In His Arms. Yasmin Sullivan Y.
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are soft. I like that, too.”
Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before their dinner arrived, and Rashad had to let Michelle’s hands go for what they’d ordered. The ribs were tender, the cornbread was moist, the greens were well peppered and the cobbler was juicy. It was a real Southern meal.
“Does it compare to what you get down home?” he asked.
“Yes, it does, but no one can top my uncle’s ribs or my mother’s cornbread and cobbler. This is like home when you’re on vacation.”
“Good. I’m glad you like it.”
“What about your family traditions? How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
“I have three brothers, no sisters.”
“But you said your brother-in-law got your Redskins ticket.”
“One of my brothers is gay. His partner is my brother-in-law.”
“Good for them.”
“I’m glad you’re cool with that. Thank you.”
“No thanks needed. Was your family okay when he came out?”
“Long story short—no.” Rashad chuckled. “At least not my father. But he got over it, I think. I hope so for my brother. What about you? Any siblings?”
“Nope, just me.”
“Michelle the bad girl.”
“Well, I did grow up.”
Rashad could tell there was more to that, but seeing that Michelle didn’t go on, he let it go. They talked about art for the rest of their meal. When they turned to the cobbler, the conversation changed. With the main course gone, he regained her hand, and when he caressed her fingers, hers caressed his back.
“I know it’s soon, but I really, really like you,” Rashad heard himself say. “I—I don’t know what else I planned to say. Just that, I guess.”
“I like you a great deal, too.”
“Do you date much—since your divorce, I mean?”
Michelle got quiet and still again; even the fingers that had been caressing his ceased to move.
“No, I haven’t dated at all. I’ve just been trying to re-create my life—to arrange things so that I could go back to school, work, raise my son. It doesn’t leave time for a whole lot, and I haven’t really been interested in more than that for a while.”
“Would you be interested in dating now?”
She shrugged. “It’s hard to balance everything. I’m not sure if there are enough hours in a day—or a week.”
She hadn’t gotten his real question.
“What about me? Could you see yourself dating me?”
“I think so,” she answered.
Rashad’s chest swelled, but he tried not to show it.
“What about you?” Michelle asked. “What have your relationships been like?”
Now it was Rashad’s turn to get quiet; he had to admit what he didn’t want to admit to this particular woman.
“I’ve dated a lot but nothing serious. I’ve been waiting for the right person.”
Michelle squinted her eyes and did a double take. “Nothing serious? What does that mean?”
“My relationships,” Rashad said, “have all been mutually superficial. I hate to say that, but it’s true.”
Michelle took a deep breath and looked Rashad straight in the eyes with those translucent brown pools of hers. When she finally spoke, it was slow, and he could read the disappointment in her tone.
“My life is a bit too complicated right now to have a mutually superficial relationship, Rashad. I can’t do that.”
They had finished their dessert, and she started to get up.
She turned back, looking around the restaurant. “We need the check.”
“I’ll get that, but wait.”
She had started to leave again.
“Wait. Don’t go. I’m not asking you to do that. I don’t want that with you.” This much, at least, was true. Now that he knew she wasn’t married, he was even more interested in her. He could allow himself to be interested in her.
“What do you want with me, Rashad?”
That he didn’t know.
“I don’t know. I only know that I almost kissed a married woman when I thought you were married, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since I met you, and I’ve never talked to anyone the way I can talk to you. That’s all I know. What do you want with me?”
He had gotten hold of her hand, and he drew her back to the table.
“I don’t know,” she finally said. “I guess I just know that I like spending time with you.”
Rashad couldn’t help but smile.
“But I don’t want a casual thing.”
“Deal. Let’s see where this can go, and no casual thing. Either we become friends and nothing else, or we become something real. No in-between.”
“Deal.”
They both took deep breaths as the rough patch between them fell away. Now they could relax.
He paid the tab, and, as they left the restaurant, he put his hand on the small of her back. She looked up at him and smiled.
“I like it when you touch me that way.”
“I want to touch you more,” Rashad said softly.
“Let’s not rush into things,” Michelle responded. “Let’s figure out what we want first.”
Still, he saw a shudder move through her shoulders and could tell that she was responding to his touch, his voice.
“Okay.”
They walked slowly back toward North Union Street, window-shopping along the way and stepping inside some of the stores that were still open. They paused in front of the art galleries and a couple of advertisements to talk about the pieces using their newly acquired knowledge from class.
Rashad had taken Michelle’s hand, and she took his arm as they strolled. She pointed out the mosaic and beadwork studio that belonged to her cousin’s wife, and Rashad wanted to go in—mainly to meet some of her family but also because the pieces were fabulous. Unfortunately, it was late enough that the studio was closed. They would have to come back another day.
This time, when they got to Michelle’s Ford Fiesta, Rashad took her in his arms and pressed her body against his. He expected her to hesitate after their conversation, but she lifted her arms to his neck, smiling, and tipped upward on her toes to meet his lips.
The soft pressure of her lips and the floral aroma of her perfume filled his senses, and the way her curves pressed against him made his body rigid. When they broke from the most sensual kiss he had ever had, Rashad teetered back, drunk on the moment.
“Was that as good as kissing a married woman?” Michelle asked.
“That was infinitely better,” he said and let out a long, shaky breath, his body wanting more.
Michelle gasped and looked at her watch.
“Oh, no. I’m going to be late getting my son.”
“How long do you have?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“Let’s go. You’ll be late five minutes, at most. Honk if