Until sophomore year. Until Wade.
But Ryann rarely thought about him anymore. Only occasionally did she wonder whether he had remained in the Washington DC area after he finished business school. Once, many years after their breakup, she’d looked him up on Facebook, and scoured his page. There was enough there to tell her that he hadn’t changed much. There were pictures of him going out—pictures of him in nightclubs, outside nightclubs, on beaches, at cookouts, and one with him standing on the deck of what looked like a very impressive yacht.
The pictures made Ryann’s lips curl. He was still the same ol’ Wade—materialistic, and full of unbridled ambition. Ryann wondered if he was married to the woman he had left her for. To see his private pictures, and his personal details, she would have to send a friend request and he would have to accept it. She was curious, but not that curious. Wade’s profile picture was a great shot of him, smiling, still nice-looking, and apparently happy.
Ryann was not sentimental—he had effectively killed that part of her nature—but she’d stared at that picture for a long time, before she closed the window on her browser. Since then she hadn’t done any cyberstalking, and hadn’t a clue what might be happening in Wade’s life.
But that didn’t matter, because he had definitely left his mark.
“Brittainy!”
It was the third time Ryann had yelled for her assistant, with no response. Exhaling deeply, she shoved back from her desk and went out into the reception area, surprised to find the place empty, silent and dark.
“What the …?”
She went behind the reception desk to look for some sign that her assistant was returning, or had at least left a note to explain her absence and instead caught sight of the LCD display of the clock on the desk.
Six forty-seven? When the heck had that happened?
The last thing she recalled was coming back from that meeting with Anthony Howard, the filmmaker, and beginning to look through some of her clients’ files, trying to find the perfect project for him. They had met for lunch at Good Stuff Eatery, late in the afternoon after he called to reschedule their breakfast meeting.
It was a small hole-in-the-wall on Capitol Hill that served “handcrafted burgers” and was popular with hipsters because the chef was himself a hipster who had competed on Top Chef. It was precisely the kind of place where Ryann would have expected the young millionaire to want to eat.
Over a free-range turkey burger, Anthony (“call me Tone”) Howard had reassured Ryann that he was going to be the easiest donor she had ever gotten in her career.
‘I already looked into you,’ he said as he chewed. ‘I know you raise money for Black causes, small minority-run non-profits and a couple of the big ones. I know who most of your clients are, and I want to invest in one of them. But I don’t know which.’
Turned out, Tone had no core values in particular that he wanted to support—unwed teenage mothers, homelessness, the environment, he didn’t care—he just wanted to “give back.” And he was relying on Ryann to help guide him in the right direction. So, he ate his burger and talked about his films, and Ryann took notes and nibbled at a few fries, because she had already eaten lunch with Ivy. When the meeting was done, Tone had wiped his hands on a napkin, wiped his mouth and looked at her.
‘I’m thinking about five hundred grand just to start,’ he said. ‘Find me something that has legs and then we’ll go from there. And if it works out, I’d like us to think about how I could set up a foundation.’
At that, Ryann had almost peed herself in excitement. He wanted to set up a foundation, and wanted her help? That was only a testament to how green this kid was. If one wanted to set up a foundation, one should hire lawyers, not a fundraiser and bundler like her. But on the other hand, Ryann knew plenty of non-profit lawyers. Tone had opened the door for her to steer some business toward folks she knew and trusted, and for her to influence the mission and formation of a new Black-run charitable organization. That was huge.
And so, after Tone had hopped into his hired car, she headed back to the office to do some research, canceling all her other meetings for the day and digging in to find the perfect five-hundred-thousand-dollar investment for Tone. And to bone up a little on types of foundations. Apparently, in the middle of all that, she had lost track of time, and even missed her assistant’s departure for the day.
And shit! She was supposed to meet Spencer at her house.
She trotted back to her office to shut down her computer and grab her things when it occurred to her. Why was she rushing? If she wasn’t home when he got there, maybe he would leave, and she could avoid thinking about the thing that she had successfully avoided thinking about for most of the day, thanks to Tone.
Ryann took a leisurely pace packing up, and by the time she walked the half-block to the garage and retrieved her car, it was already a little past seven. By a quarter past, her phone was ringing. Spencer of course. Ryann ignored it, and drove at a moderate pace.
By the time she pulled up in front of her house it was past seven-thirty. Spencer’s Range Rover was sitting in her driveway. Seeing it there made her feel a curious mixture of excitement and dismay. His car door opened, just as she pulled into her garage, and he met her at the door leading into her kitchen.
Holding a paper sack, and wearing jeans, tennis shoes and a plain white t-shirt, he looked as scrumptious as the food in the paper bag smelled. Ryann restrained herself from saying as much.
“Hey,” she said instead, her voice expressionless.
Spencer tipped his chin in return, and she waited for him to comment on her tardiness, but he did not. Instead, he followed her into the house and deposited the paper sack on her kitchen counter.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she said. “I’m going up to change.”
On the way up to her bedroom Ryann shook her head in exasperation. So that was how he was going to play it, huh? Acting like he wasn’t annoyed at her lateness. Acting like he wasn’t pissed. The most irritating part was realizing that he was trying to be the adult, and in doing so made her look and seem like she was being a child.
Changing into leggings and her favorite, old and tattered red UDC t-shirt, Ryann washed her face and rejoined Spencer downstairs. He had unpackaged the food and was putting it on plates. There was chicken green curry, drunken noodles and fragrant jasmine rice, with spring rolls. Ryann felt her stomach grumble.
“Where you want to eat?” Spencer asked.
They were the first words he had spoken and his voice sounded tense. Not impatient, or angry at her being late, but something else. Ryann realized that he was probably nervous. And why shouldn’t he be? Tonight, he might find out that he was going to be a father. And with a woman he didn’t even know that well.
Suddenly, she felt the unfairness of it all. He was, in this situation, completely powerless. He couldn’t make her take the test, and once taken, he couldn’t make her decide to keep the baby; or not. His restraint, even though he had essentially forced this dinner date, was almost admirable.
“Living room.” She didn’t want to sit directly across from him at the dining table, watching him watch her.
He followed her into her living room, which was decorated for frequent use and comfort, with rough-hewn Shaker-style furniture and plump overstuffed sofas and chairs. When she bought her house and set about choosing the décor, Ryann remembered thinking only that she didn’t want anything too prim or pretentious, like the furniture she had grown up with. In the small apartment she had shared with her mother and brother, everything was pristine.
‘We might be poor,’ her mother had been fond of saying. ‘But we’re not common.’ And to her, that meant getting what she liked to call ‘quality’.
Everything had to be ‘quality’ which within her limited means meant real furniture from Ashley HomeStore, not from the hire-purchase places that proliferated their neighborhood and charged usurious rates so that by the time you paid something off, you had forked
over three to five times its value.
Putting their meals on the coffee table, Spencer returned to the kitchen while Ryann settled herself cross-legged on the floor to begin eating. She had just lifted her fork when he came back bearing two glasses. One with juice, the other a wineglass. She didn’t ask which was for her, but murmured a quiet ‘thank you’ when he set the juice next to her plate.
Sitting on the floor next to her, Spencer offered his hand and Ryann looked at him quizzically.
“Grace?” he said.
For a moment, she had no idea what he was talking about, and then it hit her. Oh.
“I didn’t peg you as a religious man,” she said, hearing the edge to her tone.
Sometimes, when she didn’t understand something, or someone, that was the way she came off. Snide and nasty. It was a learned reaction, and one she occasionally wished she could control.
“I’m not,” he said, still waiting for her to take his hand.
She did. It was callused and rough. Ryann remembered the roughness against her skin, the way it grazed her nipples. She remembered thinking that all men should have rough hands, that it was strange and unpleasant otherwise. There was something wrong with a man with soft hands.
Spencer bowed his head and said a brief prayer of thanks, and at his ‘amen’, Ryann said the same. Then she reached for her fork, now more aware of the solid maleness of him so close by. His heat seemed to radiate toward her, and made it difficult to relax. She was unaccustomed to having a man in her house, just sitting casually with her to share a meal. Most of the time, when she had male visitors, it was purely transactional—drinks, sex, departure.
“What was your day like?” Spencer asked.
Ryann paused, fork midair, then took her first bite of the drunken noodles. Her mouth was flooded with flavor. She chewed as she considered, and then swallowed, just as she decided, ‘why not?’ He wasn’t asking for nuclear launch codes. He was asking about her day. And she did want to share the exciting news with someone.
“Very interesting, actually,” she said.
“Yeah?” Spencer spoke over his mouthful.
“Have you heard of Tone Howard?”
“Think so. He made that movie, right?”
“Yeah. ‘Trappin’’. Well he called me a couple of weeks ago and wanted to meet, so we did. Today.”
“For real?” Spencer had turned to look at her. “What’s he lookin’ to get into?”
“That’s the thing,” Ryann said, hearing the excitement slip into her tone. “He doesn’t even know. He wants to get into philanthropy and has no real ideas about where he wants to contribute, so he asked me to give him some ideas. And get this? If things work out, he wants to start a foundation.”
“That’s cool. And you’ll run it?”
Ryann laughed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Of course he’d want you to run it,” Spencer said. “Why else would he come to you in the first place?”
Ryann had been thinking the same thing; and had been afraid to voice those thoughts, frightened of jinxing it.
“But first I need to find him a solid cause. A project that he can invest in that he’ll see some returns from in a pretty short period of time. He’s one of those Hollywood types so he needs quick gratification.”
“Have you seen his movie?” Spencer asked.
“No …”
“Ryann. For real? You want to find an investment for him and you haven’t done your due diligence?”
“Seeing his movie is due diligence?” she asked, looking at him. Spencer’s five o’clock shadow was in full bloom. She liked it. She liked it so much, she looked away immediately.
“Yeah. Of course. How else are you going to know what he’s about?”
“There were tons of articles on him in Variety. I read those. And I know about his family background, his …”
“But you need to know about his vision. How he sees the world. That way you know what kinds of projects will appeal to him.”
“Spencer,” she said, exasperated. “I’m sure it ain’t that deep.”
“Okay. Don’t listen to me,” he said. “What the hell do I know?”
They ate in silence for a few moments then Ryann took a sip of her juice, clearing her throat.
“Do you know where the movie’s showing?”
Next to her, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Spencer smile.
“I’ll take you to see it tomorrow,” he said.
The next day was Friday. And Ryann had no plans. She should probably refuse. No point getting all chummy with him and giving him the wrong idea. But on the other hand, what else was she going to be doing?
“Okay. Nothing too late though.”
“I’ll find something that starts around eight,” he said.
Then they were quiet again, but it was not uncomfortable. The food was good, and it was also cool not to be alone for a change. Spencer had, just before sitting, slid off his tennis shoes. Seeing them lying there, on their sides next to the coffee table made a sad, wistful feeling rise in Ryann’s chest, but she tamped it down immediately.
“You haven’t mentioned a word about the real reason you’re here,” she said.
“What’s the real reason I’m here?” he returned, eyebrows raised.
“You know what I mean.”
“I figure we have plenty of time to get to that. Putting that aside, I’d still want to be here with you. Even just to hang out.” Spencer shrugged.
“Putting that aside?” Ryann echoed, eyebrows raised. “I thought you were all eager to know. Any man would be. To get it over with.”
“Of course I’m eager to know. Aren’t you?”
Spencer moved away a little so he was now facing her fully. Ryann turned to look at him. There was a small scar on his jaw that she hadn’t noticed before, and only noticed now because the light dusting of facial hair could not grow over it.
She shrugged. “Yeah. But there’s something about wondering that makes it …”
“You want a baby,” Spencer said, as though the realization had just hit him.
“No!” She lied almost reflexively. Then, shrugging again, she modified her answer. “I mean … it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”
“So, if this test is positive …”
“I don’t know. I might … I’d consider keeping it,” Ryann said, sticking her chin out. No point beating around the bush. “But that doesn’t mean I’d expect …” She stopped.
“Expect what?”
“Anything,” she said. “It doesn’t mean I’d expect anything.”
Something like annoyance flashed in Spencer’s eyes. “You think I’d just walk away?”
“I don’t know, Spencer. We hardly know each other. I know nothing about you. I just wouldn’t expect anything one way or another.”
He made a scoffing sound and shook his head, reaching for his wineglass and Ryann realized she had offended him.
“Not every brother out there is looking to shirk his responsibilities. Not every brother thinks of a kid as a burden. And you’ve known me for more than two years now.”
“Yeah. And what I know doesn’t exactly scream ‘family man’ if you know what I mean.”
“What do you think you know?”
“Spencer. Please.”
“That I kick it with a lot of women? So what? I’m single. You’ve got your fair share of men, too, I’m guessing.”
Ryann tried not to take offense at that, but inside her, a well-developed fourteen-year-old shrunk at that old label: fast.
“Do you have other kids?” Ryann challenged, changing the subject.
“No.”
“Then how do you know whether or not you’ll think of a baby as a burden?”
“How do you know?” he returned. “There’s only a maternal instinct, I guess, huh? No such thing as a paternal instinct?”
“I didn’t say …”
The sound of her landline ringing interrupted their
conversation. Ryann tensed. The phone rang again. Spencer looked at her, and she sat frozen.
“You want to get it?” he asked.
“No, it’s …”
He stood, looking at the phone. It rang a third time. “It’s fine,” he said. “Get it. I’ll go refill this.” He held up his wineglass.
Just on the fourth ring, and as Spencer exited the living room, Ryann reached for the phone and answered it, listening to the familiar, expressionless recorded female voice.
“Hello. This is the Commonwealth of Virginia Department of Corrections. You are receiving a call from an inmate at …”
~5~
“Rick?” Ryann sat up, then stood up, taking the cordless phone out to her back patio, and pulling the door firmly shut behind her
“Who else? You know some other nigga locked up in here?”
“Of course not. How you doin’?” Ryann clutched the phone tighter.
There was a chuckle. “How you think?”
Ryann shut her eyes tight. It never got any easier, thinking of him there, imagining what life was like for him day to day.
“Hearing your voice is the best thing to happen to me all week,” Rick said finally, when she didn’t respond. “Been tryin’ to catch up with you for a minute.”
“I know. And I’m sorry I haven’t been down there to …”
“Nah. It’s a’ight. I know how messed up it is. How they treat the families like they in prison too …”
“It’s not that. It’s just been really busy. But I’m going to make it up there for your birthday for sure.”
“Birthday.” Rick laughed bitterly. “I stopped paying attention to that kinda shit years ago.”
Again, she didn’t answer, so Rick spoke again.
“How’s she doin’?”
“Fine. You should call her.”
“I will. Just … it’s only so many times you can listen to someone tell you how you fucked up your life. Fucked up their life. Nah mean?”
The Lover Page 4