by Kennedy Ryan
“We’ve been struggling for a while, but I wanted to make this work for so many reasons. I wanted us to be a family for Noah. I wanted it to work because you’re fantastic, and who wouldn’t want to spend their life with you?” I sit on the edge of the window sill, looking out at our backyard, the garden Noah and I planted, the memories we’ve made here as a family.
“But you know what I’ve come to realize?” I ask, shifting my gaze back to Aiko. “I also tried to make it work because I grew up seeing my parents trying to make it work. Saw this huge gulf between them grow bigger and bigger, and the love that brought them together in the first place wasn’t enough to fill it. They never gave up on the marriage, but somewhere along the way, they gave up on each other.”
I take her hand and look into the familiar dark eyes swimming with bright tears. “I’d rather give up on this relationship than give up on you, Ko, and if we continue down this road, I’m afraid we’ll keep going through the motions but end up resenting each other.”
“You resent me?”
“No, but I think there’s something you need that I’m not giving you and something I need that I’m not getting.”
“Is it that piece of paper?” Her voice is dismissive, her tone bordering on derisive. “You’re such a traditionalist. If we’d gotten married, would you be ‘getting what you needed’?”
She’s right. In a lot of ways I am traditional. I did always think I’d get married, even when I was young. In the midst of this thorny conversation, a memory sprouts, a fragile bud that opens, reminding me of my earliest ideas of marriage and family and what it meant to choose one person for the rest of your life.
When I was six years old, I got married on a spring day in my backyard. The bride wore a Paula Abdul T-shirt that declared Straight Up on the front. There was a tiny hole in the toe of her Keds, and her pink sock poked through it. Her hair was artfully arranged into two afro puffs. The groom wore a Superman cape and swimming trunks. Who knows why six-year-old Ezra was obsessed with swimming trunks, but there you have it. Mama had taken me to Aunt Rose’s wedding in New York, and I knew as soon as I got back to Atlanta, my best friend and I should get married.
For once, Kimba let me have my way.
The low-hanging branches of the elm tree out back formed our chuppah. I couldn’t remember any of the Sheva Brachot, so I made up my own seven blessings. I’m pretty sure they were things like all-you-can-eat pizza and Super Mario Brothers high scores. I grabbed two tabs from cans of Coke in the refrigerator for our rings. I can still feel the cold metal encircling my finger. I couldn’t remember why they broke the glass at Aunt Rose’s wedding, but we dropped one of Mama’s mason jars on a rock, jumping back and laughing when it shattered everywhere.
And that was it. We were married. Kimba said we shouldn’t tell the grown-ups because they wouldn’t understand, and we should wait ’til we were older. She always seemed to know best, so I agreed.
“Ezra,” Aiko prods. “Would marriage make a difference?”
I clear my throat, refocusing my attention to look her straight in the eye. “No, I don’t think we should get married, but you keep bringing up this open relationship. Tell me the truth. Is there someone you want to sleep with?”
To her credit, she doesn’t flinch, but I know her. That left eye twitches, which gives her away when she tries to lie or hide something from me. It’s how I always beat her in poker.
“There’s a guy I might…” She tightens the kimono belt at her small waist. “Might be interested in. You know the photography safari I’m going on next week?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s, um, going, too,” she says quickly, licking her lips.
Now it makes sense. She wants me to agree to this ridiculous open relationship so she and her fuck buddy can have at it for a month in the Serengeti.
“It’s not just me,” she says hastily. “An open relationship would mean expanding the parameters of fidelity for us both. I know you’ve been faithful. So have I, always, but isn’t there someone you’ve…ya know, been attracted to?”
I swallow hard, not quite catching the memory I suppress on a regular basis before it rises up to torture me. Kimba Allen, all grown up and grieving at her father’s funeral two years ago. So lush leaning into me. I wasn’t prepared for the hug—hadn’t expected to feel her. The elegant black dress had caressed her full, firm curves, and I’d curled my hand reflexively at her waist. I hadn’t wanted to let go. As children we’d been close, but the thing I felt when I saw Kimba for the first time since the summer of ninth grade? It was more. Instantly more, and the kind of attraction a man feels for a woman. In just those few moments, it felt real and deep in a way I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had. By then, Aiko and I were already in counseling and things weren’t great. My strong response to Kimba warned it wouldn’t be wise to maintain contact, but I’d still started the question.
“Should we…”
Exchange numbers? Stay in touch? Hold on tight?
I didn’t ask, but she looked at me, read me, I think.
And answered the question with goodbye.
She saw my son. She saw Aiko. She may have even felt the instant connection that sprang fully born inside of me as soon as I laid eyes on her after twenty years, and she knew it was dangerous. So did I, but some reckless part of me wanted to say fuck it. Message me. Talk to me. Sit on the phone with me for hours and I’ll listen to you breathe.
Just come back into my life, Tru. I want to keep feeling this.
But I didn’t say any of that, and she said goodbye and I went home with my family.
And that was right.
But the suit I wore to that funeral carried her scent for weeks. I furtively sniffed the lapels, hungry to inhale what was left of her in the fibers.
“There’s no one in particular,” I lie. “But again, I’m not standing in your way.”
“So you’re fine with me and Chaz.” She looks down at the silk belt she rubs between her fingers. “That’s his name, Chaz. You’re fine if we—”
“An open relationship isn’t the answer.” I lift her chin, coaxing her to meet my eyes. “I want to be with someone who only wants to be with me, and it would kill me if she was with someone else. You and I want different things.”
“Isn’t there a part of you that still wants me?” she asks, her voice husky, desperate.
I glance down at her slim loveliness. She’s beautiful and some men would kill for what I have, but I don’t feel that for Aiko anymore. I don’t know when it stopped exactly, but I do know for weeks when I would open that closet and catch the slightest lingering trace of Kimba’s scent, I’d go fully erect. I have a semi now just thinking about her. Guilt gnaws at my insides, and I step back from Aiko. I wish so many things were different, but if any one thing had changed, I might not have Noah, and he’s the best thing to ever happen to me.
“I want you to be happy, Ko.” I bend to kiss her forehead and squeeze her shoulder. “I’m not made for an open relationship, but I’m releasing you from this one.”
“Ezra.” She closes her eyes, and a tear slips over her cheek. “Oh, God. Is this really happening?”
So this is what the end feels like. Like rolling down a hill for years, wondering if you’ll ever land in a ravine, and then stopping suddenly. Crashing. Abrupt. Painful.
I thumb the wetness from her face. “There’s a lot to sort out. Noah is my first concern. We never married, but to him, this will feel like a divorce.”
“His birthday is coming up.” She bites her lip, blinking damp lashes. “I already feel awful that I’ll be away on this trip for it. Could we let him enjoy his party? I don’t want this cloud hanging over it. He’s so excited about his friends coming and—”
“I agree. We’ll let him have his party.” I kiss her forehead, pull her into a hug, swallowing against the painful burning of my throat. “We’ll tell him when you get back.”
Chapter Ten
Kimba
“Mama, I’ll be there.”
I adjust my earbud and jog in heels the last few steps to my doctor’s office building since some guy is holding the door open for me.
“Thanks,” I say, flashing him a quick smile. He’s staring at my ass. “Eyes up here, buddy.”
His cheeks redden.
Awww. A blushing lecher. How cute.
He tugs at his collar like it just got tight. “Uh, sorry. I—”
“Dude, I’m just teasing you. It’s fine.”
He laughs, relief evident on his face before he ducks into one of the open office doors.
“Teasing me about what?” my mother asks. “Will you be home in time for the ceremony or not, Kimba?”
“I said yes.” My home training nudges me. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. There will be so many community leaders there, and you know we’ve named this new award for—”
“For Daddy, yes, Mama. You told me. It’s amazing.”
My family’s legacy, especially in Atlanta, is long and impressive. I’m proud of my grandfather and my father, of all their accomplishments and all the good they did. Seeing how they lived their lives inspired me to do what I do—to live my life the way I have.
Younger Kimba didn’t always have this perspective. Turning on to streets named after your father is great. Attending an elementary school named after your grandfather is great…until everyone starts expecting things from you. All the things. And the scrutiny can become so intense.
My grandfather was a Morehouse man. My daddy was a Morehouse man. My grandmother, mother, aunts, sister—all Spelmanites. When it came time for me to choose a college, it never occurred to anyone that I would detour from the prescribed path. My announcement that I’d won a full ride to Arizona State was met with shock and disapproval. I resented the suffocating expectations of everyone who knew my family. Atlanta felt like a city-wide trap. That scholarship sprang me free.
“And Kayla needs you to handle a few things for the ceremony,” Mama says.
“What things?” I’m outside my doctor’s office suite, but linger in the hall to finish my call. “What does she need me to do?”
“She…oh, Lord above. You tell her, Zee,” Mama says impatiently.
“Tru?” Kayla’s deep voice takes over the line. Even after all these years, my back straightens a little when my big sister enters the room. She manages everything from her children to our family’s foundation like a five-star general.
“What do you need me to do at the reception, Kayla?”
“Well, hello to you, too, sis,” she replies coolly.
I tap my foot and grit my teeth. I don’t have time for this. I’m meeting Senator Billingsley from Michigan after this appointment. My schedule is basically a Jenga tower that Carla carefully constructs. I get behind on any part of it and the whole day collapses.
“Sorry,” I say, forcefully scrubbing my voice of irritation. “Hello, Kayla. How are you?”
“Hmmmm. Don’t do that polite shit with me.”
“Zee, come on. I get straight to the point, and you call me out for being rude. I ask how you are and you accuse me of being polite?”
“I didn’t say you were rude. You were impersonal. There’s a difference.”
“Can you please sister-splain the difference later and get to the damn point right now so I can continue with my day? I have a doctor’s appointment like now.”
“Doctor?” Concern shades her voice. “You okay?”
“Doctor?” my mother echoes from somewhere in the room. “Is she pregnant? Please, Jesus, don’t let that child be pregnant.”
“Ma, she’s not pregnant.” Kayla drops her voice. “Are you?”
“Don’t have an abortion!” Mama screams from much closer. “We could give that baby a good home once we got past the shame of you having it out of wedlock.”
I swallow a feral scream. I need something to strangle if I’m expected to endure this.
“I’m not pregnant.” Far as I know. “Just some routine stuff. Now, what do you need me to do?”
“You sure?” Kayla asks.
I don’t answer, letting my silence speak because I may snarl if I use words.
“Okay, okay,” Kayla says. “So there will be about twenty community leaders recognized at the ceremony.”
“Who are they?”
“Community leaders. I just said—”
“No, I mean do we know who these people are being honored in Daddy’s name?”
“I’ve been really busy. You know. Protecting our family’s legacy and all.”
“The guilt I could do without, Zee. We’re all aware you’re the keeper of the flame for our entire lineage. Just say we don’t know. It’s fine. I was just wondering.”
“We only recently notified them that they’ve been selected. Our associate director is contacting them to make sure they can all attend. She saw the list and vetted them, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried, I just wondered…never mind. What do you need me to do?”
“Present the awards. This was one of the final projects Daddy was working on before he passed. A few of these leaders he hand-picked. When he died, this fell by the wayside for a little while, but we have a committee who chose the leaders Daddy didn’t get to.”
She pauses and clears her throat. “He, um, actually left special instructions asking you to present the inaugural group.”
“What?” I lean against the wall, weak and spent with missing my daddy for a moment. “He…he said that? He wanted that?”
“Yeah,” Kayla says softly. “That’s what he told the committee.”
I pass a thumb under my eye to catch a surprise tear. Grief gives no warning sometimes. “Thank you for telling me, Zee. I’ll do it, of course.”
“Good. Now are you sure you’re okay? You sound…off.”
Kayla is such a mother. I mean, the woman does have five children, the last one still in diapers. Her fertility is actually quite disconcerting. No one person has had that many kids in our family since like… Reconstruction. But along comes Kayla, bringing fruitful and multiply back.
“I’m fine, Zee.” The edge falls away from my tone, too. I think we actually enjoy sparring because it’s hard to find anyone who can hold their own with either of us, but ultimately we love each other.
“You’re in between campaigns, right?” she asks. “Why don’t you consider staying in Atlanta for a few weeks? We miss you. Mama misses you.”
“I do!” Mama yells. “Need to bring those hips home for a while.”
I hear the affection behind the chiding. And that she misses me. Hidden beneath all the chaos of my life and demanding schedule, I miss them, too.
“Well there’s always something popping off,” I say. “We’re gearing up for a few campaigns, but I’ll see if I can stay a while. I hired some new staff to help now that Lennix is gone.”
“Go, Lennix,” Kayla says, and I can almost see her beaming. “That’s my girl. You know we’re proud of you doing big things up in D.C. Electing presidents and such. You sure about turning down President Cade’s cabinet position?”
“Lennix asked me that just this morning. I’m sure.”
“I saw she’s pregnant. A baby in the White House. Ain’t that something?”
“It is,” I agree with a smile. “Okay. I’m gonna be late for my appointment if I don’t go.”
“See you next week.”
“K. Bye.” I disconnect and hurry through the office suite door and sign in. I flip through a magazine until they call my name and take me to my doctor’s office.
“Do I need to undress or anything?” I ask the nurse.
“No. Sorry if the message wasn’t clear. She just wants to discuss results.”
“I’m not dying, right?” I joke.
“I don’t know,” the nurse replies with a straight face and walks out.
“Okay. She could use some interpersonal training,” I mutter, settling into the
seat across from the doctor’s desk.
Dr. Granden strides in moments later, her salt and pepper hair pulled into a bun pierced with a pencil. She always gives a very harried impression, almost absent-minded, until it’s time for her to actually talk to you about your health. Then you feel like she’s in absolute control and you have her full, expert attention.
“Kimba, hi.” She sits down and opens a file on her desk, a small frown bunching her brows when she looks up at me. She closes the file. “We got your bloodwork back.”
Please don’t let me be pregnant.
Please don’t let me be pregnant.
Please don’t let me be pregnant.
“I’m not pregnant, am I?” I ask, half-seriously, half-nervously. “Because I cannot afford that right now.”
An odd look crosses Dr. Granden’s face, almost like surprise. She adjusts her glasses and leans forward, elbows on the desk and steepled fingers at her lips.
“No, you’re not pregnant, Kimba. I believe you’re in perimenopause.”
It takes a moment for her words to sink through the layers of my expectations. Never in a million years did I think she would say that. A startled laugh slips out.
“No. What?” I tilt my head, a puzzled smile crooking my lips. “I thought you said menopause, but you couldn’t have—”
“Perimenopause.”
“I’m only thirty-seven.”
“Entering it early is not as rare as you might think.” Her white-coated shoulders lift and fall. “Some women start at your age and stay in this pre-menopausal state for years. For some, it goes much faster. I have patients who started in their late twenties.”
“What does this mean? W-what are you telling me?”
“How many periods have you missed?”
“Um…four. I…my periods have done that in times of stress before. Skipped. I just finished an election. I attributed it to that.”
“Any hot flushes?”
“N-not that I’ve noticed, no.”
But did I not notice? I’ve “felt hot” several times, but you feel hot sometimes. I would never have assumed feeling hotter than everyone else in the room or fanning on a day that wasn’t especially warm meant hot flashes.