groupon addict and never saw a deal she couldn’t somehow convince herself she needed.

  “Thanks.”

  Why not? I need some new bras anyway. Something pretty and custom-fitted that comes with a healthy dose of pampering actually sounds nice, something to get my mind off certain things. I tuck the Groupon into my briefcase while Pauline grins around the rim of her iced tea glass.

  A second later, her phone rings. I get a sick satisfaction when her smirk turns to a look of dread and, from where she has the phone resting on the table, I see the person calling is saved as “Crab Leg Date.”

  “That’s how you saved her number?” I burst out laughing. “Do you even know her name?”

  “Of course I know her damn name.” But the blush her light skin shows tells me that she really doesn’t. The call goes to voicemail.

  “You’re just begging for trouble with these random women you string along.”

  “I’m not stringing anybody— Shit!” She picks up her phone and her face gets redder than before. This must be some message. I grab the phone before she can pull it out of my reach.

  * * *

  Hey, cutie! I dropped by the crab place we had a date for tonight and thought I saw your car. Figured I must be trippin’ so I’m at your house ringing your doorbell. Where are you?

  * * *

  Attached is a selfie of a woman I don’t recognize. She’s standing in front of Pauline’s front door, her head nearly the size of the giant fall wreath Pauline put up a couple of days ago. The woman’s gone full-on duck lips with a mouth that glistens with gloss. Like most of the women Pauline tends to get involved with, she’s got pretty dark skin and a hint of crazy about the eyes.

  “Looks like you’re about to have some company tonight whether or not you feel like it.” I laugh and give her back the phone. “Did you give her an open invite to stop by your place whenever she felt like it?”

  “Hell no!”

  “Then, my friend, I think you’ve got a bit of a problem on your hands.”

  “Jesus!” The phone’s digital keyboard clicks as she quickly begins pounding out a text. “It was just one night. And we didn’t even fuck!”

  Sounds about right. The situation is more ID Channel nuts than funny, but I’m still laughing when I signal our waitress for the check. “Sometimes those are the ones hardest to get rid of.”

  2

  The empty, curving road unwinds in front of my windshield like a dark ribbon.

  The two-liter engine of my gray Camaro, Earl, rumbles and the entire car shivers, the vibrations traveling from my feet and up into my whole body. The gear shift is firm in the warm and easy clutch of my fist. It feels good. Night’s true darkness has just started to fall. Streaks of faded sunlight flow across the dusky sky, the only remnants of my day. For now, everything else is behind me.

  My dying job.

  Pauline’s craziness.

  Any reasons the woman I want—no, wanted—didn’t want me too.

  When I told Pauline about the ones you don’t actually have sex with being the ones hardest to forget, I was talking from experience. The restaurant and Pauline’s mistakes are in my rearview mirror, but my own mistakes are dead in front of me. Although I’ve been trying like crazy to outrun them, avoid them any way I can, it’s not exactly working out.

  On the dark road, Earl growls and bucks a little bit with every rough shift of the gears. Faster. Thoughts crowd in my head, but I’m trying my hardest to outrun them. It’s working. Earl’s tires shush over the pavement, hypnotic and soothing. Darkness hides the curves, but I know they’re there. Tight and begging for Earl’s tires to grip them, daring me to go faster. The speed and hum of the car meeting road work their magic, sloughing off my worries.

  My mind starts settling down from its hectic thrum.

  Scottie.

  Why does it sound li
ke the road is humming her name?

  Weeks have come and gone since our first and only date and I still can’t get her off my mind. Maybe because, despite my initial worries about dating a woman like her, everything was perfect.

  Our connection. Our sexual chemistry. The way she made me feel settled in my skin.

  In those few weeks we had together, Scottie allowed me to think we had a real future, that all the things I believed about two femmes being together was bullshit. For her, I was willing to try anything. To take any chance. My heart grew wings at the thought of her being my girlfriend, my woman.

  Then she disappeared and threw all my tentative hopes in the toilet.

  To be so wrong about where I thought we were going makes me feel like an idiot.

  The engine growls again and Earl goes faster. His headlights flash across the black tarmac, lighting the curves as we take them, flashing on the trees bordering the narrow road. It’s empty out here. Like most evenings after rush hour, this strip of road outside the main part of the city is empty. People are at home with their partners, their kids, their TV sets and cell phones. It’s just me and Earl and my worries falling away like dead skin.

  The serpentine road tells me to shut off my mind, so I do. Earl purrs with satisfaction and the speedometer steadily rises; momentum drags my body to one side, pressing me into the car door. Outside, the trees whip by so fast they look like a wall of dark green.

  This feels good. This feels like peace.

  My phone rings.

  Earl’s center console flashes my mother’s cell phone number. It could be my father, though. They share a phone, which is crazy to me.

  I tap a button on the steering wheel to answer their call. “What did I forget?”

  “You’re very paranoid.” Poppa’s deep voice rumbles out of Earl’s speakers. A sharp curve in the road forces me to slow down.

  “No, I just know you and Mommy. What’s going on?”