Page 46 of The Romantic Agenda
That’s what it is. Must be. “Good.”
Joy tries to not seem shocked. She’s long since accepted that not everyone takes moisturizing as seriously as Black people. If her skin has even the tiniest speck of ash between her fingers, her mom rocket launches hand cream at her. She learned the hard way what happens if she waits too long after taking a shower to put lotion on. Her skin literally itches as if she’s having an allergic reaction, and when it gets too dry it looks like she’s been kicking flour.
“Okay.” He says with a lift of his infamous eyebrows. A look that meansthis girl says weird things all the time, let it go. Ago with the flowkind of resigned eyebrow raise. He caught on quicker than most people and didn’t hate her for it. He bargained with her instead.
Sixty-five percent.
“Why are you staring at me?” he asks, with a sideways glance.
Because she likes watching him.
Joy feels herself softening toward him. She can’t stop slouching closer, leaning into the space between them, ready to curl around him like an overly friendly cat. She realizes shereallylikes watching him. A man of few words but infinite interesting reactions. And she wants to catch them all.
Continuing to gaze up at him, she asks, “Does it bother you?”
“If I say yes, will you stop?”
“Mmhmm.” She nods.
He’s quiet as he pulls the tea bag out of the mug, gives it a squeeze, and tosses it in the trash. “Then no. It doesn’t.” He picks up his drink—no additions—and turns away. “I’m gonna go for a walk.”
Fox issucha delightful grump. Joy smiles into her coffee, watching him outside until he disappears from view. She moves to the living room and lounges on the love seat while checking the news and her mentions on her phone. The size of her platform being what it is made it somewhat impossible to keep up with comments and new followers. She’s used to it for the most part. Besides, burner accounts exist for a reason.
Joy scrolls just to reset the number to zero as she often does, but an interesting username catches her eye—MonahanWoodland had followed her.
Fox has a decent following for a small business. His pictures are mostly scenic shots and wood furniture because he’s acarpenter. Is that the right word? Or is itwoodworker? She isn’t sure, but there’s a time-lapse video of him building a cabinet from start to finish—shopping for wood in a huge warehouse to proudly standing next to it once it’s done.
Joy’s jaw drops as she clicks a picture of a beautiful coffee table. His captions are straight and to the point: Coffee Table. Red Chestnut finish. Completed January 6th. Available. Etsy and Monahan Woodland.com
His main grid keeps to theme fairly well, minus a few pictures. She spots Summer and another woman who looks so much like Fox they must be related. There’s only one non-work-related picture of him with a golden retriever. Joy laughs—even with a very happy dog by his side, Fox looks as grumpy as ever. She double-taps that one and follows him back.
Malcolm finds her like that about thirty minutes later. Still lounging on the couch, systematically liking all of Fox’s posts to freak him out. She’s never understood why people get so skittish when a new follower likes all their old photos. What’s the point of having a public archive if everyone is expected to like it in secret?
“Hey,” Malcolm says.
Her heart clenches at the sight of him. He heads straight for her, lifting her legs, sitting down, and lowering them onto his lap.
Joy rests her phone facedown on her stomach.
Malcolm doesn’t say anything else, and neither does she. They just... stare at each other because that’s what they always do. Both feeling terrible. Both wanting to apologize first. Neither one wanting to make the other feel worse. He wants her to go first because he needs her to. He can’t react until she chooses thedirection their conversation will go in. Just looking at him makes her want to cry and it’s just sostupidthat they’re like this. There’s always some external pressure wedging itself between them.
He’s been this way since he was a kid—a sensitive Black boy surviving in a world where all its stereotypes tried to beat that softness out of him. He feels so deeply and intensely, she doesn’t understand how he hasn’t shattered into a million pieces already.
But she knows he survived because he’s so much stronger than he gives himself credit for. He took those beatings, and he took their slurs, and he refused to let it break him. Growing up he learned how to be quiet, how to hold it in and protect himself. He let other people project their thoughts and feelings onto him to survive. Only people important to him, like Joy, know the truth.
People like Summer don’t know. They just see the result and want it for themselves, but they wouldn’t know the first thing about caring for someone like Malcolm.
Joy asks, “Do you really feel like I’m unsupportive? Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear. I really want to know.”
He hesitates by placing his hand on her knee. She knows his answer and he doesn’t want to say it.
“Answer me,” she presses, voice whisper soft.
“Sometimes.”
“Okay.” Joy’s face feels too hot. Her jaw begins to hurt as she nods in acknowledgment. Her bottom lip pokes out as she screws her face up to keep from crying, but she pulls it back in. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was making you feel like that.”
“I’m sorry too. I really did spring this on you last minute. You were right—you weren’t supposed to be here, and I’ve been trying to make up for it, but I don’t think I’m doing a good job.”
