Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
My mind rifles through an album of memories I cannot afford to indulge in. For a few heart-thumping seconds I’m transported back to the first time I saw him. The first time I kissed him. The first time we made love, confessed our love, voices hoarse in the after-fuck glow of twisted sheets, of tangled arms and legs, of kiss-bruised lips. We had the kind of chemistry that burned everywhere it touched—skin, bed, hearts. Nothing was safe, and if there is one thing I want to be after my last few perilous years, it’s safe.
He’s in a relationship now. Off-limits.
“So four o’clock, right?” I take a step back. “You and Vashti will be here?”
“Yup.” He clicks his alarm, flashing the lights of the Rover. “I better get home before Otis finds something expensive to metabolize. I haven’t ruled out that he ate those shoes I can’t find.”
I choke on my own subterfuge, coughing at the thought of Josiah’s tennis shoes neatly stowed away in my closet.
“Yeah, wouldn’t put it past him,” I agree.
Sorry, Otis.
Josiah glances up at the house, then over to Brock and Clint’s, up First Court and all the impressive homes lining our little corner of Skyland, an ironic smile touching the corners of his mouth.
“You ever think how far we’ve come?”
If I think of that, I have to think of all we’ve lost too.
“Yeah,” I reply, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans.
“That first apartment was a shoebox.”
“With roaches.” I chuckle, shaking my head.
“And no water pressure. I didn’t have a good shower for a year.” A smile eases its way onto his face. “Remember that first Thanksgiving? We didn’t have a pot to piss in.”
I surrender to the memory in the grocery store the night before our first Thanksgiving. My usually serious husband picked me up and put me in the shopping cart. He hopped on the back and we coasted down the grocery store aisles, laughing and ignoring the strange looks everyone gave us. I can almost feel the air whipping over my face, hear the clackety wheels on that metal cart protesting our combined weight. Smell his distinctive scent—clean, male, him—and feel his warmth at my back.
We’d picked up some basics. Milk, eggs, bread, cold cuts. We had so little money, but as a treat, we each chose one thing we loved. A six-pack of grape Fanta for me. A bag of sweet-and-salty popcorn mix for him.
“We didn’t have enough money when we got to the register,” he says with a smile, like he’s revisiting that night with me in my mind.
“Oh, my God.” I laugh, burying my face in my hands for a moment. “All those people behind us with carts full of stuff for Thanksgiving dinner, and we’re handing one item at a time to the cashier to put back. Trying to figure out how low we need to go before we can afford it.”
“We kept my popcorn,” he says.
I frown, but a small smile tugs at my lips. “I’m pretty sure we kept my soda. Remember the power had been disconnected and our shithole apartment was freezing, but the soda was warm.”
We could have just gone over to Byrd’s, but she always had a full house for the holidays, and we wanted to be alone, so we stayed there. I don’t remember once complaining about the cold in that raggedy apartment in the hood. Instead, serenaded by Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together” blasting from Josiah’s phone, we made the most of the night with lit candles and PBJ sandwiches and lukewarm grape Fanta. When we made love it was frantic, gripping, sinking into each other like he was all I had in the world and I was his everything. Because it was true. To this day, I get a little flushed when I hear “Let’s Stay Together.” The song belongs to that night and the sweet, dirty things we did to keep each other warm.
Those years, the leanest of our marriage, were somehow also some of the best.
It’s ironic that he remembers me sacrificing my soda and I remembered it being him. I wonder if that’s true of everything and the truth hides somewhere between what we each remember? Reshaping our memories to be what we thought they should. Did I make it better than it was? Did I ever make it worse?
I take him in, the sharp planes of his face juxtaposed with the fullness of his mouth. His austerity contrasted with his tenderness for the people who mean the most to him. He’s an enigma who makes perfect sense to me.
Or at least he used to.
“It was a good night,” I say, my throat burning as I try to break our stare. It’s like we’re in the middle of that tiny apartment again, shivering, huddled under blankets and eating cheap food from the grocery store in the light of candles. Perfectly content. A fist squeezes my heart until it oozes nostalgia and regret.