“What?”
Malakai shrugged. “Nothing. You’re just . . . a brainiac. Which I knew before, but it’s cool seeing it up close.” He absentmindedly slid the small canister of sugar sachets on the table, and the morning light gleamed off the silver.
We were sat in the corner, by the wide window walls, giving us a view of students rushing to and ambling around on the green space in the leaf-strewn quad. It also meant that I noted the various Blackwellian members slowing down to look at us curiously as they walked past.
“Alright, so”—I brought out my rose-gold-covered tablet from my bag—“I’ve drawn up a schedule. Let me know if you have any questions.”
Malakai brought his bitter bean juice down from his lips. “Oh. You were serious about the schedule thing.”
I raised a brow. “Why would I be joking, Kai? We’re doing this for a purpose. We have to be precise. We don’t have a lot of time. Eight weeks to really juice this relationship thing for the show, make people believe in us and get enough material for your film. Plus, we have our first episode this Thursday.”
Malakai reclined his chair and ran a hand across his face. “You’re really taking the fun out of this, Scotch.”
“Well, this isn’t supposed to be fun. It’s work, my NYU place depends on it.”
“Brown Sugar is work right?”
“Yeah. Kind of. I guess so.”
“Does it feel like work?”
“No.”
Malakai leaned forward, loosely lacing his fingers together on the table. “Right. Because you like what you’re doing.”
I narrowed my eyes as I calculated the Malakai Mathematics in my mind. “So, you’re saying that this can be fun because I like you? Because if you’re saying that, I’m gonna have to call you an arrogant arsehole before telling you to go fuck yourself.”
Malakai smiled and relaxed against his chair. “Because we like each other. Platonically. We’re becoming friends.”
I pulled a face. “Don’t be disgusting.”
The twinkle in his eye stuck its tongue at me. “I’m sorry to break it to you, Scotch. We’re buddies.”
“Don’t say that word around me ever again.”
“Pals.”
“I will pour my coffee all over your crotch.”
“Hmm. Interesting.” Malakai reached over to pick up my notebook and pen, and posed with them as if taking notes. “You do the drink pouring thing a lot. Is it a fetish?”
I kept my face straight. “Don’t kink shame me.”
“Sorry. Also, that is not coffee, it’s a sundae.”
I flipped my middle finger up and Malakai clutched his hands to his chest as if he was overwhelmed with the tenderness of emotion shown toward him.
He grinned at me and passed back my notebook and pen. “Lean into it. Let’s discuss this schedule, friend.”
I sat up and pulled up my calendar, back in the zone. “So, uh, we have to figure out milestones and situations we have to experience as a couple for it to be legit. Social events, dates—”
“Well, we’ve already had our first date.”
“Right, and that already got me more followers, which hopefully will translate to more listeners. We’re setting the foundation. Maybe the first show will be us . . . talking about how the first date establishes the terms of engagement. Or should, anyway. How it helps to undo prejudgments.”
Malakai leaned back in his chair. “And I learned the importance of transparency. From jump.” Which was funny because whenever he looked at me, I felt like I was being seen into.
I looked back at my tablet and scrolled through my calendar. “I’m going to share this with you so we’ll sync. We’ll have little things. The Black Panther screening is in two weeks, which will be cute. We’ll go to every FreakyFridayz together, sporadic lunches and coffees—”
“We got Ty Baptiste’s birthday party too, which will be a good place to cement our status and interview people.”
Ty Baptiste was ostensibly a member of Malakai’s new crew and was one of the most popular guys on campus on the nondickhead side of the social spectrum. He was like Zack’s benevolent tether. His dad was an ex-footballer but he used his wealth to spread enjoyment, like sneak paying for group dinners and using his family’s country house to throw a party for about twenty-five select Blackwell members on his birthday weekend. Aminah was invited last year but skipped when I declined to go as her plus one, ignoring my protestations that she still go when she insisted she’d rather do face masks and binge Real Housewives with me anyway. I wished I could have gone for her, but the idea of it made my palms prickle like they were doing now. Going would entrench me into a social faction and I had no intention of being part of any. When you were part of something like that, the intimacy could easily sour into something that could eat you alive. There was safety on the outside. And now, I had to be inside for this whole thing to work. Ty Baptiste’s party was the most inside you could get.