My expression must read incredulous, because she follows that up with, “Seriously.” And then, “He’s the CEO of a tech company. She’s from Connecticut.”
I am downing a caviar-covered potato when I spot Anouk making her way toward us through the crowd. She is stunning in a sage wrapdress, tanned skin, coral lips. Heads turn in her direction. The familiar expressions of recognition and awe.
“Salut, les filles.”
She greets me as she greets the others—with a Frenchbise, casual kisses on each cheek—revealing nothing.
“Ça va?”
“Ça va,” I respond.
She is not wearing our necklace.
“Beautiful night tonight,” she says, and then little else, before she excuses herself to greet someone she recognizes across the yard.
My heart sinks. The idea that I am no longer the center of her world. That she has flitted on to something shiny and new.
Kennedy and Aurora share presentation duties and introduce the director of the nonprofit, who speaks to the value of providing aspiring female artists of color with meaningful mentorships and internships in the film and television industry. Following, two twentysomething Latina filmmakers and one African American screenwriter share stories about their difficulties gaining entrée despite their respective degrees and credentials. I note that once again, with the exception of the mentee screenwriter, I am the only noticeably Black woman in attendance. In a group of perhaps fifty.
The elephant in the room.
If I notice it, surely all the other women do. And I have to wonder what they are thinking. Is it as awkward for them as it is for me? Do they wish they had more Black friends to dot the audience? Or would it have been less uncomfortable to have none at all? Or maybe, just maybe, none of the above had crossed their minds.
I try to catch Anouk’s attention, where she’s standing on the opposite end of the living room, beside an impressive fiddle-leaf fig, because I know she will appreciate the irony. But when I look in her direction, she casually turns away.
The slight is clearly intentional.
When the speaking is over and our group is once again congregating out back, I notice Anouk heading into the house, her gait deliberate, her eyes on her phone. I know her well enough to know that this is how she avoids engaging. How she ensures a quick exit.
I disentangle from the others to follow her, catching up just as she’s heading through the foyer and out the front door.
“Are you leaving? Already?”
She turns her head on hearing my voice but slows only slightly.
“Yes. I promised Kennedy I’d stop by. But I have a business dinner.”
The valet guy at the driveway’s edge scrambles to get her ticket, and she politely dismisses him.
“I’m waiting for a ride, thank you.”
“I’d like to see you,” I say, when he is out of earshot. “I mean, not like this.”
She takes a moment to respond, her eyes scanning the suburban street. Finally, she turns to me. “I don’t… I’m not ready. Not yet.”
A slight breeze blows over us. The day had been unseasonably warm, and the evening is wonderfully balmy. Still I can see the goosebumps rising on Anouk’s neck. Like an invitation.
“Our conversation brought up a lot,” she says, without looking at me. “The retreat brought up a lot.…” She trails off as headlights appear at the top of the road. The Maybach, with the Longmores’ driver. And as it comes to a stop, she finally turns and looks me in the eye. “Everything is just different now, Cecilia. Because I know. And I can’t unknow. And seeing your face only makes it more clear.”
I have become the reminder. The trigger of the awful thing that happened to her. Regardless of whether I could or could not have prevented it, I am guilty by association.
“I’m so sorry, Anouk. I’m sorry for what happened to you. I’m sorry I didn’t say something sooner. I am so sorry.”
“You’ve said that already,” she says, as her driver steps out and holds open her door.
And then, just before she steps in, she turns to look at me one last time, the wind whipping through her hair. “You did nothing,” she says. “You didnothing.”
And then she gets into her car, and leaves.
