I choke, searching with desperation for my next breath. A wry grin slides up Trick’s face as he pats my back.
“Are you okay?” Nana and my father chime at the same time while Rachel scowls at me, as if choking at the dinner table is just another example of my poor etiquette.
Pressing my hand to my chest, I nod. “F-fine.”
“So, Trick, are you originally from Chicago?” My dad wastes no time.
“Darling, we just sat down. Must you start with the interrogation?” Rachel sips her wine, avoiding eye contact with everyone.
Nana peers at me as if I have the answer to Rachel’s uncharacteristic behavior. I expected my father and Rachel to tag team the interrogation.
“Asking him where he’s from is hardly an interrogation. Do you feel interrogated, Trick?” My father loves putting people in the hot seat then daring them to admit they feel the heat.
“I’m from Queens.”
I look over at Trick. This is news to me. Admittedly, I never asked where he was from. Somehow I made the assumption that he grew up homeless on the streets of Chicago. He looks at everyone except me, as if gauging their reaction is more relevant than the wide-eyed shock on my face.
“I see. Do your parents still live there?”
“They’re dead.” Trick takes a bite of his salad.
“Siblings?” My father doesn’t even have the decency to offer his condolences before moving on to the next question.
“No.”
“What brought you to Chicago?” He just keeps firing away.
“Cal, really can you let the boy enjoy his dinner?” Rachel swoops in to save the day, but hell if I know why.
“Job offer.” Trick ignores everyone but my father, except for giving Rachel the occasional glance.
“And what is it you do?”
“I’m a makeup artist.”
My dad chuckles and takes his first bite of food, as if he’s made his case and is ready to dismiss the witness from the stand.
“I started out doing sketches and selling them on the street and at local art festivals.”
Food has to be hanging out of my mouth. I can’t believe Trick is volunteering information he’s never shared with me—information I’ve been too afraid to ask about.
What’s his angle?
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to check on something with Susie in the kitchen.” Rachel leaves the table.
“Darby, what’s new with work?” Nana breaks the silence.
I smile at her then look over at Trick who seems to be in deep thought with his eyes fixed to his food as he chews each bite with slow concentration. He seems a million miles away.
*
Rachel never returns to the table and nobody goes to check on her. What does that say about her? What does that say about us? My father takes an “important” call before dessert is served and never returns either. Nana and I end up having a conversation about her friend’s recent diabetes diagnosis. Trick says nothing, just a nod or two whenever we try to engage him in our conversation.
We leave without a single goodbye from Rachel or my father. I’m usually the one being shunned for my poor etiquette, but right now I’m so embarrassed by the way they just left as if we weren’t worth their time.
Nana nods off on the way home while Trick stares out the back window. I feel like a cab driver, and eventually I turn on the radio to drown out the monotonous silence.
“Nana,” I whisper, giving her a gentle nudge but she still startles.
“Oh dear! Did I doze off?”
“Yes, I believe you did.” I chuckle.
Trick gets out and opens her door.
“Thank you. You’re quite the gentleman.”
He’s not.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
She pats his chest. “No need. I’ve got it, but thank you. Night, dear.” She waves to me as she heads up her walk.
“Goodnight, Nana.”
Trick gets in the passenger seat and shuts the door. “I have an early morning tomorrow.” He gives me a weak smile. It’s more than a lip twitch and less than the full on grin so I know it’s forced.
“I do too, but I was still going let you fuck me into the middle of next week.”
He moves his hand behind my head rest and looks me over before meeting my gaze again. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just have an early morning tomorrow. I’m doing onsite work for a photoshoot.” He looks ahead.
My shoulders slump. “Okay. Tomorrow, maybe.” I pull away from the curb. “Why didn’t you tell me you were from New York?”
“It never came up, I guess.”
“And the sketches … you sold your art?”
“Uh-huh.”
It’s a little jarring that he’s never shown me his sketches and the only mention he makes about them since the first night at his place is to my father and Rachel who couldn’t care less. I don’t even know where everything is. He’s moved it all completely out of sight.
“You must have intimidated Rachel … which is hard to do.”