by Koko Brown
I can already hear his footsteps shuffling across the carpet to get to the door.
“Great, a faculty meeting,” I call over the sound of the door swinging open. “I’ll go with you, and we can ask the other professors if they—”
The door whines shut on my suggestion.
Leaving me alone in the seminar room, inwardly cursing professors who claim to want to make the world a better place, but who won’t lift a finger to help the parents of the social worker who helped me get into Columbia Law in the first place.
“Heya, Reynolds. What’s what?”
At least I thought I was alone in the room. But apparently, Jake Ferra has waited up for me. Again. Ugh! He’s been bothering me ever since he transferred to Columbia from Princeton to finish up a dual J.D./MBA degree at the beginning of spring semester.
“Still not interested, Jake,” I say, heading for the door in Professor Luce’s wake with my AmbuTech mobility cane in an upright position since I know my way around the classroom. Maybe I can figure out where that faculty meeting is and go…
“C’mon, Reynolds, why aren’t you interested?” In the next moment, Jake’s voice is in front of me, and the soft mewl of the door opening but not closing lets me know he’s holding it open for me as he says, “I’m a real interesting guy once you get to know me. You should give me and yourself that chance.”
“Okay, I’m in a rush, and I’ve got to figure out how to get to Faculty House, so I’m just going to say this straight up: I don’t date rich guys or Italians, so…”
A beat, then he says, “Alright, I’ll take you to Faculty House.”
Without waiting for me to agree to his offer, he gets on my left side, putting his body in front of mine so I either have to take his bent arm in front of me or run into it.
“Okay, hold on…”
Since we’re about to leave the building, I put on a pair of sunglasses. Big and—I’m told by my best friend, Talia, who bought them for me as a birthday present—very fashionable. That was before she up and never came back from summer break last fall.
Now I’m in my last semester at Columbia Law and having to deal with boys without her help. She’d been a wiz at directing them away. But now not only was I missing my main on-the-fly guide, but I had to tell this new one, “Me accepting your help to get to Faculty House doesn’t mean I agree to go out with you.”
“Sure, I get it. Loud and clear. Not yet. I completely understand.”
“Not ever,” I stress as I reluctantly take his arm.
“What I want to know is how did you know I was Italian? And rich?” he says as we walk out of the law school’s main building.
“Because you talk like you fell out of Sylvester Stallone’s mouth and smell like those big donor fundraising dinners the school’s always making me attend to prove they’re accepting of people with disabilities,” I answer.
“Let’s see… I’m not prejudiced against blind black girls, but you’ve got something against rich Italians?”
“Hey, I’m an American! It’s my civil right, and some would say a requirement of citizenship, to be prejudiced against at least one segment of society. I chose Italians and the one-percenters. Feel free to hold that against all black and blind girls and never come on to one of us again.”
He laughs, big and obnoxious. “Good one, but no, not a chance. You know about all these steps, right?”
“Yep,” I answer and quietly start counting as we go down the huge set of stone stairs outside the law school.
He manages to keep his mouth shut until we get all the way to the bottom.
“Alright, Faculty House is to the right and around the corner. But you know, if you need a lawyer I can get you one of those.”
I stop in my tracks, tugging back on his arm to say, “Don’t be funny. My friend and her parents will be out on the street if I don’t find someone to take their case.”
“I get it, and I’m not trying to be funny. Got a friend of the family who’d be happy to do it.”
“You have a lawyer.” I downshift my shoulders, not wanting to believe what he’s telling me. But having nearly run out of options, I’m forced to ask, “Would he work pro bono? My friend’s parents have, like, no money and she’s a social worker, living in New York. So your guy would have to do it for free.”
“He will. We’ve got him on exclusive retainer, so he’s always free to do pro bono stuff when we don’t need him. I’ll call him right now and put him on the case.”
A kind offer, but I don’t hear him reaching for his phone. “Let me guess. You’re not doing this out of the kindness of your heart. I’m going to have to go out with you if I want your lawyer to take my friend’s case.”
“C’mon, Reynolds. You’re acting like going to dinner with me is a burden. I’d call it more a benefit of accepting my generous offer.”
Yeah, he would call it that. But I’ve met guys like Jake. Bored rich guys who’ve grown tired of all the easy conquests. And I hear the girls tittering every time he walks into our seminar.
I have no idea what he looks like, but here’s a convo I heard between three girls the other day before class:
“I would die if Jake Ferra asked me out. Die.”
“I would die if he spoke to me.”
“I would die if he even looked at me. Like, I’d be dead right here on the floor. You guys would have to call a coroner to carry my body out. My family could file a wrongful death suit against him for killing me with direct eye contact.”
So though I’ll never be able to see what he looks like, I get it…he’s that kind of hot.
In my experience, that kind of hot is always on the lookout for new experience points. And as I found out the hard way when I started college in New York as a naïve freshman at Hamilton College, Pretty Blind Girl counts for a lot of experience points.
But still, Naima’s parents need a lawyer. Like, stat. And one dinner seems like a small price to pay to make sure Naima and her parents get to stay in their townhouse.
I let out a disgusted sound and say, “Fine. But only if he wins the case.”
Jake’s lawyer wins the case. Of course, he does. The lawyer Jake found for the Almontes smells even more big donor than Jake. And he easily convinces the judge to declare a stay on the eviction notice until the Almontes can get their new service dogs trained and licensed, so they no longer violate their landlord’s “no pets policy.” Not only that, but he alludes that because of the landlord’s attempted eviction, the Almontes can now bring a discrimination suit against the man who is the son of their old landlord, if he chooses to serve them at-will eviction papers instead of providing them with a formal lease. By the time the judge ruled in the Almontes favor, everyone except the landlord and his lawyer is ecstatic.
“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” Naima says, giving me a huge hug. “I thought this was only going to get us thirty days, but now it looks like we might get to stay for at least another year. We couldn’t have done it without you.”
“No thanks necessary,” I answer. “It was total BS that the landlord even tried to pull that eviction notice out on you and your parents.”
“That’s why we need more lawyers like you,” Naima says, just like she’s been saying for the last two years after convincing me to go for my law degree. She’s not blind, but having parents who met as two of the youngest people at a Macular Degeneration support group, she understands the issues blind people have in ways most sighted people cannot.
“I know,” I agree. “I seriously can’t wait to graduate in May.”
“Less than four months to go—whoa!”
Naima’s sudden drop in tone from cheerleader to stunned makes me ask, “What?”
“Some crazy hot guy just came into the courtroom, and he’s walking this way!”
Somehow I know who it is even before he comes up to our group and says, “Heya, Reynolds. What’s what?”
Apparently, Jake’s here to collect his date with the blind girl. I thank him
for loaning the Almontes his family’s lawyer anyway.
Then I listen as Jake works the room, thanking the lawyer and giving the Almontes and Naima his card while smoothly responding to their profuse thank yous with a line about how he’d been happy to help.
But then, of course, he asks if I’m ready to go to dinner in front of everyone like we had something planned all along.
I can almost hear Naima’s inner cheers when instead of pointing out our plans to go somewhere for a celebration dinner, she says, “Well, we won’t keep you. Have fun!”
Ugh!
“Can I choose the place?” I ask as Jake guides me toward the court building’s front door.
“Sure, you got a restaurant you like better than La Mirabelle, I’ll take you there.”
“I do,” I answer. “It’s my favorite place in town.”
THREE
BEWITCHED, BOTHERED, AND BEWILDERED
“This is your favorite place to eat, huh?” Jake says when I come out of the bathroom.
“Yeah, I know it’s a little dumpy, but the food’s great. And it’s got a homey atmosphere, you know?”
“Yeah, I see what you mean,” he says, tone dry.
I imagine he’s been looking around my grad student one-bedroom while I was in the bathroom. Wondering why I would choose it over one of the best French restaurants on the Upper West Side.
But instead of asking, he hits me with a suspicious, “You really cook?”
“Yeah, I’m a good cook, too,” I answer, making my way over to the open plan kitchen.
“Like Cynthia Ha.”
“No, not as good as a Masterchef winner. But better than alright. I can make just about any Italian pasta dish you can name.”
I hear his footsteps on the wooden floors as he follows me over to the open plan kitchen and steps inside the arched doorway. “I don’t eat Italian food.”
“Seriously? I’ve never met an Italian who doesn’t eat Italian food.”
“I’ve never met anybody who hates Italians but knows how to make our food.”
Touché, I think to myself. He’s probably expecting me to explain, but instead I say, “I’ll make us an omelet. Cool?”
“Cool.”
I can feel Jake watching me as I move around the kitchen. “You’re more at ease here in your own space. That’s why you chose it over La Mirabelle, right?”
One of the reasons. “Plus, I needed to pee, and I would have had to use my stick to get around the restaurant.”
“So you don’t like going out?”
“No, I like it. It’s just been a long day, and I don’t have a ton of mental energy left.”
If I’m expecting him to let me off the hook for this date after hearing that I’m tired, I’m quickly disappointed. Because he doesn’t. “Gotta a question for you, Reynolds.”
“Okay,” I say, taking out the eggs and setting them on the counter. Cue all the questions about how I became blind, I think as I bend back down into the fridge. I run my hands over various packages on the two shelves designated for vegetables and meat until I find all the ingredient I like for making omelets—save the very Italian salami.
“What’s with all the hair? Feels like I got a bunch of faceless girls staring at me.”
I smile at the thought of my wig collection staring at him like the girls in class.
“It’s easier for me to keep my hair super short and wear wigs,” I answer. “A lot of people have, like, two. But I’m a firm believer that all women should have equal access to Black Girl Magic, so I have, like, 20. I know I have a problem. My best friend, Talia, told me already, so you don’t have to.”
“Talia, Talia…oh yeah! That’s the gal who didn’t come back for her final year because she got knocked up by—”
“Yeah, well, before she became world famous for that, she was just a cool best friend.”
“You miss her?”
“Yeah, of course. How about you?”
“She wasn’t here when I transferred in, so I didn’t know her.”
“No, I mean do you have a best friend? Like, a wingman?”
“Yeah, sorta. From high school.”
“Nice.”
“You got any friends you still keep in touch with from high school?” he asks.
“No,” I answer. Because Amber never went to high school, and Bella was homeschooled.
But instead of the truth I feed him the WITSEC story as I start chopping veggies for the omelet: “My parents died in the car accident that blinded me when I was seventeen, so it got weird with my high school friends after that. We don’t keep in touch.”
He makes a considering noise and says, “It’s almost like you’re two people, huh? Who you were before the accident and who you are now.”
“Yeah, almost,” I answer, putting every bit of concentration I have into not letting my voice quaver.
The omelet turns out pretty good, even using pre-cooked bacon bits instead of the salami I like.
Good enough for Jake anyway. He’s all compliments as we eat on my couch since I don’t have a coffee table—or anything but the most practical and essential furniture.
We make small talk about a few things as we eat. How he likes Columbia after transferring from Princeton. How he’s getting a dual MBA/JD because he’ll be taking over his family’s business and figures it will come in handy.
“What do you guys do?”
“Disaster clean-up. And I’m not trying to contradict anyone about whether global warming’s a real thing. But I will say business is good, and only expected to get better.”
I must look visibly startled, because he rushes to say, “I know it’s not altruistic like what you’re planning to do with your life.”
“No, it’s just…I thought your family might be into something else.”
“What? Mafia?”
I don’t even like saying the word out loud, so I just nod.
“Nah, I come from a long line of garbage collectors. Nonno put in a lifetime stint with Local 813 in Hell’s Kitchen. Dad just scaled the family tradition up.”
Hearing he wasn’t descended from made men makes my next decision that much easier.
Without asking if he’s done, I take his plate and deliver it with mine to the kitchen sink.
“Want me to do those dishes?” he asks.
“No, I’ll take care of them in the morning,” I answer coming back to the living room.
“For real, it’s not a problem…”
He trails off when I hitch up my skirt and climb into his lap, happy I took off the tights I was wearing earlier while I was in the bathroom.
“Oh, heya, Reynolds. What’s what?” he says. His voice is still calm, but I can feel his surprise in the way his chest tightens beneath my hands. And his excitement in the way his manhood swells to life as soon as it makes contact with my panty-covered sex.
I deliberately fix my sightless gaze in the direction of his voice and say, “Thank you for the lawyer.”
“You’re welcome,” he answers, tone bemused.
“So you really want to fuck me?” I ask him, giving him one last chance to bow out. “You’re that committed to having the blind girl experience?”
“Wouldn’t put it that way, but if you’re asking if I want this to keep going, then yeah. Most definitely.”
I rub my hands over his chest, exploring. He’s wearing a suit, which I did not expect but am not surprised to find. I heard the b-school guys can be formal. And I can feel lean sinew and unforgiving flesh underneath.
I push off his jacket and unbutton his shirt. But when I go for his undershirt, he stops me, catching my hands. “Walk me through this. Sex with you.”
“You mean sex with a blind girl?”
“I mean sex with you. What do you like?”
What do I like? The question catches me off guard because I’m way more used to being asked about my blindness. Even worse are the guys who’ve been afraid of hurting me. Like being blind makes me ten times more fragile
than a sighted girl.
I finally come up with “Touching.”
“You want to feel my hands on you?” Without waiting for an answer, large hands find the top of my thighs, warm and firm. Fingers hook under and pull, so my core is suddenly aligned with the thick rod beneath his trousers.
I reach down to take him out, but he catches my hand again. “You want my lips on you?”
Again, he doesn’t wait for my answer. A sharp nose bumps against my chin as his mouth finds my neck. Lips, tongue, and teeth press into an erogenous zone I didn’t know I had. And though I’m used to being the one in charge, my head falls back to give him more access, and my hips start to circle, seeking what’s inside those smooth pants.
“Heya, Reynolds,” the lips say against my neck.
I mean to say, “Mmmhmm?” but it comes out a whimper.
“I’m going to take off this hair, okay?”
Wait…what? I come out of my daze. “You want me to take off the wig?”
“No, I want to take it off you. Can I do that?”
“You don’t want me to keep it on?” Boys prefer long hair. Even when they say they don’t, they do. The words float back to me. My mom’s explanation of why I not only needed to press my hair but start letting her put extensions in as soon as turned fifteen. There were no boys to impress in our remote cabin, but I never had the heart to point that out because I knew making me pretty helped her pass the time.
But Jake is telling me the opposite of what my mom claimed. “I guess you can,” I answer, not sure how else to respond.
I feel his hand brush the side of my face as he reaches for what Talia calls my “girl with a secret” hair, a sharp fringe of bangs and a straight waterfall of hair that stops right above my breasts. He deals with both the hair and wig cap beneath in one sensual sweep, and his arm moves away from my body as he sets it aside.
Cool air hits my scalp, and even though I’m still completely clothed, I feel naked.
“You’re beautiful,” he tells me in that uncomfortable moment. “Did you think I wouldn’t want you without the wig?”
“I didn’t think about it,” I confess. Until this moment, I didn’t realize how much I’d been carrying my mom’s opinions about beauty around with me, especially after going blind.