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“Yeah, yeah, I was going to be a star. But I was burned out, Kwame.” That was the truth, at least part of it. The truth has so many parts, angles, hidden corners.

God, though, how Simone did not want to have this discussion with Kwame again, picking up right where they’d left off when she saw him last at Devon’s mom’s funeral. When Simone learned from Kwame’s Facebook update (he wasn’t the only one keeping tabs) that Mama Rhodes had died, she’d felt called to be there for him. Simone had always admired how loyal Kwame had been to Devon—all through college she’d watched him put together elaborate care packages filled with the few things prison would allow—socks and magazines, notebooks and certain types of pencils, and laboring over handwritten letters to Devon. He’d also make the long trip to Menard Correctional Center once a month without fail. He’d often go with Devon’s mom on these visits; Simone knew how close he was to the woman. He always called her a second mother. The two of them bonded over their shared love—and pain—for Devon and his situation. Kwame became a stand-in son in some ways, a role he took as seriously as any other obligation.

So even though Alex was upset when Simone announced she was going to drive down to Chicago Heights for the service—and tiptoed close to trying to say she wasn’t “allowed”—she put her foot down. They’d just gotten back from Spain and she was four months pregnant. “I’m marrying you, Alex,” Simone had assured him, holding up the four-carat ring he’d put on her finger on their last day in Barcelona. “You have nothing to worry about. I just need to do this, okay?” Alex pressed Simone on why, why it was so important she showed up for her ex-boyfriend, and no response was satisfactory, probably because she couldn’t explain it to herself. And no rationale would have placated Alex anyway. Which is exactly why Simone left out the part about “Kwame” when she’d told her husband about today’s panel. There was no point upsetting him for no reason, especially since he’d already seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders ever since taking over Hartwell. The night before he assumed his new role, Alex had mentioned having some “big surprise” for her, never to be mentioned again. Perhaps he meant the twelve-plus-hour workdays because those have certainly caught her off guard. She keeps wondering how he’s this overwhelmed already, mere weeks into running a successful, profitable fifty-year-old company? Is the job just that demanding? Or, or… and she feels disloyal even having these doubts… is it possible that Alex isn’t up for it?

Simone vows not to let Kwame drag her down any memory lanes where she could trip over regrets and nostalgia, even as her mind betrays her by allowing fragments from their last conversation to come flashing back.

I just hate to see you give up on a career, Simone. Such a waste.

I can’t believe you’re going to marry that white dude. What’s he got that I don’t?

Do you ever wonder what if…?

What if we gave it another chance?

Never mind that Simone had already given Kwame more than one chance to be with her… and to break her heart. Meeting Alex brought an end to their painful purgatory.

The night of the funeral, Simone had given Kwame a pass for all his emotional ramblings on account of the grief and the alcohol he’d consumed. She gave herself the same grace for all the things she’d said, like calling Kwame a selfish asshole for breaking up with her in the first place. And insisting that he’d be alone forever since he didn’t know how to do anything but work. She’d closed her tear-filled rant with the kicker that she was glad he broke up with her, turns out she was better off without him.

It was harder to let herself off the hook for what came next: when Kwame argued that that last part couldn’t be true and doubled down on his point by pressing his full body to hers and pulling her in for a deep kiss. One that Simone let last for a few seconds too long before she tore herself away and fled the hotel room she had no business being in at one a.m.

Simone would love to know if Kwame regrets that. She would also love to get back to safer ground. Like food.

“I’m starving. Do you know what you want? Let me guess: a cheeseburger, well done; Muenster cheese; spicy mustard; extra pickles.”

“Exactly. You know me too well.” The look. No one does eye contact like Kwame, an intense gaze that’s impossible to turn away from. It’s probably why he was so effective interviewing sources; there was no hiding from it.

So much for safer ground.

The bartender saves the day, defusing the charged air with a request for their orders. The two martinis they decide to tack on might, like the heels, be a mistake, but the occasion and Simone’s nerves call for it.

“Sooooo, catch me up on everything. What else have you been up to?”

One little innocent inquiry feels like a referendum on Simone’s whole life. She’s loath to revert to her usual Oh, doing the Mom thing, mostly. Her beautiful, breathtaking son is everything to her, but it doesn’t feel like enough to offer Kwame. She tries to avoid thinking of herself as a housewife, but when it comes down to it…

“Well, you know I have a son. Langston. He’s seven now and amazing.” Simone goes to grab her phone, anticipating Kwame will ask to see pictures, but he doesn’t, so she pretends she was checking her text messages. She won’t force her kid on him.

“That’s what’s up. Bet he’s a cutie.”

“Yeah, he really is. And a little character.” She spares telling Kwame how this morning at breakfast, Langston showed her a little newspaper he’d created from construction paper, the Langston Daily Mirror. He’d filled it with news about what he ate at school, who he played with, and a daily weather report.

“I’m glad life’s working for you, Simone. You seem happy. Comfortable. Guess you made all the right choices.”

His pointed gaze is back.

“It’s not perfect. But it’s mine.” With that statement and a swig of martini, Simone is at last able to finally force that lump down her throat. “And what about you? All big-time, an Edward R. Murrow Award. I see you, Kwame Walker!”

“I don’t know about all that… I’m just out here grinding is all.”

It takes effort for him to look so humble, but she isn’t mad at the false modesty. It was always Kwame’s style—kill it and then act like it was nothing. “I’m happy for you, but the best part is that Devon got out. How’s he doing?”

“Okay, I guess. He’s been living with me since he got out. Which is cool, but also hard. He’s been like straight institutionalized and I don’t know if that ever goes away. He’s racked with these nightmares. Sleeps with the lights on. But he’s out, so… I guess that’s all that really matters. He’s free.”

“It’s great he can rebuild his life. All thanks to you. I loved the podcast.” She lies straight to his face. Simone had wanted to listen, but every time she went to play it, she just couldn’t do it. It was dangerous to have Kwame in her ear, husky and close.

“I appreciate the props. This freelance life is no joke. The hustle is real. And hard as hell. You’re only as good as your last story, ya know. People loved that feature… what’s your next cover story? Congrats on the hit podcast, where’s the second season? I love doing my thing, don’t get me wrong, but it never ends. And it’s harder and harder to eke out a living with pay rates nose-diving. It can wear a brother out.”

“Yeah, I’m getting paid peanuts—$200 apiece—for the Sentinel thing.”