We Are Not Like Them(95)

“Thanks. That means a lot.” And it did. There it was, the praise from Corey that never failed to validate me in some essential way. I used to hate that—hate the way he made me feel, like it gave him some power over me. But then I realized why I valued his admiration so much—I never had to work for it. With everyone else in my life, I was always tap dancing, always on a stage, always trying to be “impressive”—with teachers, bosses, mentors, even my parents, even with Alex in Joplin. I was always trying to live up to some glossy magazine version of the Black media power couple he wanted us to one day be—I knew we had to break up the fifth time he referenced me as the Michelle to his Barack. Corey was the first person who I didn’t try to impress. In fact, the opposite. If anything, I was going to make it clear to him and myself that I wasn’t going to go out of my way trying to prove anything to him—this random white guy I literally stumbled into—and it turns out, I didn’t have to. Because I also stumbled into the miraculous discovery of being loved without having to put so much effort into striving to feel worthy of it.

Here he is now looking at me like that again. Like he sees me, sees right through me. This is what I was trying to describe to Momma, the feeling I had with Corey, like I had no choice but to let him see the real me. Maybe it’s what we all want from the people we love: to be seen for exactly who we are. It was a simple realization, so why did it feel like such a miracle? But the surprise is how fast the feelings return, like the first drops of blood from a deep cut. The shock of raw white tissue, then the rush of red. All I can do is swallow it all down. It’s as good a plan as I’ve got in the moment.

Corey holds up the giant glossy menu covered in pictures of greasy eggs. “So, first things first, the pressing matter of what to order. What do you want?” Corey asks.

I want you. I want to have sex with you. The thought is unwelcome and impractical, and also clear as the sun is bright. I can feel it—my body betraying me again, the dampness gathering in my underwear as I remember the way Corey used to make me feel, electric with desire, the way I lost all inhibition, saying, thinking, doing, wanting, letting him do things I never could have imagined.

Except touch my hair, at least at first. It’s funny now to think of how it took me at least four sleepovers to get used to that. He liked to grab it as he pushed himself inside of me. It took three more before I was willing to wear my headscarf to bed in front of him.

“What’s that?” he asked the first time, and though I’d known he would, I still cringed and considered all the things I would have to explain to him.

I must be smiling now. “What’s so funny?” Corey grins at me, eager to be in on the joke.

“Nothing,” I mumble into my glass as I take a sip of water to cool off and push my thoughts to safer ground: menu choices.

It’s like old times when we agree to two dishes, steak and eggs and French toast, and share everything. It’s so comfortable it hurts.

“So, how’s Sullivan Rose?” I ask once the waiter disappears.

Corey has been working for the developer since we met; we’d even made a bet—a trip to Puerto Rico—about who would reach their coveted milestone first, Corey to VP or me to anchor.

“Same old, same old. I’m pretty excited about our project here in Philly. We’re looking to invest in one of the opportunity zones on North Broad, build a big mixed-use housing complex, and I had to come check out the site. If the deal goes through, I’ll be down about once a month.”

Corey will be here once a month. Corey will be here once a month. This fact echoes over and over.

Somehow, as we ease into our conversation, I manage to eat, which I didn’t think would be possible. Our plates are still half-full, and I’m stuffed, picking at what’s left. If I stop, then this, whatever this is, will be over—and I’m not ready for this night to be a memory. I have no clue what’s supposed to happen next. It’s clear that neither of us has any idea what we’re doing here.

Corey pushes away his plate and rubs his tight, flat stomach. This is it. We say goodbye and then that’s that. It feels like the last stretch of the race. I only have seconds to close the distance. And yet, I can’t. I don’t know what to do.

The relief is almost physical when he says, “Hey, how about we go somewhere else? Can I buy you a real drink? So we can talk?”

I know just the spot, a dark, intimate lounge near my house. Whenever I walk by after work, I ogle the sleek couples cuddled on velvet lounge chairs in front of the steamed-up windows, like they’re mannequins arranged just so. I’m about to suggest it, it’s on the tip of my tongue, when I suddenly say something else entirely.

“How about my place? I have a bottle of Maker’s.” This wasn’t an accident. I’d gone to buy Corey’s favorite bourbon, just in case. He answers right away, yet it’s enough of a pause to send my heart skipping.

“Sure, that sounds good.”

The whole Uber ride to my apartment, I’m hyperconscious of his body next to mine. Am I sitting too close? Too far? I imagine him walking through my place, looking at the photos I’ve finally hung, touching my things. I hope he’ll be impressed.

As soon as we get in the door, I busy myself making drinks and try not to feel self-conscious and exposed as Corey wanders around, exploring every corner.

“What’s this?” he calls out, standing at the fireplace mantel.