Between Reel and Reality (Lesbian Romance)

Chapter One: Buddy-Buddy

How you gonna throw it away?
How you gonna sit here and act like it was nothing?
...
How you gonna make it so damn hard to explain?

- Summer Walker, Throw It Away

CIERRE

The nostalgic scent of a rural Southern granny's home envelops Nayeli and Von's Bel Air property. Von, sockless and wearing his trusty brown "Unc sandals," fearlessly commands the grill, conjuring smoky barbecue ribs and sizzling steaks. His robust frame effortlessly syncs with the funky melodies of Earth, Wind & Fire as he pays no attention to Kerani, his taste tester, teasing him. Standing, hands on her wide hips, the supermodel and fashion stylist reprimands the grillmaster for his ashy-ass ankles.

In my white Balenciaga sneakers, I carefully balance a pan of my renowned creamy baked mac-and-cheese, ready to join the vibrant food spread. The serving table beckons, adorned with Kerani's bacon-infused collard greens and Nayeli's crispy, flavored chicken wings. Under the gentle glow of string lights and the descending sun's celestial gold, my recipe's irresistible cheesiness intensifies.

The mingling scents of our combined spices usually stir a ravenous hunger within me. However, intermittent spasms irritate my intestines, disrupting the usual appetite-inducing effect.

Bile builds in my esophagus, urging me to flee the impending Super Bowl event. I dash into the mansion, clutching my cashmere pink turtleneck. Concealing my face with my passion twists, I rush past the kitchen, my head lowered.

"Mmm-mmm!" a mouth full of gooey goodness reprimands.

Damn!

Attempting an innocent smile, I say, "I was heading to the bathroom," my voice quivering as I point toward the nearest restroom.

Nayeli dismissively waves her fork, signaling me to come. My elegant stride transforms into a slow shuffle as I meander to the sparkling gray and white kitchen. Plump and pathetic, my ass plops onto a Chateau bar stool. "I should've never signed that fucking contract," I mutter, covering my face.

A simmering heat rises under my cheekbones, accompanied by a tightness in my throat, forewarning the arrival of tears. When my agent presented me with the script and plot of Vixen's Vow, I fell in love immediately. A major motion picture featuring a kickass lesbian couple on a journey of vengeance is a much-needed, fresh concept. Immaculately written with gorgeous filming locations and a promising all-star cast, the thriller-action seemed like the perfect addition to my resume. But things soured when the casting director revealed the ideal actress for the main character: my ex, Amel Cross—once a professional martial arts fighter, now an R&B superstar, and soon a silver-screen luminary.

"All my films have been hits, but this one is gonna be a shitshow!" I exclaim, slamming my hands on the granite countertop. "Why would she sign on to a movie I've already committed to?!" Fury courses through my veins. I struggle to recover a positive affirmation to calm myself. Only Amel has the power to trigger such emotional waves in me.

Yeli snaps the lid onto my backup mac-and-cheese, which she was supposed to be storing, not eating, with a sharp pop. She grips my trembling hands. The slick bun atop her head, with meticulously laid baby hairs, serves as a visual representation of her poise. However, she's no stranger to experiencing internal tumult. No one understands us better than we understand each other.

Her Houston drawl, lighter and more refined than Amel's, offers reassurance. "It'll only go left if you let it, Cici. Two years have passed since y'all ended things." In sync with her words, I inhale through my nose, counting to four, and exhale evenly—a technique my patient boyfriend, Tari, taught me. When will his daddy-daughter date end? I need him. "If any exes can make amends and be cordial for their mutual friends, it's you two."