Code-Switching

Welcome to Chapter 2 of what will be a seven-part series. As Chapter 1 was, this is told from two points of view, and if you're looking just for the raunchy stuff, it starts midway through this installment. If the thought of a romance between a Black man and a white woman somehow creates negative feelings in you, please admit it to yourself and acknowledge this probably isn't the story for you. If none of the above scared you off, then please read on and enjoy!

--

Christina had at least been smart enough two do two things: not wear high heels on a boat and not compound the rolling swells in New York Harbor by drinking to excess.

In contrast, the woman across from her was in Steve Madden stilettos, vodka tonic perched precariously between lacquered fingernails, talking about her husband for what seemed like the fourth consecutive minute without even breathing.

Christina had stopped listening around minute two.

"And who are you here with, dear?"

Only after the

dear

did Christina gather that the question was addressed to her.

"I'm here with my partner, but if you're asking which of us is the lawyer, that's me. I'm a senior associate in the M&A practice."

The woman's face turned the color of Ronald McDonald's hair. It probably hadn't been that shade since she'd forgotten to apply sunscreen a year or two ago in Montauk, Christina supposed.

"But I know Rick quite well," she said, referring to Richard Stevens by his familiar nickname, "Even though we're in different departments. How's Heather doing at Harvard?"

She watched the woman - Philippa Stevens, or "Pip the Squeaky," as Rick sometimes referred to her - try to untangle her shoe-polish black hair while the breeze did its best to counter her efforts.

"She...um, she's taking a break, actually."

"I have an extra hair clip in my purse. Would you like it?" Christina was twisting the knife now. Heather Stevens had failed out of Harvard in spectacular fashion the previous spring, which was also probably the last time that Pip the Squeaky had disturbed her Brazilian blowout with an updo.

"Um...no. No, thank you." The woman was looking around frantically, as if the mostly-empty deck and the distant Statue of Liberty would somehow will her husband into being present. "I actually was thinking of heading to...to the bar, for a refill."

Bless her heart, Christina thought. Philippa had actually had to pause in mid-sentence for a hiccup. And then announced she was going for another drink anyway.

"I think Rick was up by the bow with some of the other litigation partners," she said.

A larger swell hit, and the woman grabbed the rail with her spare hand. She stared at Christina uncomprehendingly.

"That's the front," said Christina.

"Oh," said Philippa Stevens, eyes coming back to New York City in 2022 A.D. "Thank you. It was nice meeting you, Christina."

"Likewise," she said with a smile.

Always smile

, she heard her mother's voice say.

Even if you're doing it instead of screaming.

She turned to the railing, watching the propeller churn the green-gray water. A black, capri-length romper hadn't been the most elegant of choices, but it also meant Christina could stand out here on the stern without the sundress-clad Betties and Philippas of the partner-wives club.

"Who was

she

?"

The voice came from over Christina's right shoulder.

"Philippa Stevens. Rick's wife," Christina responded. "That's what you get after pickling your brain on the shores of Long Island for three decades."

Shira Weiss made a pretend shocked face. "Christina!"

"What?" She shrugged. "It's nothing Rick wouldn't tell you himself if you bothered to open your office door and speak to anyone."

"Says you, honey. When were you last in the office?"

"Today. And when are you going to send me the consolidated markup of the Project Aurora APA?"

"Today." Shira gathered her shoulder-length curls and twisted them into a messy bun. "Windy out here. Happen to have a hair tie?"

"You know damn well I do, lady."

"Then maybe you can hand it over and check your email, wherein you will find a consolidated markup of an asset purchase agreement, ready to go to the client."

Christina flipped the elastic hair tie to her fingers and handed it to her colleague.

"You don't miss much, do you?"

Shira looked at her.

Down

, Christina realized, which was not their normal orientation. "You've been working with me for five years, Chris. You should know by now whether or not I miss much."

"Ouch. Well, I missed those heels that you're somehow able to walk in while on a fucking boat. Jimmy Choo? Also, did you really say 'wherein"?"

"Welcome to this episode of Mid-Level Associate Sasses Senior Associate, wherein our heroine Shira Weiss acknowledges saying 'wherein,' nods appreciatively at her senior associate for a correct ID on her shoes, and points out that she's been practically living in heels due to unfortunately topping out at five feet two inches."

"What else goes on in this episode?"

Shira looked past Christina's shoulder. "Our heroine asks her colleague in a quiet voice if she knows the super-hot guy approaching said colleague from behind."

Christina turned her head just in time to see the man slide into place alongside her.

"Shira, this is my boyfriend Vaughn," she said. "Vaughn, this is Shira Weiss."

--

Vaughn was surprised by the petite woman's firm handshake but not by the broad smile. He'd seen her eyes give him a quick up-and-down as he approached Christina and hoped his own version of the same had gone unnoticed.

"It's nice to put a face to the name," he said. "I'm sorry for all the emails she sends you at ten-thirty at night."

"And I'm sorry for the replies I send at eleven," came the reply from the woman called Shira. It was a never-left-New York diction, the kind that elided "Long Island" into a single word,

LonGisland.

"I hope she doesn't read them out loud or anything. At least, if you're actually intending to stay awake."

"At eleven? I'm two days away from forty. The sounds of that woman typing or the Yankees in extra innings are about all that keeps me awake at eleven these days."

"Oh lord, not another Yankees fan." He saw the petite woman's eyes flick in Christina's direction and felt his girlfriend's hand slide into his.

"I know how to pick 'em, Shira."

"Wait," said Vaughn. "Didn't you say this chick was your friend?"

"She puts up with my flaws," said Christina. "I put up with hers."

"Guys, guys," said Shira. "I'm right here. And I'm from Long Island."

LonGisland.

"I'm allowed to root for the Mets."

"And I'm allowed to chain-smoke unfiltered Marlboros in my free time," said Christina. "Which doesn't make it a smart thing to do, so I don't do it."

"Jerry Seinfeld is a Mets fan," said Shira.

"And Jay-Z is a Yankees guy," replied Vaughn.

"Oh, you mean 50 Cent?" Christina's eyes had a playful glint.

"Huh?" Shira shook her head and looked at Vaughn.

"Inside joke," he replied. "Girl lives in Brooklyn and doesn't know the difference between '99 Problems' and 'Candy Shop.' Sacrilege, right?"

Shira turned to Christina with feigned shock. "Those emails? I'll start sending them at eleven-thirty."

"And I'll start replying to them with voicemails if you do," said Christina. "Remember, honey, I can in fact determine your work assignments."

"Vaughn, if she even thinks about calling me at eleven-thirty to leave a voicemail, can you maybe find something else for her to do?"

Vaughn saw Christina's face turn beet-red, but her mouth lift into a grin.

"My my," he said. "I doubt I could. Like I said, I'm usually asleep by then."

He had to give it to her: the little short-stack white girl sure had some sass on her. And a nice pair of tits that weren't exactly well-hidden by her dress, not that he'd be mentioning the latter point to Christina later in their inevitable debrief.

"Christina plays her cards pretty close to her chest, you know." The short-stack was talking again. "So I know some about you, but all she said about what you do for a living is that it's 'boring as all hell' - that's a quote - and that I should ask you when I meet you."

"I work in finance, dealing primarily with commercial real estate investments. Unless you like the specifics of real estate investment, it's just a game of spreadsheets. And if you've seen one pivot table, you've seen them all."

The woman laughed now, her glance again checking Christina's reaction.

"So yes," concluded Vaughn, "what she said about my job being boring as all hell was in fact true."

"But I suspect the partners inside the warm cabin drinking their faces off didn't mind hearing about it."

"They did not," he confirmed. "One sentence out of my mouth and the whole room be like '

Prospective client. One o'clock. Three miles an hour and closing fast. Steady as she goes. Ready the email.'

"

It was Christina's turn to laugh, a sound that brought instant relaxation to Vaughn. At least she wasn't sweating this conversation.

"See, he has flaws, too," she said. "Boring job, terrible impersonations of our bosses. On and on." She looked up at him. "Where were you, anyway? Being professionally flirted with by old men that whole time?"

"That and the bar," he replied. "And then looking at the skyline while taking my time getting back here."

There was something about the nighttime Manhattan skyline that had always appealed to Vaughn. It was like an illuminated beehive, irregularities smoothed out by dark edges and its million twinkling lights. Seen from off the Battery, it flickered and twinkled like the whole damn thing was one giant ship preparing to set sail.

"Speaking of the bar," he heard Christina say, "it's probably late enough for me to break the glass on my sobriety tonight. Shira?"

"I'll stay here. Better outside than in."

"I asked what you wanted to drink, not whether you were coming."

Vaughn chuckled. "I'll get the drinks, ladies, at peril of being on the receiving end of sales pitches. Ms. Weiss, what will it be?"

"White wine, please."

Christina blinked at him, placed her palm on his chest, and winked, but spoke in Shira's direction.

"Baby, you know

exactly

what I like," she said, letting her Tennessee drawl surface and turn the final two syllables into a syrupy-smooth

Ah lahk.

--

"So, that's Vaughn," Christina said.

"Keeper," was Shira's one-word reply.

"Oh?"

"Keeper," the petite woman repeated. "And if you don't want to, I have about five friends who'd be interested, so...um, yeah."

Christina felt a blush cross her face. "Anything besides the looks, or are you really that shallow, Miss Weiss?"

"Looks? Fuck that, Chris. That man's voice should be reading every ad you hear on the radio. Plus half the voiceovers for male leads in cartoons."

"You've got a point there." There were times when Christina would close her eyes just listen to her partner's sonorous baritone, almost indifferent to the specific syllables. Talking, singing, it hardly made a difference.

"Plus he's funny, plus he's a good dresser. Plus the way he looks at you."

"The way he looks at me?"

"He looks at you like he's a wine collector and you're the most expensive, rare vintage imaginable, and he has no idea whether to pick you up and spin you around and tell you you're the nicest bottle of wine he could have ever imagined or to just pop the cork and drink the fuck out of you right then and there."

The boat rolled slightly and Christina caught the railing for balance. She saw Shira do the same, followed by a powerful wince.

"You okay?"

"Fine," said Shira, clearly otherwise.

"Sure?"

"Yes. Want the over-shared version, noseypants?"

"I don't see why not. Not like anyone is going to overhear us, right?"

Christina looked up, at the lights all around the boat; at the skyline of Manhattan; at Brooklyn and New Jersey in opposite directions. Around the deck, the vague cacophony from the party room inside competing with the engine's steady rumble. In a city of millions and on a boat with dozens, there was not a single person who could hear them.

"Fine," said Shira, voice turning to her matter-of-fact business voice. "I got my nipples pierced a few weeks ago and one of them caught on my bra just now."

If Christina had had a drink, she would've spit it out.

"Well, that wasn't the response I expected!"

Christina didn't mean for her eyes to drift downward, but they did.

Shira sighed. "You can ask. We're firmly out of the realm of appropriate workplace topics, anyway, and I can tell you're wondering. So go ahead."

"Fine. Are they...fun?"

"They are. Aside from catching on a bra because I forgot that lace is not your friend with barbells, yes. Christian is a rather big fan."

"Speaking of, when do I get to meet this gentleman?"

"Pretty soon, I'd imagine. He said he was just going to the bathroom. But, knowing Christian, he's probably in there lost in conversation with someone from law school or some shit."

"Well, fine. We can just stand here talking about men, or..."

"Or what, mark up a document for some billion-dollar fund? Come on, Chris. We're attending-without-attending a work event. This is like sneaking out when you're already grounded."

A man was approaching them, this time along the railing behind Shira. Six feet or so, lean. Dark suit, no tie, white shirt.

"Hi," he said while extending his right hand to Christina and placing his left on the small of Shira's back. "I'm Christian White."

Christina felt a slight skip in her chest.

This

was the guy Shira casually mentioned in conversation as "Chris the Litigation Drone?"

"Guy Chris, meet girl Chris. Girl Chris, this is my boyfriend. Boyfriend, this is one of my bosses."

"Nice to meet you," said Shira's boyfriend.

"You as well. I understand you work down the street from us?"

"Ah, yeah. She told me not to talk about being the competition. But yeah. High floors at a big ugly building across from what passes for a park that far down in Manhattan."

High cheekbones, wide nose bridge, beautifully shaved head in a nice caramel tone. Firm handshake but not an aggressive palm-crusher. Smiling. She shot Shira a look.

"Oh, I know the firm," Christina said. "Better hours than most places in New York, good bonuses, no chance of advancement."

"You got it," said Christian. "And famous for a wayward summer associate party involving a boat."

"Aquagirl," said Christina, nodding.

"Aquagirl," he said.

"Aquagirl?" replied Shira.

"Aquagirl was the nickname for an unfortunately over-served summer associate at my firm maybe fifteen years ago. There was a party on one of these boats at Chelsea Piers. She ended up peeling off her dress and jumping into the Hudson in her underwear."

"And getting fished out by the cops," added Christina.

"Indeed," said the besuited litigator. "So next time Shira tells you my workplace is anti-fun, know that there's a reason for it."

"I do not -"

"Ah, Miss Weiss, but you did," he replied. His eyes turned to Christina. "Get this. I'd been trying to get her attention for like two years during law school. Girl wouldn't give me the time of day. I hit up this reunion - I mean, it's NYU Law, it's a lot of people, even in the shadow of COVID - and she walks right up. For some reason the alumni association printed our nametags with our name and our employer's name, like somehow those are the two things that anyone absolutely must know about us. Shira here looks at the law firm name on my tag and says 'Hm, but aren't they anti-fun?'"

"It wasn't the best pick-up line," said Shira, face reddening. "But in my defense, it wasn't intended as one."

Christina spotted her own man approaching in her peripheral vision and the immediate distraction it caused both Shira and Christian. "Wait, wait," she said. "How the hell did that end up with you two getting together?"

"I just said they make exceptions," replied Christian.

"And I did give him the time of day that night," said Shira. "Plus a whole lot more."

Christina saw Christian shake his head in mock disappointment, but it didn't hide the smile that went all the way to his eyes.

--

Vaughn clocked the dude standing with Tina and Shira right away. Familiar, but couldn't place him. No matter; that's what socially-adept people like Christina Waverley, Esq. were good at smoothing over.

He handed Shira an over-filled goblet. "Chardonnay, which was the only thing they offered me as to white wines."

"Thank you, sir," she said. "I wasn't supposing they'd have much of a wine list on a boat, after all."

"You're welcome." He extended his hand to Christina, who plucked a tumbler with cappuccino-colored liquid from it.

"Impressive," she said. "I was wondering how you'd carry three drinks in glasses."

He quickly sipped cognac from his own glass, again trying to place the man standing next to Shira.

"Sorry," Christina said. "I should have introduced you two. Christian, this is my boyfriend Vaughn Ashford. Vaughn, Christian White."

The man nodded to Vaughn as mutual recognition set in. He felt a distant memory return, warm but also bittersweet.

"I didn't recognize you without the helmet," said Christian White. He was smaller than Vaughn remembered, although everyone looks smaller without full football pads. Of course, it had been more than fifteen years. They went for something halfway between a handshake and a hug. "Damn, man, I think the last time I saw you, you damn near killed me."

"Wait, wait," he heard Christina say. "You guys already know each other?"

Both men laughed.

"Yeah, like he said, I damn near killed the man. My second-to-last football game ever, actually. We're down at Florida. Hell of a place to play. They're up something like twenty-four points already. We're in cover-two..."

"Sweetie," interjected Christina, "Do you have any idea what cover-two is?"

"I think," Shira responded, "It's either something to do with making a bed, or it's some football thing."

"It's a defense," said Christian, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Means safeties like my man Trevon here can sit way back, wait for the dumb fuck of a QB - pardon my French - to lob the ball over the linebackers, and then proceed to decapitate innocent receivers like me. Which he nearly did."

"Ah, man, I didn't even get a penalty for that."

"Truth, and back then that was a clean hit."

"Yeah, but bro? I assure you, I ain't feel good about it." Vaughn felt Christina's eyes swing to him. This was football, the world he'd consciously left behind, almost never thought about, and even more rarely talked about.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Why would I feel good about it? I was already halfway out the door. Life after football, you know. What were you, a redshirt freshman?"

"Sophomore."

"Yeah, and you had legit NFL skills. I didn't want to mess with a dude's career, with his living. Man, when your helmet went flying..." Vaughn shook his head. It was like it was yesterday. The man before him, younger then, rolling around on impossibly green Florida grass, legs curled up under him, crowd noise slamming to a stunned silence. His teammates starting to celebrate.

"I remember what you did after the play. 'Bout all I remember for fifteen minutes on either side, but I remember. I been hit a thousand times since. Never that hard. And no NFL safety ever,

ever

crouched down next to me and helped me sit up. Not even in practice when the hitting got too rough."

Vaughn noticed the women exchange a glance but couldn't read it.

"I'm glad you were okay, man. Seriously."

"Ha, me too. Seriously."

"Ladies, we're boring you." Vaughn meant it as a statement rather than a question.