I folded my napkin on the table and reached for my tote. “Yeah. I shouldn’t have stayed out so late. And I live all the way in West End. I’ve got to head to church for choir practice with my mom in the morning. You’ve been drinking. I can take an Uber back home.”
Porter narrowed his eyes. “An Uber? Hell no, girl. It is too late. I live downtown. West End isn’t out of the way.”
“You sure you haven’t had too much to drink?” His cheeks were ruddy, but his eyes were clear.
Porter smiled. “I sobered up like 3 hours ago. Little-known fact: I have a high alcohol tolerance. Well, at least now I do. I blame Des for that. Him and his damn Pyrat rum.”
I laughed and grabbed my tote. Porter paid the tab, including a hefty cash tip on the table. I smiled. He may be a “trust fund” kid as Greer often reminded us, but Porter was certainly thoughtful in everything he did.
We navigated through the crowd that was gathering near the entrance. Porter said the crowd was for the pub’s famous late-night secret menu, so everyone was vying for one of the best tables near the kitchen. I felt Porter’s hand again on the small of my back, his body closing the gap, guiding me out the door and through the crowd that was getting increasingly rowdy. His hand felt comforting and natural. With him next to me I felt safe. Protected. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt that way with a man.
We stepped back onto the sidewalk. Gone were the retirees and their dogs and hipsters and their scooters. It was just me and Porter, walking along the quiet streets of downtown Decatur, heading back to his car. He maneuvered himself so that he was on the street side of the sidewalk. But his hand never left the small of my back. He opened my door, waiting for me to get inside before entering the car. A gentleman who opens doors and walks on the proper side of the sidewalk? They don’t make those kinds of guys anymore. Now, it’s all “let’s go half on everything” and “what do you bring to the table” conversations on shitty podcasts.
“Where to, ma’am?” Porter asked as he pulled up his navigation on his console. I gave him my address as he eased out of the congested parking lot.
“Your turn to be the deejay. What do you like to listen to?” Porter asked as he searched his streaming apps on his phone. “I’m sure you’re tired of listening to Jay-Z.”
I laughed. “I ain’t wanna say nothing but yeah.” I thought about tonight. Me in Porter’s car. The moonlight outside. The way he had touched me. It felt like one of those golden age of Black romantic comedy dates. Minus the slam poetry, naturally.
I swayed to the imaginary melodies in my head. “I’m a big fan of ’90s, early ’00s R&B. You got anything?”
Porter smiled, as if he knew that my heart was thumping its own soundtrack. “I have the perfect playlist for that.”
From his car speakers came the booming bass of the intro to “So Anxious” by Ginuwine. Dear God, I lost my virginity to this song. Freshman year. And on a trip with the Gospel choir, no less. I giggled.
“What?” asked Porter. “Not a Ginuwine fan?”
“Nothing. I just…yeah, this just really reminds me of well… Gospel Choir.”
“Gospel Choir? Oh, there is a story there,” said Porter. “Spill it.” Even in the car’s dimness, I could see his gorgeous smile.
I wagged my finger. “I’m totally not revealing that story. I mean, we’re cool and all, but I don’t know you like that.”
“After we just spent eight hours baring our souls to each other over burgers? That’s cold.” He laughed. “You’re going to tell me one day. I’m going to hold you to it.”
We listened to a ’90s slow jams playlist all the way to my house. I leaned back, closing my eyes, and swaying to the beat. I hummed along in time.
“You have a lovely humming voice,” Porter quipped.
“Wait until you hear me sing,” I replied. “Not to brag, but I have the voice of an angel.”
“Are you inviting me to church to hear you sing? We sing very little in Catholic mass. Not soulful stuff anyway.”
“I don’t know, Porter. I’m AME and church services last far longer than mass.”
Porter groaned. “Do I have to wear a suit?”
“Yep. The flashier, the better. Also, make sure it has hella buttons.”
Porter snorted. “A Steve Harvey special. I’ll keep that in mind.”
As we headed onto 285, Porter’s playlist had moved on to Jodeci’s greatest hits.