It takesus half an hour to finally walk out of the school, but I keep my arm around her the entire time. Her lips are pursed shut, and the smile she gives to the kids and her colleagues is fake. She hates the attention, and I get it. When I first got in the league, I hated it too. All I wanted to do was play, but everyone wants a piece of me every time I step outside the house. People in the city think they own you if you play for their team. By the time we finally exit the school, my driver has the door to my car opened and ready.
A large group follows us from the school, and I block Victoria with my body. The only place she has to go is inside my car, and she does just that. I’m sure it’s to get away from the group, not so she can have a late lunch with me. She exhales loudly once she’s situated inside the car and away from the crowd. I close the door, and she turns and glares at me. She snatches her seatbelt and snaps it on with more force than required. When I try to slide in the middle so I can be closer to her, she holds up her palm, telling me to stay put.
“Let’s get a few things straight,” she hisses. A piece of hair falls on her forehead, and she angrily swipes it away.
“Yes. Let’s.” The smile I give her only makes her angrier.
“First, you don’t come to my place of work and disrupt it. How would you feel if I showed up at one of your games and made a scene? You screwed up my entire afternoon. Furthermore—”
“You want to come to my games?” I smile deeper. She huffs and turns away. I can hear her quietly counting to ten. “Why didn’t you just say so? I will make arrangements—”
“No, I do not want to go to any of your games.” She enunciates each word to get her point across. “I don’t care for basketball. Do you know what else I don’t care for?”
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“High handed men.”
“High handed men are the worst. I agree with you on that.” Her head snaps back and the look she’s giving me would have made a weak man cry. “One time, when I was a boy, my—"
“And that.” She points a long index finger at me. “I don’t like that.”
“My face?” I pat my cheeks. “I don’t think there’s anything I can do about this. I’m not getting plastic surgery for you, Queen. Anything else but that.”
“Your attitude. I’m done.” She turns away from me and leans forward. “Excuse me?” she says to my driver. “I’m Victoria Taylor. What’s your name?”
“I’m Dante Rinoldi, ma’am.”
“Dante, can you please pull over so I can get out?”
I catch Dante’s eyes through the mirror and subtly shake my head no. He looks away and says, “Sorry, ma’am. Too dangerous to pull over here.” I look out the window and curse at the lack of traffic on east 128thstreet, headed away from the high school. We come up to a red light, and she tries to open the door.
“Child safety locks,” I say. “Evan would always try to open the door as a baby.” She huffs, crosses her arms, and looks out the window. “These car manufacturers think of everything.”
“You’re really starting to piss me off, Chastain. Trust me. You don’t want to do that.”
“Consider me warned, but you did promise to eat with me.”
Dante drives through the Harlem streets, and my guest seethes next to me.
“First off, I didn’t promise. But you want to eat? Fine. Let’s eat so I can tell you all the ways that you’ve pissed me off.” She crosses her arms and stares out the window. She doesn’t speak for the rest of the short ride. When Dante pulls in front of Melba’s restaurant, he jumps out and opens the car door for her. She stomps past him and heads toward the restaurant. I run after her to hold the door open. That only makes her angrier.
“Southern gentleman,” I remind her. We’re greeted by the hostess and seated at a secluded table in the corner behind a plant. It’s after the lunch rush and before dinner, so the place is pretty much empty. I pull her chair out before taking my own seat across from her.
She drinks her water and doesn’t bother to pick up the menu. She seems to have calmed down from the car ride, and I do my best to hide my amusement. I’ve gotten so used to everyone falling at my feet, especially women, that I enjoy her obvious dislike of me. But there’s more. Her eyes followed me everywhere I went when I was at her parents’ house last week. I think she wants to hate me, but she can’t. She wishes she could, though, which makes her angry.
“You want me to read the menu to you?” I ask, trying to get her attention.
“I already know what I want. I come here at least once a month.”
The waitress arrives, a young woman who appears to be in her early to mid-twenties. She’s a pretty black woman with big, brown eyes behind a thick pair of glasses.
“Vickie Taylor?” the waitress says.
Vickie’s head snaps up, and she jumps out of her chair and takes the woman into a hug. They’re about the same height, but there’s something maternal about how Vickie holds her. She cups her cheeks and looks into her eyes.
“Tilly? You’re all grown up,” Vickie says. They hug like two people who haven’t seen each other for years.
I clear my throat, doing my best to gain her attention. Finally, Vickie pulls away. “Tilly lived next door to us until she was twelve. Tara used to babysit her when she was younger.”
