I turned onto Bailey Avenue, the way to Mama’s house, which was so familiar I could probably drive it with my eyes closed.
“I think you’re part of a system that’s targeting me. And being seen with Birmingham’s chief of police right now won’t help me.” My own words echoed in my head. They were technically true, but so incomplete they felt like a lie.
What I should have said was, I’m pushing you away because I’m now a “potential disruptor,” and just being near me puts your career, your reputation, everything you’ve worked for, at risk.
I turned onto Maple Drive, my body on autopilot toward Mama’s house, while my mind was still stuck in the grocery store. “This is the dumbest shit,” I muttered, slowing down as I neared Mama’s block. That was our reality. We were on opposite sides of a line drawn by forces bigger than us. He wore the badge, and I challenged it. He stood for the system, and I recorded its failures. Now that they labeled me a threat, that line between us was dangerous for both of us to cross.
I pulled into Mama’s driveway, and through her front window, I watched Mama move around the kitchen. For a brief, selfish moment, I wished I could just lay all this at her feet, but even Mama’s wisdom couldn’t change the facts: I was under scrutiny now. Ronan probably thought I was rejecting him when really, I was shielding him from the fallout of being associated with me. The best thing, the only thing I could do for him, was exactly what I’d done in that grocery store. Keep it professional. Keep it distant. Act like what happened between us was nothing more than a momentary lapse in judgment, not the beginning of something that could have been beautiful in a different world.
I reached for the grocery bags on the passenger seat. Tomorrow I’d have dinner with Mama, and tonight, I’d meet Talia downtown for drinks. I’d keep moving forward like I always did, focusing on the work that mattered, not on what might have been with a man who lived on the other side of a line I’d spent my career defining.
I blew out air. By the time I reached Mama’s front door, I’d refocused my composure. I tried not to wear my heart on my sleeve as my heart beat with regret with every step I took away from the only man who’d ever truly seen me.
I dropped off the groceries and quickly mentioned that I'd be meeting Talia downtown. I wasn’t ready for a conversation about Ronan, not when I could barely explain to myself why it hurt so badly.
An hour later, I sat across from Talia in a trendy cocktail lounge, with exposed brick and lights hanging from the ceiling. A place white folks “discovered” in our neighborhoods, then jacked up the prices so the original residents couldn’t afford to come here anymore.
“Girl, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said for the last five minutes. I literally just told you I’m joining the circus to train elephants, and you nodded like that made perfect sense,” Talia said, tapping her long, geometric-patterned nails against her glass.
I blinked, forcing myself back to the present. “Sorry, T. Just . . . distracted.”
“Mm-hmm. That watchlist shit got you spooked? Because my cousin’s a civil rights attorney, and he said?—”
I cut her off. “I’m fine.”
Talia gave me her “bitch, please” look, the one that had been calling me on my bullshit since sophomore year at Howard.
I laughed despite myself. “Yeah, but slide me your cousin’s phone number.”
“What’s really going on? Is it the protest arrests, the watchlist, or something else?”
The memory of Ronan in the grocery store flashed through my mind. I sipped my drink, buying time.
“Just tired of fighting the same battles, and for what? So they can put us on watchlists and tear gas us at memorials?”
Talia nodded. “I get it, but you’ve never been one to get discouraged, Nia. That’s not your style.”
“Maybe my style’s evolving. I’ll be right back, need to freshen up,” I muttered, holding back tears.
I slid out of the booth before Talia could press further. She knew me too well, and I wasn’t ready to tell her about Ronan, about what had happened between us, about how I’d pushed him away to protect him, about how much that choice was costing me.
The restroom was down a narrow hallway past the bar. As I made my way back, weaving between tables, a deep, familiar voice caught my attention. I slowed my steps, my eyes scanning the room until they landed on a table.
Captain Todd Jordan sat, with his broad shoulders and close-cropped silver hair, unmistakable even without his uniform. Across from him sat an elegant woman with warm brown skin and a natural gray streak framing her face. His wife, I assumed. I remembered Jordan from our brief interaction after our release from detention. I knew he was Ronan’s right-hand man, his closest colleague.
Without making a conscious decision, I adjusted my path to the bar, positioning myself where I could hear their conversation without being obvious about it. I signaled the bartender for another drink, angling my body so I appeared to be waiting casually while actually straining to catch Jordan’s words.
“. . . been concerned about him since that whole protest mess. Ro hasn’t made the best decisions lately,” Jordan explained, his voice low but carrying just enough for me to hear.
His wife’s response was too quiet to catch, but Jordan’s reply came through clearly.
“Ronan flat-out denied any professional involvement with anyone from the protest. I’m worried about him, though. He’s not himself.”
The words landed hard inside me. Something cracked. Ronan had denied involvement with me. Of course, he had. It was a career-preserving move. Exactly what I’d expected him to do when I pushed him away in that grocery store. What I’d wanted him to do, for his own protection.
So why did it hurt so damn much to have it confirmed?
I gave a slight nod as I bit my lip. The bartender slid my fresh drink across the bar. I pointed to my table. “Put it on my tab,” I noted, and the bartender nodded.
