Like a Sister(33)
Ten
It was another three-melatonin night. Same dream. Me chasing after an elusive Desiree, still not able to find her. I woke up with a headache that rivaled my hangover after earning my bachelor’s but still managed to be out the door in twenty minutes. Two of them I used to check for news. Even though I’d turned off my Google Alert for Desiree, I still did a quick search. There were a ton of articles, most rehashing what they’d already reported on her death. Thirteen I used to shower and put on my oversize Melanin T-shirt and leggings. Three were for forcing a granola bar down my throat. The final two to swallow down a Motrin and pray the lingering headache would disappear before I made it to Manhattan.
Aunt E and I had finally eaten the chicken ’n’ dumplings last night in front of her TV watching a replay of The Real Housewives of Potomac. Well, she ate. I picked at my plate and then threw most of it away when she went to the bathroom. Neither of us brought up Desiree, the designer-clad elephant in the room. It was quiet and awkward, which wasn’t our usual MO. But we were both lost in our own thoughts. Aunt E was the only family member left who knew me well enough to know something was wrong, and I didn’t want to have to tell her anything I suspected. At least not until I had more info.
I had begged off breakfast, blaming it on having to stop by school to finally drop off my paper. I grabbed it from where it’d been sitting on my printer in the spare bedroom for the past week and a half and ignored the clothes still on the floor as I left my apartment. I barely remembered to set the alarm when I grabbed my bike from the downstairs hall.
I had things to do. Places to be. People to confront. But first I needed a bike ride.
If you really want to enjoy Central Park, get there at about 9:30 a.m. The early morning health nuts are long gone—shined and showered and strolling into work feeling damn good they exercised this morning and you didn’t. The tourists are still enjoying overpriced breakfasts at places like Junior’s and Roxy Diner. Those who can still exercise at 9:30—the stay-at-home moms, the trophy wives, the college kids—are dropping forty dollars per class to have some over-muscled, under-endowed instructor yell tenderly in their ear as they do burpees.
No thanks.
I was an avid biker, that rare mix who uses it for both transportation and exercise. I just don’t look the part, forgoing aerodynamic attire for whatever’s clean. I don’t ride for speed. Considering I still use the ten-year-old Schwinn my mom had gotten me for my eighteenth birthday, I can’t. It’s more about taking my time, concentrating on the air blowing on my face like the Big Bad Wolf. More than once I’ve heard some rich white guy laugh as he sped past me on his $2,500 Liv Langma, or seen women in yoga pants give me a look as they slowly drove past in an Uber on their way to spin class, judging way too hard to see the irony of the situation.
Today I tried to let my mind go, but there was too much on it, and coming from so many directions that I felt gridlocked. Desiree being cut off. Being pregnant. Being with a married man. Free, at that. If the baby was his and he knew it, he couldn’t have been happy. His wife definitely wouldn’t have been. Maybe Free really had made sure she would never find out?
It was hard to reconcile the “Uncle Free” I knew as a kid with this person. Our society loved to hold celebrities up to mythic proportions. Believe that because someone could make you cry, make you laugh, make you cheer, they couldn’t possibly be evil. It was why so many were able to get away with so much. And though I was the last person to put any celebrity on a pedestal, I did find myself not wanting to believe it could be true.
Erin had claimed she knew Free’s afternoon workout schedule because she’d once had a “thing” with his trainer. She’d told me about Billy right before insisting she pay for lunch. He and Erin were no longer speaking, but she was adamant that whenever Free was in town, he and Billy would work out at a gym in Midtown. There was never a set time, other than the afternoon. That was usually when Free woke up. My plan was to camp out in the gym lobby from noon until the end of time if need be. I’d promised to let Erin know how it went. I’d let Green know too, even though I still hadn’t reached him.
It’s all good, baby, baby.
I repeated the five simple words as I headed south past the reservoir.
*
Stuart Jones was waiting at the Starbucks across from campus when I finished dropping off my paper with Professor White and letting him know I needed a few days to deal with a death in the family. I’d taken my time on the walk over, just enjoying the familiarity of campus.
He sat at a table for two, the omnipresent black suit again a dead giveaway he didn’t belong. I hesitated, then finally pulled up my big-girl panties. Always one to be prepared, I’d read up on him the night before.
Desiree’s DUI had been his first byline in the News. His previous stories had all been for some small paper in Central Jersey. His coverage of the accident was extensive, and his bosses must’ve liked it because he began popping up consistently afterward, this time with “Staff Writer” under his name. It had changed to “Police Reporter” a year ago.
It made things tricky. And the whole interview made me wary because there was no way I planned to share my suspicions about Desiree’s pregnancy. At least not yet. I’d come with a clear agenda, though now that I saw him, I was rethinking everything. But it was too late to back out.