Like a Sister(34)

He stood and spoke as we shook hands. “You okay?”

I gave him a toothless smile, then sat in the chair kitty-corner from him. His phone, notebook, and pen were already on the table along with a cup of coffee. “You want anything?”

I shook my head. “Thanks for meeting me up here.”

“Wasn’t a problem at all. You’re still going to class?”

“Not this week. Just needed to drop off a paper.” My smile stayed tight. Reserved. Both wanting and not wanting to keep up the small talk.

“Don’t you think your professor would have understood if you emailed it? Considering the circumstances…”

I shifted. Now he wanted to turn our interview into a pity party. “It was fine. I needed air.”

“You walked? From the Bronx?” I didn’t know who was more surprised. Him for thinking I walked or me for realizing he’d looked up my address. But then I remembered he’d also found my phone number.

“Biked,” I said.

“Nice. What do you ride?”

“Ten-year-old Schwinn.” I didn’t mention the fancy Liv Langma Mel had sent me. It was still collecting dust in my hallway. I braced, ready for him to mock my Schwinn. Make some joke.

“Classic,” he said. “I like it.”

He picked up his pen but didn’t open his notebook. Just twirled the Uni-ball in his hand like he was the star majorette. “So you don’t go by Pierce…” He let the question linger, as if expecting me to explain why.

“Nope.”

When he realized I wasn’t going to say more, he spoke again. “I need to apologize for trying to flirt when we first met. I didn’t know who you were, what you were going through. Still, it was pretty clear you didn’t want anyone bothering you. And I kept pushing. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

I hadn’t expected that one. But still, I appreciated it. He wasn’t the first guy to try to hit on me when he sensed vulnerability. He was the first to apologize for it, though. “Thank you.” I left it at that.

“So we can start over?” When I nodded, he smiled. And unlike on Wednesday, it seemed genuine. “Appreciate that, just like I appreciate you doing this. I know it’s not easy. And I don’t want you to think I’m trying to trick you. This is not an article about your sister’s death. It’s about her life. I’m sure you’ve seen the chatter online. The comments. The judgment. I want to remind people who Desiree Pierce really was.”

I nodded, not about to thank the person who put my sister’s lowest moment on the front page. I didn’t care how fair he thought his coverage would be.

After a beat, he finally stopped twirling his pen and opened his notebook. “What should I say is your occupation? Grad student studying Nonprofit Management?”

Not sure why he even had posed it as a question. He’d clearly visited my LinkedIn profile, probably had done a full background check like he was renting me an apartment. I just nodded.

“You don’t have any experience yet? Your background is corporate?”

I nodded again. Also on my LinkedIn.

He kept on like we were having an actual conversation. “It’s amazing you made such a big change. Makes my dreams sound selfish as hell. Win a Pulitzer and a National Book Award. I mean, I volunteer, deliver meals for God’s Love We Deliver. But only on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Have since my mother got cancer ten years ago. It’s a great way to spend the holidays.”

That’s when I defrosted. I couldn’t help it. “I’m sorry about your mom. Mine died of breast cancer five years ago.”

“I’m sorry too. Shitty club to be in.”

“The worst. It’s actually why I went back to school. I want to help Black women dealing with breast cancer. Provide resources for them and their families.”

“Yeah, there’s no manual. Wish there had been. I was barely legal when she died.” He put his pen to paper like he was ready to write down every word I said. “But this isn’t an interview about me. Back to Desiree.”

We spoke longer than I’d anticipated. I barely even noticed when he finally started taking notes. He made it easy to talk, delivering on his promise to focus on Desiree’s life. I found myself forgetting why I was here, too busy recalling stories that had been long buried. Like the time she’d found a love letter at Gram’s house I’d written to a member of ’NSYNC. How she couldn’t ever remember what day it was but could always recite every line. She’d pick one at random, quote it at the most inopportune times. She had whispered one in my ear at my high school graduation. And how when she’d actually met him, she made him write me a joke proposal.

Remembering put me in such a good mood that I forgot why I’d wanted to speak with Stuart in the first place. My “talking points.” I wondered if I should even bring up the other things I’d decided not to tell him. The pregnancy. Maybe he’d know more.

“Have you heard anything at all about her autopsy?” I said. “Did they do it yet?”

“Police didn’t tell you?” He seemed surprised.

“I can’t even get Detective Green to return my phone calls.”

He nodded. “He’s a decent guy. Just overworked. He’ll get back to you as soon as he can. Let me know if you still don’t hear from him and I can check with my source.”