“He told me he had questions for you, but he really wanted to make sure you were okay. I mean, of course you weren’t, but he saw how fucked up we were. He wanted to make sure you had someone who understood what you were dealing with.”
She’s been jokes all morning, handling this tough conversation like a damn G. But I know that look, that feeling. When reality swoops back in and punches you in the fucking chest. Tears start to fill her eyes.
“I don't. And I’m not,” she says. “Everyone wants me to be back to normal, but not too normal. No one cares that I might never be the same or how long I need to get there.” I grab a napkin and hand it to her. She carefully dabs her eyes, but she still fucks up her eye makeup a little. I tell her, so she’s not embarrassed later. She excuses herself to the bathroom. When she comes back, her makeup is fixed, but her eyes are more red and puffier than before, like she fought a hell of a fight not to have a full breakdown.
“Sorry about that,” she says.
“Don’t apologize. Let’s talk about something else.”
“You want to see some cute-ass pictures of my nieces?”
“Yeah. Let me see.”
She spends the next ten minutes talking about little Palila and baby Iona. They are some cute fucking kids. She tells me about her older sister, who Brook clearly loves, and her husband Silas who owns some apple farm. She sounds happy for them, but there’s a sadness that’s settled on her shoulders and she can’t seem to shake it. I’m the dick who put it back there with our heavy breakfast conversation.
I pay for our meal and we head back to her hotel. She’s tired again, she tells me. I think it’s best if I leave her in the lobby.
“I’m gonna maybe take a nap and then head back to the city later this afternoon.”
“Okay. Let us know when you get back so we know you made it alright.”
“I will. Thank you for breakfast and thank Vaughn. You’ve both been great.”
“I’ll tell him.”
She sighs before she looks up at me. “I can’t see you guys again.”
“I know.”
“The three of us all want something that we can’t have. Commiserating won’t bring closure. Nothing will. And that’s if we don’t try to make it something else to take the edge off.”
“I know.”
“And I did try to think of reasons why it would work. Like, just the sex or just the hanging out, but that’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.”
“Brook, I know.”
“I’m just thinking out loud.”
“Text us when you get home and if you do want to talk to us again, you know you can.”
“I know. And I appreciate it. I should go.”
She doesn’t say goodbye. Just turns and walks to the elevator. I don’t watch her go. I love the idea of Brooklyn Lewis. But at the end of the day, I just want my girl back.
Six
Sixteen Months Later
Brooklyn
I manage to hold a polite smile on my face until Deek is finally out the door. I ran into him two weeks ago near our old building and he stopped me and talked to me about my parents’ apartment. The one we hold on to. I promised Liz I wouldn’t give it up, just like she’s holding on to her place in Harlem. Gentrification will probably come for both places some day, but for now we’re both subletting. Living space in any borough is precious and costly.
Deek heard about my tenant, Missy, moving to L.A. and wanted to know if I’d be willing to rent the place to his two little sisters. He promised he’d make sure they pay on time. I remember his little sisters, sweet-faced little dickheads who were always ready to throw hands over the dumbest shit. I will not be renting to Deek’s little sisters. Even though I passed, he asked if I wanted to catch up. We haven’t seen each other in a while.
I thought about the crush I had on him in high school and how I’d wished he’d paid any attention to me. I knew he just wanted to hit and I was okay with that. I haven’t had sex in over a year. I invited him to my new place. I made it very clear that I was using him. He flashed that smile that really would have worked on me fifteen years ago. It’s the smile that let me know he was using me too. We took it to the bedroom and I immediately regretted this decision. Deacon Wright has the stroke game of a clumsy teenager. I let him finish. I thanked him for a great time and then I sent him on his way.
I sit on the edge of my couch, looking around my apartment, numb. It’s done. Josh is no longer the last man to touch me, the last man I’ve let inside me. As soon as the thought passes through my mind, I think of Shaw and how it had felt when he kissed me. How for weeks I fell asleep with my hand or my vibrator between my legs, picturing what it would have been like if we had skipped breakfast and if I’d invited him in. If we’d called Vaughn over. What would have happened and how I would have regretted it.
