“I want to go to the store. Joy’s going to drive me.”

Driving Miss Summer, coming to a theater near you . . . It literally pains Joy to hold that joke in. Summer must have interpreted Joy jumping into the lake to avoid answering her as an enthusiastic Yes!

Malcolm’s smile holds as his gaze slides to Joy for confirmation, but the expression in his eyes is clear. This is not a part of my plan. Fix it.

Joy looks past them toward the door. Fox is there, glowering and watching, baseball hat still pulled down low on his forehead. His arms are crossed as he casually leans against the doorjamb. When his gaze locks with hers, he raises one of his now infamous bushy eyebrows. There’s an easiness to him, an I don’t care vibe, but he’s not fooling her.

He’s waiting for her response too.

Per usual, Malcolm is completely oblivious to how the politics of dating works. He leads with his heart and excessive planning. Strategy beyond that has always been beyond him.

Summer’s birthday cake idea could be nothing more than a search-and-destroy tactic Joy’s seen executed dozens of times because she’s always on the receiving end of it. Malcolm’s partners want to get in good with her to make him happy. Show him, Look, I’m not threatened by her at all. We’re friends.

In this instance, though, there’s a bonus factor.

Malcolm has to be the one to say no to Summer, because if Joy does it? It gives Summer the perfect opportunity to twist it around. She gets to play the innocent white damsel and paint Joy as the angry Black woman who’s mean to her.

A face and stature like Summer’s screams helpless—whether it’s true or not doesn’t matter when everyone in the room is socialized to believe it. And when white people actively use it to their advantage, it could mean automatic game over.

Maybe Summer will. Maybe Summer won’t.

Joy hates having to be aware of ploys like that all the time, constantly speculating about the worst in people to protect herself. That doesn’t make it any less necessary.

All three of them are still watching her, still waiting. She doesn’t feel like being charming but she pushes that aside.

Joy digs deep for this one, inhaling and exhaling with a casual hair flip—and her braids slap her back because they’re still wet, DAMN IT. She rolls her grimace of pain into a convincingly smug smile. “Malcolm.” She keeps her voice low and playful while walking to his side of the counter. “Give me your keys.” A subtle nod toward Summer. A wink. Let me talk to her, she says with her eyes. We need to get to know each other. She holds out her hand, fully expecting him to do as she says.