Erykah Badu’s “Next Lifetime”played softly in the background of the dimly lit bar that was tucked off Jefferson Street. Low-hanging pendant lights and flickering votives were tucked into glass jars on the tables. The walls were brick with mismatched artwork. It was the kind of place where the music was jazzy, the drinks were strong, and everyone pretended not to people-watch, while doing exactly that.
Love sat in the corner booth by the window, with her glass of wine untouched. She swirled it absently, watching the deep red liquid spin. Her body was here, gathered into the comfort of the bar’s charm, but her mind was somewhere else entirely.
“So . . .” Quiyanna began and lifted one perfectly sculpted brow. “We’re not gonna talk about how Westside Zay was in your meeting today?”
Love didn’t answer. She looked at her best friend, dramatically rolled her eyes, and continued stirring the glass with one elbow on the table, balancing her head on her hand.
Tara jumped in and widened her eyes like she did every time she got excited about something. “Girl, I still can’t believe it. I had to physically stop myself from fangirling. It felt surreal.”
“I bet he’s finer in person,” Quiyanna added, waving a fry in the air. “Like . . . disrespectfully fine. It’s givin’ trouble.”
“Big Leo energy,” Tara continued. “The confidence, the presence. I mean, you can’t not look at him.”
Love stayed quiet and listened to them volley back and forth.
“He dated someone I know before,” Tara added casually. She took a sip of her mojito.
That made Love’s eyes lift. “Oh?”
Tara nodded. “Yeah. A girl I went to school with back at UCLA. She said he’s . . . charming but super closed off. She said he was stubborn, a bit arrogant, and didn’t let anyone get too close. Typical untouchable artist type.”
“Sounds like a typical male Leo,” Quiyanna added.
Love scoffed. “Tell me about it.” She mumbled under her breath absentmindedly.
Both women turned to face her at the same time.
Quiyanna squinted. “Wait. What do you mean by that?”
Love hesitated a moment, then she picked her glass up and took a sip.
“Nothing, really. I mean, I knew him before. Personally.”
Tara leaned forward, stunned. “You know him? Why didn’t you say anything before?”
“We were . . . familiar . . . with each other a long time ago,” Love explained, as she carefully chose her words. “I don’t know who he istoday.We were teenagers. In Detroit.”
Tara and Quiyanna remained silent. One of those thick, weighty silences that stretched seconds into moments. Tara seemed to be deep in thought with her brows furrowed. Quiyanna’s gaze never left Love. After a few moments, they looked at each other with wide eyes like they had cracked the DaVinci Code.
“Oh my God,” Tara said first. “Wait a minute . . .”
Quiyanna gasped. “Westside Zay is—he’s the man in the book?”
They both stared back at Love like it had just clicked for the first time.
“You wroteWhen the Rain Stopsabout him?” Tara whispered.
Love didn’t confirm or deny it. She just looked down at her wine and swirled it around again.
“Damn, bitch! And now he’s scoring the film,” Quiyanna began. “Love, you wrote a book about your teenage love, and now that same love is composing its soundtrack?”
Love shrugged. “It’s not that deep. It happened a long time ago. We were kids. The book is something made up. It’s fiction.”
“But in your book, you end up together,” Tara said. “You make it.”
“Exactly,” Love replied, a little sharper than she meant to. “In real life, clearly, we didn’t. I wrote the book based on inspiration of a story that I lived through. That’s all. All writers, authors, and artists do the same. It’s not a big deal, y’all. Please don’t make this out to be. I went on with my life, and so did he.”
Quiyanna folded her arms. “But he’s here now.”
