Page 45 of Steamy on Set

Folding his arms across his chest, he smirks down at me and my lame excuse. Feeling flustered, I huff out a sigh as frustration begins to kick in.

“Are you going to let me in or not?”

He moves, and as I walk into the house, I hear the sound of a saxophone lightly playing over a piano. Recognizing the music, I point in the direction it’s coming from.

“Is that John Coltrane?”

He nods, leading me down the hallway.

“Good ear.”

When we enter into the living room, the music kicks up in volume as the scents of garlic and saffron hit me. Slightly recovered from my earlier fit, I take in the spread he has laid out on the table. Steaming bowls of curry sit next to piled high plates of rice. Everything from tikka masala to butter chicken is offered up as options. Next to that are onion pakoras and samosas with chutney and two tall glasses of mango lassi. It’s a feast, and my mouth waters at the sight.

“I hope you like Indian food.” He slides onto the floor in front of the coffee table. Dropping my bag on the couch, I join him, my stomach eager to taste everything that is creating that wonderful smell.

“I love it.” Never shy around food, I dig in, making a plate with a little bit of all the options. We eat in silence for the first few moments, lost in the savory and spicy mixes of the different foods. When I’ve tasted everything, I finally find the space to say something.

“I didn’t know you like jazz.”

Tilting his head, he wipes his mouth on his napkin before replying. He says the words with an ease.

“Well, you don’t know everything about me.”

“True,” I say, laughing. “I guess what I meant is I didn’t take you for the type to like jazz.”

He leans back against the couch, and pushes his plate away from himself.

“It’s not my favorite, but it helps me relax. I used to listen to it with my grandfather when he would watch me after school. It would play in the background as I did my homework. So I guess it became my focus music.” His answer is honest and personal, shining a light on the softer side of him. Eyes lost in the memory, he looks beyond me as he speaks, face lax and smooth, all soft curves and gentle lines.

I really don’t know anything about him. Tonight is going to change that, if I have any say. Lapsing back into silence as we finish our meals, I think on the best way to approach this. Memories of college nights meeting strangers gives me the solution on how to go about it. After we bring the plates into the kitchen and settle back onto the couch, I bring it up.

“Let’s play Twenty-One Questions.”

Looking skeptical, he rubs his chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Seriously?”

I nod, scooting up a little in my seat.

“You’re right, I don’t know you and you don’t know me. We have literally been operating on assumptions about each other since we met, so let’s fix that.”

“Okay, me first.” He crosses his legs. “Where do you get your confidence from?”

He asks in a tone that doesn’t imply that I shouldn’t have it, he just sounds curious. Thinking on the question, I try to pinpoint how I turned out this way. Looking back to find when I woke up in this body and loved it fully, I can’t figure out the moment. It didn’t happen all at once. At every point in my adolescence, I had always battled with a different piece of myself, never fully comfortable in who I was. Even still, I walked around the halls of my high school, like they were mine, never afraid to stand tall in my short chunky body. Where did that come from?

“My parents.” I lift my hands to explain. “I was adopted by white people, and they knew that bringing me into their family meant I was going to have to contend with our differences a lot. So they taught me young that no matter where I was or who I was with, I belonged. They tried to cement in me the belief that I deserved everything in this world, no matter my skin color. All while praising everything that made me different.

“I learned from them that my worth is more than the price tag the world put on Black women, and that I should make sure other people know it too. It made me strong, brave, and well, confident.” Smiling as I pull my lip into my mouth, I try to keep the laughter in. “It made me entitled.”

I hated being called that word just a short while ago, but now I’m claiming it as a prize. Maybe I did think the world turned for me, but is that really a bad thing?

“I wish I had that.” He leans in closer. “My mom was so scared for me as a Black man in this country, she kind of did the opposite. She taught me to be cautious, careful, and overly respectful. So focused on making sure I survived in every space, she didn’t teach me to own them.” Lips pulled into a frown, his eyes lower down to look into mine.

“You are confident, though. I can tell in the way you carry yourself.”

The corner of his mouth lifts as he rubs his hands together.

“Well, with what I got going on, how could I not be?” He does a little shimmy from side to side.

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