Between Reel and Reality (Lesbian Romance)

Chapter Six: Bittersweet

AMEL

Is that...

Is it fluffy, buttermilk waffles I smell?

And that can't be...

No, it is. Nothing bubbles and pops like that, but chicken grease.

Did Cierre actually come?

I spin towards the bedside table and snatch my phone. It's 10:12 AM. Morning fatigue isn't weighing heavy on me. There are no signs of aches in my body. Chef Cierre is throwing down. I'm dead. Where the hell are my parents?

I gently massage my eyes and scan the guest room. My clothes from last night rest by the bathroom, but two Louis Vuitton duffle bags chill by the bedroom's entrance. Diamond must've had someone drop off my gear.

Pause.

Who brought my bags inside the room? I glance downwards at my unclothed state and chuckle. Hopefully, it wasn't Ci's nosy ass.

If my nose is correct, breakfast will be ready to devour in fifteen minutes. After completing my hygiene and skincare routine, I transform into a cropped sweatshirt and matching sky-blue sweatpants. With my blonde deep-wave wig styled into a messy bun, two tendrils gracefully frame my cheekbones. Prepared to indulge in the heavenly scent wafting through the atmosphere, I leave the bedroom with one minute to spare.

As I make my way to the kitchen, The DL, a queer podcast that specializes in the current celebrity drama, grows louder. One of the hosts vents their frustration about a toxic rap couple invading their social media feeds. If Cierre listens to The DL, has she been sipping my public tea since our breakup? Nah, she probably skips thirty seconds until the topic changes. The girl has me blocked everywhere as if we're not famous. Whenever I open the Disney app, I groan and skip past the princess holding a damn bullfrog.

The enticing aroma of hot-honey fried chicken lures me into the kitchen. My palms rub together as if trying to generate fire. As the DL host addresses the glorification of unhealthy relationships, Cierre affirms with an assured "Mhm." She's comfy and cute, wearing a vibrant, striped knitted cardigan and boyfriend jeans. With delicate precision, she arranges her masterpiece on two plates, displaying the skill of an artist at work. A delighted smile spreads across her face as she accomplishes her presentation goals. Natural light streams through the grand windows, casting its warm glow on her deep brown, moisturized skin. My hands slow their movements as she catches my wandering eye.

"I figured I wouldn't have to wake you," she jests. She pauses the podcast before it can get to last week's allegations. "I see you saw your clothes. Some assistant brought them."

I shape my mouth into an awkward smile and tilt my chin slightly. "You didn't see me naked, did you?"

Cierre rolls her eyes and places the plates on the sleek breakfast bar. "Girl, bye. You were sleeping on your back, and the covers were low. I caught a glimpse of muscles and booty cheeks. So, basically, what everyone else sees in your music videos. Now sit."

I twist my lips as I scoot onto a comfy stool. A pitcher of orange juice with filled glasses already lies before me. My eyes squint at her skeptically. "Are you plotting to sabotage me?" I ask, shifting my eyeballs from the right to the left.

Her eyelids become slits, nearly touching each other. "Amel...why would I do that?"

"I don't know. I gotta be in ultimate shape for the movie, so crispy fried chicken is on my no-no list."

"You ate twenty lemon pepper wings, mac and cheese, ribs, and half a cake last night," she retorts, with her hand on her hip.