Chapter 2: BBQ

It was a beautiful, almost offensively perfect, sunny day. The kind of day that belonged on a postcard, not as the backdrop to the churning mess of my insides. Our small garden was at its mid-summer best; the postage-stamp lawn was a vibrant green, the flower beds along the fences were chaotic bursts of colour from hydrangeas and roses, and the weathered patio was warm under the sun’s glare. The air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass from next door and the promise of charred meat from our own barbecue. Our little slice of suburban perfection.

My eyes found Claire, our only daughter. At twenty, she was a breathtaking echo of my younger self, but amplified. The same generous curves, the same narrow waist. Thank God, her breasts weren’t quite as large as mine. Hers were a very big handful, a perfect, proud set that I hoped would stay exactly that way, without ballooning into the unmanageable territory mine had occupied for decades. She wore her body with an easy, unapologetic confidence that I both envied and admired. She’d brought home a parade of partners over the years – boys with skateboards, girls with nose rings, a quiet bookish poet – and we’d welcomed them all. I’d made sure she was on the pill at sixteen, a practical conversation that felt a world away from the emotional turmoil of today. Doing her laundry was an education in itself, a silent, intimate confirmation of a healthy, active life that I was glad she had. Cliff was her first Black boyfriend. When she’d first brought him home, Chris and I had been surprised, but not in a negative way; he was polite, charming, and clearly adored her. It didn’t bother us in the slightest. Of course, I knew Chris was secretly ecstatic. The pervert.

There they were now, Claire and Cliff, crammed together on a single sun lounger designed for one, a tangle of limbs and quiet laughter. Cliff’s dark, muscular arm was draped possessively over her, his fingers occasionally dipping under the strap of her bikini top, while Claire’s hand rested high on his thigh, her thumb tracing idle patterns. They were in their own world.

My gaze shifted to the far end of the garden. At six-foot-one, Chris was a tall, lean figure, his muscular frame honed by the running we did together. Or rather, the running he did. I mostly just tried to keep up, a task made nearly impossible by the watermelons I was carrying on my chest, which no sports bra known to science could ever truly contain. Standing beside him, looking up at him while he flipped a burger, was Trent. The contrast was almost comical. My tall, fit husband, all clean lines and healthy vigour, and this short, soft, slovenly man. A plume of smoke rose around them, and even from this distance, I could see the smug, knowing grin plastered on Chris’s face as he chatted with Cliff’s father. He was enjoying this, the little shit.

I watched Trent laugh at something Chris said, then he turned and started walking towards the patio table. My stomach clenched. Seeking refuge, I made my way to the table and the relative safety of a solid chair. I sank down onto the cushioned seat, the plastic warm against the back of my legs. I just needed a moment to breathe, to feel normal.

The moment was shattered by the creak of the plastic chair beside me. I didn’t need to look. I could feel the shift in the air, the sheer presence of him. Trent hadn’t taken the chair opposite me, which would have been polite, or the one with a space between us. No, he took the one right beside me. So close our elbows were almost touching. The faint, musky scent of him – that same blend of stale sweat and something uniquely his – reached me in the warm air, cutting through the sweetness of the flowers. His soft bulk pressed against the edge of the chair’s territory, threatening to spill into mine. I kept my eyes fixed on my daughter, a desperate anchor in a suddenly turbulent sea.

“Lovely day for it,” his voice rumbled beside me, a low, gravelly sound that seemed to vibrate through the plastic of my chair.

“Mmm,” I managed, my eyes still locked on Chris, who was now expertly flipping a row of sausages. I prayed he would look over, that he would see the discomfort on my face and call me over for some made-up reason. He didn’t. He just grinned at the grill.

I risked a glance towards the sun lounger. Claire had shifted, her head now resting on Cliff’s chest as his fingers idly played with her hair. They looked so content.

“They look good together, your girl and my boy,” Trent said, following my gaze. There was a pause. “Does it bother you? Them being ... you know.”

The question was so unexpected, so boldly stated, that a genuine laugh escaped me. It broke the tension in my chest for a blessed second. I finally turned to look at him, meeting his dark, knowing eyes. “Of course not,” I said, a little more forcefully than intended. “Why on earth would it? Does it bother you?”

He didn’t just laugh; he bellowed. A deep, unrestrained roar that made Chris glance over for a second before turning back to his cooking. “Bother me?” Trent wiped a bead of sweat from his temple with the back of his hand. “No, ma’am. Not at all. I think it’s natural for white women to be drawn to black men.”

I audibly gasped, a sharp intake of air that was pure shock. The audacity of the statement, delivered so casually, was staggering. My mouth opened and closed before I could gather my thoughts, my instinct to snap at him warring with the strange, compelling pull he seemed to exert. “Why?” I finally asked, the word coming out as a breathless whisper. “Why would you think that?”

He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes as he considered his answer. In that moment of silence, I couldn’t help it. My gaze dropped from his face, down the cheap polo shirt stretched taut over his soft, prominent belly, to the worn trousers and scuffed shoes, and back up again. I was quickly, clinically appraising him, trying to find the source of his outrageous confidence, trying to align the slovenly man I saw with the unnerving effect he was having on me.

“Just watch them,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, almost hypnotic tone. He nodded towards the lounger. “Look. Look at where his hand is, resting on her hip. See how dark his skin is against the pale curve of her stomach? And her hand, see it there on his thigh? All that pale, soft skin against his.”

I was looking. I couldn’t not look. He was right, the colour contrast was stark, beautiful even.

“It’s like ... yin and yang,” he continued, his voice a low rumble beside my ear. “One light, one dark. One soft, one hard. It just fits. It’s a perfect balance.”

“That’s a ridiculous oversimplification,” I scoffed, finding a sliver of my usual resolve. The words felt sharp, a small defence against his unnerving influence. “Attraction is about personality, connection, shared values ... not some crude visual contrast. It’s about who they are as people.” I wanted to sound dismissive, to shut him down completely. I turned back to him, ready for his reply.

Trent didn’t flinch. He didn’t get defensive or angry. Instead, a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He let out a soft chuckle, a low rumble of amusement that was somehow worse than an argument would have been.

“Oh, I don’t disagree,” he said smoothly, his voice surprisingly eloquent, losing none of its quiet confidence. “The mind and the heart have their vital part to play, of course. But we’re animals first, Emily. Creatures of instinct. The body often has a wisdom that the conscious mind tries to reason away.” His eyes met mine, and for a beat, the whole world seemed to narrow to the space between us. “That initial spark, that physical ‘knowing’ ... that’s the foundation. It’s chemistry. It’s not about judging one as better than the other, but recognizing a natural polarity. A harmony that feels ... correct, on a level we don’t always have words for.” He gestured with his head towards the young couple, who were now sharing a quiet kiss. “They connect as people, I have no doubt. But that connection is built on a physical truth that neither of them can deny, or would even want to.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. We locked eyes before he suggested I look back at them. My head slowly turned towards them both. We just watched in silence for a few moments, a strange voyeurism from us parents.

He broke the silence asking me if I wanted a drink. A strange request as I was supposed to be the host, I moved to get up but he told me he had it covered and would bring me a lovely Strawberry Daiquiri. I was surprised but decided not to turn the offer down. I was greeted by his profile again as he walked past me. I wasn’t attracted to that, was I, I scoffed internally.

A quick shout across the garden with Chris as to how long it’d all be told me another 10 mins ish. I’d get the rolls ready in 5 then. Trent appeared in front of me, offering a glass of cool, red looking perfection to me. I gladly took it and tried it, while he stood directly in front of me, waiting on my verdict.