“Lower,” I move the phone lower. “Ah, no wonder jour depressed. Oh wait, I see, lower, to the right. There, much better view.”
It’s then I see what he’s fixated on. Lance has his shirt off and is rinsing some mud from his chest. I turn the phone back over to see several notifications that René has taken a photo.
“René!”
“What?”
“I can see you taking screenshots!”
“I’m not.”
“You so are.”
“Fine, I erase dem.”
“No, you won’t.”
“We can fight about dis later, in de meanstime, why ju not snooping in his room?”
“What? Why would I do that?”
“Because ju don’t know him, not really.”
“Yes, I do. We were together for months.”
“Uh huh, oh months, huh? Do ju know I found out Ricky likes Pink Panther movies? Like really likes them? Tinks dey are funny.”
“Okay. So?”
“This is news. We’ve been together for years, Mami. Ju don knows that man. Snoop. Find his bones.”
“Skeletons. And no way.”
“Trust me and do it. I gotta go, I have a chif in an hour. Rainbows.”
“Rainbows,” I say deflating.
“Mami,” René looks on at me with a small smile. “Remember dis is not de case of dickedgood.”
“What?”
“Dickedgood. It means dis isn’t about sex. Ju aren’t some crazy ex with a sex crush. He came for ju. Dat means someting. Ju are dere to claim jour man, jour partner, be the ‘take no chit’ bitch I raised ju to be and win him backs. Make me proud.”
I’m snooping. And so far, the only thing I’ve discovered is Lance uses dandruff shampoo.
Detective freaking Holmes, right here, folks.
I have no idea what I’m looking for. But I take René’s advice and look for his skeletons. Prying him for any information at the moment seems impossible. Current location—closet, and it’s huge. Inside, I tug on the light switch and see a stack of old notebooks along with his yearbooks. I pull one down and start flipping through. I find him easily, his face unmistakable as I trace it with my finger. He’s not smiling, in fact, he looks a bit pissed.
“Can’t say much has changed,” I snort ironically. “Do ju have any bones, Prescott?” I mutter in René’s accent.
I flip through his senior yearbook and see no signatures. He said he has plenty of friends but does he? He was known as the mute in college, gorgeous and broody. We never ventured out much in public, aside from his training, and he wasn’t quick to converse.
I assumed it was all due to his temper. Didn’t he have any friends here? I shut the book and rifle through a stack of sweaters and find a bottle of whiskey and decide what the hell. Why would a grown-ass man have a stash of bourbon in his closet? Does he have a drinking problem? I decide to create one for myself because I down half of the pint in a few gulps.
With the fresh buzz, I go through each shelf one by one, searching for clues as I nip at the bottle.
Halfway through his jacket pockets, I find a dirt-encrusted utility bill envelope. It’s when I see the signature on the bottom that I tense up.
Lance,
I made a mistake. Please stop punishing me. Please meet me again tonight. I can’t stop thinking about you.
Channah
“Sounds familiar,” I spout sarcastically, flipping the top off the bottle and taking another swig of the contents.
I flip through the yearbook until I find her name. Channah Dickson. Gorgeous. She was all the things, cheerleader, swim team, debate, and of course, prom queen. I hate her. Instantly I’m on edge. The more I think about it, the more I realize René is right. Lance never really spoke much about home, and he had a whole life here before he met me. What else don’t I know? Is she why he turned me down flat when I arrived? Then again, this letter could be ancient. I study the North Face jacket and don’t recognize it from our Grand days. I sink when I realize it’s relatively new.
I rip through more hangers, feeling stabbed.
I swore to myself I would never get wrapped up in any man like some needy nymph, and here I am in a freaking closet pilfering through his clothes and yearbooks, the jealousy in my chest burning as much as my cheeks, due to the whiskey. But I have to be mature about this.
I toss back more of the bottle.
“Yeah, no, freak that,” I hiccup, before finishing the last of his bourbon. The liquid no longer scorching my throat. And then I’m sorting through his clothes because who in the hell puts their jeans in the middle of their hoodies and shirts? It’s just not right. I’ve developed a drunken case of OCD. And why in the world does one man have such a big closet?
“Bet Channah does, in her big fat vagina,” I hiccup again and FaceTime René.
“Mami, I’m on a chif.”
“He’s had sex with a Channah!”
“What’s a Channa?”
I flip open the yearbook and point to her picture. “This, this is a Channah.”
“Ah, so we hate her.”
“Jes!” I smart. “We hate her. See, this is why I didn’t want a damn man in the first place. Man-free, problem-free, but noooo, here I am, all hormonal and jealous as hell in a closet! A CLOSET!”
“Calm down, Mami, if he was into hers, he wouldn’t have come to Ju York.”
“But you were right, he has this past, and I don’t know a damn thing about it.”
“Ju have not been honest with him either.”
“I have about other people.”
“He probably don’t want to hurt ju. Ju need to tink—”
Lance’s bedroom door opens, and I cut René off mid-sentence hanging up on him.
I shut the light off, hoping that he can’t hear me stuffing the note back in his jacket and hanging it up before carefully taking a sweatshirt off his rack. I’m waiting like a drunken closet ninja clothes sorter, my hackles rising, as I pray that he bypasses me to get to the shower.
The door opens a second later, and Lance gapes at me where I stand ready. I thrust the sweatshirt toward him. “I’m borrowing this!” He jerks back as I step forward, and a burp slips out of me right in his face. “Okay?”
“What the hell are you doing in here?” He takes a step forward and pulls the bottle from the floor. “Drinking?” He looks past my shoulder, “And rearranging my clothes? In the dark?”
“I just told you what I was doing. And not in the dark, I just turned the light off, duh.”
After a long pause, he drops his head, his shoulders shaking.
“Is that…laughter? Lord help me. The boy may be healed! Thank you, Jesus!”
His chuckle slows. “You’re the worst liar in the history of ever.”
“I told you that when we met.”
“Answer the question.”
“I have a gay best friend.”
“I’m aware.”
“And he puts dumb ideas in my head.”
“So, what were you doing?”
“Why do you have hooch in your closet? Are you a closet drinker?” I snort.