Thank You for Listening(31)

“How’s it feel to be motivated by money?”

AFTER A DAY of billing and a couple of hours in the booth, Sewanee was happy to hear Adaku’s knock on her door. “Come in!” she called, as she finished pouring two glasses of rosé.

“This is why your ass is amazing,” Adaku said from the other side of the kitchen wall, sounding winded. She rounded the corner and took Swan into a yoga hug.

She chuckled into Adaku’s ear. “You work out with a trainer four times a week.”

“And yet these stairs still kill me!”

“Well, here.” She handed Adaku a glass of wine. She was about to ask how the drinks-meeting at LAX had gone, but Adaku launched into the story unprompted.

“So, the meeting started out awkward as shit. He had no desire to meet me let alone have a conversation.” She took a quick gulp. “He says the typical producer stuff, I come back at him with everything I’ve got, and then he finally admits he doesn’t think I’m ‘culturally Black’ enough to play Angela Davis.”

Sewanee stopped mid-drink. “What the hell does that mean?”

“What it always means: nothing. They see you the way they want to see you. Black, white, tall, short, fat, skinny . . . you’re condemned to it.”

Sewanee pursed her lips. “How old is this guy?”

“Too old. Too white.”

“Perfect person to make the Angela Davis story.”

“Well, funny you should say that. I told him maybe he wasn’t ‘culturally Black’ enough to be producing it.”

Sewanee gasped, eye bugging. “OhmygodIloveyou, what did he say?”

Adaku lifted her glass and smiled. “I’m officially in the mix.”

Sewanee laughed. “You are on a roll! Cheers.” They clinked glasses and moved reflexively toward the porch. Unless it was raining, they never confined themselves to Sewanee’s shoebox living room.

Adaku opened the sliding screen door for Swan, whose hands were full with glass and bottle. “Okay, now let’s go! I want the full story! Every detail! No broad strokes, no glossing. I want to know the nitty, the gritty, and what he did to them titties!”

Sewanee guffawed and they sat down in the two stackable plastic chairs she’d secured at a garage sale for five bucks and which were light enough to carry up the hill. Then she spent half an hour telling a story that left Adaku open-mouthed, knee-slapping, and speechless. And Adaku was never speechless.

When she was done, Sewanee topped their glasses off. The silence was unnerving. “Please say something. You know what, actually, don’t say anything. I did what I did and I have no regrets. A little out of character, I know, but . . .” At Adaku’s receding chin, she amended, “A lot, a lot out of character, but A . . .” She put down the bottle, looked at her friend. “It was the best night I’ve had in years and not because of the sex.”

Adaku raised a brow.

“Not just because of the sex.”

Adaku assessed Sewanee. Then a slow, Cheshire smile filled her face. One word fell from her lips. “Damn.”

Sewanee sprang up. “I need a snack.” She dipped back inside and tried to get her nerves under control. Reliving the night had made it real, concretized it. It was now a story, one that had been shared with another person, open to scrutiny, available for opinion. Outside of her head it became . . . a lot. Maybe it was something to regret.

She grabbed the box of gluten-free quinoa cracker things she kept here for Adaku and went back outside.

Adaku took the folded side table leaning against the wall and placed it between their chairs as Sewanee resettled herself. “There’s so much to unpack,” Adaku murmured. “This isn’t a suitcase, it’s a steamer trunk.”

Sewanee shook her head. “There’s nothing to unpack.”

Adaku bit her lip. “You really left? You both just walked away without any contact info? None?”

“I’d been lying about who I was.”

“Yeah, but–”

“And, remember, he didn’t offer anything, either, so chances are he wasn’t exactly on the up and up.” She dropped her face into her hands. “Oh my God. Who knows who he actually was? Jesus Christ, I can’t believe–”

“Nope, unh-unh, stop. Don’t ruin it. He was hot. You were safe.” She leaned over, squeezed Sewanee’s leg. “It’s a happy ending.”

“One of many,” Sewanee mumbled.

Adaku laughed and sat back. She looked out at the view and sighed. Then gave Sewanee a side-eye. “The thing he did with the ring, though.”

Sewanee groaned. “Don’t.”

Adaku held up a hand. “Just saying. Like something out of a Romance novel.”

Sewanee sat forward. “Oh! That’s another thing that happened.” She told her about the June French project. How they’d made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

Adaku tilted her head. “I thought you were done with Romance.”

“I was, but it’s crazy money.”

“Do you need money? Is something up?”

Sewanee knew if she told Adaku about BlahBlah, she’d want to help. But Sewanee never wanted Adaku’s success to rescue her from her lack of it. This was how friendships changed; hell, this was how families changed. How help became resentment. So she brushed cracker dust off her sweatpants and said, “There’s only so much money I can ever make doing this job–there’s a ceiling, no matter how in-demand I am–and this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to cash in. Build a little cushion for myself, you know?”