We Are Not Like Them(94)

The young blond woman has no idea what to do with this strange “compliment.”

We walk out into the dusk, the sun casting a labyrinth of shadows on the sidewalk. I strangely have the urge to keep our mother-daughter date going—drinks at Parc or pedis, but Corey awaits. And besides, we may not want to push our luck.

“I’ll see you and your brother at five p.m. sharp on Saturday, right?”

Both Shaun and I are dreading this, but we agreed to go look at apartments in Bensalem with our parents this weekend. Momma puts on a chipper facade whenever she talks about downsizing and claims to be looking forward to having so many fewer rooms to clean. She’s working hard to hide her despair. I learned from the best.

“At least we’ll get a discount on moving, with your brother’s gig.” Her laughter feels genuine enough for me to allow myself the hope that this move and losing the house won’t break her—maybe it’s a fresh start.

“Well, wish me luck,” I say.

“You don’t need luck, you have God. And you don’t need any man.”

“I don’t need a man… but maybe I want one.” I hug her as we laugh and say goodbye.

It’s only a ten-minute walk to the diner but I already know Corey is going to be there when I arrive, because he always said it was better to be an hour early than a minute late. No CP time for Corey.

Sure enough, when I go through the doors and the quaint bell jingles above my head, I spot him right away, even in the crowded restaurant.

It’s like I’m at the peak of a roller coaster, right at that split second before it goes into free fall. Corey sees me and breaks into a wide grin. The coaster plummets. As I walk over, I take him in greedily. He looks exactly the same, which is to say, as attractive as ever—same tall, lean frame, olive skin, that dimple in his left cheek.

When I reach the table, he gets up to greet me, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek. I count the seconds his warm lips graze the space near my mouth. It’s not long enough.

“Breakfast for dinner. You remembered.”

I knew Corey would dig this West Philly diner because he loves a place that serves breakfast for dinner, which is why I chose it, and also as a stupid nod to our first date, pancakes in Chicago. The downside is they don’t serve alcohol, and my need is bordering on desperate, but he looks so touched, the sacrifice is almost worth it.

“Yeah, I figured you’d like this place.”

I’ve said exactly one sentence to Corey, and I’m already second-guessing it as my mind races ahead, trying to think of the right thing to say next. Then it registers that it’s not my turn to speak again, as if I’ve lost grasp of the basic rules of conversation.

“You look great,” he says, settling into the vinyl booth.

“You too. We sort of match.” We both look down at our blue shirts.

There’s a beat, long enough for me to worry that we’re on the verge of an awkward moment, when he looks up at me, his expression more serious. Another split second is enough for me to panic that he’s going to dive right in and tell me about his STD… or his engagement.

He tilts toward me. “I’m really sorry about your grandma, Rye. She was a great lady.”

“Thank you, I miss her.” I hadn’t steeled myself for this, his concern, for him looking at me like he’s hugging me with his eyes.

“I don’t think she liked me that much. I know she called me White Corey. Which always made me wonder, was there ever a Black Corey?”

This makes me laugh. “There wasn’t.”

“Are you doing okay though? I know how close you two were.” His fingers stroke the back of my hand. I’m not prepared for the current that shoots down from the top of my head and lodges between my legs.

I turn to the neighboring table when I sense someone staring, an older white woman eating alone. There’s a twinge of self-consciousness as Corey’s hand lingers on mine. I fix my face to say, This is none of your business.

This is familiar, all the stares and double takes Corey and I experienced when we were together, especially when he came to visit me in Alabama. Stares that I took to mean, Why’s he with her? even though Corey was somehow completely oblivious to them. Whenever I’d point these things out, he’d say I was imagining it.

“You’re being paranoid. People are staring at you because you’re gorgeous, and they’re staring at me because they’re wondering how a bum like me ended up with a girl like you.” It would have been easier to let myself believe he was right.

I turn back and Corey’s hand is no longer touching mine. I try to work out when that happened and how I could possibly already miss it so much.

“I’m sure she’s one of your adoring fans,” he whispers, having also noticed the woman staring. When he leans over the table, I catch a strong whiff of his absurdly expensive minty aftershave from one of those stores dedicated to the so-called art of shaving. I wonder if it’s the same bottle I bought him for his birthday two years ago. “It was crazy to see you on my TV in New York. I looked up, and there you were, Riley Wilson on CNN. They only showed a short clip of the interview with that kid’s mom—”

Justin, I want to say. His name is Justin.

“But then I went to YouTube and watched the whole thing. So powerful. You’re such a force on camera, Rye. You were born for it.”