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I rushed to her side and hugged her more tightly than I had before. I’d woken up that morning without so much of a thought of what the day was supposed to be. What it meant. It was just another birthday, but for some reason I knew that I really needed to hear what she was saying to me.
“Sing, Journey,” she said, handing me the microphone. “You know your mother loves to hear your singing.”
I took the microphone and looked out into the crowd, my eyes bumping up against smiling and expectant faces, lights glaring from cameras and teleprompters.
I opened my mouth to sing but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sing. It was like a gob of glue was stuck in the bottom of my throat and nothing came out. Not a sound. I looked to my parents in panic and I stepped away from the altar. “Thank you,” I said into the microphone and held it out to my father.
“She’s choked up. It’s okay, baby,” my father said, taking the microphone. “It’s okay, baby.” He sent a nervous glare to the choir and Ashley Davis, who’d taken my spot in the lead when I left the choir, jumped up to catch ahold of the note.
Chapter Four
“Here comes the preacher’s kid; look at her shoes,” Billie sang as Evan and I made our way back to the car after the service. Aside from accepting a few gifts from people passing by and greeting others, we didn’t talk about what happened in the church. I didn’t want to. I wasn’t even sure what to say. Maybe I was choked up with all of the attention or maybe it was because I hadn’t been up there in front of the congregation in months since I’d left the choir. Either way, it didn’t feel right.
Billie’s voice cracked on the possibility of every single note in her ditty. She was leaning against the passenger door where she always waited for me and Evan after church. A few steps away from her stood a tall, dark-skinned man, who was dressed in a distinctive, black suit. Even though Evan and I were still a few feet away, the man filled the suit out in such a way that I could tell that beneath the fabric was a solid, toned body. As we got a bit closer, I spied that in addition to having a handsome body, he also had a handsome face. A clean, close haircut framed an angular face with full lips and dark, masculine eyes. He stepped toward Billie and she stood up, sliding her arm around his waist and snuggling into his side.
“Who is that?” Evan demanded.
“I think it’s her friend visiting from Nigeria.”
“Africa?”
“Just be nice,” I whispered to him before we approached.
“Thirty-three and older than me,” Billie said, breaking away from the man and hugging me.
“I’ll never be older than you, old lady,” I said. “We’re still counting gray hairs ... and not years?”
“Very funny.”
Evan and the man shook hands and I heard him say, “Mustafa,” in an unyielding and defined voice that echoed some African nation. As they greeted one another, Billie and I exchanged quick, secretive glances that only two women who’d shared jokes their entire lives could understand. My glance said, He’s handsome, but who is he? and Billie’s glance said, I know, girl. We then regained our composure and turned back to the men.
“Journey, I’d like you to meet my dear friend,” Billie said, trying to sound formal and as if she hadn’t lost her cool. “Mustafa Serenge. He’s from Nigeria.”
“Most wonderful to meet you,” Mustafa said, taking my hand and bowing down to kiss it. When he looked into my eyes, I saw that Mustafa was actually beyond handsome. He was striking—in the way that those Ebony male models were who always came to town with the fashion shows. Evan, who was a few inches shorter than Mustafa, recoils and looked on baffled like the other women who were walking by and stealing glances at the dark and lovely stranger.
“Oh,” I said, knowing my face had turned red. “Well ... it’s a pleasure.” I glanced at Billie again. My eyes said, Where did this man come from? Mustafa didn’t look like he’d come from anyone’s Internet dating site. More like someone’s dreams.
Billie simply smiled and I knew I had no reason to be surprised. This sort of episode was perfectly in line with the drama filled arc of her life. Since she wore her grandmother’s 44DD bra to second grade show-and-tell, I knew Billie to be the type to show up cloaked in the unexpected. That’s why we’d been so close. It seemed that whenever I wanted to act out and just really be myself, Billie was right there, waiting to be my accomplice. Now, I wondered what I was signing up for.
“Your father is a holy man. You should be very proud,” Mustafa said.
“Why, thank you,” I replied, trying to sound as dignified as he did. “Did you enjoy the service?”
“It was fulfilling. I have much to share with my Christian brothers and sisters in Nigeria.”
“Wonderful. I hope you’ll be joining us for dinner at my parents’ house this evening.”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Billie jumped in all giddy as she swung from Mustafa’s huge arm like a little girl. “Mustafa will be here for three weeks, so we’re making sure he sees everything ... and everyone.”
“Three weeks?” I repeated. “That’s a long time. Don’t you have to work, Mustafa?” Billie glared at me, but I ignored her.
“I am on holiday from my work,” he said, obviously flustered, and I even heard a break in his voice. “I closed my office, so I could be with my African violet.”
Billie giggled and rubbed his arm.
“African violet?” Evan rolled his eyes and I nudged him hard.
“Well, we look forward to seeing you two later, then,” I said, as Evan stepped away to open the car door.
