Page 2 of Meet Me on Greenwood

Henry and Gema

The Motto of Every Negro Should Be: "You Push Me and I Push You"

Henry

1939

It started with a bus—the one I took to work every day. You would be on it before I arrived, always in the same seat, your hair pulled into a neat little bun as you held a book tightly to your chest. I was enamored by the way you worried the corner of your mouth as you turned the pages, devouring each chapter. A different book every week. I watched you from three rows back for a full month before I worked up the nerve to move closer, and the day I finally did was the day you left your book behind.

Their Eyes Were Watching God. Zora Neale Hurston. I carried it to work and back, spending my lunch hour turning pages, trying to understand what it was about these books that had you so enamored. I'd made it to the pear tree scene where Janie was standing in the yard with the bees and the blossoms when I found the note tucked between the pages, folded in thirds, written by your hand.

When are you going to ask me out?

My heart lunged. You’d noticed me, and worse, you were bold enough to ask the very question I’d been too cowardly to ask—would you like to spend time together outside of our brief moments on the bus? I sat with that note until the words blurred, equal parts elated and terrified, and then I did the only thing I could think to do. I arrived early the next morning, set the book back in your seat, and stood at the front of the bus. I turned away every passenger who tried to sit there until you stepped through the accordion door.

Our eyes met. I nearly gave everything away right then, but instead, I held my expression and offered up the smallest nod. You pulled your hat down over your eyes as if you hadn't seen a thing. But I watched you settle into the seat and open the book. I watched you find the page where I'd left off, and I knew you were reading the same scene I had—the bees and the blossoms, Janie standing in the yard with something waking up in her. I nearly spoke. Nearly told you everything. I’d left my own note. What do you see in Janie?

Then your stop came and you were gone before I could move.

When I looked down, the book was back on the seat.

I picked it up and eagerly searched for your answer.

If you asked me out on a proper date instead of stalking me, I might tell you what I think of her.

The next morning, I’d had enough. I arrived before you, sat in your seat, held your book in both hands, and prepared everything I wanted to say. That I understood why Janie did what she did. That I had read the whole thing twice. That I wanted to hear every opinion you had ever formed about every book you had ever carried onto that bus, and that dinner seemed like the right place to start.

You got on. You looked at me sitting in your seat. You lowered the brim of your hat and sat behind me.

I turned around, ready to ask what on earth you thought you were doing, and then I saw your smile.

I was forever changed.

We read books together after that—every morning on that bus and every evening we could manage. You argued Janie deserved better, and I said she chose exactly what she wanted. You insisted those were not the same thing, and you were right. Somehow, I never told you. It broke my heart when it had to end.

The photograph in my wallet is creased on all sides from how many times I’ve folded and unfolded it. You were there the day I left, clutching the locket with my picture inside, your face tight from keeping your tears tucked away. I wanted to hold you. I wanted to run back and tell them they would have to pry me away, but the ship horn sounded and I knew I couldn’t. I told myself it would be enough to come back. That I’d have a ring in my pocket and I’d buy the biggest bouquet of pink roses I could carry, and I’d say everything I couldn’t say that day on the dock.

I did not account for the war keeping me longer than it was supposed to. I did not account for the letters stopping. I did not account for three years passing the way three years can pass when you are surviving instead of living.

But I came back, Lily. I came back for you.

Gema

Present Day

"Easy Henry," I said.

I turned around, half expecting to see who’d spoken. Satisfied no one was there, I rounded the corner to her house. I saw her swinging on the bench he'd built with his own hands so she could watch the sun set in the evening.

I opened my mouth to call to her.

Then I heard another voice from inside. A male voice. A tall man with shaggy hair pushed through the door and handed her a glass of wine. Lily never drank before. She set it to the side and pulled him down to kiss her, guiding his hand to her stomach. The man looked baffled for just a moment, then grinned and kissed her soundly.

My hand moved slowly inside my coat.

"Pull him out!" I said.

Henry clenched his jaw as he forced himself to stay in the painful memory. The monitor beeped wildly, and the nodes connected to his forehead lit up.