Page 26 of Brown Sugar
“Anything green? Or not previously alive?”
“I keep a very structured diet. For physique and performance purposes.”
…and what a physique you have. You’re the size of a damn mountain.
“We’ve got to get you trying some new things,” I say. “When you come to England with me next week, we’re hitting up some Indian restaurants. There are so many good ones in London.”
“You can go there on your off time. I will be there accompanying you as part of my job.”
“And you’ll try some too!”
“Nothing in my job contract dictates I have to sample foods from around the world.”
I fold my arms on the kitchen counter and roll my eyes. “Tommy and Hal forwarded me your resume. It seemed to show you’re pretty well traveled.”
“I am.”
“Then? How have you been to so many countries but have never tried their cuisines? Weren’t you deployed when you were in the military?”
“I was.”
“And? What did you eat?”
“The chicken that was available. And bread. And MREs.”
“What are?—”
“Meals ready to eat. Prepackaged meals that are about as good as canned food. It gets the job done when you’re in the field.”
“But yet you won’t eat parihuela.”
“I ate it. Then it made me cough up fire. So I won’t be doing that again,” he says, moving onto the beef empanadas we’ve ordered.
“You’re different,” I say, shaking my head. “Anybody ever tell you that?”
“I was five-ten before I even reached high school. I’ve heard it many times.”
“Do you come from a tall family?” I’ve forgotten about my food, more interested in hearing more from the man I’ve been spending a large amount of time with over the last few days. “My family’s short. It’s no wonder me and A are.”
“We’re all pretty tall. My mother’s six feet.”
I whistle. “The things I could do if I was that tall. I’d model.”
“You model now, don’t you? What were all those photoshoots today?”
“As a singer. But it’s not the same as high fashion modeling. Do you have any siblings? Sisters? Brothers? Younger? Older? Don’t tell me. You have older sibling energy written all over you.”
Tyson’s tense at any given time. At my question, the tension in his broad body increases. I sense it from where I’m seated ashis shoulders straighten and go stiff. His fist tightens around the fork he’s gripping and his expression shifts.
For a quick second,tormentflickers in and out on his features.
“Younger brother,” he says. “His name was Jax.”
Was? Oh no…
A moment of uncertainty passes between us, where his mind is elsewhere and I feel like an insensitive idiot for probing.
I’m piecing together how I can possibly fix putting my foot in my mouth when he does it for me. He redirects the conversation back onto my family.