On Rotation(102)

Even now, watching me in the mirror from against the doorframe, he looked inordinately unbothered.

“Is this dress too short?” I asked. “I thought it looked good before, but it keeps riding up.”

Ricky smirked, scanning the length of my body with shameless admiration.

“I think you look great,” he said lasciviously.

I rolled my eyes at him but smiled all the same.

“You’re just saying that because it’s tight,” I said.

Ricky sidled up behind me, pressing a chaste kiss on my cheek while running his hands down the curve of my waist in a manner that was . . . much less so.

“My point still stands,” he said, pulling my ear gently between his teeth. I melted into him, letting him lather my neck with blistering-hot, feather-light kisses, and then, before he could break down my resolve, pushed him away.

“No,” I said sternly, pointing at him. “On task.”

He chuckled, pressing one last kiss onto my cheek, and then spun me to face him.

“We have an hour,” he said, drawing me slowly into him again. “I can be . . . efficient.”

Lord, could he be. I considered it. I always found Ricky delectable, but today in particular, dressed in his smart button-down, navy blazer, and a pair of chinos that held his ass up like two loving hands, he looked particularly irresistible. Even Momma, who was still a bit disappointed that neither of her daughters had shacked up with a Ghanaian, cooed, “Ooh, he is handsome,” when she first met him.

“It’ll take twenty minutes to walk there,” I reasoned. “We have to get there ten minutes before, or we won’t get good seats. So no.”

“Angela Appiah, worrying about being late!” he teased. He lunged for the nearby window, making a show of searching the skies for something. “Are pigs flying?”

I stuck my tongue out at him, and then stepped into the bathroom to do my makeup.

My entire life, I had been careful. I knew myself, knew that I would give all of myself away for nothing if I didn’t hold myself on a leash, and so I made sure I always followed some general rules. No sex before commitment. Always pay for my own first date. Don’t say I love you until the other person says it first.

But with Ricky, I could be reckless. There didn’t seem to be a need to be cautious, not with the man who painted my face into murals and squeezed my hand at his father’s funeral. When Ricky’s lease ran out, instead of renewing it, he suggested he take Nia’s old room, and I agreed without thinking. And when Momma called to ask whether I’d be sending in Ricky’s measurements, I did so without question. I spent my newly earned fourth-year free time* taking Spanish lessons and having stilted conversations with Abuela over cups of homemade horchata. I finally convinced Abuelo to go to the doctor’s, calling into his appointments after he was diagnosed with high blood pressure.

A part of me kept waiting for Ricky to prove that I was making a mistake. That our honeymoon period would pass, and we would go from being lovers to bitter roommates. But he didn’t. At Tabatha’s traditional, he had looked dapper in his custom-embroidered attire, and somehow won over my aunties so thoroughly that they made a competition out of asking him to dance. He’d eaten fufu properly, with his hands, and helped Momma and me with the cleanup afterward. “I’m a grandma’s boy,” he claimed when Momma tried to shoo him out of the kitchen. If the mural hadn’t won her over, that certainly did the trick.

A year and a half ago, when we stood in Lydia’s garden for the second time, I swore that I could never love a man as much as I did Ricky. And here I was, loving the same man, but somehow even more than before.

“You ready?” he asked when we had forty minutes left. Miraculously, I was, and we made the walk to campus.

When we reached the auditorium, the usher, a third-year medical student, directed me down one path, and Ricky into the friends and family seating.

“It’s gonna be okay, babe,” Ricky said, right before we split up. “Breathe. It’ll be over in an hour.” He waved to Nia, who had arrived early and saved him a seat, then gave me a brief kiss. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” I said. I took a shuddering breath and walked down the decorated aisle to sit next to Michelle. She gave me a shaky smile.

“You look bomb,” she said. “I told you the blue was a good choice.”

“Thanks, boo. So do you.” Much to Markus’s chagrin, much of the Sanity Circle group chat discussion for the last week had revolved around coordinating our outfits for the post-Match photos. Michelle looked incredible in a red dress that complemented her lipstick.

“Terrified?” Michelle asked. She’d only applied to psychiatry programs on the East Coast, and her rank list had been about ten institutions shorter than mine. She’d been radiating anxiety since the residency application submission deadline.

“Of course,” I said. She squeezed my hand.

“We’ll be okay,” she insisted.

Match Day, like every medical school ceremony, started with a whole lot of pomp and circumstance. Our dean introduced an esteemed physician-scientist as our speaker, who gave a speech about his illustrious career and how we too could be like him if only we were as naturally brilliant and charismatic. We watched a video, stitched together by our alumni, wishing us good luck in residency. Then, one by one, we were called to the front of the room to retrieve our envelopes.