Our first interactions were forgettable, mostly innocent run-ins in the backyard during elaborate picnics or social events. We were toddlers, but I distinctly remembered she carried around an old doll with her. I hated that thing. For one, it was ugly. Add to that, the eyes didn’t close. I was scared as fuck. Ran every time I saw it.
When she started attending my school, we becamerealfriends, not just forced friends. I started to seek her out at the functions. Not gonna lie, it helped that the doll was gone. It also helped that she was cute. She had a little chip on her shoulder, probably because her stepmother was so hard on her. But she was the smartest girl in class, always on time, always talking shit.
One year, we had a Santa’s Secret Shop at school. We went crazy that year buying cheap gifts for our parents and siblings. Albany presented me with a gift right before Christmas break. A book. More specifically, it wasThe Kids’ Book of Weather Forecasting. And although I already had the book, the fact that she’d thought of me at all sealed the deal. I knew then she would be Mrs. Wesley Batchelor.
Although I was smitten with Albany, I was also popular. Other girls wanted my attention, too. Since I was still a cocky asshole, even as a tween-slash-early-teenager, it took me a while to get my shit together and tell her how I felt. But once I did, it was over for me. I only wanted her.I still do.
“I remember,” I murmured. “But we were kids.”
“Still, even at that age, what you two had was special.”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
She squeezed my shoulder. “I don’t think that’s true. If you’re sincere, if you are willing to place your heart in her palm, she’ll keep it safe.”
“But will she give me her heart?”
“I hope so. I always told you to use your words. A simple conversation, a confession, goes a long way. Tell her the truth.”
There was no way around this. My sister was a great lawyer for a reason. She had the badgering the witness piece down pat, but I was done talking about my feelings. “Give me an hour or two,” I relented. “Then we can grab something to eat.”
She sighed, grabbing her purse and walking to the door. “Fine. I’ll pick the place.”
“You usually do.”
“I’m the youngest.” She stuck her tongue out. “It’s my prerogative.”
“Get outta here.” I tossed a dish towel at her. “I’ll meet you downstairs in about an hour.”
After my sister left, I turned my phone back on. No missed calls, but there were two messages. From her.
Albany: Thank you for keeping your word. I know it was hard.
Albany: Last night was nice.
A smile tugged at my mouth as I reread the texts. The despair I’d felt seconds earlier morphed into a sliver of hope. I’d told her to set the pace. It was hard as hell to let her go, to not go after her, to not camp out in front of her door. Now, I was confident I’d done the right thing.
In business, I’d perfected the art of closing a deal. Every day, I navigated complex transactions, negotiated pricing, and handled conflict. The key was persistence, transparency, strategy, and a little finesse. I also knew when to walk away. In this case, my decision to give up would depend solely on her. I wouldn’t push her, but I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel yet.
Chapter 15
Albany
Failure is for everyone else, not you.
The first time Allison said that to me, I’d lost the local spelling bee. I was six years old. Those words had been drilled into me for so long, I thought that giving up made me weak. Hence my penchant for remaining in unhealthy situations for far too long. That doubt, the nagging feeling that I wasn’t good enough had nearly crippled me.
I’d avoided my parents purposely because my life was better without them. I was healthier without their lofty expectations. I didn’t want to talk, and I damn sure wouldn’t explain any of the decisions I’d made.
The waitress hurried over to the table and set our food down. We’d been at Grandma’s favorite hometown restaurant for a good thirty minutes. The scene in the parking lot at the church was cut short by the arrival of my brother. And my grandmother when she’d nearly fainted because she hadn’t eaten anything.
“We could’ve stopped at Burger King, Grandma,” Moses suggested, breaking the long silence.
Grandma happily ate her pancakes. “No, boy. You know the Bomber is my go-to place when I come to Ypsi.”
At least, she didn’t take us on the same tour of Ypsilanti we’d been on several times already, visiting her old hood. I loved to listen to Grandma’s stories. Typically, we would start at Depot Town, a shopping district within the town. While there, we would visit the Farmer’s Market, take pictures at the Ypsilanti Freighthouse, and shop at the many businesses lining Cross Street. The antique store was Grandma’s favorite. Except she never bought anything, just perused. Finally, we would pay our respects to my great-grandparents who were buried at the Highland Cemetery.
Today, though, we’d skipped the tour and just stopped to eat. The restaurant was a staple in town and often had a long wait to be seated. But the owners knew Grandma and always ensured we’d have a space, even when we arrived just before their early closing time.
