《No Idea: Love in a B&B》


 New In Town

    People call me Becky, probably because that¡¯s my name. I¡¯m the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. A few hundred years ago that might¡¯ve meant something special, that there was a great destiny in store for me. Instead, life is incredibly dull, deliberately so I believe at this point, here in our rural town. Almost to emphasize just boring it is around here my sisters and I got genuinely excited about a big SUV that came to town a couple of weeks ago.


    The people inside were a nice family, going on a road trip across the country, making a stop in each state. Why they chose to stay in our particular town, I can¡¯t fathom, but it sure woke the place up. Stores were acting like their wares were brand new when I¡¯ve seen them collect dust and people dressed in their ¡°fancy¡± clothes. The family was two women, wives who encouraged their five children to explore our humdrum community, no doubt unimpressed by everything they encountered. They had big city accents, slick and quick. But they seemed nice enough, they didn¡¯t act like all high and mighty like I thought people from big cities did.


    And boy, does it take outsiders for you to realize how ugly everybody in your neighborhood is. My family runs a B&B (that¡¯s being generous) and the way these women looked first thing in the morning is reason enough to see why they belonged together. I¡¯ve seen men wear suits before, but one of them knew how to really wear them. Her name was Angelica, and she was indeed angelic. Her wife Marjorie, wore dresses that were explosions of colors that I didn¡¯t know could complement dark skin like ours so well.


    My sisters, aunts, and cousins overloaded with them questions, and they (bless them) didn¡¯t get annoyed when they had every right to. I had stuff I wanted to ask them too, but not wanting to bother them I settled for listening to what answers they gave.


    But, that¡¯s enough about them. I only mention them because they¡¯re the most interesting people I¡¯ve met in years and that¡¯s how dull it is around here. You¡¯d think running a B&B (allegedly) would be a surefire way to meet people with at least a bit of flavor in their lives. But in the staleness of my reality, the only ones who come here are people I¡¯ve already met in town. Folks looking to get away from the house (or their spouses), newlyweds in a honeymoon phase, or people who are simply lazy and want to be taken care of for a while.


    So here I am today; in town, getting things for the B&B (supposedly) on the astronomically slim chance that someone comes to visit. Toilet paper, laundry detergent, and other such sundries. Just the sorta stuff that keeps a house running. I¡¯m waiting for my sister to come around with the car to drive me back home when I hear someone say what sounds like, ¡°Hey, babe.¡±


    I turn to see a girl I¡¯ve never seen before. And with our town¡¯s population barely reaching a triple-digit it can only mean she¡¯s not from here. What I first think is a cigarette is actually a lollipop stick between her full lips. She looks to be around my age, though her short curly hair that¡¯s dyed an ocean blue throws off my gauge a bit. I can¡¯t decide if dying your hair such a color is more adult or childish.


    ¡°Are you talking to me?¡± She mutters something again. I blink at her. The girl realizes what¡¯s going on and pulls out her lollipop with a satisfying POP!


    ¡°Sorry about that. Yes, I was talking to you, babe,¡± she says in an almost rapid fashion. An accent from some other big city. Sitting on a chopper motorcycle, her long legs are crossed while she faces me. She has on a black t-shirt with the words ¡°NO IDEA¡± written in red, and jean shorts with a fray that reach the middle of her thighs. Her skin is smooth and chestnut brown.


    ¡°Did you need something?¡± She starts spinning her lollipop between her thumb and index finger.


    ¡°You know anywhere I could stay? Preferably cheap, like a motel or something?¡± She has bags under her dark brown eyes like she hasn¡¯t slept in a while. ¡°I¡¯d look it up but I¡¯m not getting service here...or I forgot to pay my bill,¡± she adds quickly.


    ¡°My family runs a B&B.¡± She raises her eyebrows in surprise.


    ¡°No kidding?¡±


    ¡°Nope, we¡¯ve been doing it for a while now. The only other place is that nasty motel a little out of town. It¡¯s great if you like bed bugs.¡± I¡¯m not even being mean to our competitors, just stating facts. The girl chuckles a bit.


    ¡°Is it cheap?¡±


    ¡°Everything is cheap around here.¡±


    ¡°Good thing I ran into you then, huh? Must be my lucky day.¡± She stands up, a little taller than me. Her eyes quickly scan over me. ¡°Do you need a ride back?¡± She offers.


    ¡°I¡¯d appreciate it, gimme a second.¡± I text my sister that I got a ride. She just sends a thumbs up. Before I can ask, the girl takes the bags from my hands, putting it in one of the leather traveling cases attached to her motorcycle. She hands me a helmet.


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t want you to hurt your pretty head now, would we?¡± I just did my hair so I¡¯m not ruining it. I gently push the helmet back.


    ¡°Just don¡¯t drive too crazy.¡±


    ¡°You got it, babe.¡± She crushes what¡¯s left of the lollipop with her teeth and tosses the stick into a nearby garbage can. In a quick, practiced manner she clips the helmet on and swings around to her handlebars. I sit behind her, tentatively wrapping my arms around someone I just met. She has a thin waist and I can feel some sweat seeping through her shirt.


    ¡°My name¡¯s not ¡®babe¡¯.¡± That¡¯s the third time she¡¯s called me that.


    ¡°What is it?¡± She asks while fishing for her keys.


    ¡°Becky. Becky Dover.¡± She turns on the ignition and the bike roars to life underneath us. The constant vibration rattles my bones.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    ¡°That¡¯s a pretty name, babe,¡± she says, flashing a wide smile at me. I roll my eyes.


    ¡°What¡¯s yours?¡± The girl starts off down the road.


    ¡°Rayla Moore, a pleasure I¡¯m sure,¡± there¡¯s a weird pride in her voice.


    ¡°I¡¯m supposed to know you or something?¡± Rayla chuckles.


    ¡°Guess not.¡± I give her directions to my house and the wind rushing over us feels good in this oppressive summer heat.


    We pull up to the long dirt road that leads to my house.


    ¡°Welcome to the Dover household.¡± It comes out more blas¨¦ than I wanted it too, but Rayla doesn¡¯t seem to pick up on it.


    ¡°Whoa.¡± She sounds genuinely impressed. I know that objectively speaking, my house is big; it has to be with all my family in it. But I guess growing up with all those people made me feel it was just an ordinary size. Rayla takes in the three-story building. It¡¯s always reminded me of a red velvet cake, round with each floor an equal size, and the walls are painted scarlet red. The second and third floor have a white walk around balcony just in case you couldn¡¯t admire the unremarkable view from the second floor or at a certain angle.


    ¡°That¡¯s quite a house, you guys get a lot of guests?¡± I laugh before I realize it¡¯s not a joke.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± I quickly apologize. ¡°No, not really. There¡¯s just a lot of Dovers that live here,¡± I explain.


    ¡°How many?¡±


    ¡°I have six sisters and six aunts and who knows how many cousins...well I do, but you get the point. On any given day 18 of us are running around here.¡± Rayla whistles.


    ¡°18, huh? You got a small army in there.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know the half of it. The holidays are chaos.¡± Rayla lets out a hearty laugh.


    ¡°Yeah, I bet they¡¯re wild. The Dovers a real partyin¡¯ bunch?¡±


    ¡°Ugh, the stories I can tell could fill a book.¡± Though the subject annoys me, I find myself smiling. Rayla laughs again.


    ¡°If you ever write it, I¡¯ll pick up a copy.¡± My smile widens at the small hypothetical compliment. Rayla pulls up to the house and parks her motorcycle next to one of my sisters¡¯ cars. She removes her helmet, unpacks and hands me one of the bags. ¡°This really is something, though.¡± She examines the house as she walks onto the wraparound porch.


    ¡°My great-great-grandpa built it. Now that¡¯s a whole story worth telling.¡± Rayla waits by the front door.


    ¡°Be sure to tell it to me one day,¡± she says with a charming smile. I unlock the door while holding her gaze.


    ¡°Stick around long enough and I just might.¡± I usher her into my home. A short hallway filled with shoes, jackets, umbrellas and a bowl filled with keys leads to the main room. The center is an open space all the way up to the third floor so that the skylight can pour sunbeams into the house. The first floor serves as an all-purpose space; kitchen, table to eat on, a few sofas and a couple of recliners facing a TV. The only way up is a spiral staircase, which has always been a great way to let everyone know you¡¯re home.


    Rayla walks in, looking all around. She puts the bags on the dining table.


    ¡°I assume these are the rooms?¡± She gestures to the doors that circle this space.


    ¡°You¡¯d be correct.¡± I start putting the sundries away.


    ¡°How can you tell which room is which?¡± A valid question, all the doors are the same.


    ¡°Well I grew up in here, but when we have people over we put up signs. Don¡¯t want guests to walk into the laundry room or anything like that.¡± Rayla nods.


    ¡°Who¡¯re you talking to, Becky?¡± A voice from upstairs calls. It belongs to my oldest and biggest sister, Bonnie. Everything about her is huge. From the tight black coils that make up her supernova of an afro to her muscular build earned from years of dominating at full-contact football. Matched only by her unending patience and impressive intelligence, she¡¯s everybody go-to person and she wouldn¡¯t have it any other way.


    Bonnie descends the stairs in her favorite pink sundress. The fabric flows behind her as she walks in her stiletto heels with a grace one wouldn¡¯t expect from a football player. She stops in front of Rayla, scanning her the way she does anyone new.


    ¡°Hello,¡± she greets our guest. Rayla raises her eyebrows like most people do when they first hear Bonnie¡¯s voice; a light and airy thing. She says she always enjoys people¡¯s reactions to the juxtaposition of how she looks to how she actually is.


    ¡°H-hello...you¡¯re big,¡± Rayla points out. She looks Bonnie up and down. My sister is a daunting 6¡¯4 without her heels on. She giggles, covering her mouth with her hand in the girliest possible way.


    ¡°An acute observation. Are you a detective, Miss¡­?¡±


    ¡°Moore. Rayla Moore,¡± she says, regaining her composure. ¡°And no, I¡¯m not a detective.¡±


    ¡°I figured, they don¡¯t usually hire this young or pretty,¡± she emphasizes her point by booping Rayla on her nose. Our guest gulps.


    ¡°This is my oldest sister, Bonnie.¡±


    ¡°Ah. That explains why you look a lot alike.¡±


    ¡°Hmmph, well I am the prototype. The other iterations leave much to be desired.¡±


    ¡°Huh?¡± Rayla asks. Bonnie waves off her confusion.


    ¡°That accent is from New York City, yes?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°We had a few New Yorkers here a couple of weeks ago. Is there an exodus from the Empire city?¡± Of course Bonnie would think there¡¯s some connection between strangers.


    ¡°None I can think of,¡± Rayla answers.


    ¡°Hmm, well, in any case, you probably want to settle in.¡± Bonnie turns to me. ¡°Our family will be home soon and you know how they are. It¡¯d be best if you acquaint her with her room now before she gets swarmed.¡± With that Bonnie goes to walk upstairs.


    ¡°So...which of these rooms are mine?¡± Rayla asks. I look at all the doors and make my choice.


    ¡°You can go here.¡± I open a door for her. The room is bare, as it always is for guests. A queen-sized bed, a wooden dresser, and a trunk for personal things are the only furnishings in the room. Like all the other rooms there¡¯s a window, a setting sun¡¯s light dives through. Rayla enters and takes it in. ¡°Bathroom¡¯s right next to you.¡± I decide to keep the fact it¡¯s next to my room to myself. ¡°You can put whatever you want in the trunk so we know not to touch it. Do you want me to-¡± I¡¯m interrupted by the sight of Rayla pulling down her shorts, not minding that I¡¯m still in the room. I can¡¯t take my eyes off of her as she lets them fall on the floor, exposing her blue lace panties to me while she reaches under her shirt. Before I can even ask what¡¯s she doing, she takes her simple beige bra off and lays it with her shorts. Rayla jumps face-first onto the bed and almost immediately falls asleep. I wait for a second because I think she¡¯s joking but she¡¯s actually sleeping.


    ¡°Guess I¡¯ll ask later.¡± I close the door and turn around to see most of my sisters and cousins standing right behind me.


    ¡°What was that?¡± Bella, my second oldest sister asks. I shrug.


    ¡°No idea.¡±


    Chapter 1 End

 Clicking

    I¡¯m up late for no real reason that night, scrolling through my phone on the couch in the main room. I¡¯m about to go to bed when Rayla¡¯s door opens up and she stumbles out with her eyes half-closed. Obviously still very tired, she makes her way to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She¡¯s in there for a couple of minutes before she leaves and goes back into her room. I watch that scene play out without saying anything because what is there to say?


    I head to bed shortly after that. Morning comes, then afternoon and Rayla still hasn¡¯t gotten up. I¡¯m starting to think she died when she stumbles out of her room again. Still in her t-shirt and underwear, she approaches me in the kitchen area and sits at the table. Rayla crosses her arms and rests her head on them as if she didn¡¯t get enough sleep.


    ¡°¡®Morning, babe,¡± she mumbles.


    ¡°It¡¯s well into the afternoon.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, you woke up almost at the same time you went to sleep. Who sleeps for an entire day?¡± I ask it a bit more callous then I meant to, as I¡¯m genuinely curious.


    ¡°A person who''s been up for three days straight,¡± she answers like that explains everything.


    ¡°And why were you up for three days straight?¡± Rayla lifts her head and quirks her eyebrow.


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t you like to know?¡±


    ¡°...Yeah, that¡¯s why I asked.¡±


    ¡°Look, let''s leave some mystery to me. Let me ask you a question: can I get the other ¡®B¡¯ from this B&B?¡±


    ¡°Well, since it¡¯s four in the afternoon, it''s not really breakfast. But I can get you some coffee.¡± I get up to go to the counter.


    ¡°That¡¯d be great, babe.¡± I pause while reaching for the coffee pot.


    ¡°Stop calling me ¡®babe¡¯,¡± I reply while readying the coffee.


    ¡°You got it, honey,¡± Rayla says trying to charm me with her smile of perfect teeth. I can see that I¡¯m not going to get out of this without some kind of affectionate pet name. I want to find it annoying, but I can¡¯t summon the energy.


    ¡°You call girls ¡®honey¡¯ and ¡®babe¡¯ when you can¡¯t remember their names?¡± Hoping conversation will somehow make the coffee brew faster.


    ¡°I¡¯m hurt you¡¯d suggest such a thing ¡®Becky Dover¡¯,¡± she says my name the way I say it. ¡°I¡¯m excellent at remembering names. I just like to have fun.¡± I nod my head.


    ¡°Like walking around in your underwear?¡± I point out. She looks down and just now realizes her state of dress. Rayla quickly glances around the room witnessing one of the rare moments no one is here.


    ¡°Yes uhh,¡± she clears her throat, ¡°It¡¯s a part of my charm.¡± Her smile isn¡¯t as confident as before but just as dazzling.


    ¡°Mhmm. I brought your clothes from your bike to your room. In case you wanted to wear something¡­¡± I trail off as I look her up and down in the seat. Slouched with her long chestnut brown legs, crossed now that she remembers she isn¡¯t wearing anything. Her blue hair is short enough that it isn¡¯t messed up from sleeping the day away. The bags under her eyes aren¡¯t as severe as they were yesterday. I realize that I¡¯ve been looking at her for too long.


    ¡°More appropriate,¡± I finish my thought. She knocks her knuckles on the table.


    ¡°I think I¡¯ll take you up on that.¡± With that, Rayla quickly goes back to her room to change. By the time she comes out the coffee is ready. She¡¯s wearing slim-fitted, black track pants with white stripes. She still has on her ¡°No Idea¡± shirt. She sits at the table while I pour her and myself a cup.


    ¡°Would you like any sugar or milk?¡±


    ¡°Both, please.¡± I oblige and sit with her at the table. Rayla stirs her coffee, now fully looking around the house. She scans the environment with a curious eye. I suppose she didn¡¯t take it all in when she first got here, being up for three days and all.


    ¡°Your great-great-grandfather built all this?¡± she asks before taking her first sip. She remembered that.


    ¡°Well, there have been some modifications over the years but yeah, all three floors. There¡¯s a sad story about the third floor,¡± I explain. I ask myself why I included the last part while sipping my coffee. Rayla adds a bit more sugar to her¡¯s. She has a sweet tooth.


    ¡°Hmmm, well let¡¯s not have sad stories first thing in the morning.¡±


    ¡°Afternoon.¡±


    ¡°Whatever. Let me ask you something else:; what¡¯s the job market like around here?¡± She stirs her coffee more.


    ¡°You could get a job in one of those sleepy stores, but I think they¡¯d rather get your money than give you some.¡± I think about it for a second. ¡°You might be able to do the odd job or two if you don¡¯t mind physical labor.¡± Rayla closes her eyes and thinks.


    ¡°How much does that room cost?¡± Her eyes are still closed.


    ¡°It¡¯s cheap. My mother makes the rates but she¡¯d probably let you stay for nothing but your company.¡± Mom has always been so carefree with money for someone who runs a B&B (theoretically). ¡°She wouldn¡¯t let a young black girl rough it in the streets.¡± A corner of her mouth curls up. She doesn¡¯t like the idea of staying somewhere absolutely free. Rayla hums quietly as she gets lost in some thought. She finally opens her eyes.


    ¡°I¡¯ll make it work.¡± She finishes her coffee in one go and stands up. ¡°That coffee is slamming by the way. Definitely let me get another of those. Been too long since I had home-brewed coffee,¡± she says as she walks to her room, only to stop and turn to face me again. ¡°Did you move the rest of my stuff in here?¡±


    ¡°No, just your clothes.¡± With that, she alters her path and heads outside. I pour her another cup as I wait for her to come back. When she does, she has a messenger bag, a bookbag and two carrying cases for cameras. She holds them all with no problem, clearly used to it.


    ¡°You guys have WiFi?¡± she asks while opening the messenger bag.


    ¡°This may be the middle of nowhere, but we¡¯re not savages. The password is eighteen B¡¯s¡±  Rayla frowns at me for clarification. ¡°Eighteen of the letter ¡®B¡¯,¡± I explain.


    ¡°Ahh,¡± she says while taking out her laptop. I can¡¯t tell what kind it is since it¡¯s covered in all sorts of stickers. Cartoon characters, phrases, logos of companies I don¡¯t recognize, and other random things. ¡°Just as well, my laptop is dead.¡± Rayla jogs to her room to put it on the charger. When she comes back she takes out her cameras, inspecting them. The first one looks expensive, like something a professional would use. She mumbles to herself as she looks over whatever it is she needs to. She takes out different lenses and checks them over with practiced precision. She has a bunch of memory cards and parses through them, asking herself questions. Deciding on one, she sticks it in the camera and puts all of it away.


    The second camera she takes out is much simpler than the first. It doesn¡¯t have as many lenses, dials or switches as the other; it¡¯s older and worn with age, a few scuffs, and scratches along its edges. Rayla holds and inspects it with a gentler, more intimate touch than the first, despite the ruggedness it possesses.


    ¡°You a photographer of some kind?¡± I add milk and sugar to her coffee.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± she chuckles, ¡°some kind.¡± She finishes her inspection and turns to face me again. ¡°You said it¡¯s 4 in the afternoon?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± I finish adding the obscene amount of sugar she¡¯d want in it. Rayla looks past me to the nearest window, examining something.


    ¡°Hmm, maybe tomorrow,¡± she says to herself. I¡¯m starting to get the feeling she talks to herself a lot. ¡°Becky, would you show me around town?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± It¡¯s better than the inevitable swarm she¡¯s soon to face if she doesn¡¯t leave.


    ¡°Thank you.¡±  She puts both her cameras away and slings their cases over her shoulder. Rayla downs her coffee quickly and heads to the door.


    ¡°Guess I¡¯ll finish my coffee later,¡± I say to myself.


    I meet Rayla outside as she turns her motorcycle on, she offers me the helmet again before looking at my twist-out.


    ¡°Right, just got your hair done.¡± she puts the helmet on herself and I hop behind her.


    As we stroll into town, Rayla slows down and the meager populace of this town starts to take notice of the stranger driving around a Dover girl. I direct her to Liberty Boulevard, the longest street with the most businesses. I don¡¯t know where she might want to go, so I wander somewhat aimlessly. I, admittedly, give a lackluster tour of the fine establishments this town has to offer. I want to impress Rayla but even I know you don¡¯t brag about a dying horse to someone from one of the biggest racetracks. That¡¯s a weird analogy. The point is I can¡¯t muster up the fake enthusiasm to act like I¡¯m showing her anything remotely exciting.


    If Rayla picks up on this, she doesn¡¯t say anything. She¡¯s taking pictures of everything, no matter how mundane it is. Her hands are perfectly steady as she takes each picture with her fancy camera.


    ¡°You never answered my question, are you a photographer?¡± Kinda silly question to ask when she has two cameras and taking pictures of everything. She aims her camera at a store that repairs electronics.


    ¡°If you¡¯re asking am I a professional then, yes I am. I even got a website. I¡¯m legit.¡± CLICK. ¡°What¡¯s the deal with this town? It didn¡¯t really show up on my GPS. Just some buildings.¡± CLICK.


    ¡°Yeah, that makes sense. Freedman Hills is usually forgotten.¡±


    ¡°Freedman Hills,¡± Rayla repeats ¡°with a name like that, there¡¯s some history here. Tell me about it,¡± she asks.


    ¡°It was built by escaped and freed slaves. We¡¯re just North of what was the nearest slave state.¡± I feel like a real tour guide now. ¡°The town is about as old as my house. It was a haven for Black people back in the day.¡± Rayla puts down her camera and frowns.


    ¡°Why is this the first I¡¯m hearing of it?¡± I just lift an eyebrow at her. ¡°Right, dumb question.¡± We both know the answer to that. I start walking again and Rayla follows closely behind, listening intently.


    ¡°Anyway, then the Civil war came through, this place was hit hard. We rebuilt, White supremacists attacked, we rebuilt, more awful stuff happened and we rebuilt.¡± Beatrix, my third oldest sister, knows history better than I do but I continue. ¡°World War 1 and 2, the Korean and Vietnam wars came and so did the draft.¡± I check a text I get on my phone. Bella wants me to pick up some ingredients.  She¡¯s making chicken and dumplings for our guest tonight. ¡°¡®The government always forgets about Freedman Hills until there¡¯s a war and they need cannon fodder.¡¯ Something I always heard my mom say.¡± I start walking toward the grocery store. ¡°Between all that, the town never got much bigger, basically nothing significant has ever happened here, and certainly no one famous was born here.¡± Rayla has a strange expression on her face, processing all that I¡¯ve told her. I can practically see the cogs turning in her head, but exactly she''s thinking I can''t say.


    We walk into the grocery store and a blast of cool air hits us from the A.C. I grab a basket.


    ¡°That¡¯s the long and varied history of this town. What¡¯s it like being a photographer in New York City?¡± Rayla comes back to reality and just now seems to notice where we are.


    ¡°It¡¯s hard to make a living off it,¡± she answers as she starts to look through the pictures she¡¯s taken so far. ¡°You ain¡¯t the only one and everybody wants to pay you in ¡®exposure¡¯,¡± she air quotes around the word with particular disgust. ¡°Mr. I Have 600 Followers wants to pay me in exposure.¡± She scoffs. ¡°And so many of the girls who ask me to take photos of them, request really weird edits.¡±


    ¡°Like what?¡± I pick up shortening.


    ¡°They always want me to make their faces look like those filters on those apps. They¡¯re really messin¡¯ with our concept of beauty. When I¡¯m done, half the time they don¡¯t look like real people.¡± Rayla starts taking pictures again.


    ¡°So why do you do it?¡±


    ¡°They pay me,¡± she explains. CLICK. A picture of an empty aisle. ¡°Most of the money I make comes from doing photo shoots. Headshots, fashion, modeling, people who are just flexin¡¯, that sort of thing.¡± CLICK. Tower of soda cans. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    ¡°You like it? Photographing people? Cuz it looks like you prefer taking pictures of nothing.¡± CLICK. She¡¯s captured the essence of canned peaches.


    ¡°Don¡¯t get me wrong, you get invited to a lot of events, meet interesting people, sample some hors d¡¯ oeuvres.¡± CLICK. Pile of apples. ¡°And I like taking pics of girls in uhh¡­.¡± she clears her throat ¡°risqu¨¦ outfits as much as the next girl. But I like taking photos of whatever I want when I want to. And that rarely ever pays.¡± CLICK. Rotisserie chickens spinning. I compare two containers of paprika, Bella¡¯s secret ingredient.


    ¡°You like grocery stores that much?¡± I pick the bigger one.


    ¡°No, yes. I¡¯m taking pictures just to have them. Better to have them and not need them, than get a request and not have anything on hand,¡± she explains.


    ¡°Who would request pictures of a grocery store?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d be surprised how many companies ask for shots of ordinary stuff for websites and stuff like that. Plus there¡¯s always a contest or two I could enter.¡± She puts her fancy camera away and takes out the older one. ¡°It¡¯s mostly for practice though, don¡¯t want to get rusty.¡± She looks me up and down before aiming the camera at me. ¡°You ever model before, Becky?¡± I put my hand on the lens.


    ¡°Not for a fancy New York photographer, no.¡±


    ¡°Hmm, I like the way you say that. Makes it sound like I¡¯m an exotic animal or something.¡±


    ¡°You have blue hair.¡±


    ¡°You got me there. Still, you should think about it.¡± Rayla wipes her lens with her shirt. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t mind if you were the model.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think there are models that are quite my size.¡± I look over Rayla¡¯s slender form. She looks like she¡¯d be at home on a runway, despite her casual outfit. I pick up a sack of flour. That¡¯s everything Bella asked me to get.


    ¡°There are many plus-size models. Not that you¡¯re plus size. I mean, you are but- I don¡¯t mean that being plus size is a bad thing or anything.¡± She makes a small groan. I put the stuff on the conveyor. ¡°Before I shoot myself in the foot, I mean to say that you¡¯d be a nice model.¡± That was the most awkward attempt at a compliment I¡¯ve ever heard but I still smile. Rayla quickly aims her camera at me and takes a picture. ¡°Becky Dover smiling. That¡¯s a front-page photo,¡± Rayla says with her own dazzling smile. I can¡¯t help but chuckle at her.


    ¡°You always this much of a flatterer?¡±


    ¡°Only to pretty girls, babe.¡± Rayla lets a sly smirk slide across her face. I can¡¯t think of anything to say to something so cocky, so I let out a small scoff, ignoring the warmth spreading to my cheeks. I don¡¯t even realize I¡¯m staring at her face until the checkout clerk clears her throat to get our attention.


    ¡°Cash or credit?¡± She politely asks. I quickly pay and we exit the store.


    Rayla starts up her motorcycle to hear the engine die.


    ¡°Crap, forgot to get gas. Figures it would choose now to conk out.¡± She grabs the handles, kicks the kickstand and holds up her bike. ¡°Becky, would you please escort me and Cassidy here to the nearest gas station?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± We walk in silence for a while before I feel I have to ask. ¡°You named your bike Cassidy?¡±


    ¡°That depends, do you think it¡¯s cool?¡±


    ¡°Not really.¡± But a small smile comes across my face.


    ¡°Then I didn¡¯t¡­.but yeah I did.¡±


    ¡°Do you always name things?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, doesn¡¯t everybody?¡± I shake my head. ¡°Well, their loss. I think things work better if you name them.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah? What about your cameras?¡±


    ¡°This one is Crow,¡± she points the fancy one. ¡°And this guy is Conrad,¡± she points to the older one. She runs her fingers over the camera. ¡°We go way back. Won my first contest with him.¡± She tilts her head back as she no doubt starts to reminisce about something. ¡°But Crow makes me look more professional, different lenses and all.¡±


    We turn a corner and the gas station is down the block. Rayla goes into the store to activate the pump and I quickly search her name on my phone. Among reviews, analysis, and praise for her work; a website with her name on it appears. It has a minimalist design with neatly organized archives of her work separated into categories. Portraits, Landscapes, Fashion, Misc, and one called Stories. Opening the fashion archive, some of the most gorgeous human beings I''ve ever seen appear on my screen.


    I scroll down to see the risqu¨¦ outfits she mentioned and they are indeed risqu¨¦. She''s taken pictures of girls like these, and thinks I''m pretty? Is she dumb? Partially blind? But then I remember what she said about the photos being edited, then the small pang of jealousy I have quells. Rayla comes back and starts filling up her tank.


    She shoots a wink at me and I start to blush again.


    ¡°Why¡¯d you leave New York City? There ain¡¯t much for you here.¡±


    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t be so modest. There¡¯s always something somewhere.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t make any sense and it doesn¡¯t answer my question.¡± Rayla thinks about it for a moment, closing her eyes.


    ¡°Don¡¯t get me wrong, I love my city. But I realized a while back that I¡¯ve never left it,¡± she frowns ¡°well I did once but that was a school trip. Anyways, then I got to thinking about some of my favorite artists, and how they traveled for inspiration or just for fun. So then I hopped on Cassidy here, chose a direction and¡­¡± she gestures to everything around us ¡°here I am.¡±


    The girl left her hometown on a whim.


    ¡°And how do you know if you¡¯re where you should be? Seems like a good way to get horribly lost.¡± She looks me up and down before she answers with a shrug.


    ¡°Anywhere you live can¡¯t be so bad. I wouldn¡¯t mind getting horribly lost with you,¡± she says. A second of silence between us gives her the chance to think about what exactly she just said. Rayla clears her throat. ¡°Anyway, so that¡¯s why I¡¯m here.¡± She seems particularly interested in a spot on the ground, turning her head from me. I¡¯m not sure what to say in response to such a...heavy flirtation. She¡¯s kept it light and playful up til now, but that, the way she said it strummed a heartstring or two.


    Thankfully she¡¯s finished fueling up and we ride home.


    I hear the commotion inside before I get the door. I turn to Rayla,


    ¡°Brace yourself.¡±


    ¡°What for? Sounds like a good time in there,¡± Rayla flashes that smile of hers.


    ¡°Oh you poor sweet thing,¡± I reply while opening the door. As soon as we get into the main room my sisters (except Bonnie who already met her and Bella who is cooking), cousins and aunts swarm Rayla; asking her questions ranging from the entirely trivial to the incredibly personal.


    ¡°Why¡¯d you dye your hair blue?¡±


    ¡°I thought it would look cool.¡±


    ¡°Is it true New York is riddled with crime?¡±


    ¡°I hope not.¡±


    ¡°Are you one of those artsy weirdo New Yorker or a straight-up gangsta New Yorker?¡±


    ¡°I like to think I¡¯m both but probably just the first one.¡±


    ¡°Are you a lesbian or do you just dress like one?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a pretty loaded question; don¡¯t you think?¡±


    ¡°GIRLS!¡± My mother yells over all of them. ¡°Give her some peace! Stop acting like a buncha harpies and get ready for dinner!¡± They all know better than to argue with her and clear out. ¡°Sorry about that; sometimes they act like they ain¡¯t never met a stranger before. Go on, sweetie, dinner will be ready soon. You can have a seat or wash up if you want,¡± my mother says with her soothing voice and a warm smile. As everybody starts to settle in, Rayla sits next to me at the table.


    They¡¯ve put on a big spread for our guest. For dinner, we have chicken soup with dumplings, cornbread, chicken fried steak, barbecue pulled pork, collard greens, rice and beans, mac ¡®n¡¯ cheese, candied yams, potato wedges, and for dessert Bella¡¯s famous cinnamon buns; creating a mixed heavenly aroma that goes throughout the house. After a short grace we dig in, I make a plate for Rayla; one of everything for the guest and she ain''t picky. She devours it all and asks for seconds with that charming smile of hers and everyone at the table practically jumps at the chance to oblige. I wave off their advances, taking this opportunity to do some introductions.


    ¡°Rayla, meet my crazy family. You¡¯ve already met Bonnie,¡± I point to her at the end of the table and my oldest sister does a small wave. ¡°That¡¯s Bella, head chef tonight, and my second oldest sister.¡± Bella gives a nod. She has her long dreadlocks up in a bun on top of her head. I start listing my sisters in age order. ¡°That¡¯s Beatrix, Bernice, Bridget, and Bethany.¡± Each gives their little greeting. I move on to my cousins. ¡°These are my cousins, Brook, Breanne, Bibi, Blossom and Begonia (identical twins),¡± as I list them I can see Rayla nodding along but I know that she¡¯s lost and isn¡¯t remembering all these names. Still, I press on, ¡°and these are my aunts; Betty, Brandy, Blake, and Bea.¡± I finish making her second plate.


    ¡°Last, but not least, my mother: Beverley.¡± Sitting at the far end of the table my mom waves and gestures to everything.


    ¡°Welcome to the Dover B&B,¡± she says. A question forms on Rayla¡¯s lips but she thinks better of it and just starts on her food.


    After dinner when everyone goes about their business, Rayla starts doing her laundry and hops in the shower. She gets out with a towel wrapped around her torso and goes to her room.


    I¡¯m considering just going to bed when I hear Rayla call for me.


    She¡¯s sitting on her bed with her laptop open, still in her towel.


    ¡°I wanted to show you my website,¡± she explains. I keep quiet about the fact that I already saw it. She pats the space next to her, inviting me to sit. If she doesn¡¯t care that she¡¯s almost naked then why should I?


    As she starts up her computer I try and fail to keep my eyes off her. That smooth dark brown skin of hers is still damp. Beads of water glisten in the light and lazily trail down her arms. Her blue hair is short enough that it¡¯s mostly dry. Without meaning to I spy a tattoo on her back; it looks like half a ring with a rainbow color gradient like you see on editing software. It spans the space between her shoulder blades and the other half is hidden behind her towel.


    When she reopens her browser a story called ¡°Sparks Between Us¡± pops up which she closes.


    ¡°Doing some light reading,¡± she says with a shy smile. She goes to her website quickly scrolls past the fashion section to show me her misc works. They¡¯re pictures of random things, each with a paragraph or so of text.


    ¡°I like to write lil¡¯ stories for pictures. Not many read them, but I enjoy it so,¡± she shrugs ¡°I still do ¡®em.¡± she scrolls through them all. There¡¯s a lot.


    ¡°Is it hard, writing up all those stories?¡±


    ¡°Every picture has a story in it. Or maybe I only think that cuz I do it for a living. But if you want to know what a person holds dear, look at what they take pictures of,¡± Rayla says. ¡°Anyway, I just wanted to uhhh, show it to you. To let you know I¡¯m not just some creepy bozo,¡± she reveals.


    ¡°If I thought you were a ¡®creepy bozo¡¯ I wouldn¡¯t have invited to my home.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough.¡±


    ¡°And, if you were, I¡¯d probably be in trouble since I¡¯m on your bed and you¡¯re just in a towel,¡± I point out. Rayla, for the second time today, just now seems to notice her state of dress and starts laughing in a burst of nervous energy.


    ¡°Oh, yikes. Yeah, I can see how that would send some messages.¡± She gets up while clutching the towel closer to herself like it¡¯s doing something. ¡°I¡¯m going to check on my laundry.¡± Rayla leaves on that note. Seems the photographer can¡¯t handle being noticed.


    Well into the night when I¡¯m up late for no reason again, Rayla comes out of her room. This time fully dressed in her track pants and a big black hoodie. She has her tripod and fancy camera with her.


    ¡°Can I get to the roof?¡± She asks me, unwilling to elaborate any further.


    ¡°Not really. C¡¯mon, I¡¯ll show you the top floor.¡± She follows up the metal staircase to the third-floor balcony. The cool summer air breezes by lazily this high up. There isn¡¯t much to see, behind the house is the Drinking Gourd forest and in front is the town. A dark and small thing from this far at this height. Rayla has her phone out, with a compass app open.


    She walks the entire balcony before getting to the easternmost point. Rayla tosses her tripod onto the roof before I can ask what she¡¯s planning she runs up the wall and climbs onto the roof. Offering her arm for me to grab, I struggle to get up there with the same ease as her. Rayla manages to pull me up and we stumble together. I land on top of her, my face just inches from hers. The warmth of her body under mine radiates into the small space between us.


    This close I start to take in whatever finer details I can in this low light. Her round nose, the gentle slope of her cheekbones, the part of her full lips, and how wide her brown eyes are. I can feel them scanning them my face and know she¡¯s doing the same. Too many seconds pass in silence for it not to be awkward. We both start mumbling excuses as we straighten ourselves out. I clear my throat and needlessly play with my hair.


    ¡°You run up walls often?¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s just say that some of my best photos were taken while trespassing.¡± She offers a shrug with the statement.


    ¡°So why are we on the roof?¡±


    ¡°Well I¡¯ve never seen these many stars before, being from the city and all,¡± she starts setting up her tripod. ¡°And I wanted to do a long exposure shot of them till sunrise. Thought that would be cool.¡± She attaches her camera. ¡°Also wanted to see the view from up here.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re going to stay up all night?¡± She just nods her head as she makes whatever adjustments she needs to the camera. Suddenly her staying up for three days straight makes sense. I just watch her set it up when she looks over her shoulder at me.


    ¡°Wanna learn about cameras?¡± She invites me over with a wave of her hand. Rayla starts going over the different parts of the camera. Her face lights up explaining what each part does. When I get behind the viewfinder, she comes close behind me. Her breath tickles my cheek while she goes over the function of each button and dial. I try to absorb what ¡°shutter speed¡± is but Rayla has herself pressed against my back and I can¡¯t concentrate. Her hands guide mine over the device, letting me know what to press but I only think about how soft her skin is.


    ¡°There, it¡¯s adjusted for low light. Take a picture.¡± I click the button and take a picture of the forest. ¡°See, you¡¯re a natural!¡± She praises. Rayla aims her camera again to the east.


    ¡°Sun should rise right through those trees and it¡¯ll be a great shot.¡± Rayla sits down and starts admiring the night sky. ¡°Ya can¡¯t see many stars in the city so I never bothered to learn them. You know any constellations?¡± She asks me. I remember some when Bonnie had a brief interest in astronomy. I point them out and a cool breeze sweeps over the roof. Shivering slightly; I¡¯m contemplating going inside for a blanket when Rayla unzips her hoodie and wraps her arm around my shoulders, covering me in the soft fabric.


    She pulls me in close to her so we both fit in the garment. I can¡¯t resist the urge to rest my head on her warm body. We stargaze in silence. Growing up with these stars, I never thought much about them. But the fascination on Rayla¡¯s face says this isn¡¯t a common sight. If they make her this happy, I guess they¡¯re good for something. I¡¯m having trouble keeping my eyes open.


    ¡°You can sleep if you want to. I¡¯ll wake you when the sun comes up,¡± Rayla says as she shifts to make me more comfortable.


    ¡°I bet you say that to every girl you stargaze with on a rooftop,¡± I joke.


    ¡°You¡¯d be the first, babe.¡± She flashes that smile at me again.


    ¡°Oh, so you¡¯ve done this with other girls before?¡± Her expression becomes blank. ¡°Guess I¡¯m just another notch on the bedpost, huh?¡± Panic quickly spreads over her face as I tease her.


    ¡°No! I-i meant you¡¯d be the first to stargaze with me. Not that you¡¯re the first girl I said that too, there-¡± I can¡¯t help but laugh aloud at her visibly squirm while trying to correct herself.


    ¡°I¡¯m just playing, relax girl.¡±


    ¡°Yea- yeah I knew that,¡± she tries to play it off but she sighs in relief. ¡°I¡¯d hate to ruin the vibe on such a nice night.¡± Nice night, huh? Her collar is slender, it takes me a second to find a comfortable spot as a gentle tiredness washes over me.


    ¡°Don¡¯t try anything slick, ya hear?¡± She starts mumbling her response before I cut her off. ¡°I¡¯m kidding, Rayla.¡± She nervously chuckles again.


    I think I might like messing with her.


    I think I might like Rayla.


    Chapter 2 End