Page 19 of Coming Home
“But you never tried.”
“I thought I would show you in more subtle ways.” His smile is self-deprecating. “Obviously I was a littletoosubtle.”
“I remember you ordering my favorite pizza and having it delivered to the dorm when news about Tyrone got out. It was during finals.”
“Ham and pineapple with extra cheese. That’s what always got you through exams.”
“It caught up with me. I’m lactose intolerant now and I don’t eat pork.”
“I’ll have to find some other way to impress you then.” Our gazes tangle and the air crackles, not just with the energy of everyone waiting for the step show to start, but with a snap and crackle that is only ours. Something poised between us and waiting to happen.
“We were good friends by then and had several classes together,” I say. “Why didn’t you approach me after Tyrone showed his whole ass?”
“I was dating Melissa Monroe.”
“Ohhhh. That’s right. She was a sweetheart. Why’d you two break up?”
“I wasn’t all the way in. I never cheated on her, but there was always somebody else at the back of my mind. I think she knew that.”
I drop my eyes to his hand still resting on my knee. He glances around the crowded gym, grimacing. “Hey, we need to talk. Can we get out of?—”
“Niomi,” my camera guy Joe shouts over the noise up from his spot on the floor. “Step show’s starting. Tell me again what you wanna get?”
I briefly cover Touré’s hand on my knee before standing and looking down at him apologetically. “I need to make sure we get this footage for next week’s segment. I’ll be right back.”
I force myself to join Joe and look through the lens to help set up shots, guiding the camera tech on what I want. We’re scaled down. I told Frank I didn’t need a full crew trailing me the whole weekend. I want to enjoy homecoming, too, like any other alum. I know what we need and can make sure we get it. Shooting like this reminds me of the early days when I was out in the field, just me and one guy doing it all.
I stay with Joe as the first fraternity takes the floor, the whack and slap of the routine like claps of thunder in a room ready for rain. The energy and the decibel level rise accordingly. By the third group, Joe has a good handle on it. I glance back to find Touré. Not only has Kyle returned, but he’s brought a few of our other classmates. Laughing at something one of them said, Touré looks up and catches me staring. The humor settles into a smile on his handsome face, and that night when I was seated on the bench with him rushes back to me. His big hand had been gentle on my cheek when he cradled my face. The not-quite-cool air of late spring on a clear evening whispered over my flushed skin. His lips, dusted with salt from the popcorn at Kyle’s and the slightest trace of Schlitz Malt Liquor Bull on his tongue as it plunged and searched. As it sparred with mine. The way my heart slammed into my ribs, the excitement almost more than I could take. After so long, after years of just friendship, finally a kiss. A forbidden one.
It hadn’t lasted long, but it had shaken me; drawn me in. The loud, insistent ring of his cell phone had startled us apart guiltily. It was Kyle, irate and asking if we had the beer. I rose from the bench a little unsteadily, my head swimming from that kiss and liquor on an empty stomach. I had broken the quiet, forcing out the words I didn’t want to say.
“Touré, I’m with Randy, ” I’d mumbled. “I remember how it feels to be cheated on. I can’t . . .I shouldn’t have kissed?—”
“Yeah, I know.” He’d held up the bags of beer, eyes trained on the sidewalk. “We’re both buzzed. Forget it happened.”
But I hadn’t forgotten.
The next day I left Finley for the summer and so did he. When it was time to return, I’d broken it off with Randy, but Touré was on his way to Paris.
I force myself to focus on the scene in front of me instead of the one rewinding in my memory. Before he left, Frank urged me to get good shots, so I to stay with Joe through the show, giving him pointers and getting footage of me with the action on the floor behind. At the end, I make sure he knows which hotel the show booked for us and tell him I’m going to catch up with some old friends and will see him at the homecoming parade in the morning.
By the time I rejoin the group, it has grown, adding several more of our old gang, in addition to Kyle and Touré. I’m still greeting the new faces when my phone buzzes with a text.
“Janelle says for us to go to Top Dog,” I tell them, studiously avoiding Touré’s stare, though I feel it resting on my face. “She reserved our old table.”
“Best wings in the county,” Kyle says, grabbing his jacket from the bleacher. “We gotta hit that for old time’s sake.”
What I felt with Touré on the bench earlier wasn’t “old times.” It was familiar, yes, but also new. It’snow. Maybe at Top Dog where we made so many drunken memories, we’ll finally figure out where it should go.
CHAPTER SEVEN
touré
I missed this.
The laughter with these first friends; people who knew me before the acclaim and awards. They’ve seen me drunk, heartbroken, deflated, stressed. Helped me navigate the shock of freedom that comes with college; to new life in that fragile suspension between dependent and adult. Friends who don’t hold the years I lost touch against me. We’ve matured and followed our own paths. Careers, marriages. Accomplishments, losses. Some are parents. Some are divorced. Widowed. By measures we’ve gone through hell and done so well on our own terms in our own ways, and as we huddle in the back booth that was always ours at Top Dog, I appreciate several things. I’m glad the centennial and homecoming reunited us this way. I’m glad Celine seemed to warm to me some and maybe I haven’t screwed things up too badly with my daughter. I’m really glad I’m sitting across from the girl who stole my heart at a glance in freshman orientation.
We’re three rounds and a dozen stories in, laughing at Kyle’s anecdote about his newborn. The booth is stuffed and we’re squeezed around the table loaded with wings, fries, and several pitchers of beer. Unfortunately, Niomi is seated across from meand there’s been no time to pick up where we left off at the step show. She looks up and our eyes lock. Her beer pauses mid-air on its way to her mouth. Both of her brows lift as if to ask me a question. My only answer is a slow smile and a quick shake of my head. What I need to say to Niomi can’t be done through silent signals in a crowded booth. I need some real time with her, and it looks less and less likely that I will get it tonight.
