“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” My relationship with Leo started with me apologizing at the Biltmore eight weeks ago. Now it’s the end of August, and our summer affair is headed for a similar fate as I hurry over to Leo and his mix of suitcases and duffel bags littering the sidewalk. I’m late and attempting to look suitably apologetic, while his mound of luggage reminds me just how long he’ll be gone. A charley horse from too little water during back-to-back meetings seizes my left leg. “Ow, ow, ow . . .” I grab my hamstring midgallop, and my gait turns into an awkward limp. I hope my apology and my pain will elicit some sort of forgiveness on Leo’s part. Given the folded arms across his chiseled pecs and the look on his face, I’m not giving myself winning odds.
Today’s the day Leo told me about two weeks ago, after we had spent more of our summer nights together than apart. Following work I would rush home, strip out of my master of the universe outfit that was some version of a sundress that stopped below my knees but bared my shoulders in the Pasadena summer heat, and throw on shorts, a tank top, and strappy sandals. Leo and I would meet in central LA so my father, Fitzroy, or Xandra wouldn’t discover us. And so we were closer to Leo’s house when the warm evenings and the giddiness from a couple of glasses of wine sent us tumbling into Leo’s bed. I was always sure to make it home before Xandra’s curfew.
That evening in mid-August, while I was perusing the menu to determine if we were still hungry enough to order a second round of sushi, I asked a question every woman should be cautious of when in the midst of a new relationship. “So, what are you thinking?” I was hoping Leo was going to say he was thinking about ordering more hamachi toro. Instead, he closed his menu.
“I’m thinking I have to tell you something,” Leo admitted, fiddling with his chopsticks. I knew right then the something had nothing to do with sushi, and my appetite sank. “I’ve had an amazing time with you this summer but . . .”
Jesus, not the but. At forty-three I’m too old for the but. The but is a young woman’s game. I’m supposed to be past the long, drawn-out explanation that always circles back around to the universal, it’s not you, it’s me. Or worse, there is a wife waiting in the wings. I didn’t want to hear Leo’s lengthy explanation in an effort to spare my feelings. I prayed he would end it quickly so I could at least walk out of the restaurant with enough dignity to fit into my clutch.
As I looked around the dining room, I was thankful we were eating in Brentwood and not Pasadena where a Royal-Hawkins family might witness their spanking-new head of school being publicly dumped. Tears do not elicit confidence. And then there was the matter of my lucky star necklace on Leo’s nightstand. Xandra gave it to me. How was I going to get it back?
Leo canted his head left to grab my attention and my eyes. “At the end of this month I’m moving to Singapore to open an office for Smith, Bodie, and Strong. It’s been in the works for about eighteen months.”
So, it’s not me, exactly. Hooray! Sort of. I took a long drink of ice-cold water to buy myself a moment to think. What I probably should have done was a shot of sake. “And you’re telling me this now rather than, say, before the camping trip when you made me sleep on dirt and eat dehydrated noodles because?” While my body was in the conversation, my brain was busy catching on that this was simply another way of saying Leo was leaving, and we were done. I had my phone in my lap, ready to call Marisol so she could meet me at my house and let me cry all over her. If she and I had ordered room service at the Biltmore like I’d wanted, I wouldn’t be here, being broken up with right before school started.
“Because this”—Leo pointed back and forth between the two of us—“or I should say because these past six weeks have been so much fun, Nina. And so, so . . .”
“Poorly timed?”
“I was going to say wonderful. Truly wonderful. I never expected it,” Leo said endearingly.
It’s true. My first summer concert ever at the Hollywood Bowl, we sat fourth row center. And wine tasting in Ojai for the weekend was delicious in every way imaginable. But it was weeks later while walking down the street, Leo assuredly holding my hand, that I took notice for the first time that being with him felt comfortable, even natural. I assumed he would want to be more inconspicuous, to avoid potential judgmental stares. Instead, he seemed not to notice or care what people thought about us being together. In fact, one of the things that deepened my attraction to Leo was that he so boldly inhabited his space, and with him, so did I.
“I’m conflicted here, Nina. I’ve been on this project to open an office in the Asian Pacific since it was barely an idea years ago. And I’ve been focused on bringing it to completion no matter what. While all my friends have been busy raising their kids, this has kind of been like my kid.” Interesting, I’d never heard Leo talk about kids other than to humor me when I shared story after story about Xandra.
“Sure, I thought I would bump into problems with my visa or renting an apartment overseas, but I never imagined it might be a woman getting in my way of crossing the ocean. But it’s not forever, Nina, just four or so months.” Leo laid it all out there like the time would pass in the blink of an eye rather than acknowledging that he would be gone twice as long as we had been together.
I didn’t want to admit it, but I understood Leo’s commitment to his career. He had been working tirelessly to make his professional dream come true just as I had been meticulously laying the groundwork for years so I could someday be right where I was, head of school.
As I stared at Leo across the table, taking in this change in our trajectory, I worked to convince myself that his leaving and giving us both an easy out was probably a good move overall. The past months our visible differences in ethnicity and background were pushed aside, or, more accurately, ignored because of how hot we kept it in the bedroom. Having cheated on my personal self with my professional self the past two years, I told Marisol I was in it for the sex, plus, I would never actually date a White guy. I had never dated one before, nor did the idea take up any space on my bucket list. But then Leo gave me an incredible midlife summer of love, and our budding affair along with my new job were positive signs, so I thought that maybe the second half of my life would be the best half of my life. Now, facing our realities, I could see Leo’s profession would always come first, a male tale I was all too familiar with.
“I want to have a memorable last two weeks with you and, if you’re up for it, we could make a go of it long distance. You’re the best thing to happen to me in a long time, Nina. I want to see how this goes.”
I remember smiling at Leo, touched by his naivete at how difficult this would be, but agreeing to try, not wanting to crush his optimism. My cynical side gave it three weeks.
His days would be my nights, and I love my sleep. An ocean away, Leo would be buried in opening a law office, and at home I would be buried in opening a school year. Leo would always be White. And I would always be Black. Add that to a host of other differences between us, and the distance seemed insurmountable. Right there, over soy-soaked wasabi, I was positive we’d fizzle out sooner rather than later.