Love the One You're With by James Earl Hardy

Author:James Earl Hardy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

11

WE’VE GOT TO STOP MEETING LIKE THIS

“So … Mama Bear was finally able to pry herself away from Baby Bear, huh?”

I arrived at Gene’s two hours late. Of course he wasn’t pleased, but there really was no need for me to show up at eight, the time he expected me to. The festivities didn’t get under way until ten, and most folk wouldn’t be arriving until around midnight (the Children always have to make an entrance). There was nothing to clean—Gene hires a “day maid” (a beefy brutha named Kelvin who wears next to nothing and I’m sure gets more than a monetary tip for his services) to come in twice a month to sweep, scour, scrub, and simonize the apartment (as he has often testified: “I only get on my hands and knees to do one thing—and it does not involve ammonia or Comet”). And there was nothing to prepare—the party was being catered (a soul-food spot in Harlem called Shortening Bread) and B.D. made both the strawberry cheesecake and the double-layer coconut birthday cake.

But judging from the face he wore when he let me in, you’d think I’d shown up two hours after the party ended.

“Don’t look so gloomy,” I consoled, taking off my coat. “Domestic duty called.”

“Uh-huh.” He embraced me. He was wearing a Versace ensemble—dark blue slacks and sky blue silk shirt. He was steppin’ in some black patent leather Kenneth Coles.

“Don’t be mad because nobody wants to play house with your bitter ass!” said B.D., waltzing up the hall.

Gene rolled his eyes. “If you weren’t one of my very best friends, I’d tell you where to go. But since you are, I’ll just let you guess.”

As Gene breezed off with my coat, B.D. stuck his tongue out at him.

He hugged me. “Honey, I am so glad you’re here. I am not a grounds-keeper and I refuse to move any of those dead animals out of the parlor.”

I chuckled. “So how are you?”

“I’m quite fabulous, as you can see.” I could—he was giving much fever in a silky dark olive Moshood suit with black dress sandals. And the face was beaten: the eyebrows were plucked, the eyelashes combed, and the strawberry blush made his very light plump cheeks red, à la Saint Nick. “And I understand you’ve been a fabulously bad boy.”

“Huh?”

He pulled us toward the kitchen. “I heard about the spin you took on the dance floor last week.”

“All I did was dance.”

“Uh-huh. All you did was dance for not one, not two, not three, but—”

“Four hours straight,” Gene enunciated with him as he emptied ice from their trays into both a large bucket and a white Styrofoam cooler.

“Uh-huh, with some strange man who, according to my sources, was quite a sight.”

“You’d think they were conjoined twins the way their hips were glued to each other,” added Gene.

I shrugged. “I was just having fun.”

B.D. wasn’t buying it. “Gyratin’ with one man for two hundred and forty consecutive minutes without an intermission?”

Gene peered at him, floored.

“Yes, I do know how to tell time and add, thank you very much.

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