Page 37 of And Everything In Between

A lump rose in her throat at his words, that felt like way more than words. When she didn’t know what to say back, he reached for her hand and laced their fingers together.

“Twenty one questions?” he suggested, thumb tracing circles on her palm.

What started as simple curiosity evolved into stories neither had shared with many others. She told him about the time she snuck out with Blake for a college party and Brooks shut the party down. Like the maniac he was. He confessed how he'd hidden his art sketchbooks under his mattress like other boys hid porn, afraid his father would find out he was still drawing and dreaming.

“Blue or red?” he asked.

“Purple,” she countered. He made mental notes of everything she said. This information would come in handy one day. Because he could promise he was going to work harder than any man had to see this through with Paige.

“Tasia or J-Hud?”

“Tasia, like Fantasia?”

“Yeah, don’t start stalling again.”

“How could you even ask that question? Whew don't make me choose between queens. That’s unfair.”

“Fine, you lucky I fuck with you. Mustard or mayo?”

“Both, with ham stacked, on Hawaiian bread.”

“A woman after my own heart. Must have pizza topping?”

“Mushrooms.”

“Banana Peppers,” Giovanni answered.

“Favorite hobby? And don’t cheat and say cars,” she asked with a giggle enjoying the back and forth, the adult conversation. His smile would grow, showing all his teeth, and her heart would flutter.

“Playing pool. You?”

“Reading Black romance books but it's more of a lifestyle. A hobby minimizes the love I have for it.”

“Explain,” he encouraged, genuinely interested.

Paige shifted, eyes lighting up with passion. “It’s about seeing ourselves loved right, you know? For so long, we weren’t even in the stories, and when we were...” She shook her head. “We were sidekicks, stereotypes, suffering. But these books? They show Black women being cherished, protected, desired, not as some exotic fantasy, but as full human beings worthy of love stories that don’t center around our pain, trauma, cheating although we need a little drama popping off. Love and representation are the plot. I’m talking to much huh?”

“No, I could listen to you speak all night. Tell me more.”

She smiled again and pulled her knee to her chest. “And the authors get us. They understand our language, our culture, our hair care routines,” she laughed softly. “The little details that make us feel seen. When a character wraps her hair at night or has a skincare routine or code-switches at work, that's real life. That’s me.”

Her voice softened, and He inched closer. “Plus, in these stories, there’s always hope. No matter what obstacles come up, love wins. Black joy wins. In a world that constantly reminds us of our struggles, sometimes I need to remember that happy endings are for us too.”

“That's beautiful,” he said, his voice reflecting genuine understanding. He reached for her hand, studying her face like he was seeing something new there. “You deserve that kind of story, P. We all do.”

“One day.”

“Yeah, one day.”

They spent the rest of the night laughing and getting to know each other through music, snack choices, and passions. With each revelation, the invisible thread between them unraveled loosening the grip they both had on their hearts.

The ride back was different from the one to the track. Less anticipation, more reflection. The radio played low, some neo-soul that fit the mood perfectly, and Paige found herself humming along, her head resting against the seat as she watched the city lights blur past. She pushed the middle console up and slid over to the middle before resting her head on his shoulder. This wasn’t what she’d planned for tonight. Not even close. But somehow, it felt exactly right.

When they finally pulled up to her building, neither of them moved right away. The engine idled, filling the silence between them.

“Thank you,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“For what?”

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