No thanks.
I was an avid biker, that rare mix who uses it for both transportation and exercise. I just don’t look the part, forgoing aerodynamic attire for whatever’s clean. I don’t ride for speed. Considering I still use the ten-year-old Schwinn my mom had gotten me for my eighteenth birthday, I can’t. It’s more about taking my time, concentrating on the air blowing on my face like the Big Bad Wolf. More than once I’ve heard some rich white guy laugh as he sped past me on his $2,500 Liv Langma, or seen women in yoga pants give me a look as they slowly drove past in an Uber on their way to spin class, judging way too hard to see the irony of the situation.
Today I tried to let my mind go, but there was too much on it, and coming from so many directions that I felt gridlocked. Desiree being cut off. Being pregnant. Being with a married man. Free, at that. If the baby was his and he knew it, he couldn’t have been happy. His wife definitely wouldn’t have been. Maybe Free really had made sure she would never find out?
It was hard to reconcile the “Uncle Free” I knew as a kid with this person. Our society loved to hold celebrities up to mythic proportions. Believe that because someone could make you cry, make you laugh, make you cheer, they couldn’t possibly be evil. It was why so many were able to get away with so much. And though I was the last person to put any celebrity on a pedestal, I did find myself not wanting to believe it could be true.
Erin had claimed she knew Free’s afternoon workout schedule because she’d once had a “thing” with his trainer. She’d told me about Billy right before insisting she pay for lunch. He and Erin were no longer speaking, but she was adamant that whenever Free was in town, he and Billy would work out at a gym in Midtown. There was never a set time, other than the afternoon. That was usually when Free woke up. My plan was to camp out in the gym lobby from noon until the end of time if need be. I’d promised to let Erin know how it went. I’d let Green know too, even though I still hadn’t reached him.
It’s all good, baby, baby.
I repeated the five simple words as I headed south past the reservoir.
*
Stuart Jones was waiting at the Starbucks across from campus when I finished dropping off my paper with Professor White and letting him know I needed a few days to deal with a death in the family. I’d taken my time on the walk over, just enjoying the familiarity of campus.
He sat at a table for two, the omnipresent black suit again a dead giveaway he didn’t belong. I hesitated, then finally pulled up my big-girl panties. Always one to be prepared, I’d read up on him the night before.
Desiree’s DUI had been his first byline in the News. His previous stories had all been for some small paper in Central Jersey. His coverage of the accident was extensive, and his bosses must’ve liked it because he began popping up consistently afterward, this time with “Staff Writer” under his name. It had changed to “Police Reporter” a year ago.
It made things tricky. And the whole interview made me wary because there was no way I planned to share my suspicions about Desiree’s pregnancy. At least not yet. I’d come with a clear agenda, though now that I saw him, I was rethinking everything. But it was too late to back out.
He stood and spoke as we shook hands. “You okay?”
I gave him a toothless smile, then sat in the chair kitty-corner from him. His phone, notebook, and pen were already on the table along with a cup of coffee. “You want anything?”
I shook my head. “Thanks for meeting me up here.”
“Wasn’t a problem at all. You’re still going to class?”
“Not this week. Just needed to drop off a paper.” My smile stayed tight. Reserved. Both wanting and not wanting to keep up the small talk.
“Don’t you think your professor would have understood if you emailed it? Considering the circumstances…”
I shifted. Now he wanted to turn our interview into a pity party. “It was fine. I needed air.”
“You walked? From the Bronx?” I didn’t know who was more surprised. Him for thinking I walked or me for realizing he’d looked up my address. But then I remembered he’d also found my phone number.
“Biked,” I said.
“Nice. What do you ride?”
“Ten-year-old Schwinn.” I didn’t mention the fancy Liv Langma Mel had sent me. It was still collecting dust in my hallway. I braced, ready for him to mock my Schwinn. Make some joke.
“Classic,” he said. “I like it.”
He picked up his pen but didn’t open his notebook. Just twirled the Uni-ball in his hand like he was the star majorette. “So you don’t go by Pierce…” He let the question linger, as if expecting me to explain why.
“Nope.”
When he realized I wasn’t going to say more, he spoke again. “I need to apologize for trying to flirt when we first met. I didn’t know who you were, what you were going through. Still, it was pretty clear you didn’t want anyone bothering you. And I kept pushing. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
I hadn’t expected that one. But still, I appreciated it. He wasn’t the first guy to try to hit on me when he sensed vulnerability. He was the first to apologize for it, though. “Thank you.” I left it at that.
“So we can start over?” When I nodded, he smiled. And unlike on Wednesday, it seemed genuine. “Appreciate that, just like I appreciate you doing this. I know it’s not easy. And I don’t want you to think I’m trying to trick you. This is not an article about your sister’s death. It’s about her life. I’m sure you’ve seen the chatter online. The comments. The judgment. I want to remind people who Desiree Pierce really was.”
I nodded, not about to thank the person who put my sister’s lowest moment on the front page. I didn’t care how fair he thought his coverage would be.
After a beat, he finally stopped twirling his pen and opened his notebook. “What should I say is your occupation? Grad student studying Nonprofit Management?”
Not sure why he even had posed it as a question. He’d clearly visited my LinkedIn profile, probably had done a full background check like he was renting me an apartment. I just nodded.
“You don’t have any experience yet? Your background is corporate?”
I nodded again. Also on my LinkedIn.
He kept on like we were having an actual conversation. “It’s amazing you made such a big change. Makes my dreams sound selfish as hell. Win a Pulitzer and a National Book Award. I mean, I volunteer, deliver meals for God’s Love We Deliver. But only on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Have since my mother got cancer ten years ago. It’s a great way to spend the holidays.”
That’s when I defrosted. I couldn’t help it. “I’m sorry about your mom. Mine died of breast cancer five years ago.”
“I’m sorry too. Shitty club to be in.”
“The worst. It’s actually why I went back to school. I want to help Black women dealing with breast cancer. Provide resources for them and their families.”
“Yeah, there’s no manual. Wish there had been. I was barely legal when she died.” He put his pen to paper like he was ready to write down every word I said. “But this isn’t an interview about me. Back to Desiree.”