“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he presses, and it’s that gentle tone that unravels the knots inside me.
“I hurt a good man tonight,” I whisper, lowering my hands and crossing my arms over my chest. “He told me I didn’t, that he was okay, but I saw his eyes. What kind of person does it make me to lead someone on knowing I don’t share the same feelings that he has? Selfish,” I answer before Jordan can. “Because it made me feel special to be wanted, to be seen. To know that someone paid so much attention to me that they went out of their way to discover the things I enjoyed andcared about. But I did that at the expense of his feelings. A man who risked stepping out there after losing his wife, and his first attempt is me. How cruel is that?”
I don’t allow him to answer that either. Giving a short, serrated laugh, I shake my head and rock back and forth, staring into the fire so I don’t have to witness the disappointment in his gaze. The disappointment at how I treated his friend.
“This is why I’m not cut out for relationships. Relationships.” I loose another caricature of laughter. “They’re bullshit anyway. Utter and complete bullshit. No offense to Zora and Cyrus, and I really hope they make it. But this is why I don’t buy into them. Either one person is always more invested than the other and pain and betrayal are inevitable. Or they’re staying out of obligation or duty. Doesn’t matter if they no longer love one another and are making everyone around them miserable. No thank you. I don’t want any part of that shit.”
“That’s not always true,” he says, and the softness of it has my chest tightening.
“How can you, of all people, say that?” I’m honestly curious. “You’ve told me about your childhood. Your parents are a perfect example of what I’m referring to. And what about the fucked-up relationships your mother had after your father? Plus, neither one of us has experienced real commitments. Not any that survive past the orgasms. And even they get tiresome after a while.”
“I can say that because the examples you’ve named aren’t all I’ve seen.” He bends his legs and props his forearms on his thighs, his hands falling between his knees. The fire is reflected in his eyes, and I’m captivated by the dance of the flames there. That intense gaze seems alive, rendering it impossible to glance away. “Yeah, those are all true. But my old college basketball coach and his wife have been married for over forty years and are still in love and going strong. You didn’t see Daniel and his wife, but those two were soul mates. I’ve played with men who were married in name only, and road trips were excuses tofuck anything that showed up at a hotel room. Not Daniel. He was devoted to Jerricka. No other woman existed for him. They weren’t just lovers but friends. And Cyrus loves your sister. They may not have been together for years, but he adores her, and I believe, God willing, they will be like my coach and his wife one day.”
“That’s beautiful,” I whisper. “Do you believe in it? Is that what you want for yourself?”
“Yes, I believe in it. And, Miriam, I don’t just want it for myself. I’mdemandingit for myself.”
I swallow. How can words rip a hole out of me and leave me so hollow and brimming with yearning at the same time? Yearning for what he described. Too bad I know better. If only I didn’t know there’s no such thing as the beautiful fairy tale he depicted—I might ...
Yeah. But I do know better.
“Have I ever told you how I got my name?” When he shakes his head, I force myself to continue meeting his gaze. “Zora and Levi are twins, so Mom and Dad each had a child to claim. Mom named Zora after Zora Neale Hurston, and Dad chose Levi’s out of the Bible. Leviticus. No fighting. But with me, the story goes they fought Mom’s entire pregnancy over who would have the right to name me. I was just one more battleground of the many they’d had and the many that would come after. When I was born, they still hadn’t resolved the argument. But Mom waited until Dad left the hospital to go home and check on Zora and Levi, then filled out the birth certificate behind his back. She named me after Miriam Makeba, the South African singer and activist.
“To this day, Dad brings it up and throws it in her face. And to this day, Mom gloats over the fact that she got one over on him. That’s the kind of marriage my parents have. One where they use an occasion as special, as sacred, as naming their child as the ultimate gotcha. I’m sure at one point they convinced themselves they loved each other. But they’re proof that love, commitment ...” I pause, a shiver running through me despite the heat from the firepit. “You can’t trust them.They’re what we tell ourselves to justify being emotionally out of control. To explain why we’re afraid to be alone. I’d rather trust in myself, be by myself, and stand in my own power than depend on someone who will abuse that faith I place in them.”
The crackle and snap of the fire punctuates the silence, but my breathing echoes in my head, and it’s deafening. I never intended to say all of that. Especially about my parents. I love them—God knows I do—but they robbed me. And it started with my name. And it continued with a stable, calm homelife. Hell, they ruined my first and only sleepover. For a kid who could count on one hand the number of friends she had—because when you were always the youngest kid in your class, hanging out with girls your age didn’t happen often—a sleepover had been a rite of passage. And their bickering and fighting in front of my guests had spoiled it. I’d been afraid to invite anyone else over—that is, if I’d even had more friends to invite.
Still, I’m a grown woman now. I’ve moved on. Doesn’t mean I’ve shared it with anyone.
Until now. With him.
Humiliation crawls through me, and inside I scramble backward away from him and that scalpel-sharp intensity in his gaze.
“I should—” In my head, I’ve already made it to my car. My body just hasn’t caught up.
Jordan rises, and before I can move, he’s standing in front of me, hand outstretched. I take it, and he pulls me to my feet.
In moments, I’m lifted in the air, in his arms, and settled on his lap in the deck chair he just vacated. He cradles me, tucking my head under his chin as he tenderly rocks me back and forth.
“I’m not letting you run away,” he says into my hair, his embrace tight.
“I wasn’t—”
“Don’t bother lying.” His arms tighten around me as if he can squeeze off my lie. Because yes, it’s a lie. “Why were you about to leave?”Then he brushes his lips across my forehead, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. “No, let me guess. Got too close for you. Too real. And what do two people like us, who come from fucked-up homes where we saw the worst people had to give to each other, know about intimacy, right? It scares the hell out of us. Or it should. And normally, it does. But not with you, Marilyn. And you can feel safe with me. I won’t hurt you. Won’t use whatever you share with me against you. So don’t run. Stay.”
Stay.
A shudder ripples through me, and I don’t try to stifle it.Stay. I’ve been wanted for several reasons. My IQ. My talent. Sex.
But no one’s ever asked me to justbe. And not with them.
For how long?
The question sits on my tongue like a five-hundred-pound anvil, but I don’t voice it, too afraid of the response. Besides, for once, I’m also content to just be.
Tilting my head back, I rest it on his shoulder. This up close and personal with him, I can catalog every detail on his face. The black pupil with the very thin ring of brown. The tiny scar on the edge of his right cheekbone. The deep dip above his top lip that lends it the bow shape. The almost-there-but-not-quite cleft in his chin.
I’ve drawn him countless times in the last few weeks. So many that his face is as familiar to me as my own. And yet, I could analyze him for hours and still find new elements that would fascinate me. Jordan Ransom could become a new field of study, and I would easily earn my doctorate in him.
