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“It was a cough.”
“Sounded like a giggle.”
I turned to him. “You were mistaken. I don’t giggle. There was something in my throat. Do you have a lozenge in the glovebox?”
“I do, but you’re not getting it. I want to hear you cough again.”
“Why, sicko?”
He paused as he made a turn. “It was a cool sound. I liked it.” His eyes were fixed straight on the road but his lips curved gently.
Heat rose to my cheeks as silence fell, but this time it was comfortable. I relaxed into it enough to notice that I had been into every song that had played in the car. New R&B mingled with old school R&B, andas Maxwell’s “The Suite Theme” flowed into Drake’s “After Dark,” I realized that I hadexpectedthat progression. I picked up Malakai’s phone from where it lay in the little holder between us and tapped it alive. Sure enough, the playlist wasBrown SugarShow Presents: Late Nights.I usually made them after the show for my own fun, before sharing them on our social media accounts. I didn’t know that anyone else actually listened to them. I made them because it was fun for me, selecting a mood and seeing where it took me. It was me at my freest, allowing myself to move according to my own rhythm, going with my instincts.
“You didn’t have to play this just because you’re riding with me. I know that’s your thing. Studying girls to know what they’re into so you can impress them with it.”
Malakai’s brow quirked, as he threw me an amused look. “Man, you arearrogant.Don’t gas yourself, Banjo. It was what I was listening to before. It’s a good playlist. This music is my shit. But I have to ask, did you name your show after yourself or the D’Angelo song?”
The question caught me off-guard, and I stared at him curiously for a few moments before replying. “Uh, the D’Angelo album. My favorite D’Angelo song is ‘When We Get By.’ Sounds like sunshine. Sounds like how I think love feels.” I spoke before I realized what I was saying. It was the truth. But it came from a part of me that wasn’t close to the surface. I regretted the exposure immediately, dreading the awkward silence that would inevitably follow. But Malakai didn’t flinch.
He nodded thoughtfully instead, rubbed his chin. “Nice choice. I have to cheat. Mine is ‘Nothing Even Matters.’Can that count even though it’s a duet and on Lauryn’s album?”
“No, because if we were counting that, then I would choose it as my favorite, too.”
“And God forbid that we agree on something.”
I chewed my grin. “Anyway. Why did you ask if my show was named after me? What if I was ‘Brown Sugar’?”
“Oh, yeah. Then I was going to say that the nickname doesn’t suit you.”
I turned to him so viciously that my butt shifted in the seat.
“Excuse me?”
Malakai shrugged. “Sorry, but, I mean, sugar is nice. It sweetens. That’s cool. But you’re not nice. You’re more than that. You’re more like... ata rodo.” His voice dipped into Yoruba tonality as he slid into our shared ancestral language. “A scotch bonnet can make things less bland, adds flavor, makes stuff feel more exciting. Richer.”
I could see the glint in his eyes from where I was sat.
“And if you’re rubbed the wrong way you can make someone’s eyes water. You’ve gotta respect the mighty scotch bonnet. Looks inoffensive from the outside, cute, even, kind of like a berry, but it’s able to bring a grown man to his knees. Should be handled with care, but it can take care of itself. “
Malakai interrupted his nonchalant tone with a little woop. “Hold on, this is myshit!”
He turned the volume all the way up on Anderson Paak. I could tell by the sharp pivot that Malakai hadn’t thought about what he’d said. He’d just saidit. Like it was true. I bit deep into his words and waited for my teeth to sink into their counterfeit charm, concocted to get something from me, but all I could taste was something rich and warm and smooth, and it spread through my chest, rushed to my face.
We pulled up in the Eastside, in front of what looked an old-school diner, withSweetest Tingin bright pink shining lights.
I dipped my head in concession. “Alright. This looks cool.”
Malakai glanced at me with that wicked, smiling, sidelong look he’d perfected as he turned off the engine. “If we’re really doing this, you’re gonna have to trust me, Scotch.”
The name tripped off his tongue and sank like it belonged to me, coated my muscles, made me feel relaxed. I wanted to brush it off, tell him not to call me that, but all I was able to muster was a roll of my eyesand a curl of the corner of my mouth. “Chill out, Nay-Z.” The butterfly wings were definitely scraping the walls of my belly now and I hoped food would settle them, make them lethargic.
Malakai pulled a face. “Oh, man.Thatwas terrible.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Your face is terrible.” Oh no. Was I losing my touch? What was happening? Did his sweatpantsneutralizeme?!
Malakai nodded. “Huh. That’s funny. Because I recall you describing me as ‘tall and hot and dark’ on your show.”
“Who said that? Not I.”
