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“I mean basically.”
“I mean basically, we’ve only had a few spicy cuddles.”
“And whose fault is that?”
I smiled. “I have to go.”
“You’re shook and I get it, but you’re different from the rest, Kiki. It isn’t the same with you. You know I cancelled on Emma from Hazelwitch Hall for you tonight?”
I turned from my way to the door and pressed my hand against my chest. “Oh, you shouldn’t have. Really.”
My Guy nodded, rolled his tongue in his mouth, and laughed humorlessly. “You’re really kind of a bitch. You know that?”
I grinned. “I do. Thanks, though. It means a lot coming from you. If a guy like youdoesn’tthink I’m a bitch that means I’m fucking up somewhere.”
He laughed heartily, with the energy of someone who hadn’t understood a word I’d said, and went back to his bed, reclining, abs flexing, white boxer-briefs tighter than normal. It was like he had to physically remind himself that he was hot. As if he was actually capable of forgetting. “Be like that. You’re gonna be back.”
“Well if I did leave an earring, you can toss it. I never wear my good shit here.”
Okay, so it was a good exit line and I was proud of it, but I’d jinxed myself. As I did my ritualistic double-checking of my bag (I couldn’t leave any evidence of my presence) as the door to My Guy’s flat clicked behind me, I realized I’d left my lip gloss. Shit. Actually, it was Aminah’s lip gloss that she told me to look after in my bag and I’d forgotten to return a month ago. Despite the Best Friend Bylaws stating that there is a statute of limitations in relation to makeup reclamation, I’m pretty sure she would be pissed at where I’d left it. She would rather I’d flushed it down the toilet. After peeing on it. Icouldn’thave left it. I rooted for it as I absentmindedly walked toward the lift, praying that God would forgive me for my recent transgressions. (Did it help that My Guy had a tattoo that saidIn God We Truston his chest? In cursive, above a Tupac quote: “Real eyes realize real lies.”)
I hit a very firm, warm wall, my nose squishing against the soft cotton of a slate-gray shirt. “Shit! My bad—”
“Nah, it’s cool, don’t—”
The voice was low and smooth, thick like honey sunk to the bottom of a tumbler of cognac. I looked up—but not enough because I found I’d only reached his nose: it travelled down his face narrowly and then curved out, drastically, majestically. I mean, it was quite enough to lookat, but I thought I’d try again. I tilted my head a little further up till I hit black quartz gazing at me, glinting.
He was looking at me like he knew me. That was weird for a number of reasons, including but not limited to the fact that I knew everybody in the Black caucus of Whitewell College. I knew each clique, subgroup, and faction and, granted, it was the third week of second year so there was a bunch of new people, but even so. I flicked through my mental Rolodex of mandem and came up blank. He wasn’t part of the Nigerian Princes (sons of Nigerian politicians), the Faux-Roadmen (studying pharmacy at a redbrick university is not the same as dealing, sweetie), the Future Shiny Suits Who Read (a group that could include any of the above, but who usually studied something finance-related, sought to work in the city, wanted an educated girl who knew her place; quite fine and included My Guy). Nor the Water into Wine (at theclerb) Bible Study Boys... nothing. Looking at his face seemed to actively contribute to my mind blankness, which was bizarre because my mind was never blank unless made purposely so. Like when My Guy was trying to talk to me aboutThe 48 Laws of Powerone time.
He blinked and cleared his throat even though when I heard his voice the first time it didn’t sound like it could get any clearer. “Uh, don’t sweat it—”
Funny he should mention that, because I was. My skin was tingling. This was intriguing. I didn’t really sweat, and when I did (like the time I went on the elliptical for two hours while watching Beychella on my phone), it was like this, a slight prickle.
“I don’t sweat. But thanks.” I started to move past him to the lift, encouraging him to do the same, toward his destination, his destiny, away from me, when he stopped suddenly, turned around, his dark brows furrowed.
“Uh, I’m sorry, I just... did you say you don’t sweat?”
I cast a gaze across the hall, partly to obnoxiously demonstrate the fact that no one else could have just said that and also to double-check that nobody was coming out or coming in. I knew every Blackwellian who lived on My Guy’s floor and timed my visit knowing that two of them were at Bible study, one at football, and another at a friend’s birthday dinner. There was nobody. I wouldn’t be seen. I looked back at him, hitched a shoulder upward.
“Yeah. Why?”
He nodded, his eyes squinting, concentrating the light, the corner of his plush mouth quirking up. “Sweating is a regular biological human function.”
“What’s your point?”
“So, you’re saying you’re not a regular human.”
I smiled, sliding my head to the side. “Do I look like a regular human to you?” Trick question. He would stumble or leave. Stumble and leave. It was fun, tangling my words around their ankles, without them realizing, and then watching them trip.
He inhaled deeply, like he was considering the question. He stepped back a little and assessed me, flicking a quick gaze down me that felt like he was striking a match against my body. Something flared under my skin. His eyes rose to meet mine again.
“Nah. Definitely not regular.” He smiled, and my pulse stuttered. “Just not used to seeing another superhuman about, so had to double-check. It makes me feel less lonely, so thank you.”
Uh-huh.I held still. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I knew this game, this game was mine, and normally I knew how to lose them. I’d expected to lose him. In fact, I’dwantedto lose him, to shake off whatever had been clinging on to me in the two minutes we had interacted, the gliding of energy on my skin that was making me fizz (I knew having a latte past threep.m.was a bad idea, I am mad sensitive), but not only had he followed me, it was like he already knew where I was going. Itwas like we were going the same way. He shot me a half smile, sloping, something that managed to be tiny and also have the power to elevate his face, soften the steep angles. The sharp glare of the industrial lights in the hallway had nothing on it. It made its way to the pit of my belly and tugged.
Our eyes stayed on each other for a few seconds longer, as I attempted to figure out what the hell was happening, when a door clicked open somewhere in the near distance. Both of us jumped as if we’d been interrupted, as if there had been anything to interrupt, and turned to the direction of what would have been a disturbance, as if there was anything to disturb.
Zuri Isak stood at the door to flat 602 (I’d just left flat 601) in a crop top and leggings, curls glossy and loose. Cute, casual. Purposely cute and casual. Zuri wasn’t meant to be here. She was meant to be at her friend Nia’s birthday dinner at Sakura in town. I knew this because there was a social media countdown designed to make people who weren’t invited feel like they were missing out on the Groupon dinner, at a place where sugar daddies took their babies to dinner. Anyway, this was particularly interesting because Nia and Zuri had recently undergone a power shift in their clique whereby Nia had usurped Zuri as Queen Bee by organizing a group trip to Barcelona to stay at her stepdad’s villa over the summer while Zuri was visiting family in Michigan. Nia could have easily reorganized it for when Zuri returned but she didn’t want to do that. It was a power play. A coup. And judging by the light mascara, dab of lip gloss, and smidge of blush—I flicked my gaze over to Fellow Superhuman, only just now noticing that he was holding a bottle of rosé in his hand—something told me that Zuri skipping the birthday dinner to Netflix and chill was also a power play.
