Page 14 of Be My Summer

“I can do that for you, Miss Summer.”

“Thank you, kindly, Sir.”

Chuckling, Saul nodded and gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter as he made an illegal U-turn in the middle of the street. Laughter erupted from my core as my smile threatened to split the corners of my lips.

“Hold on now,” he warned.

“I’m holding on,” I promised, unable to control the giggles that were piecing me back together after surviving the abyss I fell into on September 21st of every year.

The brownstone rested on a quiet street. Curiosity lined my forehead with wrinkles. Cars lined the curb. And as plentiful as they were, there wasn’t a single tune coming from the home in front of us.

We climbed the steps together. The potted plants on the porch were proof that summer would linger a little longer before the leaves began to fall from the trees and the soil hardened all over Huffington. Rain and water would be scarce, and nature’s garden would suffer. It was part of the process, preparing them for a brutal winter before turning them over to a nutrient-rich spring.

Ding.

Dong.

The doorbell was the loudest sound for at least three miles. One could hear a pin drop in the dead of the evening in the neighborhood I was growing increasingly interested in. Brownstones with large stoops lined the block. There seemed to be a spoken rule about quiet hours or sleep hours of some kind. Those rules were enforced by the community itself as respect claimed their hearts and their heads.

You’re making it all up, Summer. I reasoned. But the evidence was there.

“Saul! What’s up, my guy? I thought you said you wouldn’t make it this month!”

Hands collided. Shoulders pressed into one another. And then space was obtained again. A caramel-skinned man opened the door. He was a few inches shorter than Saul, but still taller than me.

“Plans changed again as quickly as they’d changed the first time.”

“It be like that sometimes.”

“Alan, Summer. Summer, Alan.”

“Nice to meet you, Summer.”

“Nice to meet you as well, Alan.”

“Now, come on in. A good time awaits you.”

Alan stepped aside, allowing us into the home that was the type of cozy I dreamt about during November and December. The space had a woman’s touch, though there were no signs of a woman’s presence.

I followed Saul into the kitchen, where he pressed six numbers on a keypad. The island split, revealing a staircase. Light filtered into the dark space we were in, leading the way to what felt like the beginning of something Black, somewhat spiritual, and incredibly awakening.

Bumps raised on my skin. Joy filled my body. Anticipation straightened my spine.

“You ready?”

I nodded, urgently. “Sounds like a good time.”

Saul wasted no time responding. “Because it is. Once a month, in The Basement, we have us a damn good time.”

Music met my ears as we began our descent. Double doors opened, welcoming us inside the speakeasy.

Soundproof. I concluded.

It explained why I didn’t hear a peep upstairs or on our way up to the home. The electrifying sound of a guitar welcomed me inside. Finding a Black player in the farthest corner, along with a Black pianist, a Black violinist, and a Black drummer, sent chills up my spine. They matched the sounds behind Juvenile’s Back That Thang Up.

Hips gyrated.

Cheeks giggled.