VI
“To get to a place where you could love anything you chose — not to need permission for desire — well now, that was freedom.”
— Toni Morrison, Beloved
Chapter Seven
Kelechi
I stared at the text until my eyes burned, reading it over and over like the words might rearrange themselves into something that made sense. Something that didn’t feel like a punch to the gut.
Something came up, I can't make it tonight. We'll reschedule.
I fell back onto my bed, the springs creaking in protest. My phone landed beside me, the screen still glowing with her message, and for a second, I genuinely considered throwing it across the room.
This was the fourth time she had bailed on me in two weeks, was she avoiding me?
The question had been gnawing at me ever since the second cancellation. Was it because I had fled from the library that night? God, what must she think of me?
But it was her fault. Why did she have to peer into my eyes while asking me those questions? How exactly was I supposed to look at her and calmly discuss what turned me on, for goodness’s sake?
I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the spiral of thoughts crashing through my head. I mean, how was I meant to explain that in my twenty-four years on earth, I had never been turned on by anything? And when she had asked about attraction, it was her face that had flashed through my mind, which made absolutely no sense because what I felt for her was admiration. Just admiration.
Had I been harsh? Maybe grabbing my things and leaving had hurt her feelings, or did she think I was some uptight prude who couldn’t handle talking about intimate things?
Well, she wasn’t entirely wrong. I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t explain the way my stomach dropped when she’d looked at me and said those things.
I rolled onto my side and stared at the cracked paint on my dorm wall. Our programme barely had regular classes, mostly research, which meant there was no forced proximity or accidental run-ins.
If Marley decided to avoid me, she could do it without any hassle.
And apparently, that’s exactly what she was doing.
Enough. I had other responsibilities. Other things to focus on besides whatever emotional circus Marley had turned my life into.
I sat up and yanked my laptop open with more force than necessary. Fine. If she wanted to be casual and professional, I could do casual and professional... I would do the research myself, compile it, and send her a perfectly academic email with everything sorted.
Show her that I didn’t need her input to be successful. Show her that I didn’t need her, period.
But as I stared at the blank document, the cursor blinking mockingly at me, my mind drifted straight back to that stupid message.
Something came up.
What did that even mean?
Was she on a date? With a confident woman who didn’t panic during conversations? Was it with someone who laughed at her jokes and didn’t shy away when she got too close?
My chest tightened. Why did I even care?
Jesus.
She was a woman. And for one, I wasn’t a lesbian.
I forced myself to type out the interview questions, but every few minutes, my gaze drifted back to that text message, and I felt the same hollow ache settle deeper in my stomach.
Something more important than our project. More important than me.
I slammed the laptop shut, reached for my phone, and typed.
