Graham 5:59 PM
Call me. It’s about Xandra.
My ex never texts.
FIVE
Look at this,” Roan says, shoving his phone in my face, bouncing in his spa chair like a toddler fisting a handful of Cheerios.
Once a month Marisol and I get our nails done at one of her studios. She calls our visits quality control, but I call them putting the fear of God in the manager’s life if something is not up to Marisol’s sky-high standards. Marisol’s the definition of boss bitch. I know, I’ve been on the other side of a tongue lashing from her and wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Once Roan got comfortable at Royal-Hawkins and got wind of our monthly treatments, he crowned himself Prince of the Pedicure and invited himself along.
Today, the afternoon light in the Colorado Boulevard Clean Slate is dull, which is fine for picking a pedicure color and nursing a happy hour cocktail, but not for reading. I need to adjust the phone to see what Roan’s squawking about.
“Soooo, what do you think?” Roan asks, practically levitating in anticipation.
“Of Coachella?” I push his hand away from my face to get a better read. “I’ve always wanted to go. Well, I did until people started referring to it as Oldchella. Now, I’m out.”
“You need to get yourself a pair of Eyebobs.” Roan wilts a little.
“What are those?” I ask, taking the phone from Roan’s hand for better inspection, my effort to meet his enthusiasm at least 10 percent.
“Fashionable readers to make vain middle-aged women feel better about losing their eyesight,” he informs me. My enthusiasm drops. “The frames are oversize and thick, so they cover up the crow’s-feet. Grab yourself a pair,” Roan says, gesturing with his trendy cocktail.
“I told you it was poor taste to bring a child into a spa,” I say to Marisol, who, against my better judgment, caved at Roan’s begging and invited him on our first afternoon extracurricular activity of the new school year. Mimi is well trained never to schedule meetings for me on Fridays after 4:00 p.m. She knows my self-care time with Marisol is sacred. Former Headmaster Nevins had birding to destress, I have shellacking. “The drinking age should be raised to thirty-five.”
“Don’t hate, Nina. Celebrate. With me, Marisol, and alcohol,” Roan declares, clinking with Marisol’s champagne flute. Five minutes into their initial introduction last year, these two clicked, and since then Marisol and Roan have only had eyes for each other. Either that or Marisol wanted to add another gay friend to her beauty industry entourage and Roan wanted free waxing. It’s a toss-up with these two.
“Celebrate what exactly?” I know better than to say yes to Roan about anything without full disclosure of information followed by my own research.
“Well, if you could see, you’d know I’m trying to show you the website for Mudchella. It’s right before Thanksgiving. I’m thinking you, me, and Marisol can do it together. It’ll be phase one of getting in fighting shape for my wedding. We’ll tap into our inner animal instincts and sculpt our cores.” Roan purrs at us, more kitten than eye of the tiger. “We can come up with a great team name, like A Babe and Two Beards or A Bride with Four Boobs.”
I’ll be politely declining phase one of bridal boot camp and bracing myself for phase two, the breakup. Marisol and I have a bet going that this engagement won’t make it through the end of the calendar year. Though Roan swears he only has eyes for his partner, Tate, I swear I’ve seen his eyes everywhere but Tate. Personally, I don’t think the engagement will make it past Veterans Day. Marisol’s giving Roan until December 30, so he can collect on holiday gifts. Knowing Roan, phase two will consist of movie marathons, boxes of tissues, and sleeves of Girl Scout Thin Mints. That’s my idea of a triathlon.
“HA! Mudchella, have you met us?” Marisol says, waving her paraffined hand around indicating that we are getting clipped, filed, and painted, not scaling a wall. “Plus, that is the WHITEST race I’ve ever heard of. All those people out there paying all that money to run and crawl through mud, slipping and sliding, sweating hard to cross a finish line looking more brown than white.” Marisol grabs Roan’s phone off the side of his chair and points to the images on the home page. “Nina and I can stay brown for free from the comfort of our own couches.”
“Amén, mi hermana.” I fingertip high-five Marisol. “Roan, what about me screams ‘I want to haul my booty up and over a two-story wall only to drop into a petri dish of dirt, sweat, and tears on the other side’？ Besides, don’t you have any guy friends to do that stuff with you?”
“No thanks. I choose you two. I’ve always been a Black woman trapped in a gay man’s body.” That’s some spot-on self-awareness. “Okay, if not Mudchella, then for sure a bubble run. Tutus and tiaras for all, perfect for a gride like me.”
“Gride?” Marisol and I ask at the same time.
“Seriously? Do you two not have any other gay friends besides me?” Roan claps back, frustrated at our failure to keep up. “Gay bride!”
“Ahhhhh . . . and on that note, I’m officially bringing my own magnum of bubbly to get me through THAT event.” Marisol points to her flute and takes a big swig. The word nerd in me wants to ask, Why not a gade?
Roan turns his back on Marisol’s negativity. “Nina, you’re going to need something to distract yourself while Leo’s gone. And you’re really going to need something to keep yourself from face-planting in Yolanda’s empanadas when you go missing him. That’s right, I know your little secret with Pablo. Fried food will do you NO favors.” Roan gives my belly a little pat. Caught before I’m even guilty.
“How am I supposed to distract myself when Leo sends me photos like this?” I hold up my phone so Roan can see my new home screen image, a picture of Leo on a white-sand beach in Singapore.
“If you ask me, Leo’s totally selfish leaving you AND leaving me during my engagement season. He was my first pick for my Mudchella turned bubble team, then you two. A man who can bike up and over the San Gabriel Mountains is welcome to roll in the mud with me anytime.” I know Roan and his fiancé, Tate, boldly asked Leo, whom they have only met two times, to officiate their wedding. Roan wants three beautiful men front and center for his ceremony, but he claims to want someone in the legal profession to make the marriage legit. When Leo told Roan that his specialty was labor, not family law, and that he was going to Singapore to open a satellite office, we got to witness Roan’s first full-blown gridal panic attack.
Leo’s everything I forgot to shop for when I picked Graham out for husband material at twenty-six years old. He’s kind, he appears curious about me and my work, and he seems to roll with whatever is thrown his way. I promised Roan I wouldn’t allow my novice long-distance relationship skills to ruin his nuptials. Here’s hoping.
“The next few months you get five conversations about missing Leo.” Roan holds up his newly moisturized hand, fingers outstretched. “The rest of our conversations are all about my wedding. And we can talk admissions, too, from time to time. Me, school, you,” Roan says, pointing in turn as if wielding a wand. “That’ll be our weekly meeting agenda. So back to me. The three of us are going to look beyond gorgeous under the chalupa. People are going to swoon. The banker, the dream maker, and the legal anchor.”