Stay sweet ladies,
Brown Sugar x
“Rise! And Shine! And give God the glory, glory!!”
I grunted and pulled my covers over my head as my best friend, totally unsurprisingly, took my response as a welcome and opened the door to my room, bounding in. Aminah always entered a room with a faint scent of a light Dior Oud, her signature, so even if I hadn’t heard her voice I would have known she was there. It clouded my room, permeated my Ikea bedclothes. The bed depressed slightly as she sat down next to me and yanked the covers off my head.
“Troublemaker. It’s eleven a.m. and we have brunch plans.”
Shit.
Aminah and I had brunch at Wisteria & Waffle once every month. A student version of the Ivy, it was in town, did two-for-one on cocktails and Prosecco from nine a.m. to three p.m. on weekends, and was supremely social media–friendly in a girl-boss sort of way, with floral walls, an LED light fixture that read Vibes, excellent bathroom lighting, and unreasonably peng waiters, like some kind of culinary version of Hollister. The black tee and fitted trouser/skirt combo the waiters wore seemed especially tailored to elicit thirst—an ingenious marketing ploy to make us order more cocktails, because we did, every time.
There was one waiter who Aminah and I both crushed on in particular, a postgrad: a tall, bearded, cinnamon-skinned spice. He had an Eye of Horus tattooed on his firm forearm that winked along with him when he brought us our mimosas. He was known as AJ but he informed us in a conspiratorial, low voice that we could call him Aaron, a bizarre, but nevertheless sexy invitation I’m pretty sure he extended to all the Whitewell women. Because of this, W&W was also the baitest place to be on a Saturday morning. It would be rammed with respective cliques trying to rejuvenate after a night at FreakyFridayz. That meant it was the last place I needed to be after the previous night’s antics. They kept replaying in my mind, swirling around my head with the alcohol.
We’d got home at three a.m., maneuvering past the death glares that were being thrown my way. Aminah had insisted we had a few more shots at home to cheer me up despite being waved herself, and we dissected what had happened—her gleeful, me regretful. Somewhat regretful.
Was I wrong for pouring my drink into Malakai Korede’s lap? Probably.
Had he deserved it? Almost definitely.
On the other hand, had he helped me stick it to Zack by kissing me like a pirate who’d discovered the real treasure was within his lady love the whole time? Fuck, yes. It was unnerving that part of the reason for my sleepless night was the reliving of that kiss. The thrill that ran through my body when he’d held me close. How it felt like he’d wanted me. How it felt like I’d wanted him. I also had to contend with the fact that the Blackwellian girls all probably thought I was a two-faced bitch. My mind was in disarray.
Less important but nevertheless pertinent: I’d slept in my makeup and forgot to do my skincare routine before bed, so I also had to reckon with the fact that I was likely to break out today. All of this meant that there was absolutely no way I was leaving our flat this weekend.
My best friend tried to haul me up but I batted her away as I hoisted myself up. I always forgot that Aminah and I had far, far different tolerances to alcohol. She was as chirpy as a Real Housewife who just got word that her nemesis’s husband was cheating on her. Immaculate in her pink monogrammed matching satin gown and headwrap, Aminah actually did look like she belonged in a reality show for the elegant and luxe. It was fascinating. I didn’t even know how she was standing—just a mere few hours ago she’d been texting me “ofggggg the room is spinningggggg” from her bedroom next door.
I readjusted my oversized shirt and scooted over so she could nestle next to me on the bed. “Why don’t we have brunch at home? Save money.”
“Because we have half a plantain and two slices of bread left and we were meant to go grocery shopping after brunch. Why don’t you want to go? Is it because you think everyone’s going to be staring at you after last night’s scene? They will. Revel in it.”
I shot her a humorless smile. “Thank you so much for that. Give it to me straight, though, now that we’re both sober.”
Aminah pulled a face in a way that indicated that she might still have been a little drunk and I made note of my own slight wooziness. “Okay, now we’re both relatively sober . . . how mad did I move last night?”
“Kiss or the drink?”
“Both.”
Aminah grinned. “I thought the kiss was sexy as hell. The drink spill . . . okay, it was a tiny bit extra.”