“Yeah, I figured you’d like this place.”
I’ve said exactly one sentence to Corey, and I’m already second-guessing it as my mind races ahead, trying to think of the right thing to say next. Then it registers that it’s not my turn to speak again, as if I’ve lost grasp of the basic rules of conversation.
“You look great,” he says, settling into the vinyl booth.
“You too. We sort of match.” We both look down at our blue shirts.
There’s a beat, long enough for me to worry that we’re on the verge of an awkward moment, when he looks up at me, his expression more serious. Another split second is enough for me to panic that he’s going to dive right in and tell me about his STD… or his engagement.
He tilts toward me. “I’m really sorry about your grandma, Rye. She was a great lady.”
“Thank you, I miss her.” I hadn’t steeled myself for this, his concern, for him looking at me like he’s hugging me with his eyes.
“I don’t think she liked me that much. I know she called me White Corey. Which always made me wonder, was there ever a Black Corey?”
This makes me laugh. “There wasn’t.”
“Are you doing okay though? I know how close you two were.” His fingers stroke the back of my hand. I’m not prepared for the current that shoots down from the top of my head and lodges between my legs.
I turn to the neighboring table when I sense someone staring, an older white woman eating alone. There’s a twinge of self-consciousness as Corey’s hand lingers on mine. I fix my face to say, This is none of your business.
This is familiar, all the stares and double takes Corey and I experienced when we were together, especially when he came to visit me in Alabama. Stares that I took to mean, Why’s he with her? even though Corey was somehow completely oblivious to them. Whenever I’d point these things out, he’d say I was imagining it.
“You’re being paranoid. People are staring at you because you’re gorgeous, and they’re staring at me because they’re wondering how a bum like me ended up with a girl like you.” It would have been easier to let myself believe he was right.
I turn back and Corey’s hand is no longer touching mine. I try to work out when that happened and how I could possibly already miss it so much.
“I’m sure she’s one of your adoring fans,” he whispers, having also noticed the woman staring. When he leans over the table, I catch a strong whiff of his absurdly expensive minty aftershave from one of those stores dedicated to the so-called art of shaving. I wonder if it’s the same bottle I bought him for his birthday two years ago. “It was crazy to see you on my TV in New York. I looked up, and there you were, Riley Wilson on CNN. They only showed a short clip of the interview with that kid’s mom—”
Justin, I want to say. His name is Justin.
“But then I went to YouTube and watched the whole thing. So powerful. You’re such a force on camera, Rye. You were born for it.”
“Thanks. That means a lot.” And it did. There it was, the praise from Corey that never failed to validate me in some essential way. I used to hate that—hate the way he made me feel, like it gave him some power over me. But then I realized why I valued his admiration so much—I never had to work for it. With everyone else in my life, I was always tap dancing, always on a stage, always trying to be “impressive”—with teachers, bosses, mentors, even my parents, even with Alex in Joplin. I was always trying to live up to some glossy magazine version of the Black media power couple he wanted us to one day be—I knew we had to break up the fifth time he referenced me as the Michelle to his Barack. Corey was the first person who I didn’t try to impress. In fact, the opposite. If anything, I was going to make it clear to him and myself that I wasn’t going to go out of my way trying to prove anything to him—this random white guy I literally stumbled into—and it turns out, I didn’t have to. Because I also stumbled into the miraculous discovery of being loved without having to put so much effort into striving to feel worthy of it.
Here he is now looking at me like that again. Like he sees me, sees right through me. This is what I was trying to describe to Momma, the feeling I had with Corey, like I had no choice but to let him see the real me. Maybe it’s what we all want from the people we love: to be seen for exactly who we are. It was a simple realization, so why did it feel like such a miracle? But the surprise is how fast the feelings return, like the first drops of blood from a deep cut. The shock of raw white tissue, then the rush of red. All I can do is swallow it all down. It’s as good a plan as I’ve got in the moment.
Corey holds up the giant glossy menu covered in pictures of greasy eggs. “So, first things first, the pressing matter of what to order. What do you want?” Corey asks.
I want you. I want to have sex with you. The thought is unwelcome and impractical, and also clear as the sun is bright. I can feel it—my body betraying me again, the dampness gathering in my underwear as I remember the way Corey used to make me feel, electric with desire, the way I lost all inhibition, saying, thinking, doing, wanting, letting him do things I never could have imagined.
Except touch my hair, at least at first. It’s funny now to think of how it took me at least four sleepovers to get used to that. He liked to grab it as he pushed himself inside of me. It took three more before I was willing to wear my headscarf to bed in front of him.
“What’s that?” he asked the first time, and though I’d known he would, I still cringed and considered all the things I would have to explain to him.
I must be smiling now. “What’s so funny?” Corey grins at me, eager to be in on the joke.
“Nothing,” I mumble into my glass as I take a sip of water to cool off and push my thoughts to safer ground: menu choices.
It’s like old times when we agree to two dishes, steak and eggs and French toast, and share everything. It’s so comfortable it hurts.
“So, how’s Sullivan Rose?” I ask once the waiter disappears.
Corey has been working for the developer since we met; we’d even made a bet—a trip to Puerto Rico—about who would reach their coveted milestone first, Corey to VP or me to anchor.
“Same old, same old. I’m pretty excited about our project here in Philly. We’re looking to invest in one of the opportunity zones on North Broad, build a big mixed-use housing complex, and I had to come check out the site. If the deal goes through, I’ll be down about once a month.”
Corey will be here once a month. Corey will be here once a month. This fact echoes over and over.
Somehow, as we ease into our conversation, I manage to eat, which I didn’t think would be possible. Our plates are still half-full, and I’m stuffed, picking at what’s left. If I stop, then this, whatever this is, will be over—and I’m not ready for this night to be a memory. I have no clue what’s supposed to happen next. It’s clear that neither of us has any idea what we’re doing here.
Corey pushes away his plate and rubs his tight, flat stomach. This is it. We say goodbye and then that’s that. It feels like the last stretch of the race. I only have seconds to close the distance. And yet, I can’t. I don’t know what to do.