11
SOLEIL
Three Weeks Later
The time had finally come for Spencer and me to have our first date in Chicago. We had been communicating through phone calls and video chats. He had been busy with his commitment to his daughter, and I kept myself busy with work. He’d asked me a couple of times to get together, but I refused to infringe on his time with his little girl. I knew how possessive I was over my own father as a daddy’s girl. I wanted to give Mikayla the same space to not have to share her father’s attention.
It seemed like the moment his plane landed back at O’Hare after he left Mikayla with her mom, he was on my line, setting up a date. On a hot Saturday afternoon in July, I donned the pretty, soft-pink summer dress with the deep pink, green, and yellow florals that he’d sent me, along with strappy sandals.
When he rang the bell, I stepped out onto my front porch. I smiled at the smile that lit up his handsome face. “Damn, look at you.”
“Thank you for the dress. Like I told you before, I love it. I think it looks better on than it did on the hanger.”
“It looks better on you than it did in my mind, . . . and I’m a very visual dude.” He licked his lips, and my thighs clinched. “Come here, girl. I’ve waited weeks to hug all up on you. I’ve been patient, so give me my reward.” He pulled me into his arms, and I melted into him as he buried his face in my neck. “I missed you,” he mumbled, and the vibration from his words tickled me a little.
“I missed you, too.” I squeezed him harder.
“You ready?” He released me from his embrace, reluctantly.
“Yeah.”
We held hands as we walked to his truck. He opened the door for me and waited for me to secure myself in the seat before he closed the door. My heart damn near floated out of my chest. Spencer was being the same man in real life that he’d been on the island. That did my nervous system good because I had spent our time apart hoping that it wasn’t his representative that I met in Iredia.
“Where are we going?” I asked once he settled into the driver’s seat. “Or is it a surprise?”
“Nah, it’s not a surprise. I’m not a native Chicagoan. You know that. The way I experience the city is probably different from how you experience it. You probably have your certain areas and neighborhoods you frequent. You have your favorite places. Everything, for me, is a new discovery. I thought it would be cool if I show you Chicago through my eyes. The places that grabbed my attention and held it since I’ve been here. Maybe on another date, you can show me the city through the eyes of somebody who grew up here.”
I smiled. “I love that idea. How long have you been here?”
“Four years, but trust me when I say that I’m still new to the city. I feel like every time I turn around, I’m finding a new spot, a new place that I like.”
We rode in companionable silence from my place in the South Loop to the North Side of the city. The radio provided the soundtrack while I soaked up the familiarity of being with him after spending several weeks apart. We drove to the Lincoln Park neighborhood. Once we parked, we walked hand in hand down Clark Street, which was a very busy block in the neighborhood.
“When I was drafted, my very first apartment was in this area. It was cool because Lincoln Park is walkable, and there’s a lot to see and do.”
“And it’s relatively safe,” I added.
“There’s that. Some of everything is over here. It’s just crowded as hell.”
“This is true,” I agreed.
“I always liked art, but the fact that there’s an art gallery on every corner in this neighborhood really allowed me to explore and figure out exactly what kind of art I geared toward.”
And with that, he pulled me into a place called The Clark Street Collective. As soon as we entered the space, I was face to face with colorful displays and beautiful imagery of the black diaspora—paintings of women in colorful garb with baskets on their heads, charcoal sketches of children sitting on urban stoops, watercolors, sculpture, and photography.
I started to speak, not even realizing that my jaw had dropped. “What is this place? Are these works for sale? Is it an exhibit?”
“The work is for sale. This gallery works with black artists across all mediums to display their work. Like I said, I try to buy as often as I can to support black artisans. Kinda like how you wanted to support the vendors in Iredia.”
“I get it,” I assured him. “I definitely want to see if something catches my eye.” The two of us walked slowly through the gallery. So many pieces caught my eye and spoke to me that I couldn’t even choose just one, and I couldn’t really affordto purchase more than one. While I was mentally calculating exactly how much I could spend, Spencer stopped walking.
“I think this is her.”
I looked up at the painting—muted watercolors—a black woman walking in the middle of what, to me, looked like a block party, wearing an ivory-colored sundress with colorful florals on it. “She’s gorgeous.”
“She damn sure is.”
After he purchased the piece he wanted, Spencer and I spent a few hours going in and out of every boutique and store that caught our eye. By the time the sun started its descent, I was starving. Spencer drove us to his place, where he had hired a private chef to come in and make dinner for us.
