Code-Switching Ch. 01

Welcome to Chapter 1 of what will be a seven-part series. This chapter is, as future ones will be, told from two points of view. If you're looking just for the raunchy stuff, it starts about two-thirds of the way through. If the thought of a romance between a Black man and a white woman somehow creates negative feelings in you, this probably isn't the story for you. If none of the above scared you off, then please read on and enjoy!

--

It was meant to be a quiet afternoon drink, a catch-up between friends. Christina hadn't been sure whether to expect more talking or more listening, but Stephanie had made the choice for her.

"And so, honey, what exactly do you want?" It had been a half-hour of deconstructing Christina's romantic life - or lack thereof. Yes, she was interested in getting back out there. No, the divorce wasn't the issue. Yes, Brooklyn was a horrible place and her early thirties a horrible time to date. No, that wasn't going to stop her, at least in theory.

"I'd like another drink," she said. Red wine in the Brooklyn summer was a terrible idea, but sobriety in the face of a friend who was drinking like a fish and winning the dating game too was an even worse one.

"Sangria," said Stephanie, flicking her chestnut hair over an exposed shoulder. "You fetch, I pay?" She slid a Visa across the light wood table.

Christina was too exhausted to argue. She returned with a small fruit harvest floating in what was probably the cheapest red wine available. It didn't matter.

"Now," said Stephanie, batting her dark eyes while pouring the drinks, "Don't dodge the question. Men. What do you want?"

Christina swallowed. She wanted a relationship, of course, the deep, loving, passionate thing she'd never quite had with Brad.

"You don't want Brad back, do you?" Something had changed with Stephanie since they'd last gotten drinks. She was more direct than she'd ever been. Confident. More put-together, more focused, and she wasn't constantly checking her work email.

"Hell no. I've got a lot of desires, but that is certainly not one."

"How much did he pay you?"

"Stephanie!"

"How much?" The glass of sangria perched between long silver nails.

Christina dug in her Kate Spade bag. Her fingers closed around the phone. Even if Stephanie was able to ignore her job on a Saturday afternoon, the same didn't apply to Christina Waverley, Esq., answerer of emails and drafter of corporate merger agreements.

"Put it away," said the voice across the table. "Isn't that malpractice or something, anyway?"

"Checking my email is malpractice?"

"No, but isn't practicing law while drunk an issue?"

"I'm not practicing law," Christina responded, already releasing the device from her grip. "I'm checking my email. And I'm not drunk."

"Yet." Stephanie's smile became broad. "But it's still rude."

Christina sat up straighter. The sun was high overhead and the three-quarter sleeves she'd chosen had since become half a sleeve too much.

"How much did you get in the divorce, darling?"

Christina sighed. "About eight-fifty."

Her friend whistled, then ran her fingers through her hair. "Sorry for offering to buy the drinks."

"In New York, I'm not exactly the rich girl on the block."

"No, but I'd say six figures per year for an eight-year marriage is a decent payout, isn't it?"

Christina gulped the sangria. A piece of orange caught in her throat and she coughed.

"It wasn't like that."

"Oh, I know. You were only unhappy for the last five or so. So maybe well into six figures for five years of misery?"

Christina didn't want to talk about her ex. He was a year in the past now, and at thirty-three she had a great job - no, a career - and plenty of her own money.

Of course, Stephanie Wittgren had those things too and was still babbling about dollar signs.

"It's not the money."

"So what's next? Happiness?" There was some sarcasm behind the dark eyes, and Christina found herself resenting it.

"What, are you now the queen of mental health?"

"No. I'm someone who wants to see you happy. Now drink some more of that. It's hot out here and you're far too uptight for a summer Saturday."

Christina tossed back the sangria and poured another glass.

"You have something up your sleeve."

Stephanie shifted in her chair, then looked her in the eyes. "I think you'd like one of my boyfriend's friends, and I want to set you up."

Christina spluttered, losing some of the sangria, then tugged on her sleeves. "What, a blind date? Is this 1997?"

"Because you're finding Tinder so amazing?"

A tall man with lush hair and skinny jeans walked past on the pavement. A distraction, but not enough of one for her to avoid the conversation.

"I haven't even met your boyfriend, and you're setting me up with one of his friends?"

Stephanie returned a hard stare. "I'll take that as a no."

"Wait," said Christina. "Why do you think I'd like him?"

Stephanie pulled out a pair of massive sunglasses and slid them on her narrow nose. "He's tall - yes, taller than your ex - and really sexy. He's a finance guy but not an asshole. He's hilarious, confident, and respectful. Look, sweetie, women love him but Dex said he has had enough bad experiences that he's tired of putting himself out there. Think of him as being like that bottle of liquor on the top shelf that you can't get unless you know the bartender."

Christina looked away from her friend. There had to be a catch. This man sounded like the best prospect she'd had in six months, at least.

"You're sure he's not an ogre?"

"I'm certain," Stephanie said with more relish than seemed appropriate. She swigged from the drink and tapped her long nails on the table. "So, when are you free? Don't check your phone."

"Besides work, I'm free any day that involves the sun going up and going down."

Stephanie tugged her low-cut top, adjusting a strap. "And inclusive of work?"

"Inclusive of work, Wednesday would be good."

Stephanie tapped out something on her phone, then grinned.

"What?" A queasy feeling hit Christina's stomach.

"Oh, nothing. You've got a date Wednesday."

Christina leaned forward. "So you'd arranged everything already and just needed a yes from me?"

She received a curt nod in reply. "That and the date and time. Do you want it to be totally blind or do you want like his name, number, picture, et cetera?"

"How would I find this ogre without at least a picture?"

Stephanie tapped her phone and turned it around. "See, not an ogre at all?"

Christina gasped.

The photo showed Stephanie beaming between two well-dressed men, one arm disappearing behind each set of broad shoulders. Her head was nestled on the set on her right.

"That's Dex on my right. The guy on the left is Vaughn."

"Steph." She let her eyes travel from the man's well-muscled chest to the lilac shirt open at the neck and confident, easy smile.

"Yes?" The same beaming grin from the photo faced Christina now.

"You skipped the part in the whole process where you mentioned that Dexter and the guy you just set me up with are both...um..."

"Black, Chris. It's not a bad word. They're both black. Is that a problem?"

Christina shifted in her chair. Swallowed. Looked away. Swallowed again and fixed her eyes on her friend.

"No," she finally managed. "It's the absolute opposite. I've been fantasizing about black men for like a year now. I...". She shifted again in her chair, eliciting a wink from her friend. "Well, let's just say I'm a bit more excited than I was a minute ago."

Stephanie raised her glass. "To new beginnings, Christina Waverley."

Christina clinked the stemware.

"Vaughn, you say?"

"Vaughn," Stephanie responded.

"Can I have his number, please?"

"I'd be delighted, honey."

**

Vaughn Ashford folded his ironing board and turned off the music mix. The clock on the wall read nine o'clock. He knew he should go to the gym, but a shower and reading for an hour or two before an early night were more than enough for a man two months shy of his fortieth birthday.

After all, "Ain't No Sunshine" was stuck in his head and the shower was a better place to sing Bill Withers than the squat rack.

So he poured himself two fingers of cognac and settled down with an S.A. Cosby novel. Put it down ten minutes later and sipped the drink while staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at Brooklyn five stories below.

People milled back and forth, seemingly going nowhere and everywhere. He turned off the lights and headed for the shower, stopping to check his phone on the kitchen counter.

There was a text from an unknown number.

423-555-7347: Hi Vaughn, sorry for the weird out of the blue text, and I really hope this is the right number. My name's Christina. My friend Stephanie Wittgren said I should text you.

He read the message again, noting the area code. Rubbed his heavy brow with two fingers. He hadn't believed Stephanie when she said she'd get the fine woman in her profile picture to text him. Hadn't appreciated it when Dex had laughed it off, making the motion of a drink being tipped back from over his new girl's shoulder.

But Dexter's new girl had come through, and for that Vaughn was glad.

615-555-4228: You don't have the wrong number. Stephanie's a friend of mine as well.

A moment later a response arrived.

423-555-7347: Phew.

423-555-7347: Awkward as it is, we're apparently supposed to go on a blind date?

615-555-4228: I've heard the same news. Wednesday at 8 or so?

He clicked through, saving her number.

Christina: All good with me. I live in Brooklyn, but I'm happy to stay in Manhattan if that's easier.

615-555-4228: I'm right by the Barclays Center. So pick a subway line and I'll get there.

Christina: Oh, she didn't tell me you were a fellow Brooklynite! Somewhere on 5^th or 6^th?

Vaughn sent a thumbs-up emoji. Then he decided to ask the question she probably had as well.

Vaughn: I'm guessing from your number that you also have a Tennessee connection?

Christina: Wow, yes! Nobody knows this area code. I grew up in Signal Mountain, outside Chattanooga.

Vaughn: Can't say I know it by more than name. I'm from Nashville.

Christina: Nashville I know by more than name.  How long have you lived up here?

Vaughn let his fingers hover over the on-screen keyboard. How honest to be with someone he'd never met was always a tough question, especially with someone so easy on the eyes - if a single picture was accurate.

Vaughn: Sometimes, it feels like too long. Sometimes I like the anonymity. What about you?

Christina: I've been here long enough to lose half my accent but not my manners.

Vaughn: Well I hope you keep the rest of that accent. It's nice to meet someone who sounds like home.

Christina: It'll be good to meet someone who doesn't think I'm stupid because of a twang.

Vaughn: Dumb would be about the last thing I'd expect from what Stephanie has told me about you.

Christina: Proof's in the pudding, right? This is NYC, after all - nothing's true unless you can back it up?

Vaughn: You text in full sentences. That's a start.

Christina: You text in full sentences and you're from Tennessee. That's two starts.

Vaughn: I think most people would ring those up as strikes one and two. One more and I'm out.

Christina: I'm not most people.

Vaughn: Stephanie says you work too much. That's two of us. So let's do this. Whoever gets off work first on Weds texts the other and then we let it flow?

Christina: Spontaneous and flexible. Starts three and four. See, no such thing as four strikes?

Vaughn: Then maybe we can go for a walk.

Vaughn rolled his eyes. He hadn't met the woman. It wasn't time for a sports pun yet. The wait as the three-dot typing indicator flicked on, then off, then on again, was excruciating.

Christina: Took me a minute. No, I'm not ready to send you to first base just yet ;)

Too bad, he thought. He checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the permanent knit of wrinkle on his brow. Gravitas, his sister had said. It gives you gravitas. Old, he'd responded. Makes me look like the casket lid's coming down.

He didn't want that lid to come down without taking a good shot at Christina Waverley.

Vaughn: Better to go down swinging than just take the free pass.

Christina: Not in a baseball sense, but I feel ya. Anyway, it's time for a shower and bed for me - Stephanie might have put me up to this with more sangria than I really needed.

Vaughn: Then it's sangria on Wednesday?

Christina: Sangria on Wednesday. I can't wait. 

Vaughn: Night. Same sentiment.

He turned on the shower and tried not to think of Christina.

**

Christina looked at the screen and groaned. She'd politely declined a Zoom invite for a Wednesday night meeting with an important client in Asia.

That was the first time. This time the invite was marked urgent and mandatory and it specified that the firm's full team needed to be in the office, despite the unreasonable nine p.m. timing.

It was six o'clock on Monday, and she'd masturbated to the thought of her Wednesday night date three times already. She was not - not - cancelling it.

There was only one thing to do.

Christina: Hey. I'm so sorry. My client is asking for an urgent meeting Wednesday night. Any chance we can reschedule?

She winced as she sent it.

Christina: I promise I'm not trying to back out on you - far from it. If you're free tonight or tomorrow, I'm happy to move our date up because I sure as heck don't want to move it back.

Nothing happened for several minutes. She raised a middle finger at her email and put her feet on her desk, not caring who might walk past in the hallway. They'd see an angry lawyer on the north side of thirty in a sky-blue cotton dress and black leggings who didn't quite give a shit about the alleged dress code and didn't feel like billing a single additional second this evening. What they saw would be accurate.

She began to text Stephanie but hadn't gotten to the end of a morose apology before her phone vibrated.

Vaughn: Tonight would work. As someone else's client, I know things happen.

Vaughn: Same plan?

Christina: If that still works. Thank you SO much. I'll be out of here pretty soon...so...um, we'll be meeting for real in a couple hours?

Vaughn: We will. I'll text you when I'm leaving, if I don't hear from you first.

Christina: Same.

She frowned. There was time to either get the rest of her work done or go home and get ready.

"Fuck you," she said, raising both middle digits to the screen before disconnecting her laptop and slamming it into her bag.

**

It was only when she had showered that she understood the problem: she had to look good, but she had to look coming-from-the-office good. If she'd been working from home, she would have said so in her text to Vaughn. But she hadn't, and so he'd be expecting a corporate lawyer, not her date night A-game.

And she had to bring her laptop.

"Great start, idiot," she said to herself.

So her makeup stayed subtle; a touch of mascara was deliberately the only thing that would stand out.

She tossed the same dress back on, slipping it over a pair of blue lace boyshorts and a matching bra. Not, she reminded herself, that those would matter worth a darn tonight.

She picked up her phone.

Christina: Ready to roll. Meet at 8ish? Wanna try Sugarcane? Prospect Heights?

Vaughn: I know Sugarcane. I'll see you there.

Christina looked in the mirror and saw the redness on her cheeks. Heat had spread from there to other places, too. Places she'd only dreamed about in the past, that now were reaching the realm of possibility.

She picked up her phone and texted Stephanie.

Christina: Change of plans. Vaughn and I are meeting tonight. Wish me luck!

Stephanie: I wish that you get mighty lucky, sweetie.

Stephanie: JK, just be yourself, he's great. Also not totally JK. You need it.

Christina: Need what?

Stephanie: You know exactly to what I refer. Don't play innocent with me.

Stephanie: Or him. Now I need to go. I'm meeting a sexy black man as well. Good night.

**

Vaughn had just crossed Bergen, taking his time heading down Flatbush while too aware that he was ten minutes early. He checked his phone, hoping for a message that would spare him the fate of waiting around and looking like the desperate bachelor he wasn't.

There wasn't one. He checked his reflection in a window and raised an eyebrow. His half-hour stop at home had yielded a new shirt, a fresh shave and shower, and a nerve-calming Hennessey.

Nerves were never a problem once the action started, but they'd been a constant feature of his life since high school sports. Long as he remembered, he'd been throwing up in the locker room a half-hour before kickoff. Like clockwork. And like clockwork, the nerves would disappear as soon as the crowd roared with the opening kick.

But damn if they didn't give him a run when he was facing something exciting. Big deal set to sign at work: Henny. Personal stress? Henny. He'd gone through half a fifth the night before closing on his condo. Of course that had been two million in cash, one hell of a certified check sitting underneath a coaster in his old spot. But first dates? Definitely Hennessy V.S. neat in a tumbler. Followed by five minutes with the toothbrush and some mouthwash to get things fresh, but Henny all the same.

Point was, Vaughn wasn't in the mood to sit at a bar with his back to the door and wait for some woman to tap him on the shoulder. He'd either be three drinks more down the hole or jump out of his skin.

So he slowed, tucked his phone away, and waited for kickoff while watching the crowd. He had about fifteen yards to the restaurant.

Crossing Flatbush ahead of him was the usual miasma of hipsters and phone-to-nose office drones, most with the same Warby Parker frames, stiff gaits, and pants that were just a little too tight for Vaughn not to wince. A smattering of people swam against the tide, all of them more his type. Normal-looking New Yorkers, all walking hella fast or just a little too slow, not giving a shit about the wall of humanity bearing down on them.

He turned and then immediately snapped his head back. Somewhere in the second crowd was a woman who had parted from the stream. She was the walking-slow variety, and Vaughn didn't mind one bit. Pale skin, hair the color of beach sand after a rain, a step with a little swing in her hips. Roundish face on an elegant neck, turned to glare at one of the hipsters who'd nearly run her over.

Ex-athlete, he decided. Field hockey, maybe. Back in college, which would have been a decade gone. But fifteen or so more pounds onto a petite frame than would have been there in competitive days, with hips and thick thighs that filled the hell out of the bottom half of her sky-blue dress. Dimepiece, in other words.