“That’s a pity,” he said wistfully. “Abuela would really like you. She likes her women a little feisty, you know?”
I wasn’t so sure. After all, Ricky’s grandparents sounded kind of old school. How would they feel about him bringing home a Black girl, and a dark-skinned African one at that? Camila was pale, petite, Spanish-speaking. The great-grandkids she would’ve given them might have passed for white.* Once the judgment of the most important people in his life came into play, would Ricky realize that, actually, the whole “being Black by association” thing wasn’t up his alley?
But if we kept things chill, reined ourselves in, none of these questions would really matter. I wouldn’t have to worry about eventually picking between him and Match. I wouldn’t have to think about introducing him to my parents, or wonder if he would ever knock for me. I wouldn’t even have to think about us breaking up, because without a clear title, we could just fizzle out and fade away.
I stabbed my fork into a slice of French toast, feeling the pressure of Tabatha’s gaze on my forehead.
“Girl, at least figure out if you’re exclusive,” she said. “I realize you didn’t get your dating reps in, so you might just not know, but the rules of millennial courtship basically state that if you don’t explicitly agree on that, he’s gonna be fucking other people.”
I almost laughed. I was uncertain about a lot of things, but Ricky’s commitment to serial monogamy was not one of them.
“Nah,” I said, “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”
“Sure,” Tabatha said. “Just don’t come crying to me when you get chlamydia.”
Okay, now I was annoyed. I placed my fork down on the table and fixed my little sister with a stern look.
“You know, just because you’re getting married doesn’t make you an expert on my love life, okay?” I said. “Drop it. I’ll figure things out with Ricky at my own pace.”
Tabatha rolled her eyes dramatically, leaning back in her chair.
“You don’t have to get mad. I’m only trying to help. But whatever, big sis, I suppose you have all of this handled,” she said, in a way that made it abundantly clear that she thought the opposite. Then she exhaled, flattening her hands on the table. “That reminds me. I owe you formal congratulations. You’ve got Mom and Dad on lock. Blocking them! Didn’t think you had it in you.”
I gave Tabatha a thin-lipped smile. When I had first texted Tabatha to beware of an impending parental blowout, she hadn’t believed me. But hardly a day had passed before her phone was overloaded with texts and voicemails from our parents, first demanding that Tabatha speak to me about unblocking them, then asking her to check in to make sure I was okay, and, most recently, to ask her to ask me if I would like them to ship me anything from the Ghana shop.
“Yeah, well,” I said. “Had to be done.” It would be a lie to say that I didn’t miss my family, but the peace of knowing I could walk through the hospital halls without hearing a diatribe about my unworthiness was worth it.
“You done good,” Tabatha insisted, seeing my crestfallen expression. “You know how it is with Mom and Dad. Sometimes, you just have to”—she made a snipping motion with her fingers—“before they get the picture. When the time is right, you can put it back together again.”
“I hope so,” I said, thinking of Nia. Despite the outpouring of support from Michelle, Tabatha, and my not-boyfriend, I still carried Nia’s loss like a boulder on my back. And with every passing day, I felt more and more sure that she was never coming back.
“Back to loverboy real quick,” Tabatha said. She knocked back her coffee, holding up one hand when I began to protest. “Maybe, like, don’t sleep with him until you figure out if he’s in it for the long haul?”
My jaw dropped.
“Not you, Tabatha Nhyira Akua Appiah, telling me not to live my best ho life—”
Tabatha tutted me. “Yeah, well, some of us can handle it.” She pointed at my chest. “You? No way. Your heart is attached to your vagina.”
*
But not sleeping with Ricky was turning out to be a real endeavor.
We sat on the couch in my apartment, Ricky’s phone faceup on my coffee table and the timer counting down from seven minutes. I dragged my hands through his hair, scratching his scalp as he unabashedly cupped my ass. His hands trailed down the swell of my thighs to the bend of my knees and yanked me farther up his lap, his kisses rapidly going from gentle to stinging. I rolled my hips into him playfully, smiling against his lips as he let out a low, rumbling groan—