Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
“It’s ancient history,” she says, her tone almost forced in its lightness. “Though I did wonder why you couldn’t even come back to walk for graduation. That day felt kind of incomplete without you there with us.”
“Celine was due right around graduation, and Annette, her mother, couldn’t travel. I didn’t want to risk leaving her . . .them, so I decided I wouldn’t walk. I got my diploma in the mail.”
“Kyle told us you weren’t coming. He seems to be one of the few you’ve kept in touch with.”
“He’s Celine’s godfather, yeah. There are a few from the old crew who are still close.”
“But not me.”
Her words, though brief and simple, demand an explanation. After all these years, even after just one kiss, an explanation.
“There was a group of us American students who hung together. We were all away from home for internships or studying abroad and formed a small kind of expat community. Annette was the only other Black student. She was there from Northwestern interning with a fashion magazine.”
“You don’t have to tell me this.”
“I think I need to. There’s a reason every time we saw each other over the years, though it wasn’t often, that we avoided each other. I don’t know your reason, but let me tell you mine.”
She nods jerkily and fiddles with the gold earring caressing the curve of her neck.
“Annette and I started hanging out. I was in a foreign country. The only brother. Lonely as hell. Horny as fuck.”
I give her a sheepish glance, grateful when she just shoots me a grin and shakes her head. “The fact that men’s dicks develop before their frontal lobe is an anatomical travesty.”
“Agreed.” I blow out a laugh. “I didn’t have my shit under control. Annette was a friend, and we upgraded to friends with benefits. We liked each other. We were cool. No strings.”
I release a heavy sigh, lifting and dropping my shoulders in a shrug.
“Man, when she got pregnant, we were both shocked. We had agreed she’d . . .ya know, not keep it. Not it. Celine. Not keep Celine, but at the last minute, Annette didn’t want to go through with it.”
“How’d you feel at the time?” Niomi asks with that gentle probing I’ve seen on display with many a morning guest.
“If I’m honest? Keeping it a buck? I was kinda pissed initially. I know. That’s not what you say, but I was young and stupid and selfish. I had a plan and this messed up my plan. I was going to spend a year in France working abroad. I was gonna come back to Finley to graduate.”
I search her face, looking for judgment in her eyes. When I don’t find it, I go on.
“That was my knee-jerk response. I didn’t voice it to Annette. I never have. I realized keeping the baby was, of course, even more disruptive for Annette. She was lucky the French magazine was really understanding. She did a whole online diary of her pregnancy, including maternity clothes. Hugely popular. She landed on her feet.”
“And you? Where’d you land?”
“Wherever I could get paid. There was a job waiting for me at the Chicago Tribune, but Annette wanted to stay in France. Her career had exploded there. I wanted to be close to Celine and took a job that allowed me to be based anywhere in the world so I could be to my daughter.”
“Afghanistan.”
“Yeah. I embedded there and . . .well the rest is history I guess. It’s like I got on the road and never quite got off. The irony is that I took that first assignment so I could support my daughter, but it took me away so much now she barely . . .”
I clamp my lips around truths I didn’t intend to share. Not on the stage, of course, but not at all. Not here with Niomi. I’m convinced half of good reporting is listening. People talk if you give them a chance. Niomi’s really good at giving people a chance.
Her lips part like she’s about to ask another question, when the door behind her opens and a tall man walks through. Medium brown complexion. Muscular build. Short twists in his textured hair. He leans down and kisses the top of her head.
“Ni, you ready? We better go.”
My jaw tightens and I grit my teeth. I read that Niomi’s marriage to a television exec ended in divorce a couple of years ago. A woman as beautiful and talented as she is could have her choice of partners. Looks like she has chosen.
“Okay, lemme finish this, Ron.” She smiles up at the man and squeezes the hand resting on her shoulder. When he leaves the room, she turns back to me. “Sorry. We have plans.”
I didn’t even realize that some part of me wondered . . .maybe now. After all these years, maybe us . . .until Ron walked through the door and said nope. When I first started out, I still had all the soft parts youth allows. Huddling with soldiers in deserts, dodging bombs, witnessing the death of innocent children for years obliterated everything soft. In its place I sprouted weeds. Tough, stubborn leaves with roots of cynicism. The last thing I need to be is soft for a woman who was only ever my friend and obviously isn’t available to be more. I paste on a stiff smile. The kind you sign off with on camera even in the midst of a bloody revolution.