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He looks out the salt-flecked windshield again, but what he really sees is him and Simone at eighteen, the day they met at the summer mixer held a few days before classes started their freshman year. The fifty or so students gathered to “meet and greet” each other were all awkward and nervous except for Simone. She seemed so self-possessed and in her element despite being in the same boat as the rest of them—far away from home and thrust into living with strangers. Kwame dug how self-deprecating she was, though he couldn’t tell if all the jokes she made at her own expense were because of genuine insecurity, which was endearing given how gorgeous and accomplished she was, or if she used them as a tool to disarm people so they wouldn’t be intimidated by just how gorgeous and accomplished she was. Kwame wanted to find out. He wanted to find out everything about Simone.
When they ran into each other on campus the next week, he spontaneously invited her over to his room to “listen to some jazz.” It was mortifying in retrospect to remember how sophisticated he thought this was and how he’d bought those brand-new Thelonious Monk and Charlie Parker albums the week before leaving for college because he thought it would make him cool. Or if not actually cool, being a person with “vinyl” and a record player and an interest in jazz would make him appear to be cool. But that afternoon, they lay next to each other on the rug his mom got to make his dorm room more “homey,” arms and thighs pressed together, and discovered they both actually did enjoy jazz. And each other. It took ninety-four days to perform the miraculous feat of somehow getting Simone to fall in love with him; she blurted the words just after they returned from winter break. She was his girlfriend for approximately one thousand days after that until… he had to go and blow it up for reasons he still didn’t fully understand and was too stubborn (and scared, if he were honest) to go to therapy and unpack. Kwame regretted it as soon as the words “I need some space” crawled out of his lips. But he also didn’t expect Simone to just give in so easily. She didn’t so much as ask, Are you sure about this? Because he wasn’t at all; he was torn, tortured. But she’d made it easy for him by not fighting it all, which made him second-guess how much she truly cared. It was all sorts of fucked-up to be mad about that, but he was. Is. He feels the heat of it on the back of his neck sitting here with Simone. Also: their breakup was never meant to be permanent. He distinctly remembers saying that he still saw a future for them, just not then. Timing and all that. But hell, he can’t blame time anymore, or Simone, or even Alex. Only himself, for being too young and stupid and impulsive and knowing nothing about anything, including what to hold on to for dear life.
Maybe he can make up for it by showing up for Simone now, the world’s most unlikely sounding board for her marriage woes.
“That’s what they say, right?” Kwame responds. “Marriage is hard? But what do I know. I haven’t been truly serious about anyone since…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m not sure I have any wise words, you know way more than me.”
“Not really. That’s the crazy thing about marriage. You can be in it and still have no idea how to do it. The rings and the vows and the legal document don’t transform you into an expert. I’ve never seen Alex under stress like this, with the company and his grandfather’s failing health, and it’s turning him into someone I don’t recognize. Last night I was complaining, not even complaining, just sharing how hard it’s been to take care of his grandfather. And he was all, ‘It’s not like you’re doing anything else!’ Can you believe that, as if my purpose in life is to be at Poppy’s beck and call? Not to mention his and Langston’s.”
Simone rubs her hands together in her lap, whether it’s nerves or they’re still cold he doesn’t know, but either way he wants to grab them so badly the tendons in his forearms twitch from restraint. He can’t do this after all, can’t be her sounding board because he’s not objective enough. All he wants to do is scream, Well, leave his ungrateful punk ass, which wouldn’t be helpful or right, as good as it would feel. So Kwame switches gears.
“You know, speaking of Larry, he did know Wade. They were in the debate club together.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Jedidiah showed me his Tate yearbooks, so I saw pictures of them together. He said some of the kids hung out at this diner Doughboy’s. You ever heard of it?”
“No, not at all.”
“There was a waitress there who, apparently, Wade may have been sweet on, as they used to say. Can’t think of anything more reckless than having a crush on a white woman in 1961, but love is love. We know how that ended up for a lot of brown boys, though. Anyway, still trying to piece stuff together. So, it would be a really big help to talk to your father-in-law.”
“I don’t think it would. Like I told you, he’s not doing well. He recently ended up in the hospital for almost a week. He got all confused and called me a little bitch before passing out.”
“What the fuck, Simone? That’s not cool!”
“He’s just old and not in his right mind. I’m only telling you so you can see why you can’t talk to him. It would be pointless. Besides, it sounds like you think he could possibly have been involved with whatever happened to Wade? And yeah, maybe he’s arrogant or stubborn, but there’s no way…” She trails off in her defense.
“I’m not saying he is, obviously, but for real, though, how well can you know people? Besides, you know how you see those harrowing photos of lynchings and all those white people, women and kids, are just smiling as a body swings behind them. All those people are someone’s sweet old great-grandma or great-grandpa now. The point is, you don’t know what people are capable of.”
Like, for example, he could lean over right this second and pull Simone toward him until her lips are inches from his and finally tell her what he’s been meaning to for years… I love you, I love you, I love you.
But he doesn’t. He tells her he has to leave instead. It’s getting to be too dangerous sitting in this car.
Simone is understandably confused by this sudden announcement and the beads of sweat breaking out on Kwame’s forehead.
“Oh, okay. Where are you headed? Back to Chicago?”
“No, I came up here so I could go to Tate too, so I’m going to head over there. Get a feel for the place. There was a janitor who used to work there back in Wade’s day—Sly—who I want to try to track down. Maybe HR will know where he is. If he’s even still alive. Long shot.”
“You must mean Sylvester. He’s still there. In fact, I saw him last month at Larry’s retirement party.”
“What? Wow. What are the chances? Talk about a break! I can chat with him today, then. And I can tell him you and I are connected… From J-school,” he quickly clarifies.
“I don’t know how much good that would do. He seemed… I don’t know… put off by me. Like I was some bougie sellout.”
“Well, you are bougie as hell all right.” He punches her arm playfully.
“Kwame!”
“Come on, girl, you know I’m teasing. Just know I see your flex with that matte-gold Range Rover SV over there.”
“Whatever, you know I don’t care about cars.”
An automobile that costs more than he earns in a year would say otherwise, but he lets Simone pretend she’s still some round-the-way girl.
She turns to him. “Well, if it gets too late to drive back to Chicago after all your running around, text me and I can recommend a place to stay.”
It’s tempting to see this as some sort of twisted invitation to keep him close; it’s just as tempting to stay close, to spend the night just around the way from Simone, maybe meet up to eat eggs together in the morning. But he knows better.
