I Almost Forgot About You

by Terry McMillan

  And then he smiled at me sideways. I had never been this close to a white guy, and when his elbow actually touched mine, he didn’t move it.

  By the beginning of week three, our study group, which was made up of four other black students besides me, met once a week in an empty room on campus. Afterward we always went for pizza. Two members couldn’t understand what a white boy was doing in the class, but they weren’t up to asking Stanley. The other student just said she thought it was cool that he even cared.

  By week four I finally said, “You are making me uncomfortable.”

  “How?”

  “Why do you always have to sit next to me?”

  “Because I like the way you smell.”

  I just looked at him. “You’re weird.”

  “I’m not weird. I like you.”

  I turned my head like Linda Blair in The Exorcist and said, “What do you mean, you like me?”

  “I like your vibe. You’re a beautiful, intelligent black or Afro-American young woman, and I hope we can get to know each other better.”

  “You are serious, aren’t you?”

  “Did I say something to offend you?”

  I grabbed his hand and put it next to mine.

  “What do you see?”

  “Two hands.”

  “What’s different about them?”

  “Mine is bigger.”

  “And what else, Stanley?”

  “Yours is the color of cinnamon, and mine is light beige. So what is your point?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  Although he didn’t act like it was an issue, I couldn’t help but notice. In all honesty, it was what I had already started to like about him, which is what was making me nervous.

  —

  “I would really appreciate it if you would read my paper,” he said.

  “I’ve got a lot of things to do. Like studying. And finishing my own essay.”

  “Could you and I just confer with each other?”

  “Confer?”

  “Yeah. Skip study group, and would you come over?”

  “You mean to your apartment?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “What’s wrong with that? Or I can come over to yours if that would make you feel more comfortable.”

  “First of all, I don’t know if either one of them is such a good idea.”

  “What are you afraid of, Georgia? Not me, I hope.”

  “No, I’m not afraid of you.”

  “I thought we were friends.”

  “We’re classmates.”

  “You said you thought I was a nice guy.”

  “You are, but you’re pushy.”

  “I’m assertive.”

  “Same thing.”

  “So can I count on you or not? I’ll treat you to pizza and a Coke afterward.”

  “Okay. But only for an hour.”

  “It’ll take fifteen minutes to read it.”

  When he opened the door, I immediately knew this was not a good idea. He was burning incense! Would we need that to read? I did tell Wanda and Violet I was coming over here and that if they didn’t hear from me before they fell asleep, to come find me.

  “I’m glad you made it,” he said. “And thank you for coming.” He then politely put those long Italian arms around me and gave me a quick hug! What was I really doing here is all I was thinking, but the truth of the matter was I was curious about what he really wanted. I read his last essay, and it was good.

  “I can’t stay long,” I said.

  His apartment was one big room, but it was too small for him. It was orderly. And clean. I sat on the chair in front of his narrow desk.

  “Where’s your essay?” I asked.

  He pointed to the desk. I started reading, even though I suddenly felt illiterate.

  “May I have a glass of water, please?”

  “Absolutely. Anything else? I’ve got chips.”

  I shook my head no.

  He filled a glass of water from the faucet. Set it down next to my hand, stood behind me, and bent down so his face was over my shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. Don’t get so close! And I’m in a hurry.”

  “You’re not in a hurry,” he said.

  “Will you let me read, please?”

  “Sure,” he said, and sat down on the floor, crossing his legs. And what beautiful legs they were.

  I read his paper, and to this day I do not remember what it said, but I gave him enough criticism and compliments to make him feel grateful.

  “So how about that pizza?” I asked.

  “Really? Right now?”

  “What else did I come here for?”

  “This,” he said, and he leaned down and kissed me on the lips. My hands were thinking about pushing him away, but my brain refused to cooperate.

  But then I stood up.

  And he turned off the bright lights and turned on a black light, and the ceiling became a galaxy of stars and planets. He undressed me without touching me.

  “I don’t know what we’re doing, Stanley.”

  But something made me unzip his jeans and slide them down to the floor while he pulled his T-shirt up over his head and walked up against me. His chest brushed my breasts, and he wrapped those long arms around me, and oh, what a man, what a man.

  “You’re sure.” He sighed. “And I’m sure.”

  And like a magician, he made my fears evaporate.

  But then he just stopped.

  “Don’t,” I said.

  “Don’t what?”

  And then he kissed my eyelashes and my eyebrows and my ears and my cheekbones.

  “Don’t what?” he asked again.

  “Stop.”

  And he didn’t. And I couldn’t.

  Afterward he held me like I was a newborn, and then he said, “Don’t leave. I don’t want you to leave.”

  “I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

  And for three days I didn’t.

  —

  I dreamed Stanley was black.

  Then I woke up.

  And I went back to sleep.

  I dreamed about him again. But this time he was white. And I knew this was the one I had fallen in love with. I didn’t dare tell him this, but I did tell Wanda what I’d done.

  “So how was it?”

  “It?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Georgia.”

  “He was amazing, and it was astounding, and he’s brilliant, and we talked about everything, but I have to leave him alone.”

  “Why?”

  I just rolled my eyes at her.

  “You mean just because he’s white?”

  “Just? Are you serious? Never mind.”

  The last two weeks of class, I deliberately walked to the front and sat between two other black students. I didn’t turn around until the last class was almost over, and when I did, Stanley was looking at me. He looked hurt, and I couldn’t believe it. He left class early, and after it was over, he was waiting out in the hallway with a pizza box.

  “I promised you a slice, but you can have the whole pie.”

  “I’m sorry, Stanley.”

  He walked right up to me. “I didn’t know you were a racist.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If I were black, would you be acting like this?”

  “No, Stanley. I probably wouldn’t.”

  “You didn’t strike me as being a coward.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Oh, I think you are. Otherwise why are you avoiding me?”

  “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

  “Hell yeah. You won’t answer the phone when I call. You changed where you sit. What did I do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Like I said. I didn’t know you were such a coward.”

  “I’m sorry, Stanley.”

  “So am I. Have a good life, Georgia. And be careful who you tell you love.”

&nbs
p; He handed me the pizza, which I took so as not to cause a scene. He flung his backpack over his shoulder, and off he went. And that was the last time I saw him, until my birthday party.

  —

  I point to my house, and when he pulls into the driveway, he says, “You mean to tell me you drive a Prius?”

  “I do.”

  He holds his hand out for me to give him a fist bump.

  “Cool home. Been here long?”

  “Thirteen years.”

  “You plan to stay?”

  “Well, I tried selling, but with the economy being what it is, I just took it off the market.”

  “Where were you thinking of moving?”

  He opens his door, and I open mine, even though he was coming around to open it for me.

  “I had no idea.”

  “We can’t plan everything, can we?”

  “Sometimes we can. Although I like having some control over what happens next.”

  “Look at my right hand,” he says, holding it out just as I unlock my front door and it swings open. There’s a turquoise ring on his middle finger. It’s mine.

  “You forgot to put it back on,” he says. “And I’m here to return it.”

  I’m about ready to crumble. I take a deep breath, and when we get inside, he looks around slowly and says, “Very cool pad.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll bet a million bucks that you’re responsible for all this. Tell me I’m wrong?”

  “You’re not wrong. But I’d like that million as an advance against something.”

  “I want to see what’s in the garage.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know that’s where you do your art.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Your neighbor. Naomi. And so did Wanda. But they both said you’re hiding it or hoarding it out here.”

  “Wanda and Naomi have big mouths. They don’t even frigging know you.”

  “I’m just grateful Wanda knew enough.”

  “Well, I’m not sure I feel real comfortable showing it to you, Stan.”

  “Well, I’m not leaving until you do.”

  “Okay. But if you don’t like what you see, just lie. You don’t have to love it. Everything isn’t for everybody.”

  He raises his eyebrows and follows me past the kitchen and out toward the garage.

  I turn on the garage lights and try not to feel as if I need to explain or apologize for what I’ve made.

  He walks all the way over to where my works in progress are and takes his time looking, touching, smiling, shaking his head, and then he turns to me and says, “Well, now. How fucking remarkable is this? So you found it, huh?”

  “Found what?”

  “Your second calling. I’ve never seen anything like this before. You’re a talented woman.”

  “Thank you. I’m having fun, and like I said, you don’t have to say anything to make me feel good.”

  “If I weren’t impressed, I’d just say, ‘Interesting.’ At any rate, you don’t need me to validate what you’re doing, now, do you?”

  “No, but it’s nice to hear people say they like it.”

  “Why are you doing this in the garage? You don’t have a studio?”

  “Not ready yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I just started doing this.”

  “Well, look. If there’s a slight chance we can rekindle what feels like a potentially amazing friendship, even though I’m pretty sure I’m going to marry you and we’re going to live happily ever after, without taking into account that I’m still white and all and I’m older, then I’d be more than happy to help you find one, or build or rebuild one for you. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what I think right now, Stanley.”

  “For the last time, it’s Stan.”

  He walks right up to me just as I’m beginning to turn off the garage light. He smells good. Like clean air. I want to back away, but I can’t move.

  “Well, as much as I know you’d love for me to stay over and make slow, tender, and ultimately passionate love to you, considering this meet-and-greet doesn’t really constitute a second first date after thirty-some-odd years, I think I’m going to be a gentleman and not press my luck. On that note I will bid you good night and, again, sweet Georgia, a very happy birthday.”

  He puts his arms around me and holds me like I’ve wanted to be held for years. I feel his heart ticking, and my breasts are keeping it warm, and I swear I could stand here like this for the rest of my life. But then he kisses me softly on both cheeks and then on my forehead, and then I feel him press his lips gently on top of my head, and then I watch him slowly back away and stop. He smiles at me like he’s known me all his life.

  “So where are you staying, Stan?”

  “At the Clift in the city.”

  “And how long are you going to be in town, Stan?”

  “Until I win you over.”

  And then he’s gone.

  And so am I.

  I had a hard time falling asleep. In fact, I don’t know if I slept or not. I look up at the ceiling and wonder if maybe I dreamed that a young man I secretly slept with while in college really did reappear and sweep me off my feet in a matter of hours.

  I need to go for a walk. I don’t brush my teeth or make coffee. I just put on a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt and walk outside, and who’s in her driveway waving at me? Naomi, of course.

  “Great party! Black folks sure know how to bring it!” she says, zipping up her sweat jacket and joining me as if I’d asked her to. She has on sneakers. As always.

  “That it was. Not everybody was black, you know,” I say, laughing.

  She of course looks down at her hands.

  “Oh, I know! What up this morning, girl?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “That much I can see, because you’re walking up this steep hill instead of down it.”

  I stop dead in my tracks. Most people have to shift gears to make it up our street. I turn around.

  “Looks like somebody finally got laid.”

  She holds her palms up into this cold morning air. We both need gloves.

  “No,” I say, putting my hands inside my jacket pockets. “Something almost better than getting laid.”

  “Like what? Because I would sure like to order some of it.”

  And I tell her the whole story.

  “I say go for it. You only live once, and let’s face it: we’re not getting any younger. He sounds like a dream, and if I liked men, I’d marry him even though we’re both white!”

  She cracks up and takes off her ski hat. She’s dyed her hair black. It looks too severe. But I don’t say that.

  “I fucked up my hair, so don’t say anything. I have to let it grow out. I was trying to be adventurous.”

  “So how’re things working out for you?” I ask.

  “Much better.”

  “And Macy’s back.”

  She nods.

  “I get it, Naomi.”

  “I’m going to AA.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I needed to stop drinking.”

  “Well, at least you’re doing something about it.”

  “It’s what sent her running. I’m the one who turned her into a bitch. I never would’ve married her if she’d started out as one.”

  “Is it hard to stop?”

  “Hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’ve lost two partners over it, but I’m not about to lose my wife. So game over.”

  I give her a maternal hug, even though I don’t think I’m old enough to be her mother. “As always, let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “I told you. Let me buy that stool.”

  “And I told you, you can have it. I meant it, so let’s go get it when we get back down the hill. In fact, let’s turn around.”

  “And I’m telling you I would prefer to buy it, but why don’t we do this? Wait until you build up your inventory an
d see who wants to buy some of your work?”

  “I might actually be getting a studio.”

  “Smart move. Let me know if you need some help finding a place.”

  “I think I might already have all the help I need.”

  She waves at me as she turns into her driveway. I trudge up mine and sit on the cold steps at the front door. When my cell phone rings, I don’t look at it. I just answer.

  “Is it too late for breakfast?” he asks.

  “Who is this?” I feign.

  “A blast from the past.”

  “I’m over the moon,” I say. And then suddenly realize what I’m doing. Acting like some lovesick teenager when I’m more than a half century old. I need to slow my roll. This isn’t some fantasy or some game I’m playing—this is real. I don’t really even know Stanley. I remember him. What I do know right now is I’m all shook up, and whatever drug Stanley injected into my heart, I want to get a prescription for it. With unlimited refills.

  “Would you mind meeting me in the Velvet Room at the hotel?”

  Lord.

  “No, I don’t mind that much. It’ll take me about an hour.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  I really want to call Wanda, but not now, not yet. I have no idea what I’d say. I’m falling for a man I don’t even know, and he’s not even black, and this is scary but exciting as hell. I’m trying to open my heart and shut down my brain, which is talking me out of something that feels beautiful. I shower and put on something soft and sincere. Jeans with a creamy cashmere sweater. My lips are red.

  My heart is beating so hard I place my hand over it and pat it like I would a crying baby. I take a tissue from my purse and dab my forehead, careful not to wipe off my makeup. I know where the Velvet Room is, and when I walk in, I see Stan sitting in a dark corner, on one of those long leather seats I think they call banquettes. He smiles at me in a sinister way and with his index finger motions me to come on over as he slides out and stands up and shakes my hand heartily and says, “Good morning, Miss Young. I’d first like to thank you for joining me for breakfast, but I’d also like to ask why you saw fit to make those beautiful lips of yours candy-apple red so early in the day?”

  I’m glad it’s dark in here, because I’m sure I’m blushing.

  “Good morning, Stan,” I say, and I swear I want to stand on my tiptoes and kiss him, but I wouldn’t dare. “I wear red lipstick a lot. And how are you this Sunday morning?” I ask, and it almost sounds phony, because I haven’t asked any man that question in years. At least not standing this close.