“How do I look?” Jameson questioned his son nervously as he fiddled with lapels of his favorite Yves St. Laurent suit, “It’s my first dinner meeting her brother and I want it to be perfect. He’s her only family.” Jameson watched his son stare at him in sincere consternation.

There was so much of Stella in him. It made his heart ache. Despite having his son for 20 years, he never tired of seeing his mother in him. It reminded him of the life she gave up so that their creation could live.

No matter where he went or who he became, Jameson Junior would always be the best parts of their marriage rolled into one neatly packaged individual.

“You look awesome Dad.” Jameson Jr. replied, his head cocked to the side in appreciation, green eyes bright with youth. At a little over six foot four his junior met him eye to eye, but every so often he reverted to the little boy who still thought his dad was a giant superhero.

Little did Senior know, his son had never quit believing in him; with every inch he grew Jameson Jr. admired his father more. The reverence never leaving his soul, but festering until he wanted to be just like the man standing before him. His friends envied the relationship the young adult shared with his father making Junior all the more grateful that he was kept by this man.

“Sierra?” Jameson’s honey eyes collided with his son’s best friend’s dark brown ones. She smiled whole heartedly, her lively hair swinging over her shoulder. He believed she got it relaxed a few weeks ago. It had been flat for a while, but its body and bounce returned after their impromptu beach trip last weekend.

“You look hawttt.” Her southern drawl made him chuckle. Despite living in California for nearly four years, she sounded like she’d left Mississippi a few days ago, “Kyle would be crazy not to love it.”

If the world were a perfect place, Sierra would be the daughter Stella always wanted. She came to them at a tough time when they lived in Mississippi then politely followed them to California once the two entered into high school. She was an integral piece of their familial puzzle since she lacked a family of her own. As one of the hardest working woman he knew, he was glad she approved of Kyle.

“Insane.” Junior agreed throwing an arm over Sierra’s shoulder. Jameson groaned inwardly his reverie crashing down to earth with teenaged melodrama. Anyone with at least half a working eye could see that these two were in love, but Junior was still in denial—still convinced he liked women of typical beauty. Stick thin model types with bust lines larger than their IQ.

Senior couldn’t wait until this phase was over.  

Even though the young girl was nowhere near hideous or even ugly, Sierra was a product of severe insecurity. Her deep brown skin and “plain” features held her back from embracing the amazing woman she’d become.

Without saying a word, Jameson continued to pull and tug at his suit—he didn’t have time for post pubescent drama. That was their story alone.

“Stop fidgeting Mr. Senior.” Sierra giggled rising. She was just as shapely as Kyle, but shorter and less top heavy. Her hips spanned wide and her waist tapered inward. Her t shirt and shorts did nothing to hide her curves, only enhance them.

He can’t even tear his eyes away. Senior smiled, his son’s eyes glued to the prominence of derriere Sierra carried. Something her mother was accused with passing on.

“Thank you sweetheart.” Senior gave her a light hug before tugging on a strand of her hair, “I should get going, you kids be safe don’t do anything rash!”

He warned, a waste as usual, knowing he’d come home to find them wrapped in each other’s arms. Some nerdy science fiction flick watching them as his son palmed Sierra’s behind unconsciously the way they’d slept since they were old enough to know the repercussions of being too handsy.

“Alright Dad, have a good time, tell Kyle and her brother we say hello!” He was effectively dismissed as they became entranced with whatever the television displayed for them.

Senior nodded his keys jingling anxiously in his hands as he rushed out of the house, the door locked and ready. He climbed into his black Ford F150, Darla, his childhood crush from the Little Rascal’s movie.

He refused to analyze the fact that even as a child he liked women with extra padding.

Instead he hopped on the interstate and prayed that traffic wouldn’t be his downfall. Kyle hated when he was late.

__

“A white boy Kyle?!” Langston Johnson whispered and yelled at the same time in his candid juxtaposed character, “You’re bringing me here to meet some white man?! Have you not been watching the news lately? White people are not to be trusted!” His eyes were dark with anger and something close to disgust, but he sheltered it at the bruised look in his older sister’s eyes.

She was all he had after their mom passed away.

“I’m very well aware of the portrayal of white people in the media and in real life. Not only am I a black woman, but I also followed the Trayvon Martin case very closely considering my relationship with you!” She admonished.

“I know Ky—I’m sorry. I’ve just been on edge lately.” The apology was half-assed, but she let it go.

“I understand that this doesn’t seem like me…but I really like him Jay. He makes me happy in ways that I didn’t even know happiness could exist. I feel complete when he’s around.” Langston sucked his cheek, holding in the words that plagued his spirit.

Things a black man obviously can’t do. The sarcastic retort burned is throat as he swallowed them back.

“Does he support gun rights?”

“He does support the right to own a gun, but he is against stand your ground and George Zimmerman as a whole. He is also for Obama and the Democratic-slash-Liberal party altogether. He converted from Republicanism when he got to college.” She huffed, “He isn’t racist as far as I can tell and he loves women with curves.” She continued, biting back a smile, “He also has an excellent taste in music and loves Beyoncé on a completely masculine level.”

Langston had never seen his sister glow before, but here she was talking about some white boy with a silly ass smile on her face.

Sighing, he took in their surroundings. The upscale furnishings, the menu with normal food but no prices, the ritz and glamour of the patrons—not of it appealed to him. With another exhale, he turned back to his biggest fan and huffed right back,

“Don’t get all mushy on me. I need to meet this nigga. See if he’s on the up and up.” She frowned at his comfortable use of the “n-word” but didn’t fuss about it as she normally did, she knew he only wanted a rise from her.

“Whatever.” She checked her wrist watch, a simple Rolex that Langston bought her for Christmas, hoping she’d stop being so early for things. It was almost 7. Frowning she scanned the foyer, “He’s also notoriously late.”

Before Langston could formulate one of his quick witted replies, Kyle let out a small gasp. Her tiny fingers clutching the table in anticipation. He knew the reaction to be excitement after seeing it many times in his life.

Usually when there was brownies involved.

She had a penchant for brownies.

“He’s here.”

Langston almost groaned at the breathlessness in her voice. So dramatic, “Where?”

“Right there in the black suit.” She raised her index finger, the Essie deep purple polish glistened in the overhead lighting of the swanky Italian joint.

Langston followed the line of sight and landed on a strangely tall white man with neck length black hair.

His first impression was that this walking bean stalk couldn’t handle the brick house that was his sister, but as Kyle stood and became engulfed by the dude’s lanky frame, he saw the way she melted into him and withheld his judgment.

Patiently, Langston waited until the couple finished their hellos. His eyes seeing everything. The way Jameson possessively cupped Kyle’s waist, unashamed of their embrace. The sparkle in Kyle’s chocolate colored eyes and the way her hands actively sought Jameson’s as she turned to introduce the most important man in her life.

Langston couldn’t be sure if that man was him or—

“Hello, you must be Langston. I’m Jameson King. Kyle has told me so much about you.” Langston took the proffered hand, a firm grip greeted him.

“Likewise Jameson, sit down and join us.”

The trio sat comfortably, Jameson eying Kyle making sure she was safe in her seat before turning to Langston.

“I hear you’re a poet, Kyle showed me some of your open mic on YouTube. It’s phenomenal. I wish I had that kind of talent.”

Despite the begrudging respect Langston gave the man for not mentioning the likeness between Langston’s profession and the great Harlem Renaissance poet with the same name, he couldn’t keep the bite out of his reply.

“Yeah a lot of people do.” A sharp pain branched up his leg hitting his knee with a ding. His eyes shot to Kyle and she glared nastily back. Her slightly wide shoulders stiff as she sat ramrod straight, clearing his throat he continued, “They wish they were more artistic, but it’s a gift and a curse. Sometimes you just want can’t find the words and people expect you to just pull them out of your ass.”

“I understand the struggle, I work at an engineering firm and although it’s just a lot of math, science, and a little bit of architecture. Some days I don’t feel like being innovative. I just want to chill out and do some equations, but they’re always looking for the next big find, y’know.” Sympathy laced Jameson’s words as he took a sip of the house lager. His long, bony fingers catching the sweat of the mug.

“Kyle didn’t mention you were an engineer?” Langston leaned forward with interest as the waiter brought their appetizers.

“Sure am. Since I was a kid I always liked destroying things. My dad would buy me toys and while he was at work my mom would help me pick them apart and find out how each piece worked. I’ve had a knack for it ever since. Engineering was the most profitable degree and since we never had money I thought it was the best way to go, but some days I wish I’d went with a more hands-on approach. I miss getting my hands dirty. The office life just isn’t for me.” Langston gave a slight chuckle, appalled at how open Jameson was.

All his life Langston saw in black and white, and seeing this man who was seemingly unaffected by being the only white man with two black people made him a little proud. A little more hopeful in America.

But playing nice was over once the food came.

So far Jameson had passed all of his questions with flying colors on subjects ranging from the tragedy of Trayvon Martin to the travesty of modern day hip hop. He’d been candid in speaking about his son, his deceased wife, and the life he had before he met the Liberal party. They both shared a love of crappy beer and ageless tales wound into skin, but these weren’t things that deemed a man worthy of Kyle. These were just basic criteria for being a good guy in Langston’s book.

Kyle deserved more than good guys. She’d had good guys. She’d been hurt by good guys.

Kyle needed a man. Someone to recognize when she was overworking herself or forgetting to eat. Someone to dedicate Saturdays to the community center she refused to let go. Someone to bring out the amazing woman buried under years of wandering eyes and insecurity.

Kyle deserved the best man a woman could have.

“So Jameson, how do you feel about the war on terror?” Langston questioned between polite slurps of fettuccini.

“Honestly, I think America hasn’t let go of its imperialistic attitude and constantly attempts to both convert and hinder other cultures and countries. I would support it more if we were really trying to free people from terror, but instead it seems like we’re trying to introduce them to another form of it.” The answer was thought out and processed, genuine, but impeccable in delivery.

Langston waited for Kyle’s reply, he knew that she couldn’t stay away from agreeing if only for a little bit.  

Kyle smiled wholly, “I agree with you.” Her voice poured over the table like honey. She had been content in just basking in the presence of her two favorite people as they got to know each other, but she didn’t want them to forget she was there. Langston could be a pit-bull when he felt threatened,

“Langston and I were just talking about it a few days ago. Some countries just don’t know when to let things go. Not saying that we can’t help third world countries or volunteer or do good deeds—but the smothering tendency to hinder a small country and pressure it into transforming into us is stifling and a bit frustrating to say the least.”

Langston begrudgingly admitted that he liked the way Jameson gave his sister all of his attention, listening to her speak with the utmost respect.

“You’re right sis.” However, when she turned to him with the smile he’d seen since he was a baby. The one especially reserved for him. He breathed a sigh of relief. He would be able to live with sharing his spot in her life, but not giving it up completely, “We were also talking about the light skin- dark skin debate earlier too, have you heard about it?”

He had to know this answer. Had lost friends over this questions. Left girlfriends over the unsaid implications.

“Honestly, I didn’t really think about it until I began pursuing a relationship with Kyle.” The woman in question turned her head attentively to her date, her weave falling expertly around her shoulders. Langston knew she’d never ask him. She’d be too afraid of the answer, “When I first told a few of my coworkers that she was black, they asked me for a picture. So I showed it to them. As a man, I’ve always liked curvier, heavier women, so I’ve grown accustomed to the grunts about weight and the width of my woman’s hips; but one guy was mentioned that he didn’t know I like them so dark.” Kyle’s eyes widened comically, but she kept her lips pursed and her mouth shut.

She must have interrupted Jameson’s stories a lot because he allotted a small pause just in case.

“I never thought to get offended because I do like darker skinned black women. Every black woman I’ve dated has ranged from a nice brown skin tone or darker. Later on the same guy thanked me for not being angry, explaining that he also preferred black woman with a little extra pigment.” Jameson kissed the back of Kyle’s hand, his eyes meeting hers reassuringly, “I thought it was weird because he was a black guy so we sat for a while talking about it and he told me of all about the post slavery ways of dividing African Americans for centuries based on gender and skin tone. How white people would place the fairer skinned black people on higher pedestals since they were closer to the “ideal standard of beauty”. He then pointed out that even though it might sound incredulous to some people, it made sense even in today’s media, literature, and social acceptance of African Americans. How fair skin, light eyes, and narrow noses are considered beautiful in every culture in comparison to darker more pronounced features. So ultimately I’ve come to the conclusion, after being near and around your sister nearly every day, that even though the debate is irrelevant and useless, it’s an understandable bi-product of white cultural imperialism that has shat on the entire world with its standards of beauty and perfection. I’m just fortunate enough to have been wired differently and found a diamond in the midst of cubic zirconium.”

Langston watched as Kyle blinked away stray tears.

“You never told me this.” She fussed, slapping her boyfriend’s arm. He just smiled at her secretly.

“Did you not just hear me say irrelevant and useless?” The words were playful, yet serious in their delivery, “Your skin a part of you, but it has nothing on who you are as a person.” That’s what I love about you. The unsaid words hung in the air as Langston knocked back the rest of his drink, their food forgotten in the majesty of Jameson’s story.

“I still would’ve liked to know.” There was no sting in her words, just awe. Her right hand smoothed the stray strands of his hair away from his forehead before caressing his face gently.

“Well now you do and if ever someone mentions your gorgeous skin again, I’ll be sure to let you know. Even though I would hate for it to add to your super ego.” Gasping, Kyle smacked him across the arm hard with the same hand that just expressed unadulterated tenderness

 “Did you hear that Langston! Tell him my ego is proportioned to my modesty!!” The demand was more than just a simple joke. It was asking for approval. A welcome into the new little world she’d fashioned with this guy.

Regardless of his early misgivings, Langston knew this dude would rather die than hurt his sister. Everything the man said dripped “whipped”; his actions were coated in admiration and desire. Every word Kyle uttered was caught in this guy’s breath as he digested and savored her syllables.

With a lopsided grin of finality, Langston shook his head, “No can do sis. Your ego is the size of Alaska. Therefore, Jameson here has a point.”

And with that, Langston sealed the fate of the most important woman in his life—his beloved sister.