We Are Not Like Them

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We Are Not Like Them Page 29

by Christine Pride


  “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.”

  “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 con
versation, 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.

  I peek around the kitchen island to see that he’s holding the jar of dirt from Alabama. “Uh, long story.” I don’t want the outside world, or the past, to intrude on this moment.

  He sets it down, picks up the photo Jen gave me of the two of us when I moved in. Two little girls in matching bikinis. “You guys were so cute.” And then he makes his way to the balcony, taking in the city views through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He does seem impressed, at least with the view. When I’m done making the drinks, I turn, icy glass in each hand, and there he is, settled right on my couch like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like he belongs there. I walk over and take a seat right by his side, like I belong there too. It’s too quiet in the apartment, only the clinking of ice in our glasses. It’s too quiet, so I flip on the TV. The Flyers game fills the screen.

  “Remember when I took you to that game in Chicago?”

  “How could I forget? It’s the only hockey game I’ve been to in my entire life,” I say, and allow myself to enjoy the memory. We decided to meet in Chicago, where we first met, to celebrate our one-year anniversary. Corey surprised me with Blackhawks/Flyers tickets that weekend—the playoffs. I could tell he was disappointed that I wasn’t more excited, since they were incredibly hard seats to come by, but hockey is like NASCAR, not too many brown faces in the stands.

  Turns out, the game was a lot of fun, but then we were in that giddy phase where a waterless trek through the desert would have been a good time.

  After the game, Corey gave me a piece of paper, not the gift I was expecting. He’d stuttered as he handed it to me. “It’s, it’s lame…” On the paper, Corey had listed “12 Reasons I Love You.”

  “It’s one for each month we’ve been together,” he piped in as I read, still clearly worried this might be a dumb idea. It wasn’t dumb or lame, it was perfect. If he walked into my bedroom right now, he’d find the list tucked away in a box under my bed, with my birth certificate and diploma, a flash drive with a recording of my first broadcast and my resignation letter from Birmingham. I pull the paper out sometimes—just to touch it, because I have the list memorized. Reason #3: The way you always wear socks because you hate your long toes (for the record, even your toes are beautiful). Reason #6: How you worry so much about everyone you love and how you work so hard to make everything better and easier for them. Reason #11: You give the best advice and you always make it seem like it was my idea in the first place. Reason #4: The way you’re always reorganizing my wallet and figuring out the best strategies to get more airline points. Reason #8: You have an adorable snore like a newborn puppy.

  That night was the first time I was brave enough to tell Corey that I loved him, to say the words aloud, even though it had been months since I’d realized the depth of my feelings, growing wild, out of control, until they had become a central fact of my life. And the truth was, I hated being out of control, the nights I spent thinking about him, missing him instead of focusing on my work, hated that I’d let myself become someone who could get their heart broken. I hated it all, and what I wouldn’t trade for it now.

  “You know why they’re called the Flyers?” Corey asks.

  “Absolutely no idea.”

  “No reason at all! The first owner’s wife just liked the word. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

  There it is, Corey’s love for random facts. Another thing that always made me crazy about him. The small talk and the way his foot is bobbing up and down tells me that he’s nervous too. Sitting here on my couch with drinks, the catching up part of the evening has its course, a fog of anticipation hovers around us. It’s clear something is going to happen, but what?

  “So…” He looks at me with a sort of confused smile.

  “So,” I repeat. It’s all I’ve got.

  “So, this last year has been hard, since you… disappeared on me. No explanation, no nothing. I keep asking myself, What did I do wrong? What went wrong? I just need to know what happened, Riley. I thought things were great between us. Weren’t they? Did I imagine that? I just don’t get it.”

  I can see how much this is costing him; his hands are trembling enough that the ice clinks around in his glass.

  He’s right, I do owe him. An explanation, if not so much more. I’d known this was the night I was going to tell him everything, explain what happened. Now that the moment is finally here, my mouth is too dry. I down the rest of my drink. It doesn’t help. He speaks again before I have the chance. He doesn’t realize I’m not dodging, only preparing myself.

  “You were coming to see me in New York. And then, nothing. What happened?”

  I so clearly remember packing for that trip. I’d bought a silk kimono dress after Corey told me he’d made us reservations at Nobu. I’d also dropped two hundred bucks I couldn’t afford on a lingerie set at a store in downtown Birmingham called the Diva’s Den. I folded the delicate lace bra and underwear so carefully in my bag. Corey had recently moved into a new two-bedroom apartment that I was going to see for the first time.

  “I was just about to leave my apartment to go to the airport and my mom called. She was hysterical. She told me they got Shaun.”

  “Who got him?”

  “The cops. He was driving home from a boxing gym in Fishtown with three guys he knew from high school. The driver, Lamar Chambers, who my mother always called ‘plain trouble,’ got pulled over on North Fifth. He’d given the cop some lip about stopping him, said it was because they were ‘driving while Black,’ and that it was ‘bullshit.’ The cops ordered everyone out of the car, told them to get down on their knees in a row on the sidewalk while they searched it. Turns out Lamar had an unlicensed gun in his glove compartment, and a dime bag of marijuana. The cops arrested all four of them.”

  Looking at Corey’s face as I say this is impossible. I’m sure he’s only ever seen people arrested on television.

  “It was a probation violation. It wasn’t Shaun’s first arrest. He got in a fight his sophomore year at Temple. With this white kid. They were playing a pickup basketball game and it got heated. Kid called Shaun a stupid nigger.”

  Corey flinches at the word.

  “Shaun punched him and broke his nose. The guy pressed charges, and just like that Shaun had a felony convicti
on. He lost his full ride soccer scholarship and couldn’t afford Temple anymore. He owed thousands of dollars for the guy’s medical bills and legal fees, which my family and I are still paying off. All that promise, gone. Just like that. But at least he didn’t have to go to jail. He got ten years’ probation.”

  Even without looking at him, I know he’s giving me the look, the Corey look—direct, focused, impossible to hide from.

  “When he was arrested in the car, he could have been sent to prison for ten years for the violation. So that weekend, I had to be with my family and support Shaun in court. Thankfully, the judge showed leniency—Shaun was lucky.”

  I question my choice of words; nothing about Shaun’s life recently has been lucky. It’s been unfair and stressful and cruel and yet somehow my brother carries on, cracking jokes, keeping his nose down and head up, when he could so easily sink into resentment. I don’t tell him enough how much I admire him for that.

  “It was too late to change my flight from LaGuardia. So I got a cab from there to Penn Station.”

  “I could have picked you up at the airport. I would have driven you to Philly, Rye. But I didn’t know any of this was happening.”

  “And then what? You would come to the jail with me and talk to Shaun in a grimy windowless room?”

  “That’s exactly what I would have done.”

  Hearing that, his quick steadfast assurances, my heart seizes. A part of me had wanted him to come to Philly, wrap his arms around me and promise me that everything would be all right. Maybe I even wanted his help talking to the lawyers, figuring out the best strategy to ensure Shaun stayed out of prison. But it was my burden, and to bring my boyfriend into it, my white boyfriend, a man whose closest contact with the courts was defending overdue parking tickets, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. And if I couldn’t share this with him? If I couldn’t ask for his help at such a difficult time, how could we build a life together? How could I ever move into his nice two-bedroom apartment in a doorman high-rise off Columbus Circle? Something I had been secretly contemplating. I couldn’t. Not if I couldn’t be honest with him. And so I made up my mind that Corey and I were not meant to go the distance after all. Like a prosecutor, I mined the evidence of why it would never work: The time we went to Proud Papa’s barbecue in a Black neighborhood in Birmingham and he’d asked me if it was “safe.” Or when we were talking about oppression and he volleyed with a point about how the Jews were able to bounce back after the horrors of the Holocaust to build a strong economic foundation, and he didn’t understand why Black people hadn’t been able to do the same after slavery. This was typical of Corey, who always treated any discussion of race and oppression as an intellectual exercise, with the passion and objectivity of a high school debate team champion and not lived experience. I convinced myself that these were deal breakers, trip wires we could never get past, and on top of that there were Gigi’s words: Find one of your own.

 

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