“Nah, but hear me out.” Malakai flipped so he was in front of me, half walking backward, his gait as smooth as ever. “I just want to understand relationships. I’m honest, okay?” He pressed a broad hand against his chest, head ducking slightly to prove his humility.
“I don’t go into them because I can’t do them. But I want to understand what makes people want to enter them in the first place. What makes people realize that’s what they want?” His arms were spread wide as he stated his case to me, a charismatic preacher. Had I heard his good news, that it’s possible to be a player and not a dick?
“I want to understand the compulsion. And yeah, okay, if I understand gyal through it, that isn’t a bad thing. Maybe I could perfect casual dating without collateral. Knowing how to attend to emotional and physical needs without—”
“Two girls fighting over you at a campus linkup?” I finished.
Malakai grinned brightly at the flat tone of my voice. He repositioned himself next to me. “Right. Is that so bad? Figuring out how to perfect casual dating so you can approach it ethically? You know it’s actually kind of a social good? The boyfriend experience without the stress of actually having a boyfriend. I don’t need birthday presents, I won’t get jealous, but we’ll have a great time together, regardless.”
“So, my gut says it’s sociopathic, but your voice makes it sound reasonable, and my mind can weirdly rationalize it? Which makes me feel like that’s part of the sociopathy. I think you’d be a great cult leader.”
“Mystic Malakai. That’s what you called me, innit? Has a ring to it.”
“Man, you’re just like . . . the worst, aren’t you?”
The widening of Malakai’s really fucking gorgeous smile confirmed my suspicions. There it was—the beatific smile of a cult leader. I shivered, not just due to the chilling social threat of Malakai’s Fuckboi cult, but because the sun was ebbing early and the breeze was getting cooler. Stupidly, fooled by the deceptive and fleeting autumn warmth, I’d left my house without a jacket.
“So where am I supposed to come in?”
Malakai unzipped his hoodie and pulled it off, revealing smooth dark ripples of skin and sinew. He held it out to me casually. “Your show is romance focused—”
I shook my head at the offer of his hoodie. “Oh no—I’m fine. Thank you. I’m not cold.”
Malakai’s gaze flitted across my arms. “Kiki, you have goose bumps. Take the hoodie. It doesn’t have lurgies, I promise. If you take the hoodie, you’re still allowed to think I’m a scourge to man-dating womankind.”
This brought out a short splutter of laughter. I took it from him, desperately hoping that it wouldn’t compromise my feminism. “Thank you. Won’t you be cold, though?”
“I don’t get cold. The same way you don’t sweat. Superhuman tings.”
I swished my smile in my mouth as I pulled the hoodie on, still warm from his body. It hung to my knees, his light, woodsy, vetiver, and detergent scent as insulating as the inner fleece.
“My show is more than just romance. It’s about . . . stopping hearts being broken unnecessarily. Preventing the mess that comes with it. Handling ourselves. Guys get away with so much and we’re supposed to accept it because we’re supposed to want romance, above all else, and they know that and take advantage of it. Monsters are bred. I’m equipping the girls with tools of protection against the Fuckboi endemic—”
“‘Fuckboi endemic.’” Malakai released a low whistle. “What did you go through to become an expert in heartbreak?”
I froze. I heard his words before his tone registered; it took a second for me to realize there was no accusation. He was looking at me with soft curiosity. Nevertheless, the fact remained, it was none of his business. “Let’s just say I had an eventful time just before I started uni. It gave me a little insight.”
“And that insight caused you to call me the Wasteman of Whitewell.” His voice was dry. He was looking at me from the corner of his eye. Kofi and Aminah were far ahead of us now; we were ambling along slowly, more relaxed in our gaits, the autumn breeze blowing across our faces. I could appreciate it, now that I felt warmer.
“Tell me more about your film and what you desperately need my help with?”
Malakai inclined his head deeply in acceptance of the fact that I wasn’t going to take it back and continued.
“Fine. So, I want it to be excerpts—similar to Cuts, but with interviews with young couples, the religious ones abstaining till marriage, the ones out in a club, the dysfunctional ones—but it needs drive. Some kind of narrative angle pinning it down. Right now the plan is kind of like . . . a collage. Which is fun, but it’s missing something. It needs context, direction, a voice. It isn’t saying anything right now. And I’ve been listening to Brown Sugar and I thought, what if I cut snippets from your show? Layer it over the film so you have these two ideas of romance maybe overlapping? We’ll see where it goes. And then I thought, what if you interview the couples? You have the expertise and . . . okay, now you’re looking at me like I just said Taylor Swift’s version of ‘Shake It Off’ was better than Mariah’s.” So, he had listened to my show. “Thank God you’re not holding a drink right now.”