The Other Black Girl(98)

“That’s what I’m saying. She blew up your spot.”

“I’m pretty sure no one says ‘blow up your spot’ anymore.”

“The guys that I work with do.”

Nella gave him the chuckle that she knew he’d been fishing for. Most of Owen’s coworkers thought “Hey Ya!” was Outkast’s best song.

“Admit it, though,” said Owen, his lips flattening into one horizontal line. “You sort of liked being the only Black girl at Wagner. Right?”

Nella had gnawed on a piece of baby corn and eyed him silently.

“Hey, don’t worry, baby. You can be honest with me, because I get it. I totally get it. Okay, so I don’t get it get it,” he added self-consciously, feeling the force of her raised eyebrow. “But you know what I mean. It’s not awful being the only minority. Whenever I’m the only straight guy at brunch with all of your friends—”

“Which happens pretty rarely…”

“—I always feel kind of… I don’t know, exceptional, maybe? Because everybody always wants me to weigh in on everything. ‘What does this text mean?’ ‘Why’d he use two exclamation points?’?” He’d pinched his nose so he could mimic Alexandra, an online-dating-obsessive Nella had met through Malaika a few years prior.

“I get what you’re saying. But, babe… are you really comparing you being a ‘minority’ in certain situations to me being a minority in certain situations? Really? Because, just… no.”

Owen had put his fork down at this. “What I mean is, I—”

“It’s astronomically different from what I’m talking about.”

He held up his hands, visibly hurt and clearly wondering how this conversation—which had started as harmless speculation—could have taken such a turn. “Whoa, Nell. No. Who said anything about comparing? You know that’s not what I was trying to—I was just trying to—”

Nella cut him off. “Babe, it’s fine. I know what you meant.”

“Are you sure? Because I would never—”

“I’m positive,” she’d said, although it had taken her a moment to realize that she was looking not at her boyfriend but at her plate of food, which was getting cold. She caught herself, reached out a tentative hand, and squeezed Owen’s as affectionately as she could. She’d done this dozens of times in the past, times when they’d suddenly looked down and found themselves knee-deep in an uncomfortable conversation about race, and it always eased any tensions that had risen between them.

Those other conversations had felt different, though. Those conversations had been composed of much sweeter tones; equipped with alcohol or pot or the dim backseat of a late-night Uber, Nella had no problem telling Owen that she sometimes felt guilty for missing out on “Black love,” and Owen could admit that his maternal Missourian grandparents were die-hard MAGA supporters.

In the bright lighting of their painfully cramped kitchen, this conversation about being a minority and a ‘minority’ felt like too much. “I love you,” she’d said, so that she didn’t have to say anything else. Then she’d reached for her tablet once more.

“What? Are we done here? Seriously?”

“Was there something else you wanted to say?”

Owen had stared at her. “No,” he’d finally said, picking up his own phone. “Never mind.”

They’d sat like that for nearly half an hour, until Owen had risen to his feet, picked up his plate, and thrown it in the trash.

“O. I’m sorry.” Nella had spun around in her chair so she could face him. “I just really want that promotion. And I’m so close. I told you about what Richard said to me last week, right?”

“Oh, something about you having a ‘bright future,’ and how you’re ‘well on your way to being the next Kendra Rae’… yes, I think I remember,” Owen had said. He hadn’t returned her gaze, but she could see the small smile that had cut across his face.

“And maybe it is Hazel that’s driving me a little crazy,” she’d continued. “I don’t know. I just… it’s hard.”

Owen had swiped his hands on his Adidas shorts, which served as his loungewear whether it was seventeen or seventy degrees outside, and walked over to where Nella sat. He’d reached out and begun to work her neck with his blessed, blessed fingers, a white flag of sorts. “Have you tried to get to know her? Like, really tried?”

“We got lunch when she first started. And I went to the Curl Central thing.”

“That’s not the same thing. Invite her out with you and Malaika. Get to know her.” He’d shrugged. “I don’t know, it seems to me like you might want her on your side. All the connections she probably has…”

Nella had looked up at him. “How do you know about all of her connections?”

Owen had frowned. “From when we met at Curl Central; I just got the impression that she knew a lot of people.” He’d stepped back a few inches, as though taking her in for the first time. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m feeling fine. But can I ask you something?”

He’d nodded, looking concerned about where this was going.