Never one to dwell on things I can’t control, I was sure the feeling would pass.
The old adage “You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone” kept playing in my head.
By the end of dinner, I’m wondering what I enjoyed about Sundays before Kwame started joining us. No one asks what I’m working on and then actually listens. No one else sits patiently while I try to make sense of something that’s bothering me. No one else read my weekly column or shared them in their Instagram stories.
My parched ego and wounded pride soaked up his attention like rain. I’ve spent the week mentally preparing to dip my toe back into the world I left behind, and I could really use a dose of his praise.
The absence of his physical presence was palpable, too. He’s a big man, tall, solid, well-built. He’s also very affectionate with me in a way that has never felt misplaced.
His hugs, back rubs, thigh squeezes and lingering looks have been safe. Physical contact from a man who wasn’t only interested in getting me in bed.
I should have asked him what was wrong before he left last week.
I hate being pushed to talk before I’m ready, so I let him be.
I took for granted that I’d see him this Sunday.
Regret that is so heavy it’s impossible for me to think about anything else.
I abandon the small pile of dirty dishes on the table and pull my phone out of my pocket to call him.
I type his name into my contact list. Nothing comes up.
I search my message history for his name and that comes up blank, too.
How is it possible that I don’t have his phone number saved?
I feel like I talk to him all the time. But in reality, I don’t. Except for Sundays.
I could ask my mother for it but that would only invite unwanted, overly broad conversations about my private life.
Like I summoned her, my mother sticks her head through the swinging door that leads to the kitchen. “Why are you just sitting there when your sisters are in the kitchen?”
I don’t ask why she hasn’t asked Adonis the same question. I’m having a bad enough day without adding an argument with my mother to the mix. “I had to answer an email for work.”
She trains her disapproving frown on the phone in my hand and raises her eyebrows. “On a Sunday? You write an advice column. It’s not life or death. Surely, it can wait.”
I’m used to my mother’s dismissive attitude toward my work. Kwame’s interest and attention have made it even more noticeable. What used to roll off like water on a hot skillet slides right under my skin.
I get to my feet, slip my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, and pick up the pile of plates. “Thanks for the reminder, Mom.”
The sarcasm goes right over her head. She smiles at me. “Of course, dear.” She reaches out to brush some invisible dust from my arm. “When you girls are done in the kitchen, come join us in the living room. We’re watching60 Minutestonight. Did I tell you that Aunty Dorcas’s son is a producer on one of the segments? He just got a big promotion, too. I should introduce you one day. He’s got good connections. Maybe he can help you with your career.” She squeezes my shoulder and then walks away.
A year ago, that passive-aggressive reminder that I haven’t lived up to her expectations would have sent me into a spiral of despair about the way my life has turned out.
An explosion of laughter from the living room sets my teeth on edge, and I know I can’t be here a minute longer than I have to.
I stick my head into the kitchen where my sister Salomé is already elbow deep in a sink full of dishes.
The counter tops are littered with food that needs to be put away.
It will be at least half an hour before we’re done.
I can’t wait that long.
“Be right back,” I call out to her and hurry away before she can ask me where I’m going.
I tiptoe past the patriarchy party in the living room and slip into the small study where my parent’s dark blue leather-bound Encyclopedia Britannica collection has had pride of place in this study since they moved in. Even though everything in them is either outdated or available at the click of a button, my mother dusts and polishes them like they’re the holy grail.
