Dating a white man—marrying one, if it came to that—felt disloyal. I always thought I should end up with a fine upstanding brother, build up the community, have two beautiful brown-skinned children who would be a credit as well, advance their race, the cause. Not with this white guy who played lacrosse in high school, went to Williams, and came from money to boot. Sometimes, as I lay beside him in bed, his pale body against mine, one word would float through my mind: “sellout.” I swore I saw the same word floating like a cartoon bubble above Gigi’s head when he visited that weekend. She was perfectly polite to Corey, but as soon as he was out of earshot, she couldn’t help reminding me, “He’s never going to get you, and you won’t get him. Why add more heartache to your plate? The world is hard enough as it is. Find one of your own.”
The entire time he was with my family, I was preoccupied, wondering what it would be like to meet Corey’s parents, Steve and Catharine, an environmental lawyer and a landscape architect from Connecticut. All the energy it would take to make sure they understood that I was one of the good ones. All the condescending comments I might have to ignore, the fear that they’d be one way to my face and another behind my back. It was enough to make me want to avoid the whole thing altogether.
I brought it up once after we’d been dating a few months, after trying out the question in my mind for weeks. “What will your parents think of you dating someone… like me?” In the versions I rehearsed, I’d said, “a Black girl.”
“My dad is gonna be pissed.” He paused for too long, long enough for me to get up off the couch. He grabbed my hand and pulled me back down, grinning. “I’ve never brought a Sixers fan home. Seriously, though, my parents are cool, Rye. They’re gonna love you.”
But what did “cool” mean exactly? Would his mom pull me into a hug and call me “girl”？ Would they start talking about how they were die-hard Obama supporters, or gush about how “impressive” I was, or proudly tell me they’d just finished the new Ta-Nehisi Coates?
I’d never find out. I’d always have to wonder how “cool” Corey’s parents were, because time ran out for us before I ever met them.
I finish the vodka, and force myself to remember the end of our story. The text:
We’re not right for each other. I’m sorry.
If only I could call Jen so we could read his email together over the phone. She’d be able to come up with a plan, craft the best response. When Corey and I first started dating, she was my Cyrano de Bergerac, composing all my text messages so they hit the perfect tone, funny or witty or sexy. I sometimes wonder if Corey actually fell in love with me or with her texts. She even convinced me to send a selfie once, insisting I wear an over-the-top bright-red push-up bra, even though the thought of my boobs traveling through cyberspace and landing on his phone had me nauseous with mortification.
Jen styled the cleavage shot, helped me find the right angle, scooping my left boob up a little, tightening my bra straps, even running a swipe of bronzer across my collarbone. After about twenty-three takes, the photo was ready to send. We both waited, equally nervous for the reply. Minutes later Corey wrote back:
Oh, shit. I forwarded that to my mom.
Seconds later, another text.
Kidding. You should be on a runway.
But I can’t call Jen, because we’re in this weird unspoken standoff and also because I have a secret about her husband and I can’t talk to her as long as this stone is in my stomach.
I need to read this email and get it over with. My fingers quiver as I tap and swipe until it’s right there. I skim the message, frantically scanning for terrifying words like “pregnant,” “married,” or “dying,” and take in its length—which is short. I skip to the end to see how he signed it. Just “Corey.” No “love.” Then, finally, I return to the beginning and read each word, slowly this time, to make it last. He writes that he saw on my Facebook page that my grandmother passed away. So this is a condolence note. Nice, though disappointing. His tone is polite, like he’s an old professor or colleague, not someone who’s seen every inch of me naked. I read on, moderating my expectations. He writes how sorry he is. He writes that he knows I’ve moved back to Philadelphia and that he saw my interview with Tamara. “So powerful!” Corey doesn’t use exclamation marks lightly, so I read that part twice. Then he says that he’ll be in town next month, coming from New York for a work trip.
Finally, the last line, and when I get to it, a swarm of moths takes flight behind my rib cage. It’s been a long time. Can I see you when I’m in town?
I’m about to go out on the balcony, as if fleeing from the question, but take a detour through the kitchen instead. I dig into the far recesses of the freezer, where I know there’s an ancient pack of Parliaments hidden behind a stack of frozen pizzas. I found them in a box of lightbulbs and batteries when I moved in. I should have thrown the nasty things away. I hid them here in case of an emergency. I’ve never been a real smoker, but I learned on my first job in Joplin that most people in the news business are, and if I wanted one-on-one time with my producer, I’d better start. Gaby clowned me big-time when she first saw me with a cigarette. “Black girls don’t smoke.” Like it was a fact.
“Well, we also don’t listen to Ani DiFranco or Taylor Swift, and I have whole albums on my phone,” I said.
“Who the hell is Ani DiFranco?” Gaby said, grabbing my cigarette and taking a big inhale that ended in a spasm of violent coughs. “Girl, this is disgusting. I just killed a lung.”
“You smoke weed, Gaby,” I reminded her.
“That’s different. I’m Jamaican, my genes are built for that.”
And now I miss Gaby and want to call her, but she was always skeptical of Corey. She dated one white guy our freshman year, whose family had a house in Jamaica for forever and who’d once “joked” that it would be funny if his ancestors had owned her ancestors at some point. And she “joked” that it would be funny if she poured her red wine on him and then she did. Gaby had said it was “maybe for the best” when I’d called to tell her it was over with Corey. So I’m not going to call her. Not yet. Not till I’m ready for her to tell me what a bad idea it would be to write him back.
When I step out on the balcony, my bare arms erupt in goose bumps in the cold.
Can I see you? Can I see you?
Why now? I agonize over the question as I flick the rusted wheel of a lighter I found in the junk drawer. The first inhale tastes like heaven. I regret the decision by the second, and I’m nauseous by the third.
My balcony is so tiny, if I spread my arms, I can touch both walls on either side. After I first moved in, I happened by a garage sale on one of my runs and found a cute little wicker chair and a matching side table that fit just right. I was so focused on the thrill of having a balcony with a view of Center City, giddy about my triumphant return, the chair felt like a victory. Now, when I look at it, the pathetic single chair, loneliness hits me with such force it’s a minute before I remember to breathe. I smash the cigarette out on the iron railing and flee back inside, into the warm air. I go straight for my phone to reread Corey’s email. Instead, my in-box opens to the last one from Jen, the one I never responded to.