Before Sullivan realized what Kia was doing, Kia projected herself out of the truck windowDukes of Hazzard–style. She grabbed hold of something above her head and boosted herself onto the roof of the truck. Kia had changed into a puffy white vest—too wintry for May and too sleeveless for the rain. Itshowed off well-defined muscles in her arms. It was distracting, as was the way she’d let her short Afro puffs grow into a glorious 1970s Black Power Afro. Even wearing a T-shirt readingITURSNICKENshe looked like a powerhouse. The fact that she was driving a truck so big it’d give Texas an insecurity complex didn’t hurt the image, even though trucks like that destroyed the environment. At least Kia was towing something with it. Sullivan couldn’t stand seeing people driving trucks to pick up their dry cleaning.
“Why not use the door?” Sullivan called out.
“I’m showing off.” Kia looked down at Sullivan with a hopeful smile that said,Play along. Please?
“Trying to hold on to your point six percent?”
“Iownmy point six percent.” Kia held up her phone and pointed it at the tree she was about to displace.
“Are you live streaming already?” Sullivan asked.
“I have a measurement app,” Kia said, as though explaining that her truck had windshield wipers.
Kia grew still, her eyes flicking from her phone to the too-narrow space beside Sullivan’s house.
“I got it,” she said after a moment.
With that she clambered off the truck, hopped back into the driver’s seat, and as fast as if she were pulling a sedan into a parking spot, backed the RV between a tree and the vegetable garden.
“Mic drop,” she said when she got out.
Sullivan was not impressed. Not at all.
“I don’t even use the backup camera.” Kia smirked, but her smile faded as she approached Sullivan. “I’ve been backing Old Girl up for years.”
“Old Girl?”
“The RV. Because she’s vintage. I wouldn’t back her in if Iwasn’t absolutely sure I knew what I was doing. Want an official tour of Old Girl?”
Sullivan would have said no except that Kia looked shy and proud, like a kid holding a drawing to her chest, eager to turn it around and share it.
Sullivan had been too fixated on the lawsuit to appreciate the RV before. The space was much tidier than Sullivan expected. The walls were eggshell blue with accents of a light brown around discreet crown moldings. The door led into a sitting area with a couch and small dining table, folded out from the wall. Across from that, a kitchenette featured white cabinets and glossy, white enamel appliances. There were succulents in the windows, their pots anchored to the sill, and framed postcards that must have been souvenirs from Kia’s travels.
“Like it?” The way Kia asked said the answer meant a lot to her and she kept talking like she was afraid to hear what Sullivan had to say. “I bought Old Girl on eBay. She needed work. The electrical wiring was a mess.”
“Please tell me you hired an electrician to fix it?”
“Don’t worry. It’s not going to catch fire.” Kia put her hands on her hips. “Unless you come in here to flambé something in the middle of the night.”
“Because I do that all the time.”
“I don’t know. You lit my crème brûlée on fire.”
It sounded dirty, although Sullivan hadliterallylit her crème brûlée on fire. They’d been standing in front of the professors, ready to exhibit, and Kia’s torch had run out of butane. Sullivan had whisked past her, setting the rum on fire before anyone noticed. Kia now turned and then looked back over her shoulder flirtatiously. She looked adorable, and she looked like she was trying on an unfamiliar persona, like she didn’t know how to flirt butshe’d seen people do it on TV. Sullivan raised an eyebrow. Kia’s face morphed into embarrassment.
“Sorry.” Kia pushed her hands into her pockets. “I made that awkward.”
The space felt too small. Kia looked too pretty and too earnest. Her vest was too tight, her arms too muscular, and the desire to look at her—just to compare Kia now with Kia then—was too strong. She gave Kia an obviously appraising look.
“What do you mean? What’s awkward?” She hoped her look conveyedthat’s your dirty mind, not mine.
“I collect art from all over,” Kia said, obviously changing the subject… the subject they hadn’t actually been talking about. Kia pointed to a postcard of a painting of cacti. “This is from New Mexico. They’re barrel cacti in bloom.”
The pink flowers on top of the round cacti made them look like breasts.
“Are they now?” Sullivan said.
A pretty rose glow flushed Kia’s cheeks.
