The relief is almost physical when he says, “Hey, how about we go somewhere else? Can I buy you a real drink? So we can talk?”
I know just the spot, a dark, intimate lounge near my house. Whenever I walk by after work, I ogle the sleek couples cuddled on velvet lounge chairs in front of the steamed-up windows, like they’re mannequins arranged just so. I’m about to suggest it, it’s on the tip of my tongue, when I suddenly say something else entirely.
“How about my place? I have a bottle of Maker’s.” This wasn’t an accident. I’d gone to buy Corey’s favorite bourbon, just in case. He answers right away, yet it’s enough of a pause to send my heart skipping.
“Sure, that sounds good.”
The whole Uber ride to my apartment, I’m hyperconscious of his body next to mine. Am I sitting too close? Too far? I imagine him walking through my place, looking at the photos I’ve finally hung, touching my things. I hope he’ll be impressed.
As soon as we get in the door, I busy myself making drinks and try not to feel self-conscious and exposed as Corey wanders around, exploring every corner.
“What’s this?” he calls out, standing at the fireplace mantel.
I peek around the kitchen island to see that he’s holding the jar of dirt from Alabama. “Uh, long story.” I don’t want the outside world, or the past, to intrude on this moment.
He sets it down, picks up the photo Jen gave me of the two of us when I moved in. Two little girls in matching bikinis. “You guys were so cute.” And then he makes his way to the balcony, taking in the city views through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He does seem impressed, at least with the view. When I’m done making the drinks, I turn, icy glass in each hand, and there he is, settled right on my couch like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like he belongs there. I walk over and take a seat right by his side, like I belong there too. It’s too quiet in the apartment, only the clinking of ice in our glasses. It’s too quiet, so I flip on the TV. The Flyers game fills the screen.
“Remember when I took you to that game in Chicago?”
“How could I forget? It’s the only hockey game I’ve been to in my entire life,” I say, and allow myself to enjoy the memory. We decided to meet in Chicago, where we first met, to celebrate our one-year anniversary. Corey surprised me with Blackhawks/Flyers tickets that weekend—the playoffs. I could tell he was disappointed that I wasn’t more excited, since they were incredibly hard seats to come by, but hockey is like NASCAR, not too many brown faces in the stands.
Turns out, the game was a lot of fun, but then we were in that giddy phase where a waterless trek through the desert would have been a good time.
After the game, Corey gave me a piece of paper, not the gift I was expecting. He’d stuttered as he handed it to me. “It’s, it’s lame…” On the paper, Corey had listed “12 Reasons I Love You.”
“It’s one for each month we’ve been together,” he piped in as I read, still clearly worried this might be a dumb idea. It wasn’t dumb or lame, it was perfect. If he walked into my bedroom right now, he’d find the list tucked away in a box under my bed, with my birth certificate and diploma, a flash drive with a recording of my first broadcast and my resignation letter from Birmingham. I pull the paper out sometimes—just to touch it, because I have the list memorized. Reason #3: The way you always wear socks because you hate your long toes （for the record, even your toes are beautiful）。 Reason #6: How you worry so much about everyone you love and how you work so hard to make everything better and easier for them. Reason #11: You give the best advice and you always make it seem like it was my idea in the first place. Reason #4: The way you’re always reorganizing my wallet and figuring out the best strategies to get more airline points. Reason #8: You have an adorable snore like a newborn puppy.
That night was the first time I was brave enough to tell Corey that I loved him, to say the words aloud, even though it had been months since I’d realized the depth of my feelings, growing wild, out of control, until they had become a central fact of my life. And the truth was, I hated being out of control, the nights I spent thinking about him, missing him instead of focusing on my work, hated that I’d let myself become someone who could get their heart broken. I hated it all, and what I wouldn’t trade for it now.
“You know why they’re called the Flyers?” Corey asks.
“Absolutely no idea.”
“No reason at all! The first owner’s wife just liked the word. Isn’t that ridiculous?”
There it is, Corey’s love for random facts. Another thing that always made me crazy about him. The small talk and the way his foot is bobbing up and down tells me that he’s nervous too. Sitting here on my couch with drinks, the catching up part of the evening has its course, a fog of anticipation hovers around us. It’s clear something is going to happen, but what?
“So…” He looks at me with a sort of confused smile.
“So,” I repeat. It’s all I’ve got.
“So, this last year has been hard, since you… disappeared on me. No explanation, no nothing. I keep asking myself, What did I do wrong? What went wrong? I just need to know what happened, Riley. I thought things were great between us. Weren’t they? Did I imagine that? I just don’t get it.”
I can see how much this is costing him; his hands are trembling enough that the ice clinks around in his glass.
He’s right, I do owe him. An explanation, if not so much more. I’d known this was the night I was going to tell him everything, explain what happened. Now that the moment is finally here, my mouth is too dry. I down the rest of my drink. It doesn’t help. He speaks again before I have the chance. He doesn’t realize I’m not dodging, only preparing myself.
“You were coming to see me in New York. And then, nothing. What happened?”
I so clearly remember packing for that trip. I’d bought a silk kimono dress after Corey told me he’d made us reservations at Nobu. I’d also dropped two hundred bucks I couldn’t afford on a lingerie set at a store in downtown Birmingham called the Diva’s Den. I folded the delicate lace bra and underwear so carefully in my bag. Corey had recently moved into a new two-bedroom apartment that I was going to see for the first time.
“I was just about to leave my apartment to go to the airport and my mom called. She was hysterical. She told me they got Shaun.”
“Who got him?”
“The cops. He was driving home from a boxing gym in Fishtown with three guys he knew from high school. The driver, Lamar Chambers, who my mother always called ‘plain trouble,’ got pulled over on North Fifth. He’d given the cop some lip about stopping him, said it was because they were ‘driving while Black,’ and that it was ‘bullshit.’ The cops ordered everyone out of the car, told them to get down on their knees in a row on the sidewalk while they searched it. Turns out Lamar had an unlicensed gun in his glove compartment, and a dime bag of marijuana. The cops arrested all four of them.”
Looking at Corey’s face as I say this is impossible. I’m sure he’s only ever seen people arrested on television.