Honey and Spice(42)
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 my shit!”
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 said it. 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, with Sweetest Ting in 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 eyes and 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. That was terrible.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Your face is terrible.” Oh no. Was I losing my touch? What was happening? Did his sweatpants neutralize me?!
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.”
“Like coffee. ‘Keeps you up all night.’”
“I think I said that coffee also gives you the shits.”
“‘A snack, a beverage.’”
“I’m not hungry anymore.”
Malakai laughed and its force knocked out a few thousand more defenses.
The restaurant was balmy and vibrant, the sweet-and-spicy golden-fried scent of indulgence warming our faces as we entered. It was a marriage of a nineties Missy Elliott video and something out of Grease. The glossy black-tiled walls were spangled with silver specks as if trying to approximate the starry night outside, and above us spotlights were embedded in the black ceiling (little pastiches of Malakai’s eyes—I’d never seen a dark so bright). Black booths with magenta pleather lined the walls, and a large flat-screen TV hung against the furthermost one, where a Donell Jones video played. It was extra in the best way, reminding me of fur coats and sunglasses in a club: superfluous, deliciously decadent, a stunt.
It was the coolest place I’d seen in my time at Whitewell, and it seemed strange that Malakai had discovered it in the two months he’d been here. People our age and maybe a little older sat in booths, or on swiveling pink stools in front of marbleized black poseur tables, laughing, talking, bouncing their heads to the music, restrained by their own cool, or stepping up, arms up, fully dancing in their spot, freed by it. This was grounded glam, puffer jackets over body-cons, jewelry layered over joggers that were punctuated with crisp creps. It had the elegance of a queen’s court.
Malakai ushered me inside, but I hung back, choosing to soak it all in, follow his lead. He walked in with a calm confidence, an urbane gait, not like he owned the place but like he belonged, comfortable in his skin. He nodded and smiled at a few people seated in the booths, spudded a few guys, threw out a few whatsgoingonmans and walked up to the glass counter. He leaned over to clap hands with the guy behind it, an older-than-us-but-youngish man with the sleekest shape-up I’d ever seen, an earring, and a bright pink shirt sporting Sweetest Ting on it.
Malakai smiled at him. “Oga, how fa?” he said, slipping into a Lagos-boy accent that suited him. It was frankly obscene that his sexy came in layers that became more exposed the longer I spent with him.
The olderish guy released a spirited grin. “Aburo, we dey.”
His eyes drifted to where I stood and his grin melted into a warm smile. He wiped his hands on a white cloth, threw it over his shoulder, and leaned on the counter. “Now, who is this queen?”