I laughed through my tears.
Vega uttered. “You talked enough for both of us.”
“I saw something on TV that you supposed to tell kidnappers all about you so they’ll feel some compassion and not kill you.”
“I told you I was bringing you to see Sonnet.”
“I don’t trust you, nigga!” Then he looked at me, asking, “Is he a nigga?”
I started cracking up as Vega shook his head at Dior’s dramatics.
“Dior,” I said, still laughing.
“No, I’m serious. His hair curly as hell and I can see that light skin under all those tattoos.”
Vega muttered under his breath, “Mi stai già dando sui nervi. (You’re already getting on my nerves).”
Dior’s hand flew to his throat. “Oop.” Then he stared at Vega, swooning.
Vega cut his eyes toward him. “Don’t.”
“No, because why did that eat?” Dior fanned himself with one hand. “Not Mr. Kidnapper speaking Italian. I’m sat.”
“Chill,” Vega warned.
Dior looked at me. “How am I supposed to be cool when he’s mean, multilingual, and fine. That’s a setup.”
I covered my mouth, laughing.
Vega gave him a hard stare that had made men fold before.
“Dior,” I warned.
“What? I’m grieving being a boy right now.”
Vega pointed at me. “You need to put on some clothes.”
Dior whipped his head toward him, offended. “Excuse you. Don’t direct that energy at me. The farthest thing I like is anything feminine. She could walk out here in a leaf, and I’d still be focused on your beard.”
I choked.
Vega glared at him, and Dior stared back, unbothered.
I stepped between them, still laughing. “You’re going to have to get comfortable with my gay male bestie.”
Vega’s eyes moved from Dior to me. “That’s the only kind of nigga I’m letting around you outside of my family, so we good.”
Dior clutched his imaginary pearls. “Letting? Oh, he’s controlling.”
“He is,” I said.
Vega looked at me. “You ain’t supposed to agree that fast.”
Dior leaned closer to me. “And you’re glowing. I know glow. That’s not moisturizer.”
I lightly grabbed Dior’s wrist, telling him, “Come sit down.”
“Your food, baby,” Vega reminded me.