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As if reading my mind, Prince puts both hands up. “I won’t touch you without permission. And I’ll walk you through every new thing I’m about to do, okay?”
I nod.
I ease myself onto the floor, right between his legs. I sit cross-legged, with both hands grabbing onto my ankles, motionless. So many feelings whiz through me.
“You comfy?” he asks.
I nod again.
“I see one comb and one pair of scissors… but I hope you know this is a team effort, right?”
I laugh and my body relaxes. “You’re such a smart-ass. Pass me the scissors… and a Kit Kat out the bag.” My heart is about to pump through my chest as I anticipate his touch, and I realize I’m practically not breathing. He starts by taking the scissors and cutting the ends on a few of the braids before he passes me the scissors. “Don’t cut my hair!”
“You ain’t got nothing to worry about, Danielle. I can see them ends poking out these old-ass braids.”
I playfully snatch the scissors out of his hand. With his fingers, he unravels a braid with precision, detangling along the way and dropping the extension in the plastic bag before moving onto the next braid.
My body buzzes… almost hums, and I feel like he can probably hear it, feel it. The stir of his steady breathing makes me shudder as he draws near while the braid unravels at the root. The only touch I feel from him is his hand gently grazing my scalp while he slides the rest of the fake braiding hair off my natural mane. I let myself sink back a little. Getting closer.
He doesn’t smell like cologne, like all the rest of the guys my age doing the most, but rather a fresh and crisp scent, like someone who’s fresh out the shower, their body-wash scent seeping through their pores.
A silence stretches between us as we continue to work.
I open and close my mouth, questions bubbling up, but then I swallow them down again.
He handles every braid with care, is really efficient and just like he promised, and he’s made almost zero effort to touch me. I turn the television on low for some ambient noise.
“I take it that vinyl player works?” Prince says. “Probably better company than the terrible-ass news.”
“It does.” I look up at him. “You want to play something for us, Mr. DJ?”
That dimple flashes.
“Actually, I think I might. Watch my legs.” I move out the way so that he’s able to get up and check out my parents’ collection. “Let me show you something, young lady.” He imitates his best old-man voice and I smirk, shaking my head at his goofiness.
And just like that, I’ve lost him. He’s already on the floor, pulling out each vinyl, admiring the artwork and scrolling down the track list. He’s studying the music like my grandmother studies the Bible: deeply, enthusiastically, and dutifully. I continue to take out my braids and stare at his warm undertone popping out of his rich, espresso-colored skin, his fade looking extra tight. Prince may have looked like he made very little effort with his outfit choice, but he absolutely went to the barbershop for our date.
He pulls out the Love Jones vinyl next. “Who’s the romance fanatic in your house?”
I point to the ceiling, rolling my eyes. “My mom. She has like every Black rom-com ever created.”
“She’s got the good soundtracks. This one, Waiting to Exhale, Brown Sugar… like they all got s
“I just love good movie soundtracks,” he says. “The way they curate the artists, the mood they want to evoke, it’s the best.”
“Have you ever had a vinyl player?” I ask.
“Oh yeah, I’ve had one since I was little… well, a turntable, at least. My uncle bought me one the minute I showed an interest in music, and he wanted to set me up to be his little protégé,” he replies, still vibing. “It’s like a requirement to be a good DJ. But I also just like looking at people’s music collections. It’s kind of hard to do, since everyone has music on their phones.”
“Sorry, I assumed because you were so excited to listen that this was a treat for you. But I guess that’s how I feel when I’m checking out someone’s bookshelves.”
He focuses back on me. “Yeah, I could tell in the library.” I look away, guilt-ridden. “Danielle, don’t trip. You—”
“Hello!” My mom walks downstairs with a plate of food.
Did she really just fry up some wings real quick?
I flash her a look, and she shoots one back.
“I thought you two might be hungry, so I made these appetizers. Oh! You’re listening to Love Jones.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Prince replies. “You’ve got quite the collection here.”
My mother beams. “Dani’s father is the reader, but I’m definitely the music fiend in the family. I guess being born and raised in the Motor City, it’s in my blood.”
“Same,” he replies. “My uncle is DJ Romes, so I knew lyrics before I knew how to walk.”
My mom looks confused. “Waaaiit, are you DJ LoveJones?”
He smiles and shrugs, his hands still in his pockets. “Yeah. I mean, yes, ma’am.”
“Oh my god! I’ve been following your uncle for years. I used to listen to him every evening on my drive home from work! I was so bummed when they moved to late night and put a younger host in his spot.” My mom is doing the most right now. “I knew your voice sounded familiar, but I didn’t know you were so young! I mean… you give such good advice for someone who’s in high school. And you have your own show?”
“Well, it’s only an hour… DJ Mike is really the rush hour host.”
“Only! That’s like prime time. All of Detroit knows you now.”
Prince smirks. “Everyone but your daughter.”
I’m over this, so I cut in. “We should eat these wings before they get cold.”
“Oh, you’re right! Make sure to wash your hands before you eat up.”
“Absolutely,” Prince says. He’s practically salivating, even though he’s already punished two candy bars and a bag of chips. Like, where does it even go? It’s clear Prince is ready to dig in, so I point him in the direction of the bathroom and he bolts around the corner.
“Mom,” I whisper, “where did those even come from?”
She moves closer to me and puts the platter down on the side table.
“I ran to the store to grab a bag of wings. I knew if I asked for him to stay for dinner you would have killed me,” she replies in a hushed tone. “But I couldn’t let this boy go hungry in my house. Plus, I wanted a reason to check in.” No shame. “How’s it going?”
“It’s fine,” I mumble, questioning whether this was a good idea after seeing my reflection in the TV and realizing half my hair is all over the place. I cringe and quickly attempt to braid the exposed hair and wrap it in a ponytail holder. “How crazy do I look?”
“You look beautiful, doll,” she replies, coming over to re-plait my hair. I know my mom is lying, but still, I’m thankful for the confidence booster and for making sure I’m looking right. She finishes up just as Prince walks out the bathroom.
I make my way to the bathroom and keep the door open, attempting to make sure my mom doesn’t embarrass me, but I can’t hear much but giggling from her, and when I come back into the common area, I find Prince extra animated with a wing in his hand, and my mom cozy on the couch like she’s about to watch a movie, fully into whatever story he’s telling. I clear my throat and she pops right up.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I got a little comfortable,” Mom says.
“Thank you again, Mrs. Ford,” Prince says, wiping his bone clean.
“Of course,” my mom replies, touching his shoulder as she walks upstairs. “Holla if you need anything.” She gives me a wink and is finally out of our hair.
Prince wipes his hands with a napkin. “Your mom is adorable.” He sits back down and holds out his hand to help me position myself on the floor. As I settle back in, I instinctively rest my arm on his leg and quickly remove it. “You—you can keep it there if you want. I need you to turn your head anyway.”
I slowly lift my arm back up to his thigh, using it as an armrest. My insides are tingling all over.
“What’s your favorite song on this soundtrack?” he asks.
I don’t even hesitate. “That’s easy. ‘The Sweetest Thing.’”
“Aah, Lauryn Hill. She absolutely seems like your style.”
“Yeah,” I say wistfully. “I wish I was born around the time she was making music.”
“From what I heard she never came out to her concerts on time—”
“Ow!” I yelp, wincing as I give him the death stare.
He smiles at me. “Is Danielle tender-headed?”
I pout as I turn back around. “Maybe a little, just up top.” It’s a cruel joke, really, for me to have all this hair and not be able to handle it getting combed.
“Should have told me. I would have been more careful. Here,” he says, taking his time with each strand and delicately loosening up the knot.
“You were doing so well up until this point,” I grumble, my head still throbbing.
“Well, my mom is also a little tender-headed, so I guess I’m naturally gentle. But every once in a while I mess it up.” Duke Ellington’s piano fills the air, with a tenor saxophone not far behind. “Now this. This is my favorite song on this soundtrack. It’s so smooth.”
I smirk. “I didn’t take you for a jazz person.”
He palms my head like a basketball and turns it toward him. “Why not?”
I slap his hand with my comb. “What happened to asking for permission?”
“You came for my music taste,” he replies, shaking his hand in pain, “but you’re right. I deserved that.” He looks at me two seconds too long, and maybe it’s the song, but suddenly I do feel like I’m in a sentimental mood.
“Well, Mr. Jones. Why do you like this song so much?” I ask, not taking my eyes off him. He fidgets, then clears his throat.
“Well,” he says, “it’s the perfect collaboration. You have two iconic musicians who find a way to play into their strengths, without overpowering each other, and create a sound that’s sultry, that’s soothing… that takes you to a beautiful place and yet, so expertly crafted. It doesn’t matter that this song came out before our lifetime. It’s timeless.” I nod, at a loss for words but fully understanding what he means. “Where does it take you, Ms. Ford?”
“It takes me to a place in the near future, maybe right after I graduate from college and get my MFA.”
“What’s that?” he asks inquisitively.
“Oh, master of fine arts in creative writing.”
His brain seems like it’s processing for a second, and then it clicks. “So, an author, huh?” I nod. “That’s why you were in the library, looking like you just won the lotto. Where do you wanna go to school?”
“New York City.”
“Of course,” he responds, cutting the ends of one of my braids. “It seems like that’s where all the creatives go. What type of books do you want to write? Like rom-coms and shit?”
I laugh. “Nooo. No shade to those who do it. But it’s just not me. I wanna write about stuff that matters.”
“You think love doesn’t matter?”
“I didn’t say that. I just…” I’m stumped. “It’s not that I don’t think love is real. I mean, my parents are a good example of that. It’s just… I don’t know. I don’t buy it right now. I don’t see myself falling for any guy our age.” Prince huffs while unraveling a braid. “No offense,” I say.
“None taken,” he responds. “Okay, Danielle the author, set a scene for me. What does your life in New York look like?”
I smile. “I’m walking down the streets of New York City. The city’s alive with lights as I’m leaving my first book event, but I feel so… free. Like everything is falling into place. Like everything feels right.”
“I feel that,” he says, and bites his lip. I quickly realize I’m blushing and look away, suddenly feeling weird that I’m even allowing this attraction to pull me in.
Suddenly feeling regret.
“Why are you here, Prince?”
“What do you mean? I told you upstairs. To spend time with you.”
“But like, what’s the ultimate goal here?” I ask.
“To get to know you.” He pauses. “And who knows? You might mess around and fall in love with me.”
ome heat on those.”
He does that thing that I only see in movies. He slowly takes out the vinyl record, lightly blows on it for dust, and carefully releases it on the turntable. He sets the stylus on the black vinyl and lets it play. He stands there for a few moments with his hands in his pockets, like he’s testing the quality, before his head slowly starts to bob to the music.
