He laughed and put his hand on my nape, stroking.
“I don’t understand something, Ailey. How did a gorgeous, extraordinary woman like yourself end up with this hood-rat two-timing you? Can you explain that, please?”
Whether I was high or struck by his candor, the question was hilarious. I was overcome with giggles. I touched his face, pushing gently.
“You’re so snobby!”
He grabbed my hand, rubbing the tips of my fingers over his lips.
“You misunderstand me, Ailey. Nothing’s wrong with being poor. My mama was poor before she met my rich daddy. I’m talking about who Abdul is. He can’t help being poor, but he can help being an asshole. N’est-ce pas?”
I wanted to stop giggling. I wanted my granny’s sweet potato pie, because I was no longer sad, but I did have the munchies. I wanted Pat to keep kissing my fingertips.
“And if that nigger mentions his deadbeat father one more time.” Pat lifted his voice into a childish singsong. “‘My daddy tried to get my mama to have an abortion when she was carrying me. My daddy didn’t pay the child support. My daddy didn’t come to my high school graduation.’ This nigger always talking about how mean his daddy was, then he kicks dirt in the face of every sister he gets with. But y’all women? Y’all just flock to brothers like that! Mon Dieu! C’est incroyable!”
He had entered a reefer-smoking trance, the arena of deep thought, at least until the high comes down. “What kind of hold does this dude have over you, Ailey?”
“I mean . . . I don’t know . . .”
He scratched the side of his face with his thumb. When he laughed, it came out in nearly soundless puffs. “Oh. I guess he’s laying some serious pipe.”
“You are so nasty.”
“Girl, look. We’re out here smoking marijuana on a bench during a holiday weekend because you’re mad at your cheating man—”
“—I’m not mad! And he’s not my man anymore—”
“—and I’m the one who’s nasty? I tell you something, Abdul might not know how to treat a gorgeous individual such as Ailey Garfield like the queen she is, but I certainly do. Je t’adore, ma reine. C’est vrai.”
I wasn’t so high that I couldn’t recognize a pass when I saw one, the meaning in his French compliments, the touching of my hair, the kisses of my fingertips, or his refusal when I tried to offer him the last of the second joint: “No, baby, it’s all yours, if you want it.”
An hour later, when Pat offered to walk me to my dorm, I invited him to sit inside my car and listen to the radio, but in a few seconds, I pulled him to me and began to kiss him. I was no longer high. I knew exactly what I was doing. I couldn’t get close enough as he whispered how beautiful I was, how sexy. How perfect. I put the brake down to give us more room, but my car was too tight. He apologized for being a big dude, and I asked him, did he want to go to a motel? We could split the cost, but he insisted, no, no, he had it. What kind of gentleman asked a lady to split the cost of a room? Just drive, baby. On the highway, he leaned over, kissing my face. When car lights passed us, I checked myself in the mirror. Was I going to do this? Was I really this brazen?
In the motel room, I reminded him, we couldn’t stay until morning. We had to be careful, because of the campus gossips, but when I clicked the bedside lamp, he turned the light back on.
“I want to see you, Ailey. Please.”
He asked me to sit down, and for seconds, I was afraid. Maybe Pat would hurt me, like Abdul had, but he kneeled. Took off my shoes, one by one, and then my socks. He pulled at the bottom of my jeans and slipped off my panties. Slowly spread my legs and touched me. Exclaimed how wet I was, and, oh, I was beautiful. He’d been wanting this for so long.
“You like me dreaming about your pussy?”
“Yes, I do, Pat.”
He opened me further and began licking me as if there were no tests on Monday, anywhere in the world, and brought me to climax twice before producing his own condoms. When he took his time entering me, saying, if he ever hurt me, don’t be afraid to let him know, because he never wanted to hurt me, never in his life, I decided that Patrick Bertrell Lindsay didn’t need to lose any weight. Not at all. Those extra fifty pounds fit him perfectly.
And when I decided not to worry about the gossips and we spent that night, and then another, in that motel room, my mind didn’t change.
*
The Monday after Thanksgiving, Abdul was waiting for me on the steps of the refectory. When he saw me, he smiled. His face was calm, guiltless. I was with Keisha, and she tugged on my arm. I motioned that it was okay but stepped back when he moved in for a kiss.