Page 91 of Score
“Your pussy wasn’t that good anyway.”
If I’m having this much trouble placing him, I was either drunk or manic when we slept together—possibly both. I rarely drink, so I’m guessing it was the former, and manic, I’m aspectacularlay.
“Now I know you lying.” I bark out a laugh. “You must not know good pussy when you get it. Fuck off.”
He takes a step forward that would be menacing if I found insecure limp-dicked narcissists even vaguely intimidating. “If you think—”
“Hey,” someone interjects from behind me. “She said fuck off.”
I freeze because I’d know that voice whispering in a tornado. I turn and meet Monk’s gaze. There’s no humor. No anger. Just cool indifference when he looks at me. A warning when he shifts his eyes to Mr. Forgettable Dick. The stranger I apparently slept with finally gets the message and stalks off, grumbling under his breath as he’s swallowed by the crowd of well-dressed partygoers.
“You’ve probably ruined him for all Black women,” Monk deadpans.
“Sisters everywhere should thank me.”
“Do you really not remember sleeping with him?” Monk leans a shoulder against the wall, assessing me with fresh eyes. Or maybe judging me with old ones.
“No,” I answer honestly without further explanation. Let him thinkI’m a whore. He wouldn’t believe me if I tried to convince him otherwise. “I’ll take his word for it.”
He nods and shrugs as if it’s none of his business. As ifI’mnone of his business, which I’m not. Some girl he dated for a few months in college and who cheated on him. Why would he care?
He glances in the direction of the guy who just lumbered off. “Still breaking hearts I see.”
“I don’t break hearts. No one gets that close.”
His eyes shift back to me, probing and somber.
I did.I can almost see the words curling in a cloud over his head.
“What’d you think of the movie?” he asks, tipping his chin to acknowledge someone who waves at him across the room.
“It’s great. One of my friends from film school wrote the script. Wanted to support her.” I study him curiously. “What about you? You write a song or something for the score?”
“Nah. Actually a girl I used to date is in it. We’re still cool and she invited me. Same. Wanted to support.”
Of course I know he’s dated other people. He’s not the kind of famous where all the details of his private life are documented by the tabloids, but occasionally I’ve seen him at awards shows or events on TV, in magazines, with someone on his arm. I’ve always tried to ignore the tiny nick to my heart it causes, but tonight, confronted with the reality of him moving on when had things been different… hadIbeen different…
“That’s great,” I say, studying my bare feet, unsure where to go from here. Things used to be so easy between us. The few times we’ve seen each other since our breakup, we’ve snapped and snarled. I’m not sure how to negotiate this dynamic now that it isn’t intimacy or enmity, but some uncharted in-between.
“So you did finish film school when you got out here, huh?” he asks, filling the silence I wasn’t sure what to do with.
“I did, yeah. I won my fellowship, which paid for a lot when I first came, but I did all kinds of stuff to support myself while I was in my starving artist phase.”
“Oh yeah? What was your favorite job?”
“I did a stint as a hand model.” I chuckle, spreading my fingers.
He grabs my hand, holding it up to the light as if inspecting.
“I can see that.” He smiles faintly, but when our eyes catch, he doesn’t let go.
It was nothing for me to hold his hand when we were dating. We touched each other compulsively, constantly, like it might be stripped from us if we didn’t take full advantage of every moment we were within reach. Now his hand, so much larger than mine, swallows my fingers whole, and a lick of flame spreads from the point where our skin connects to my entire body. He and I wordlessly stare at our joined hands. He traces the faint scars like vines on my wrist and arm, a question in his eyes. I hold my breath, braced for him to ask how I got them, about the tattoo, about what happened.
“Monk, there you are!” a beautiful woman squeals, bounding over with a smile.
I gratefully watch her approach, relieved and unsure what I would have said, had Monk asked about my scars. The woman is nearly as tall as Monk in her heels, her body slim and willowy. Auburn extensions pour over her shoulders and back. Her skin is a gorgeous shade of deep mahogany. Her smile dims when she notices our hands still joined. I disengage from Monk’s grip and stare at my bare feet and the shoes set neatly beside them.
“You were great.” He pulls her close, his affection for her obvious in his voice and indulgent smile.
