He went still.
“I’m sorry baby. I forgot,” he said.
I laughed, quick and easy, already adjusting myself to fit the moment. “That’s okay. We can do something else next weekend.”
I’d grown used to him not wanting to be seen in public with me unless it was Provocateur and confidentiality was the standard. Still I managed to convince myself that this time would be different. Silly me.
“My parents are in town,” he added.
“Oh.” Excitement hit before caution could stop it. “That’s fine. We can do dinner with them. I’d love to meet them.”
He sat up fast, the shift abrupt, like I’d crossed an invisible line.
“No.”
I blinked. “No?”
“You’re not invited,” he said flatly. “My parents wouldn’t approve of our relationship. They wouldn’t understand this.”
This.
Me.
Then he said the part that burned.
“And don’t call or text me this weekend. I don’t want to explain who keeps reaching out.”
I nodded. I always nodded back then. I told myself I understood the complexities of being with someone like me. I told myself love meant patience, silence, compromise. I told myself not to take it personal that this man had just finished taking every inch I had in every hole on his body and was not treating me like I was the plague.
I did what he asked.
I didn’t call.
I didn’t text.
I made myself small.
Until Sunday night.
After having a beautiful night at the newest Winston Hills Museum of Modern Art exhibit, I went to my favorite Italian bistro—Figlia. It was owned by a beautiful woman of Black and Sicilian heritage. It was a beautiful place that always felt like comfort. I was halfway through my meal when I heard his laugh. Damon stood a few tables away with his parents. And another woman.
She fit there effortlessly with a hand on his arm. Her smile was ease and filled with familiarity. Her posture said she notonly belonged in his world without explanation but she had be there for a long time. I stayed frozen in my seat as my pulse roared in my ears. I watched with bated breath as he dropped to one knee.
The restaurant erupted.
Applause. Cheers. Smiles. Him attempting to stare lovingly into her eyes and failing.
He never knew I was there and I preferred it that way. T
I confronted him the next day. I needed to hear it from his mouth.
He didn’t deny anything. He didn’t show a single sign of remorse.
“She’s my college sweetheart,” he said, like history made it noble. “This is what my family approves of. This is what makes sense.”
“And me?” I asked.
He sighed with annoyance dripping from his body. It was like my hurt was inconvenient. “I love you. But we could never have a family that shares my DNA. You know that. This isn’t something I can build a life around. Not publicly.”
