Page 87 of Meet Me on Greenwood

"The way you are able to read me so well," he said quietly. "It throws me off center."

I understood that feeling more than he could know. I'd spent my whole life reading people quickly and moving on before they could read me back, and somehow, I'd let him not meaning to. It should have alarmed me more than it did.

"It’s good for your ego," I said. "Tell me. I’m ready."

He opened his mouth, as if ready to speak when lightning flashed in the sky. We both looked up and suddenly I smelled the rain hidden behind the clouds.

Houston pressed his lips firmly together before looking back at the yard. "Not tonight," he said finally. "Tonight was good. I don't want to ruin it."

"Alright," I said not wanting to press. "Not tonight."

I stood and smoothed my dress—the fireflies drifting towards me as the night settled.

"Goodnight, Houston."

"Goodnight, Gema." His voice was low and gravely, like it pained him to speak.

I got up to go inside. At the door, I paused and looked back as a dangerous ache filled my body—the kind that had the potential to ruin me forever.

Before I could act on it, I turned away and went up to bed.

33

Gema

Recognizing Colored Women’s Worth

The next few days were a blur, making sure Paul had everything he needed. The house was filled with odd creaks and settling at night, and I wasn’t sleeping well. I’d asked the others if they’d heard anything, but they all said they were sleeping well. Houston offered to make chamomile tea to help me sleep better, but it wasn’t enough.

Houston was gone a lot, either at his office or helping the crew complete construction around the property. The only time I left was to attend church with Lettie. "You've been cooped up in that house too long. Do you good to see some faces."

We were packed shoulder to shoulder, hats bobbing, a choir dancing to a pipe organ behind the pulpit. One of those Sundays I spotted Rita before she spotted me, seated near the front with her mother, and my stomach tightened like it always did when I thought of our last conversation.

She caught my eye during the second hymn. I braced myself for coldness, but instead, something in her face softened—not fully or all at once, but enough. After the service, she found me on the church steps before I could find an excuse to slip away.

"I heard you've been keeping to yourself," she said, arms crossed, though there was no real edge in it.

"I didn't want to intrude."

"You're not intruding. You're just—" she paused, studying me. "You're just not talking, which isn't like you." A beat. "I appreciate that you haven't said anything. About Bernie."

Realization hit me as I understood what had kept Rita at a distance. She was waiting for me to tell someone about Bernie. "I wouldn't."

Something in her shoulders eased. "Are you coming to the Cosmopolitan Ball?"

I smiled. That was as close to an olive branch as Rita was able to give. "I don’t know the dances," I admitted.

She grabbed my hand. "Come, I'll teach you to foxtrot properly, since apparently no one else has bothered."

"I don’t even have anything to wear," I said finally.

Rita grinned. "Did you forget that we took your measurements? Your dress is already made."

"Rita, that is too much…"

"Hush. I insisted. It won’t be fun if you don’t come. Plus, you will look beautiful in green," she said, ignoring my protest entirely. "Just wait."

We’d pushed back the chairs to make a space to practice in the parlor of the church hall. I'd just managed three full turns without stepping on any of the others who were learning.