Page 9 of The Devil’s Feather

Rafael: Touché.

I skipped back into the restaurant.

Deandra immediately clocked the glow on my face. “Ok, who is he?”

I forced the giddiness down. “I may have met someone at a bookstore…”

“Not the meet cute!” Annie shrieked, dark curls bouncing. “I’ve always wanted to meet a boy that way!”

I winced. “Way to tell the whole place my business.”

“Annie, when was the last time you dated anyone even remotely close to being called a boy?” Deandra had my back, bless her. She’d always said Black women didn’t get enough grace to act stupid.

She was also, as she put it, ‘gay for every woman, queer for every enby, and straight only for Michael B. Jordan’, which made her even less inclined to put up with our nonsense over the men we dated. Not that Dee didn’t cry from heartbreak just like anyone else, but she was much better than me at moving on.

Anita Martin, however, had always been a hopeless romantic. Maybe more hopeless than romantic. She loved vintage clothes—and vintage men. Her current questionable partner was at least 35 years her senior. With Annie in her 30s, that made him quite senior. Frank was polite, at least. The last one hadn’t been.

Deandra tossed her fresh, honey-blonde braids, incredulity stamped on her sepia face. Gold glitter shadow highlighted her large, slightly tilted brown eyes—and the look she shot me.

“I just want to know what happened,” Annie pouted, her cherry-red mouth making a pretty moue. Everything she did was pretty. I’d never been able to pull off a red lip like she did, even though I was only fractionally paler.

To protect Rafael’s privacy, I edited the story. He became “just a musician”.

Deandra leaned on her elbows, intently staring at me over her hash browns. “Weren’t you the one who said musicians are always a red flag? Please tell me he’s not a lead singer.”

I flushed. Damn, I’d forgotten my own declaration. “He’s more of a classical musician. Hey, I like the new braids. That color really makes your skin glow.”

“Mmhmm.” Dee folded her arms. “Quit trying to distract us.”

Annie’s dark brown eyes sparkled. “Is he tall?”

I leaned back dramatically. “Girl, he is so tall you wouldn’t believe it!”

“Damn it! You said you didn’t care about height. Why do you get the tall one and the bookstore meet cute?” Annie had a staunch six-foot minimum.

I jabbed my fork at her. “I’m gonna tell Frank you said that.”

30 minutes later, Rafael texted again. I shooed my friends away.

Rafael: Would you like to see my apartment this Friday? No pressure. Treat it like a tour.

Me: you said the second date was for trauma. my trauma or yours?

Rafael: I would rather have an accomplice than a victim, if that is your question. Being a crazed murderer gets lonely—and obvious.

I snorted.

Me: i suppose it would be hard for you to go unnoticed by the police, mr seven foot redhead

Rafael: Exactly.

Rafael: Would you prefer dinner or drinks only? I will give you the garage code so you do not have to worry about street parking. Also, what size shoe do you wear? I want to be sure I have house slippers for you.

Me: size 10 narrow i have big ol ski feet

Me: depends whats your idea of dinner? are you one of those protein gym bros? chicken shakes with broccoli?

Rafael: How dare you! I blend only the finest census takers into my shakes.