Make a Scene Read online

  Retta leaned back in her seat. “You want the truth?”

  “Always,” her friend replied.

  “This wedding is my chance to finally show my family, show him, I’m not wilting or defeated.”

  With a breakup and career setback happening around the same time, Retta couldn’t be around her family, even a year later, without receiving a concerned hand on her shoulder or generic encouragement.

  And it wasn’t for a lack of trying to appear jovial. She’d muted her feelings from the start. The last thing she’d wanted to do was give everyone access to her hurt, her vulnerability. Only a few people in her life knew how shaken she’d been by the back-to-back disappointments. And she intended to keep it that way.

  Her friend studied her. “So, you’re going to the wedding?”

  “I’m going to the wedding.”

  “Fine,” Kym said, with a loud clap. “I’ll book time off.”

  “It’s out of town, and the timing won’t work,” Retta said, looking at her friend’s stomach.

  “Yeah, I guess slipping on my own amniotic fluid wouldn’t look great in pictures. Solo then?”

  “Absolutely not. I need a date.”

  It was a conclusion Retta had come to before passing out for the night. Showing up to her ex’s wedding alone seemed like it would be as enjoyable as stubbing her toe on the corner of her bed. And what said, “I’m not pressed; I've moved on” like a new boyfriend? It didn’t matter if she had because perception wasn’t held back by the truth.

  “Oh?” Kym asked.

  “Yeah, why not?”

  Kym pursed her lips and nodded. “If you need me to set you up, I know someone you might like.”

  “So, you’ve been holding out on me?” Retta asked, squinting.

  “You know good and damn well whenever I bring up dating, you talk about your busy schedule and your working vibrator,” Kym said, mouthing the last word.

  “Ok, well,” Retta said, adjusting her glasses. “I’ve been thinking for weeks about how I should get back out there, you know? And this is the little nudge I need.”

  “Of course.”

  Retta nodded and smirked before saying, “And you’ll be proud to know despite my ridiculous schedule and working vibrator, I’ve taken the initiative and already have a date lined up.”

  Chapter Two

  It was the end of a long day, and Retta stood in the parking lot with her team members on either side of her, studying the large truck boxing in her car. She was being screwed over, even though she got her desired spot.

  “Are they trying to intimidate us into giving up?” Omar asked.

  “That’s not happening,” Retta said, turning around. “Have a good evening. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

  Walking toward the front of the building, Retta quickened her pace. She had a small window to drive home, get ready, and meet her date at the bistro.

  The gym’s glass door opened easily, and she was met with red and black walls that had replaced the mint green of the spa that once operated there. The smell of paint still clung to the air. The front desk was unattended, and Retta stared hard at the place where a service bell should’ve been.

  Natural instinct told her to wait there and hope someone came along to help her, but time was slipping. Walking around the transformed room, she peeked around the corner to find an empty corridor.

  “Hello?” she said.

  The city’s unofficial fifth season of road construction would make traffic delays inevitable.

  “Hello,” she said louder.

  Walking down the hallway, Retta arrived at a landing where changing rooms lined the wall to her left and a staircase led to what she could see from her spot was a square gym.

  The sound of someone hitting a bag reverberated through the space. It was accompanied by sharp hissing and grunting noises.

  A needling awkwardness in her stomach formed, and the drop in the initial spike of adrenaline left her feeling out of place. But she straightened her shoulders against the impulse to flee and took a couple of steps down the stairs toward the sound. However, she only made it halfway before she caught sight of a shirtless man turned away from her, punching a bag with strong fists.

  The muscles in the man’s back swelled with each move. His dark brown skin all but reflected the bright lights hanging above him, and the sweat looked like it had been strategically placed with a spray bottle.

  There had to be someone wearing more clothes who could help her.

  As Retta retraced her steps, the man stopped punching the bag. She automatically flattened herself against the wall on the other side of the staircase, narrowly avoiding tumbling to her death. The massive headphones he wore would prevent him from hearing her, but she still held her breath.

  Maybe she would've been better off screaming at the top of her lungs in the front entrance because she was about to get busted. But the man resumed his activity seconds after the amusing thought of being barred from a gym, of all places, crossed Retta’s mind.

  Straightening, she turned to finally leave, but her path was obstructed by a stocky guy with red hair. His shirt had the gym’s logo on the front of it.

  He frowned. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  She met him at the top of the staircase. “I’m Retta,” she said, continuing to whisper. “I own the bakery next door—”

  “You own the what?” he asked loudly.

  Retta winced. Pushing down her embarrassment, she repeated her introduction at a normal volume. “I think one of your vehicles is blocking my car.”

  “Oh, my bad.”

  They walked out of the building together, and he moved the large truck out of the way.

  “Thank you,” Retta said, as the man hopped out of the vehicle.

  He gave her a nod and walked away.

  “Oh, and welcome to the neighborhood.”

  He barely stopped to acknowledge her statement.

  “And just so you know, these three spots,” she pointed to the ones she referenced, “are assigned to me and my staff.”

  He shrugged. “You’ll have to talk to Duncan or Anthony about that.”

  “And they are?”

  “The owners,” the young man said.

  “Right. Well, thanks again.”

  All the rushing ended up being for nothing because Retta arrived well before her date. When he eventually showed, she spent ninety minutes enduring his bad table manners and long-winded explanations about his business that sounded very much like an MLM.

  It was, therefore, no surprise when, days later, she was parked in front of a coffee shop applying lip gloss before a date Kym had set up for her.

  She took deep breaths and shook out her hands. There was something about not knowing what her date looked like that had her overthinking things. Would she be attracted to him? What if he didn’t eat gluten? Did her glasses magnify her wonky winged eyeliner?

  Grabbing her purse and the latest issue of Dream Big magazine from the passenger seat, Retta exited her car.

  The hissing and whirring of the barista coffee machines greeted her upon entering the shop. She pushed up her glasses on her nose and looked for a vacant table amongst the college-aged patrons. She was early, so when she spotted her date, Steve, her stomach did a little somersault.

  He faced away from the entrance and wore the preplanned red jacket and had an identical copy of the magazine in her hand on the small round table in front of him.

  She quickly joined the line at the front counter to order herself a drink, and when she turned around, she half-expected to find Steve no longer there. But he was, and she pushed her shoulders back and maneuvered through a sea of white, minimalist furniture to get to him.

  Clearing her dry throat, she said, “Hey.” Her hand rose in a brief wave that didn’t go above her waist.

  The man looked up from his phone, and the ice-breaking joke Retta had planned to say, vanished from her mind.

  Up un
til this moment, she’d sooner believe in time travel and theories on Tupac’s presence in Cuba, than the idea she’d ever be on a date with someone this attractive.

  This man, with a jawline and cheekbones that threatened to pierce the russet-colored skin lying over it, was the most beautiful person she’d ever seen in real life.

  One of his thick eyebrows raised. “Hi?”

  Right, he didn’t know what she looked like either.

  “Retta,” she said, lifting her copy of the business magazine. She laughed and quickly slid into the seat opposite of him, piling her purse and jacket on the empty third seat.

  “It’s great to finally meet you. Kym’s told me so much about you.”

  Steve frowned slightly.

  “Not so much, just enough,” she quickly added, laughing again. This time it had a tinny quality she didn’t recognize. She ran her suddenly clammy palms down the front of her skirt and stockings.

  Speak.

  “So, Steve, you’re an accountant,” she said as she moved to place her chin on her fist, accidentally stabbing herself with the ring she wore. “How do you like it?” she asked, rubbing the sore spot.

  He opened his mouth to say something, but the barista shouted into the shop, “One medium iced dolce latte.”

  “That’s mine,” Retta said a little too loudly as she got up to retrieve her drink. Okay, she needed to get it together. Enough of the boring questions and jittery behavior. She’d hate for him to have the upper hand by knowing she was thrown by his appearance. Besides, she was a woman with a lot to be proud of: she was a business owner, someone who flossed daily, and she once used a meditation app for fourteen days straight.

  When she returned to their table, she found Steve smiling, revealing a dimple in his left cheek. She studied it.

  “My name’s not Steve,” he said once she was seated.

  Retta pulled her eyes from the offending cheek to look at the man in his eyes. “Pardon?”

  “I don’t know who Steve is, but it’s not me.”

  Oh, no. She’d mixed up his name with someone else’s. Like that time she’d called the mailperson at her apartment by her mechanic’s name for several weeks before the poor woman delivering packages corrected her. In Retta’s defense, their names were incredibly similar.

  Retta dramatically grimaced. “I’m sorry, I have so many people’s names swimming in my head. Remind me of yours.”

  Not-Steve studied her before chuckling. “I’m gonna guess you’re here for a date.” He leaned in. “I’m not your date.”

  Several horrifying seconds passed. “Oh my God,” she whispered. Her face stung as if she’d been slapped. This was definitely worse than mixing up names. “This is,” Retta said, picking up her purse and jacket. “Embarrassing.” She scooted out of her seat to stand. “I should’ve—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” the complete stranger said, smiling again.

  She wanted to be swaddled in the heat of the earth’s core at that moment.

  “Seriously,” he added.

  Retta could barely look at him. The universe must’ve smelled her desperation for a date.

  “Is that him?” Not-Steve asked, nodding toward someone over her left shoulder.

  She turned to see a white man, wearing a red jacket, sitting a few tables away with a copy of Dream Big magazine propped up on fake flowers at the center of the table.

  Retta slowly closed her eyes as she turned back to face the man she’d ambushed. “Probably.”

  He looked down at his own clothes. “Understandable mistake. We’re practically twins.”

  She was supposed to laugh, but all she could manage was, “I’m gonna go now.”

  “Have fun,” he said.

  This afternoon could be salvaged.

  “Steve?” Retta said as she arrived at her actual date’s table. She ignored the urge to ask him for a government-issued ID.

  “Retta?” he asked, standing up to give her a hug once she nodded. “You look amazing.”

  “Thank you,” she said as they both took their seats.

  “I’ve been so nervous about this date.”

  His admittance pulled her to the present. Her shoulders dropped and she smiled at him. “Same.”

  “Yeah?”

  They both laughed.

  Retta’s laugh morphed into a choking cough when she noticed Not-Steve approaching their table with her forgotten iced beverage.

  Without a word, Not-Steve smiled and handed her the drink.

  She thought she said thank you, but wasn’t quite sure.

  Actual-Steve briefly turned to look behind him. “What was that about?”

  “I left my drink on his table. No big deal. Anyway, so you’re an accountant?”

  Chapter Three

  Retta was staring off into the distance when Philippa waved her hand in front of her. “You okay?”

  Retta shook herself out of the stupor and looked up. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  Philippa raised her eyebrows. “You sure? You seem out of it today.”

  That was true, and it was the byproduct of falling asleep late after reading fluff pieces about getting left on read. She’d thought she’d hit it off with Steve, but he hadn’t responded to her texts in three days.

  One would think after being dumped for her younger cousin, Retta would have built some sort of thick skin, but to her horror, Steve’s passive rejection stung.

  “I’m sure,” Retta said to Philippa, giving her an appreciative smile.

  As they got into the bulk of the work, they remained quiet letting the pop music playing from an old radio on a bench at the back of the kitchen lull them into a rhythm.

  “Oh,” Philippa said after some time. “Did I tell you guys that I met one of the trainers from next door yesterday?”

  Omar stopped rolling the croissant dough and looked up. “No. Tell.”

  Retta similarly turned to Philippa. She’d sent a welcome basket over to the gym this morning in hopes it would ingratiate her with the owners when she finally asked them to stop parking in her spots.

  “All I’m saying is if I wasn’t so busy to date, I’d be all over him.”

  “Yeah, nothing hurts dating or a booty call like having a nine p.m. bedtime,” Omar said. “Maybe Retta can tell us how she does it.”

  Retta jerked her head back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, please. Like we haven’t noticed you rushing off every other day after work,” Philippa said.

  “Or coming in with a change of clothes,” Omar said.

  “The extra makeup.”

  Retta looked between her staff members and said, “Wow, I work with the Feds.”

  Cheyenne popped her head in the kitchen. “Hey, Retta?” the young woman whisper-shouted.

  “What’s up?”

  “Someone’s here to see you.”

  She looked up. “Who?”

  “Crap, I didn’t ask,” Cheyenne said, biting her lip. “Give me a second.”

  “No, it’s fine,” Retta said, wiping her hands on a towel and removing her apron.

  It was probably Lincoln, the liaison for one of her ingredient distributors. He said he might be dropping in sometime today. “I’ll be right out.”

  Entering the front area of the bakery, she did a quick scan for the familiar face but came up short. Turning to Cheyenne who stood behind the counter, Retta frowned and shrugged.

  Her intern responded by pointing to a Black man at the condiment station near the door. The man had closely cut hair with clean lines and an incredibly wide back that had her drawing nearer.

  After securing a lid onto a disposable coffee cup, the man turned around, and it was a wonder Retta’s jaw didn’t come off its hinges when her mouth dropped.

  Not-Steve, the man she’d mistaken as her coffee date, stood in front of her with his cup positioned for a drink.

  How in a city of more than two million people, did she run into the one person she’d thoroughly embarrassed herself i
n front of? She’d think he’d tracked her down if his face didn’t mirror the shock she felt.

  Slowly, however, his wide lips turned upward, and goosebumps formed on her arms at the emergence of his dimple. What was he doing here?

  She forced herself not to shrink as he closed the distance between them. When she’d first seen him at the cafe, she hadn’t appreciated how built and tall he was. Naturally, the visual of him hoisting her over his shoulder came unencumbered.

  “Hi, I’m Duncan,” the man said, taking a drink from his cup. “I own the gym next door.”

  Duncan Gilmore watched the woman he met last week, blink several times behind glasses that sat firmly on her round nose.

  In the coffee shop, she’d appeared and left as suddenly as a gust of wind. But standing in front of her now, Duncan had time to take in the soft details of her face that were accentuated because her hair was pulled back in a bun.

  “Retta,” she said, schooling her features and sticking out her hand for him to shake.

  He accepted it, taking note of the dusting of flour against her brown skin. Of course he remembered her. How could he not? He was also positive she recognized him too.

  “Welcome to the neighborhood,” she said.

  “Are we pretending like we’ve never met?” he whispered, liking the way her eyes widened slightly.

  She shook her head. “That would be silly… unless you’d like to be my fifth favorite person.”

  Duncan smiled, leaning his shoulder against the column beside him. “Don’t tell me you’re still embarrassed about the mix-up.”

  The various gold earrings in her ear caught the light as she ducked her head. “Not one of my finest moments.”

  “Okay, we can forget it. Let’s try this again,” Duncan said, straightening his posture. “It’s nice to meet you, Retta… for the very first time in my entire life.”

  She snorted. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  Despite having agreed seconds ago to forget their first meeting, Duncan was curious about how her real date had ultimately ended. He’d left fifteen minutes after their interaction with a fleeting wish that it hadn’t been a mistake.