“Well what?”
“You’re the one who pulled me off a rooftop in the middle of the day because beige apology offended your spirit.”
I smiled into my cup. “It did.”
“I knew it.”
“And you can’t text something like that and expect me not to want the full version.”
She shook her head once, smiling like she already knew I was a little ridiculous and hadn’t decided whether to hold that against me.
“It was bad,” she said. “Beautiful space. Terrible instincts. Everything too pale. Too cautious. One of those setups where you can tell somebody wants Black people present but nottoopresent.”
I sat back. “Ah.”
“Exactly.” She held my gaze over the rim of her glass, those amber eyes warm and bright in the daylight between us. “You know it when you see it.”
“I do.”
“They kept calling it elevated.”
“That word needs jail time.”
She laughed so suddenly she had to set the glass down.
“See?” she said. “That’s why I said it to you. I knew you’d get it.”
That did more for me than it should have.
Not the compliment exactly.
The fact that she had thought of me first.
I leaned one forearm on the table. “So what you tell them?”
“That it looked like a bridal shower apology letter. That if they wanted warmth, they were gonna have to stop being scared of color. And that if I saw one more acrylic sign with fake-script font pretending to be luxury, I was going home.”
I laughed, full and easy.
“Damn.”
“I was nicer than that in the room.”
“Were you?”
“By a little.”
I looked at her for a second.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“See a room like that.”
She tipped her head. “That’s my job.”
“No. That’s your title.” I held her eyes. “I’m asking something else.”
