In the Night of the Heat Read Free Page B

Maybe Dad was right. Maybe it had something to do with Thanksgiving.
    â€œI wasn’t planning to work tonight,” I said.
    â€œAre you kidding? This meeting is…”
    â€œI’m more interested in this meeting.”
    I squatted beside April and let my fingertips fall to her kneecap. If she wasn’t going to spend the night, I wanted her to tell me straight out. I rubbed a lazy circle on her knee where the denim was thinnest, the place her body fought quietly to break the will of her clothes. “I can’t make the lady happy if I don’t know what she wants,” I said.
    â€œTry to guess what she wants.”
    â€œI shouldn’t have to.”
    It dawned on April that I was talking about her. The excited glow left her eyes; they narrowed before darting away, as if my face no longer held her interest.
    â€œI can’t stay tonight, Ten.” I’d expected the words, but they smarted more than a little, and it wasn’t about sexual desire. I tookApril’s fingers between mine and held her hand. Gently, I kissed her knuckle, then massaged my chin with it. “Why not?”
    â€œI’ve told you why.”
    Chela. April was convinced that overnight visits made Chela feel threatened, and I couldn’t deny it. Dad wasn’t much better: He gave me and April significant gazes when we appeared yawning and grinning first thing in the morning. I had offered both Chela and my father a home and a new start in life: Was I supposed to give up my life in the bargain?
    â€œThe dynamic is hard for me,” April said.
    Dynamic was a vague, alarming word. “What dynamic?”
    â€œMe, you, and her. The fuzzy lines. Nothing is defined. You’re not her father, and she acts like you’re her man. I’m supposed to be your girlfriend, but…” The missing end of her sentence felt like the start of an ultimatum. I waited. The scent of jasmine on her skin made my heart race. “You feel like a secret,” April said finally. “Nobody in my family knows you. Like we’re sneaking around. Not just Chela. It’s like hiding from everyone.”
    â€œI’ve never tried to hide,” I said gently, and April had no answer for that.
    I’d always known that if I let her hang around long enough, sooner or later April Forrest would see right down into the center of Tennyson Hardwick, where the light couldn’t get in. She knew more about me than any woman since Alice. And we both knew that I wasn’t the man April wanted to bring home to meet Dr. Forrest and the rest of her degree-laden family, who, when I imagined them, always looked like the Huxtables from The Cosby Show, except that her father didn’t sell Jell-O or dance a lazy soft shoe. Besides, family dinners are the first stop on the way to the altar, and I wasn’t ready to board that train.
    I don’t know much about relationships—April was my first girlfriend since high school—but as I watched April’s troubled eyes pretending to study the colorful Jacob Lawrence print on my bedroom wall, I knew I was all wrong for her. April was smart: If I knew it, she knew it, too. I used to joke with April that I was an alley cat, and she was a hothouse flower. Her family groomed her for greatness—summers abroad, Jack and Jill, music tutors—while Dad could barely pull himself away from Hollywood division’s desperation long enough to make sure I had clean clothes and food every day. He was a single father, and he was a cop. Bad combo for me.
    April stood up, as if she’d made a sudden decision. She rested her arms across my shoulders, the way a buddy might at Boy Scout camp. Her breath smelled like sweet citrus. I wished our clothes weren’t still on.
    â€œTen, listen…” she said. “Lynda Jewell is a huge deal. You can’t expect to walk in there, smile, and dazzle her. You have to go ready to play. Show Lynda Jewell who