Page 8 of Sunday

She flashed a bright smile my way and laughed. My heart tugged when she did that shit. We hadn’t revisited the kiss sinceI blew up over brunch a couple of weeks prior. She’d come to my room later and apologized for pushing me on the subject, but I’d told her it was water under the bridge, and it had been.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t stopped how I felt about her. I just shoved that shit down. We had gone about our lives like business as usual, the same as we had done before the kiss.

“So, what’re you saying, Cedar? My mama can’t cook because she’s not black?”

Sunday was biracial. Her daddy was black, but her mama was Swedish.

“I didn’t say that shit. I’m just saying you’re the one who says your mama is vegan and always has been. The fuck she know about frying foods, especially chicken?”

“Doesn’t mean that I couldn’t learn to fry from my black daddy or his black mama,” she sassed back.

“Didja?”

“No.”

“A’ight then. Quit with that jaw-jacking and learn from the master.”

I popped her on the ass with a dishtowel. I regretted it the instant that I did it. I used to do shit like that all the time, and it didn’t bother either of us. These days, we watched each other closely, deciphering every meaning.

The doorbell rang, and I internally breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’ve got the chicken. This is the last batch. Just go answer the door.”

“Bet. Make sure that you don’t burn that chicken, Sunny. Too many black folks up in here tonight.”

“Boy, shut up.”

“I ain’t playing with you.”

I ducked out of the kitchen just in time to avoid getting hit. She had thrown a plastic cup at my head.

“The hell are you kee-kee-keeing about?” Celine asked when I pulled the door open.

“Not your bigheaded ass. Better be glad Janae is standing behind you, or else ya ass wouldn’t make it in my house.”

“It’s Sunday’s place too.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Get your bigheaded, cone-shaped ass in there.”

I opened the door wider, and she bucked at me. Celine was cool as hell, but we liked talking shit to each other. She was Sunday’s work bestie at the office, and Jane, our next-door neighbor, was her home bestie.

“Hey, Nae. Wassup? Where my little homie at?” I asked when I didn’t see her little mini-me, two-year-old Janaya.

“Hey, Cedar. She’s with her daddy this weekend.”

I closed the door behind her and followed her to the kitchen. No sooner than I started instructing Sunday about the proper way to drain the oil did the doorbell rang again.

“You want me to answer that?” Celine asked Sunday.

“Nah. You don’t pay no bills around here. How you gon’ be answering somebody else’s door?” I asked and pulled three beers from the refrigerator.

“Boy, shut your monkey ass up.”

I shook my head and beelined for the front door. My boys, Chaz and Shawn, were standing on the other side.

“Wassup?” I greeted them with dap and side hugs and then extended a beer to each one of them.

“Ready to put an ass whupping on somebody,” Shawn remarked and clapped his hands together.

---