We Are Not Like Them(98)

“It’s just hard, Corey… to talk about some of this stuff, like how to explain my experience in the world in a way you’d understand. It scared me that you would be capable because we’re so different. And also, I didn’t want you to think badly of my family,” I mutter. All of my muscles clench with the effort of keeping my emotions, my tears, reined in.

“I would never do that, Rye. Honestly, it kills me that you didn’t think you could tell me any of this. And I would hate to think it was something I said or did to make you feel that way. Because I want you to be able to talk to me about anything… about everything. That’s the only way any relationship works. But especially between us… we’d have to be able and willing to lay it out, even if it’s uncomfortable. That includes me. I admit, I probably shied away from stuff too, but…” He trails off as if he’s trying to summon more words and then changes his mind and decides to let his body say the rest. First his hand is around my shoulders, then he’s pulling me closer. His arm is heavy on my back, a satisfying weight pressing me hard against him, holding me there. I have no choice in the matter; my body relaxes despite itself, though I don’t cry. There’s another kind of release. A year’s worth of regret and anguish and guilt falling away. And in its place a revelation about how wrong I was, how hasty and even cruel it was to disappear. I tried to hide from my feelings. I tried to pretend I was in control, which was laughable, only it wasn’t funny at all. When you know better, you do better. Gigi had a pillow on her lounger with that saying.

“I’m so, so sorry, Corey. I should have called you and told you. I should have trusted you. You deserved better than that. Our relationship deserved more than that.” I say it all into the fabric of his shirt. It’s easier than looking him in the eye.

“It’s okay… well, it’s not. I did deserve better than a text message, after three years.”

“I know, I really am sorry.” I say it again, as if repeating the words will make them any more true.

“Hey, look at me,” he says.

I lay a hand on his chest and push myself up so I can look at him. His face is close to mine. I can see the slight chip in his bottom front tooth. “I loved you, Rye.”

Loved. Loved. The past tense makes me feel like I’ve been turned inside out. I’m raw to the world and it’s my own fault. I’d done an excellent job of convincing myself that Corey would never be right for me, not for the long term. Because our relationship doesn’t make sense, on paper at least. On paper, I don’t end up with the white guy, especially considering how consumed I’ve been these last few months (or a lifetime, really) with all the ways race oozes its sticky tentacles into every relationship, every interaction, every intention. It’s damn near blown up my relationship with my best friend. But here I am, my cheek on this pale chest, realizing that Corey may well be a white man, but he’s no more “wrong” or “wrong for me” as a best friend or a life partner than Jen is. I’d talked myself out of loving him because I had an expectation of what my life should look like, who I should be with had clouded my vision of who I wanted to be with. There are no easy choices, no safe choices, you can’t plan your way to happiness. So even though it goes against everything I’ve ever told myself about how my life should look, and it won’t be easy or uncomplicated, I know it’s what I want, who I want. So there’s only one thing to do.

I close the two inches between Corey’s face and mine. I kiss him. It’s not enough. I’m not close enough. I climb on top of him and arrange myself so that as many parts of me are touching as many parts of him as possible.

We’re not going to make it to the bedroom, to the fresh sheets I put on the bed this morning, just in case. Within seconds, Corey is shimmying out of his dark jeans and I have the familiar shock of his pale penis and blond pubic hair. Before Corey, I somehow thought all of them were the same color, so his bright pink dick took me by surprise. Right now, it may be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And while I used to love our drawn-out foreplay, I don’t want or need any of that. I’m desperate for him to be inside me as quickly as possible. I want to give myself over to him completely, until we both can’t take it anymore, and that’s exactly what happens. It’s been too long since I’ve had this feeling, a euphoric release and total surrender that I only ever experience during sex or at certain points in running, consumed not by thoughts or worries or anything at all, except the purest of pleasure. It’s bliss.

Corey looks up at me, flushed with pleasure when we’re done. “So yeah, wow.” He traces a lazy finger around the edge of the black lace bra I carefully selected—again, just in case.

“Like old times.” I smile down at him, wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead.

We take a minute to rearrange ourselves on the couch so that I am lying on top of him. Our breathing slows, starts to match breath for breath. I wait for Corey to say something and sense he’s waiting for the same. Now what?

There’s a lot of things I want in this moment: Corey to stay over (I don’t even care that his hideously loud snoring will keep me up all night); for him to wake me by burying his face between my legs like he used to; or for him to wear my pink bathrobe in the morning while I make us eggs. All the fears, the doubts—they’re still there, and I could let myself give in to them and convince myself all over again that it’s too much, that it would be too hard, it’s too late. Or, or, or. It’s funny that I’m acting like I have a choice at all. This, whatever it is, is happening.