by Kennedy Ryan
I shoot one last look over my shoulder as we’re heading out back, and he’s watching me again. I don’t have to wonder if he’s remembering that night, that dance, that kiss.
That ending.
I know he is.
Chapter Nineteen
Ezra
I’ve always had two left feet.
My father tried teaching me to dance. He used to say my mother’s genes took all my rhythm in the womb. I used to think black people just knew how to dance. It was something I missed out on. A stray piece of my puzzle I never found.
My parents were shocked when I decided after high school in Italy that I wanted to attend Howard University. My mother didn’t know how to ask it, but she didn’t have to. The but why was all over her face. I’d received acceptance letters from Cornell, UCLA, and Columbia, my father’s alma mater. I didn’t even have a scholarship to Howard, but I chose it; I wanted to immerse myself into the unique experience I could only have at an HBCU. I needed to explore that aspect of myself, that black part of myself, in a place where it was affirmed.
I’ve never regretted it. It solidified so many things about who I am. All the parts of who I am. My senior year, I did my student teaching in some of D.C.’s toughest schools and saw how the system had failed a lot of those kids. Saw how hamstrung many educators were by the very system that charged them to teach. That was when the vision for YLA first took root.
The kids at YLA love to dance, most of them executing the latest moves with an ease my body has never managed. Noah’s still too young for YLA, but he’s around a lot, and as soon as they turn on the music and start dancing spontaneously in the gym, the cafeteria, the courtyard, he’s up and moving.
Like now. I’m sitting on this stacked stone wall encircling Mona’s backyard, still the “potted plant” wallflower, while my son is dabbing, sliding and Fortnite flossing, his face lit up as he stands in one of the lines awaiting his turn in the spotlight. Mona powers down the open lane between the two lines, moonwalking, pop locking and freestyling with Marvin Gaye crooning encouragingly.
And then it’s Kimba’s turn.
That damn little dress she’s wearing has tortured me ever since it walked through the door, swishing around her toned legs, hinting at an ass which, I remember from the times I’ve seen her in form-fitting clothes, is spectacular. The spaghetti straps slip off smooth brown shoulders as she shuffles down the open lane. She lifts her hands in the air, arms extended, worshiping the beat, twirling carelessly as the hem of her dress flies up, flashing the tops of her thighs.
I haven’t been this hard in weeks. Months. Years.
Ever?
I don’t remember having an erection around Kimba when we were growing up. We were kids. We were young. Even when we shared our first kiss, I wasn’t afraid my body might betray me, confess to her the urges we weren’t ready to act on. But now, watching her, wanting her as a man, not an untried kid, there’s no hiding the effect she has on me. I’m sitting on the sidelines, not just because I’m apparently the only dude at the cookout who can’t dance, but because if I stand, everyone will know my situation. Immediately.
There’s no hiding this fully erect dick in my pants.
I’ve tried not to watch her, but I’m obsessed with the curve of her waist, the shadowy dip between her breasts, the elegant line of her neck, the way her hands dance in the air when she’s animated. The intricate whorl of her ear when she pushes the curls away from her face. The regal profile and perennially-kissed pout of her lips. Hers is a boudoir body out in the open, a bold sketch of elongation and exaggerated curves.
I have to stop.
But I can’t.
It’s a compulsion. It’s a high. After all these years, she’s here. And I can’t get my fill. All these people—I wish they’d disappear and I could have her to myself. I could excavate her mind and dig around in her soul and get close enough to hear her heartbeat. Beyond the desire to lay her down in the grass and plunge between those long legs, there’s something I want even more. To know her the way I did before. No, deeper than I did before because now we’re adults, re-formed by time and experiences.
I want to learn the new shape of her.
Unlike me, Noah is not an introvert. He inherited his openness, his “never meets a stranger-ness” from Aiko. He’s only known Kimba for a short time, but he has no problem grabbing her hand and laughing, dancing with her. They look free and unfettered. Kimba kicks off her shoes, and her bare, pretty feet shuffle through the grass as easily as I’ve seen her walk red carpets on television. I didn’t know what to call what I used to feel for Kimba—the desire to have her with me all the time; to know her better than everyone else did. It was an innocent possessiveness that she reflected back to me even then. She wanted that from me. It was earnest and pure. But the first time I saw her on CNN, talking easily, debating someone from the other side of the aisle, systematically picking apart his argument with surgical, intelligent precision, no sign of the stutter that plagued her before, I felt immeasurably proud.
But also jealous. Possessive. I’d discovered this beautiful butterfly when she was a caterpillar and she had been completely mine. Now the whole world marveled at the spread of her wings, basked in her vibrant color. Now everyone knew how fantastic she was and she’d never be just mine again.
“Dad!” Noah shouts over the music. “Get up!”
Still on beat, he dances over, dragging Kimba by the hand.
“You know better than that,” I tell him with a laugh, flicking a glance at Kimba. She’s glowing. It’s not just the lights Mona strung through the trees, or even the fine sheen of perspiration misting her smooth skin. It’s from inside.
She’s home.
Somehow I knew she needed to come back. Does she realize how free she seems? I secretly worried about her from afar, watching her manage one of the most successful political campaigns in our nation’s history. Watching her guide and ride Maxim Cade’s presidential bid to political fame. It had to be exhausting. I wanted rest for her, and she seems to be getting it.
“Baaak baaak bak bak,” Noah crows, doing his chicken dance. “Dad’s scared to dance.”
“Peer pressure,” I deadpan. “Real original, son. And highly ineffective on someone like me. Know your opponent.”
“Come on.” Kimba joins Noah’s cajoling, the two of them dancing in front of me as I sit stubbornly in place on the wall.
The classic Gaye tune finally ends, and something newer comes on. Something I hear the kids play at school. Cardi B.? Megan Thee Stallion? Some empowered, guns-blazing woman showing the boys how it’s done. My students barely know the great hip-hop that tutored me in so much understanding of a culture I didn’t have enough exposure to when I was young. Nas. Biggie. Pac. Those artists are ideas to them, icons whose music represents a distant greatness that doesn’t actually shape them. Not the way they helped form me even when I lived in Italy.
“The song changed,” I tell them with a shrug. “Oh, well. Maybe next time.”
“If you’re not gonna dance,” Noah says, “I’m gonna go get dessert.”
“One,” I remind him. “One dessert. Choose wisely.”
“Banana pudding,” he tells me. “Want to come, Kimba?”
I reach out and take her wrist, pulling her closer to the wall. Everyone else has had her. I’m taking my time.
“Why don’t you bring us something back,” I say, tugging her to sit on the wall beside me. “Any red velvet cake? Is that still your favorite, Tru?”
She looks at me, bites her lip, and nods. “Yeah. If they have any. Thanks, Noah.”
“Why do you call her Tru?” Noah asks.
Kimba and I look at each other, a smile growing between us. We lift our brows at the same time, a “you wanna tell him or should I” gesture.
“My middle name is Truth,” she says. “So Tru for short, but only my family calls me that.”
“But you’re not her family, are you, Dad?” Noah asks.
&n
bsp; “No, but we used to live across the street from each other, and we’ve known each other all our lives.” I smile at him. “Some people feel closer than family sometimes.”
“Like Aunt Mona?” His face brightens, his snaggle-toothed grin reappearing.
“Exactly,” I say. “I think I saw German chocolate cake. Bring that back for your old man, okay?”
“Okay!” He dashes off and is swallowed by the still-not-thinning crowd squeezed into Mona’s cozy backyard.
“He’ll be back in about…oh, thirty minutes,” I say. “He’ll get stopped and pulled into a card game, a conversation, something, and forget all about us. That kid’s like the mayor. I don’t even know how he’s mine.”
Kimba shifts on the wall, crossing one long leg over the other. “I see a lot of you in him.”
In the moonglow, her skin gleams like minted copper.
“Ya think?” I ask, discreetly inhaling that unique citrusy scent of hers and hunching to rest my elbows on my knees when my dick stiffens even more. This is so not good.
“For sure. He’s curious, the way you were at that age. Sensitive, but still strong. You had a quiet boldness even then. Kind of this self-containedness. He has that, too.” She lowers long lashes, shielding her dark eyes from me. “And his eyes. They’re exactly like yours.”
I can’t resist touching her in even the smallest way, not a second longer. I tip up her chin, her heart-shaped face, until our eyes meet.
“We got interrupted the other day.” The softness of my voice barely conceals my voracious hunger for every detail of what she’s done while we were apart. “Tell me what’s been up with you.”
“A lot.” She laughs, leaning back on her palms. “If I get started, we’ll be here a very long time.”
“I’d like to be here a long time. The longer the better.”
I play that back in “Mona talk,” and realize she would make it sound dirty. “I mean—”
“I know what you mean. We have a lot to catch up on.”
I lean back on my palms, too, aligning our faces, our bodies seated on the wall. “I told you all about Aiko, Noah, my family, the school. Your turn.”
“Well, I don’t have those things,” she says ruefully. “I’ve mostly just had work. In a way, I’m married to whatever candidate I’m managing at the time. They tend to take over my whole life.”
“You want kids?”
“Honestly, I hadn’t given it much thought until recently. Apparently my clock is ticking. Well, according to my gyno and my mother, at least.”
“I hate it when we pressure women to reach certain benchmarks by certain times when we don’t have those expectations of a man. Clooney was the man, a confirmed bachelor who could play the field, and we loved him for it. Same for Leo DiCaprio. Just taking his time, enjoying life.”
“While a woman who wants to focus on her career,” she says, “but have great sex with no commitments is slut shamed and pitied until she lands a man.”
“No one could pity you.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.” Her laugh is in a bitter code I’d love to crack. “Things look different from inside.”
I used to be inside—used to know her from every angle. But that was the girl. This is very much a woman sitting beside me, a fascinating woman who tempts me.
“You obviously love your job very much,” I say.
“I’m doing exactly what I was meant to do. I can’t imagine anything else being more fulfilling.”
“I get that. When I started YLA, it felt like I’d come face-to-face with myself. Found my path.”
“The school, what you’re doing, really is remarkable. I may have watched a few viral videos of your students on TikTok. They’re amazing.”
“They’re my joy. Them and Noah, of course.”
“You’re a fantastic father.” She tosses her head back, sending the hair dancing around her face. “I mean, it appears. You could be beating him at home for all I know.”
“Only at chess,” I say, chuckling. “Okay. You have to tell me. How’d you break with three generations of Spelmanites?”
“Very carefully.” She shrugs, cupping her neck and tipping her head back to look up at the stars. “I didn’t tell my parents I was applying to Arizona, but I needed options. The higher my father’s profile rose here in the city, coupled with my grandfather’s legacy, the more I felt the weight of it. I just wanted to be myself. To be seen for myself, and not through the filter of my last name. I couldn’t find a place in this city, much less on Spelman’s campus, where that could happen. I was suffocating.”
She pauses, leveling her eyes on me briefly before looking away again. “Did you ever find out what caused such a huge rift between our parents?”
I have my theories, but I’ve always kept them to myself. What I think happened can only cause problems that should remain buried with my father and with hers. “No, never.”
“My mom was adamant that we not have any contact. I defied her at first and searched for you. I mean, the internet wasn’t anywhere near what it is now. There was no Facebook or Instagram, but I did try. Your bubbe had passed away, though, and she was the only relative of yours I knew.”
“I wrote you several times. The letters came back return to sender. And when I called, your number had been disconnected.”
“Daddy did a lot of work in the city that wasn’t always popular,” she says dryly. “When we moved, we got an unlisted number.” Her laugh is husky, hollow. “Driving here today I passed through the old neighborhood. Our houses are still there. Mrs. Washington’s house. The park, though it’s been upgraded.”
“You’d go there sometimes by yourself when you needed to clear your head.”
“Like at that age I had so much that needed clearing.” She laughs. “I was never there by myself long, though. You’d always come find me. Sit with me. Not talk, but just swing back and forth. You were such a quiet kid.”
“Not with you.”
“No.” Our gazes lock, cling. “Not with me.”
The silence deepens, but neither of us seem in a hurry to fill it. I soak in this moment, soak in her company, relishing it like the luxury time has proven it to be.
“You remember that old ice cream truck?” she asks after a few more seconds, a smile coming to life on her lips, in her eyes. When she smiles it’s like a sunrise, spreading warmth as it ascends.
“That little song was so creepy now that I think about it.” I chuckle.
“Oh my God, and the driver was creepy. We’re lucky he never snatched us.”
“He always had those orange Push-Ups you liked so much. Those were your favorites.”
She tilts her head, smiling as she considers me. “How do you even remember that?”
“I remember everything, Tru.”
The amusement in her eyes and the smile on her lips flicker, and she goes silent. I shouldn’t have said that, not like that in a way that reveals just how much those times meant to me. Still mean to me.
“What was mine?” I ask. “My favorite ice cream?”
I just don’t know when to stop. What would it even prove if she remembers?
Her protracted silence tells me she doesn’t.
“Never mind. I wouldn’t expect you to—”
“Nutty Buddy.”
My eyes meet hers in the dimming light, and I’m transported to the night of our first kiss when we promised to always be friends no matter what.
“I should have tried harder to find you.” I shake my head. “I was so caught up in—”
“Moving to an entirely new country?” she interrupts, touching my hand. “I was still here in this one, and high school was rough. Just surviving took all my focus. It’s natural for people to lose touch with friends they knew that young as they start new phases with new people.”
I flip my hand to link our fingers. “Not for us it wasn’t. We should have always been in each other’s lives somehow.”
She hooks our pinkies. “Pact,” she w
hispers.
“Pact.” I nod, holding her stare and her hand. The air between us thrums like a heartbeat. Her lips part on a breath, and it takes all of my restraint not to lean forward, wipe away the lip gloss and kiss her again like I did once before.
“Here you two are.” Mona’s words dent the tension building between us, but nothing could shatter it. “I told you not to monopolize each other, and what do you do as soon as my back is turned?”
Her good-natured smile slips when she sees us holding hands. Her glance bounces between our fingers and our faces. She and Aiko are friends, but I know Ko didn’t talk to her about the break-up before she left. Mona thinks it’s wrong for me to hold Kimba’s hand. By the way Kimba jerks away and the guilty expression on her face, so does she.
Before Mona can voice the question and the disapproval her expression clearly conveys, Noah walks up, balancing three small plates.
“I got ‘em!” he says triumphantly. “Red velvet for you, Kimba.” He passes a plate to her and then another to me. “German chocolate for you, Dad.”
“Thank you, son.”
“Yeah, thanks, Noah,” Kimba says, slicing into her huge wedge of cake.
“Is Daddy being a Kimba-vert?” Noah asks, his grin widening even as Mona’s frown deepens.
“He was,” Mona says, her tone firm, a warning. “But I’m here to break that up. Come on, Kimba. There’s some other people I want you to meet.”
Kimba stands from the wall, her skirt floating around her legs. “Sure. Why not?”
When I saw her at the funeral, I knew it would be like this for me—that I would crave her. That I would want to know her this way again. She knew it, too, and she shut it down. I wasn’t free to do anything about it, to cultivate it when I saw her two years ago. Now I can.
Isn’t there someone you’ve been attracted to?
When Aiko asked me that question a few weeks ago, I didn’t see a path to do anything about my response to Kimba, but now she’s here. I should have tried harder to keep her in my life before. I was a boy then, but now I’m a man.
And there’s a napkin in my head with Kimba’s name scribbled all over it.