Honey and Spice(3)
He blinked and cleared his throat even though when I heard his voice the first time it didn’t sound like it could get any clearer. “Uh, don’t sweat it—”
Funny he should mention that, because I was. My skin was tingling. This was intriguing. I didn’t really sweat, and when I did (like the time I went on the elliptical for two hours while watching Beychella on my phone), it was like this, a slight prickle.
“I don’t sweat. But thanks.” I started to move past him to the lift, encouraging him to do the same, toward his destination, his destiny, away from me, when he stopped suddenly, turned around, his dark brows furrowed.
“Uh, I’m sorry, I just . . . did you say you don’t sweat?”
I cast a gaze across the hall, partly to obnoxiously demonstrate the fact that no one else could have just said that and also to double-check that nobody was coming out or coming in. I knew every Blackwellian who lived on My Guy’s floor and timed my visit knowing that two of them were at Bible study, one at football, and another at a friend’s birthday dinner. There was nobody. I wouldn’t be seen. I looked back at him, hitched a shoulder upward.
“Yeah. Why?”
He nodded, his eyes squinting, concentrating the light, the corner of his plush mouth quirking up. “Sweating is a regular biological human function.”
“What’s your point?”
“So, you’re saying you’re not a regular human.”
I smiled, sliding my head to the side. “Do I look like a regular human to you?” Trick question. He would stumble or leave. Stumble and leave. It was fun, tangling my words around their ankles, without them realizing, and then watching them trip.
He inhaled deeply, like he was considering the question. He stepped back a little and assessed me, flicking a quick gaze down me that felt like he was striking a match against my body. Something flared under my skin. His eyes rose to meet mine again.
“Nah. Definitely not regular.” He smiled, and my pulse stuttered. “Just not used to seeing another superhuman about, so had to double-check. It makes me feel less lonely, so thank you.”
Uh-huh. I held still. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I knew this game, this game was mine, and normally I knew how to lose them. I’d expected to lose him. In fact, I’d wanted to lose him, to shake off whatever had been clinging on to me in the two minutes we had interacted, the gliding of energy on my skin that was making me fizz (I knew having a latte past three p.m. was a bad idea, I am mad sensitive), but not only had he followed me, it was like he already knew where I was going. It was like we were going the same way. He shot me a half smile, sloping, something that managed to be tiny and also have the power to elevate his face, soften the steep angles. The sharp glare of the industrial lights in the hallway had nothing on it. It made its way to the pit of my belly and tugged.
Our eyes stayed on each other for a few seconds longer, as I attempted to figure out what the hell was happening, when a door clicked open somewhere in the near distance. Both of us jumped as if we’d been interrupted, as if there had been anything to interrupt, and turned to the direction of what would have been a disturbance, as if there was anything to disturb.
Zuri Isak stood at the door to flat 602 (I’d just left flat 601) in a crop top and leggings, curls glossy and loose. Cute, casual. Purposely cute and casual. Zuri wasn’t meant to be here. She was meant to be at her friend Nia’s birthday dinner at Sakura in town. I knew this because there was a social media countdown designed to make people who weren’t invited feel like they were missing out on the Groupon dinner, at a place where sugar daddies took their babies to dinner. Anyway, this was particularly interesting because Nia and Zuri had recently undergone a power shift in their clique whereby Nia had usurped Zuri as Queen Bee by organizing a group trip to Barcelona to stay at her stepdad’s villa over the summer while Zuri was visiting family in Michigan. Nia could have easily reorganized it for when Zuri returned but she didn’t want to do that. It was a power play. A coup. And judging by the light mascara, dab of lip gloss, and smidge of blush—I flicked my gaze over to Fellow Superhuman, only just now noticing that he was holding a bottle of rosé in his hand—something told me that Zuri skipping the birthday dinner to Netflix and chill was also a power play.
Zuri nodded at Fellow Superhero, who definitely wasn’t as lonely as he made out to be. “Hey you! I didn’t hear you knock so thought I’d come check—”
He smiled at her. It was interesting. Objectively, as a scientist (fuckboiologist and mandemologist), it was different from the smile he gave me. The smile he gave her was mainstream, pop, radio-friendly. The smile he’d given me was the single released after an artist had established themselves, found their voice, could speak directly to their target audience. The smile he’d given me had more R&B to it.
He walked toward the open door. “Sorry, the lift took its time—”
Zuri nodded absentmindedly, throwing her gaze to me, “Hey Kiki, wassup?”
She wasn’t suspicious—I wasn’t a threat; I was never a threat. I was known as The One Who Didn’t Date—but that was precisely why my presence there was curious. I didn’t have a clique and I lived with my best friend. Weren’t nobody for me to visit. I’d thought this through, though. I had an alibi in a girl (not a member of the Black caucus) I had a political communication module with, and who also happened to live in flat 604.