Code-Switching Ch. 01

She got to the door of Sugarcane, turned and took a deep breath. Then she opened it and Vaughn felt all the pressure release.

"Kickoff," he said.

**

She was standing off to one side when the man she'd hoped was Vaughn walked in.

He didn't see her for a moment, so she swallowed hard and took the risk.

"Vaughn?" she said, hoping the quiver in her voice got muffled by the noise level of the busy restaurant.

He turned, a smile crossing his face. Not one of surprise, though: he must have seen her too, despite her best efforts to not look at him on the street.

"Nice to meet you," she managed. "I'm Christina." She flinched momentarily, unsure whether to shake his hand or lean in for a hug.

He solved it, wrapping her in a quick but strong embrace.

"And you as well." His voice was a rich baritone, maybe even a bass. Either way, it carried a confidence and safety that she had not expected off the bat. "Shall we?"

She nodded, unexpectedly sliding her hand into his as they walked to the podium.

"Table for two," he said. "Please."

The hostess, a woman with medium-brown skin and box braids piled into a massive bun, led them to a table in the tightly-packed room. It had the window on one side and a narrow aisle on the other, with scarcely enough room to slide into their seats without impacting their fellow diners.

"So," she said, sitting and unfolding a napkin into her lap. "A first date in a fishtank."

"They only put the good-looking fish in the window," Vaughn said. "Anyway, I think we were talking sangria and then you went and picked a Caribbean joint, so...we switching that?"

"You know what? Sure. Go big or go home. Mojitos?" She smiled, and to her surprise a laugh escaped. Well, more of a giggle.

They ordered the drinks. She stole a glance at the man. If anything, he was better-looking in person. Broad shoulders, broad smile, hair close-cropped on top and faded to nothing on the sides. Medium-dark skin that looked soft and strong. A salmon-colored shirt open at the neck, dark trousers cut perfectly around legs she hadn't failed to notice.

"So Stephanie thought we'd like each other," she said. "Let's figure out why?"

"Besides being Tennesseeans lost in New York? Don't they make sitcoms about people like us?" He broke into a broad grin, letting the I-don't-watch-sitcoms subject sit drily in the warm air.

"Bad ones, maybe." She looked at her purse, complete with work laptop, on the ground. "But no, I think it was more than that. Don't you?"

The drinks arrived.

"To what?" She left the glass hovering in midair.

"To us, Christina. To us, or, as Stephanie said to me in a terrible fake Southern drawl, 'Y'all would make such a hot and perfect couple, dontcha think?'"

"Well, well," she drawled, clinking the glass. "How am I supposed to respond to that?"

"By drinking."

"Can't argue that."

The drink was good, a blend of flavors and a worrisome lack of obvious alcohol. Which meant either a light mix or a heavy one she couldn't taste.

"And to be straight up with you, she's definitely right as to half that comment."

Something lurched within Christina. It caused her to cross her legs before she could think anything else.

"I can't imagine why you would say that," she said. Then she laughed again. It felt good to be unguarded for once. "You're a very attractive man, yes."

"And you're not too hard on the eyes yourself, ma'am. But 'perfect' is a pretty high bar. So let's see if we can hit it, hmm?"

Again the tone of his voice displayed a confidence that he had no deal-killer skeletons in his closet. If only she could say the same.

She swallowed for a moment and realized the hard truth: their first drinks weren't even done and she was already thinking about more than a first date.

"Alright," she said. Her hand rose up, smoothing her hair even though it was up securely in a claw. "So, corny offbeat stuff to stsrt? What's the weirdest normal thing you dislike?"

He tossed back the drink. "I like your style. I don't like sweet tea." He held up a hand. "Sacrilege, I know, but my old man has diabetes and that stuff just tastes like an insulin pump coming down the interstate right at me."

"Did I mention I'm from Tennessee? Like, almost to Alabama? Vaughn!"

"I know, I know. I can ask for the check now if you'd like."

"You can stay. I'm also a Brooklynite who hates hummus, baba ghanoush, quinoa, and those fifteen-dollar custom salads from Sweetgreen. I'm surprised they haven't kicked me out yet."

"Please tell me you like bagels."

"I'm not that bad a Brooklynite. Yikes."

"So what do you like to eat, if you're not willing to be a rabbit?"

She pointed to the menu. "Spicy stuff. I'm not shy about portions either."

A mischievous glint flashed in his eyes.

"Oh, go on, say what's on your mind," she said. She felt her foot extend to nudge him under the table.

He shook his head. "I suppose that includes meat portions."

A blush rose all the way from the high neckline of the dress to cover her entire face. She tried to cover it by toying with the loose strands of her bun. "I suppose it might, yes."

She shifted in her chair again. Normally, a line like that would have fallen flat. She'd have assumed it was an empty boast or it'd just have been creepy. Here it sounded like a promise, and a sexy one.

"I mean, I am from Tennessee, which isn't exactly the land of small portion sizes."

"Bojangles or Zaxby's?" He shot the question at her.

"Bojangles. No contest. The biscuits are to die for."

"Good girl."

She shivered at the phrase. And it wasn't cold. Ran a hand through a stray hair, combing it away from her eyes.

"Favorite sport?"

For the first time, he hesitated. "Now we're into the real stuff. Unless you want to talk about minor stuff like families, jobs, hobbies. You know."

A lump formed in Christina's throat. At least two of those were topics she really, really wanted to avoid.

"Mine's baseball," Vaughn said. "Hell, I don't know what Steph told you about me. But as you're not looking too surprised, I owe an explanation."

"Shoot," Christina said.

The waitress stopped back before he could answer. They ordered - jerk salmon for him, curried shrimp for her. He tossed in a jerk wings appetizer at the last minute.

"You don't have to share if that's too much," he said.

And you didn't need to order an app to make the date longer, her mind responded. But you did and I will.

"Baseball," she said.

"Yeah. I played college football. Full scholarship, four years. Was pretty highly recruited. Started off at the University of Texas, which was like the biggest damn program going back then."

She nodded along. It explained the physique, even with the intervening years.

"What position?"

"That was part of the problem." Something flashed across his face that made her want to stroke his arm. But he set his chin and continued. "I was recruited as a quarterback, but then UT wanted me to switch to wide receiver. I hated it. Hated it. And I found I didn't like the school, either. It was just football, football, and football. None of my friends saw me as anything other than a football dude."

Now she definitely wanted to stroke his arm. For a first date, this was good vulnerability. Great vulnerability.

"Back then - you know, uphill ten miles to school both ways in hundred degree heat kind of old school..."

Christina laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink.

**

The woman flashing a wall of white teeth and a set of beautiful dimples was checking the boxes just about perfectly. Cute face; yeah. Nice thick hair; got it. Quick wit, big laugh? Check, check. The way she'd gone from professional polish to relaxed in short order told Vaughn a lot: it wasn't something that New York women did very well. And the way she touched her hair and blushed whenever he dropped a little innuendo told Vaughn that he wasn't the only one feeling the vibe and starting to let his animal brain engage on the realities of men and women.

This chick, in short - and she was that as well, maybe 5'4" in her Tory Burch flats - was the deal.

"Aite," he said. "You got me. I'm old, but I ain't that old. At least we had school buses, not horses."

"Wait, wait," she said. "That must be some fancy Nashville shit. Mass transportation? Tell me, my elder, what that is. Like, you just sit and ride and it takes you to great places?"

Her hand ran right to her hair again, fixing that messy updo that didn't need fixing.

"Depends. Gotta chose your ride wisely, Christina."

"Noted," she said.

The wings arrived. She didn't wait, reaching for one from the common plate. Another box checked.

"Finishing the story, that was back when you had to sit out a year when you transferred. So I went back up to Vandy and played two years where football was never my first priority. Switched positions again, made some big hits. Had fun, stayed on my scholarship. Got an MBA over the final two years. Worked out pretty well."

She leaned back. "But it became a business."

"It became a business, exactly. And baseball was never like that. I was good enough that I would've gotten drafted if they didn't know I was gonna play football. So if they treat you like you're a commodity, you treat them like that right back." He took a deep breath. "I haven't watched a football game since I graduated, and that's been a minute. Baseball is the sport I wish I'd played."

She had put down her food and was looking him with big blue eyes filled with more than a tinge of sadness.

"The life unlived, right?"

"Heavy again. You telling me you haven't managed to get through life without regrets"

Her eyes drifted over his shoulder before returning.

"It's not really a first-date conversation." Pause. "I mean, I guess it is in a way, because sometime soon you'll be asking me about my family and I'll have to tell you then."

"I promise not to judge," he said.

"We'll see."

He took a sip of his strong mixed drink and nodded. "Only one way to find out."

"First, to knock one out, my favorite sport was football. It was all because of my big brother. But that's the lead-in for the rest of the story, too."

She stopped. Finished her drink and looked for the waitress.

"He was a running back. Really good in high school, and just an amazing person."

Vaughn noted the past tense. Managed to catch the waitress' eye and nodded for another round.

"Then he went away to college on the West Coast. Clearly something changed pretty severely. Well, it was normal at first. But then when I went to college too - he was a junior then - he became way more distant with my family. Even me, which was super unexpected. Lost a ton of weight, very secretive about his social life, stuff like that."

Her eyes flicked away.

"This doesn't sound like it's going somewhere nice," he said.

"Oh, it's not. But probably not what you think."

"What do I think?"

"Don't play dumb, honey. You're thinking suicide or something even more first date inappropriate than the truth."

"Which is?"

"Brock died in a boating accident on Spring Break senior year."

"I'm sorry." He reached out for her hand, and she let him have it. Squeezed it.

"But that wasn't all of it. Brock died jetskiing. While wearing a bikini, toes painted, hair up in a bun. A friend from out there came to the funeral. Only one. I could tell she was trying to hard when we were talking not to call my sibling Brittany, but she only slipped once."

The fresh drinks arrived.

"I found out my own sibling was trans only upon death. How bad of a sister am I that that's how I fucking found out?"

He squeezed her hand again.

"People tell you their truths on their own time," he said. "I'm not a big philosopher type, and this isn't to negate the trauma of her death or anything, but my baby sister is gay. She's my favorite person in the world and we're ten years apart. So you can probably figure out how we relate a bit. Anyway, she served in Afghanistan and saw some shit you wouldn't believe. Still said that coming out to my family was the most scared she'd ever been."

The polished professional sheen Christina had arrived with had now been scrubbed completely off, and he knew that she knew it too.              

"So, what are we drinking this second round to?"

**

She'd managed to get through that story without crying, and her date hadn't stood up, left cash on the table, and told her it was nice meeting her. So that was a double victory.

"To living life to its fullest," she managed. "Starting with dinner with a jerk." She gestured to the plate of salmon landing in front of him. "Salmon, that is."

He raised his fork. "Watch yourself, girl." But there was mirth behind the deep-voiced warning.

"So you never finished," he said. "Your favorite sport."

She had a mouthful of curry. Damn good curry, and it was a pity to swallow it faster than she wanted.

"In high school I played softball and was on the dance team. Pretty sure I'm the only chick in the history of the South to do that, but it leaves only one spectator sport. So yes - and I make no promises yet - I could see a baseball game or two in our future." She paused, watching for a reaction. Beyond a slight lean forward, there wasn't one. "As long as you're not a Mets fan."

"I'm pretty sure being a Mets fan is like one of those unfortunate hereditary conditions. Best not talked about except by those directly afflicted. But no."

"Good, because my one New York affectation that I'm afraid I'll never be able to shake involves pinstripes and riding the 4."

He sighed. "Bullet dodged. And fair's fair. If you Google my name, you won't find shit about my football career. Back then I went by Trevon, T-r-e-v-o-n. It's still my legal name, but I'm not sure a dude named Trevon who went from four-star football recruit to not even a sniff of the NFL strikes the right tone in the finance world."

"My New York friends and my colleagues call me Chris," she heard herself saying. "Back home I'm Christina or even Chrissie to some of my high school friends. Believe me, you don't need to explain code-switching to a Southern woman who works at an NYC law firm. So, do I call you Vaughn or Trevon?"

"Either. They're both me. Or Mister Ashford, if we're pretending not to be familiar. And you?"

She reached for a lock of hair before remembering she had it up and landed on one of the tiny silver stud earrings.

"They're all me, like you said. But for gentlemen I'm fond of, I'm not averse to Tina, actually."

"And for gentlemen you're not fond of?"

"Christina N. Waverley, Esquire, and put some respect on that." She winked. "How'd I do on the code switching?"

"Like a natural, Tina."

**

Christina N. Waverley, Esquire had almost made Vaughn forget about his food. And Jamaican food wasn't something he ignored without a damn good reason.

"Like a pair of jeans that fits just right," he sang softly. "And the radio onnnnnnn..."

"And you talk about code-switching," she said. "Wasn't expecting Zac Brown in here tonight."

Vaughn swung his eyes around the joint. It was a typical Brooklyn crowd, from the rail-thin woman with an armful of beautiful ink and a ski cap in summer to the midnight-eyed dude staring out the window while eating alone.

"Doubt there's a lot of Zac Brown in here ever," he said.

He watched put down her spoon, savoring some curry.

"Ketchup," she said. "I should have mentioned that as my weird peeve earlier. I fucking hate ketchup."

"And there I was thinking you were 'bout to say that had ketchup in it. Because it sure as hell don't."

"Oh, heavens no," she said. "It's fantastic. Try it."

She held out the spoon, her arm steady across the tiny table.

"Damn," he said. "No lie." He cut a piece off the salmon in front of him and slid it to the edge of his plate. Waited a moment. Picked it up with his fork.

She didn't wait, and closed her eyes as her mouth closed over the bite of food.

"Whoa," she said, opening them. "Yeah. Yeah."

They finished their meals, finally focused on the food. Vaughn let the flow take him. He wondered about the woman across from him and the mind she had. Enough firepower to process a conversation actively while dredging up earlier topics and stitching them in with ease. In the city of the self-centered one-track brain, this was something different.

"Mister Ashford?"

"Yes, counselor?"

"I see we've run out of food. So in case there's a fire alarm or something and we all end up running down the street, I want you to know that I would be very honored if you'd be willing to see me again."

"The pleasure is mine. Pretty sure the Yanks are at home this weekend."

She smiled. "Thank you."

Vaughn motioned for the check, which arrived with New York speed. His Amex was gone just as fast, returned with a bill he was determined his date wouldn't touch.

And before he knew it, he was holding her hand and whisking her into the still-warm summer evening.

"So," he said.

"So. Well, we've already agreed on a second date, so I only have a couple questions."

"Yeah?"

They stood facing one another on the sidewalk, traffic flowing past on foot and on wheels.

"What'd you have thought if I wore cowboy boots tonight?"

He raised one hand and stroked the back of her neck. She didn't flinch.

"Cowboy boots for date with a Nashville guy? Think that might be right up my alley, Tina."

"Good. I'll wear them next time."

They stood for a second, the silence stretching a moment too long.

"Yes?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she said. "Are we going to my place or yours?"

"Mine, of course. Just the gentlemanly thing do to."

"Good man. Now I think this is where we do that movie scene where we make out on the sidewalk in the rain and the crowd flows around us?"

"Hm." He held out a hand demonstratively. "No rain."

Her hand closed around his shirt front, pulling him down and closer.

"Don't make me think twice, sweetie," she said. Twahce, he heard, that East Tennessee drawl dripping with the sultry promise that had just smashed through the surface.

He slid his other arm behind her and didn't give Christina N. Waverley, Esq. the chance at those second thoughts.

**

Christina felt a gentle nibble on her bottom lip before he kissed her for real. But that little warm-up sent her anticipation onto a new plane.

She found desire burn through her core as her lips met his beautiful, pillow-soft pair. It was a new sensation, such softness on a powerful, masculine man.

Their tongues met. She was dimly aware of the street noise around her, but Christina's world was limited to Vaughn. His tongue tracing hers, exploring her lips, sending absurd and urgent desires through nerve endings she didn't know she possessed.

The thoughts started flowing, her mind running devil-and-angel on opposite shoulders: You're thirty-two and making out in public on a first date; yes, but I'm making out with a tall, sexy black guy, just like I've been fucking dreaming about; but you met him on a blind date that your friend pretty much tricked me into going on; Not tricked, and I am absolutely, completely desperate to have this man fuck me as soon as humanly possible.

That ended the internal debate. Vaughn's hands were on her back now, down to her waist. He was making no pretense of anything other than getting the exact contours of her body written into his mind.

She paused the kiss, took his lower lip between her teeth, and pulled. Large hands dug into her back in immediate reaction.

And then she did it. She literally jumped, leaving her feet with no plan.

He caught her. His strong arms barely flinched under the strain. She felt the flex of his pectoral muscles under his shirt. Her dress was riding up.