The Build Up (20)

“Because you were texting like you were cursing out your mama,” she said as a grin curled around her lips.

I laughed. “No. Just was trying to get her off the phone. You know how parents are. Old people and technology.”

She laughed. “Yeah, luckily for me, my mama hates texting. Don’t you hate that someone taught old folks how to text?” As we laughed, a calm washed over me. I was glad Jamal hadn’t derailed our time—my time—together.

The waiter came back with pen and paper in hand. “You two lovebirds decide on a burger yet?”

“Which burger looks good to you?” I asked, feeling a prickly heat of embarrassment at being mistaken for “lovebirds.” “If you need help to decide...you know I got you.”

Ari scrunched up her cute, upturned nose, examining the menu like a mad scientist. “Hmm...this one with bleu cheese and bacon seems good.”

I frowned. “Bleu cheese is kind of funky, right?”

Ari rolled those big, beautiful brown eyes. “Hey! I like it. Besides, I’m not getting in anyone’s face tonight. I’m just with you, Porter.”

Ouch. The “just with you” stung. I had that coming. It was no better than me saying “just my coworker, Ari.” The term coworker didn’t encompass what Ari and I were to each other. It was safe to say we were, at the very least, becoming friends.

“Well, then bleu cheese and bacon it is,” I stated to the waiter, who was scribbling. “I’ll take the sunny side up burger.”

“Yuck! Eggs on a burger? Is it breakfast or a burger?” Ari quipped.

“Why can’t it be both?”

The waiter laughed and shook his head, leaving us to go put in our order.

“So,” she started. “I told you about my dad. Tell me about your mama other than she is long-winded on text.”

I smirked. “My mama, her name is Eloise, is a sweet woman from a tiny town in west Texas. And she’s a die-hard Cowboys fan.”

Ari turned up her nose. “I don’t think Mrs. Harrison and I can be friends. Good or bad, I’m a Falcons fan.”

I laughed. “It’s Dr. Harrison, actually. Even though she hates anyone to call her that. I think she’d like you despite your affiliation. But you may hate me.”

Ari’s brows knit in genuine concern. “Why?”

I leaned in close, pretending to look remorseful. “I’m sorry but... I’m a Saints fan.”

Ari feigned disgust, placing her hand over her chest. “I don’t know if I should leave this table or what!”

“Before you get the burger?” I teased, sipping the cold stout.

Ari’s lips quirked up. “You’re right. I guess I’ll wait for the burger. In the meantime, I guess I’ll sit here and talk to you, a Saints fan. So, you’re from New Orleans?”

“I was born in Virginia. But my dad’s side of the family has deep roots in New Orleans.” I paused a second to scan her face for some type of recognition of the Harrison name.

Relieved, I continued. “They stationed my dad all over the world. Being a military brat, it’s hard to say where you’re from, you know? I spent most of my childhood summers shuffling between my family in New Orleans or Armonia, my mom’s hometown in west Texas. They were worlds apart from each other, but both feel like home. The best were summers with my grandparents in New Orleans. My grandfather, he would...” I got quiet as I thought about all the summers as a kid, all the hugs goodbye from my parents, and the last time I was in New Orleans in the summer. Standing in the humidity as Marines draped a flag over my father’s shiny gold casket. Reporters clamoring to capture a photo of the prominent Senator Armand Pierre Honoré Harrison burying his only son. I could still feel his hand gripping into my shoulder as he stoically tried not to cry. I sipped my now warm beer. I couldn’t talk about that. Not now.

Ari nodded as she swirled her glass of beer. “Ah, hence the accent.”

“You think I have an accent? I’ve never heard that before.”

“Totally. It’s a mash-up of a lot of things. I like it.”

My stomach weirdly flipped at the compliment. “Thanks.”

Ari took another sip of her beer. “So, your mom...”

“Right! My mom. Mama was the first one in her family to go to college on a track scholarship. It was a big deal in Armonia. She had dreams of going to the Olympics. She and my dad met at Hampton, back when it was Hampton Institute. But she got pregnant with me in college, got married. Now, she’s the principal of the Shabazz Charter School for Girls in Kirkwood. She refuses to retire because ‘those girls need me.’ Her words.”

Ari’s eyes widened in surprise. “Wow, son of a military man, an educator, and Hampton legacy. Impressive.”

“It’s not a big deal.” To anyone else it probably would be a big deal. I was pretty sure my grandparents had something named after them there. A dorm. A boat. Some scholarship or endowment. I didn’t care about stuff like that. Neither did my dad.

Ari eyed me with a little suspiciousness. “It’s nice to carry on tradition. I’m sure your dad would be proud of you!”

“I hope he is.”

Ari reached toward me, placing a warm, soft hand on top of mine. “Trust me, he would be.”