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“What do you mean?” I saw a few ladies from the crowd who’d managed to slip onto the enclosed patio stroll by slowly in front of us, but Dame looked right past them.
“I’m feeling you, Journey.”
Hearing him say my name again, the way he did, all smooth and new, made me feel like lightning was bolting through my body. I was shaken off my axis. And while I didn’t realize it then, suddenly, I’d forgotten all about Clyde and Ms. Lindsey and whatever else was waiting outside.
“What?”
“Man, I used to think it was a crush or just an old thing I had for someone in my past, but it’s not going away,” he said as openly as if we were sitting in a café and not surrounded by dozens of fans and industry folks who were trying to get hold of his attention. “I’m feeling you. I’m fucking crazy about you. And don’t laugh at me, but a part of me thought that when I went home, you’d be all old and married with kids and just wrinkly ... but you’re more beautiful now than you were then.”
“D-D-D-Dame,” I stuttered, “I don’t think this is the place or time to discuss that.”
“So, you’re saying you don’t feel the same way, too?” He reached for my hand and pulled me toward him. “Look at me. Tell me you don’t feel the same way. That you’re not at all interested. Because I heard it in your voice the other day on the phone.”
“Dame, I’m a married woman,” I whispered even though no one could possibly hear me over the chatter. “And I’m ten years older than you.”
“You’re not happy.”
“What?”
“I can see how you look at him. You want more and he can’t give it to you.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said, looking away from him.
“Did you tell him where you were going tonight?”
“I don’t need to answer that.”
“Exactly.”
A nondescript white man dressed haphazardly with two cameras hanging in different directions from his neck came and stood in front of us.
“Let me get a shot,” he said, pulling a third camera from behind. Dame moved closer toward me and smiled and, quickly, the camera flashed and the man disappeared into the crowd.
“So what are we going to do?” Dame asked.
“About what?” I asked with my eyes still blinking from the flash.
“About our feelings. About us.”
“I just told you ...”
“You told me what you have to say. You told me what you think you should say. I want to know what you feel.” Dame paused and smiled for a few other people waiting to take his picture. “Look, I’m not trying to ruin your marriage or change your life. I understand that’s who you are and that’s fine. I just want to know if maybe”—he looked into my eyes and it was like everyone in the room just disappeared or stopped talking; there was only us—“maybe I could have some time ... just breathe the same air as you and talk to you, so I can be reminded in the middle of all of this crazy shit in my life what beautiful really looks like?” His voice was as genuine and true as someone saying a prayer. As cocky and cool as he seemed to everyone else there, he was naked and open to me. And while this might have seemed like a good thing, in a way, it made me feel like I’d led Dame on in some way by coming to see him. Looking at him and knowing what it was like to be with him, I wanted to believe that what he was asking for could be—that we could just talk, just have our little conversations about nothing and everything and be happy. But right then, listening to his request, I knew it couldn’t work. Even in the room that had gone still, sitting there surrounded by drooling women and bottles of champagne and sweet burning cigarettes, grown men in basketball jerseys and Dame with no shirt and tattoos all over his body, it was clear that we were a world apart. Billie was right. I had mine and he had his. There was nowhere we could go.
“I can’t do that,” I said. “It’s just not the right time. We live different lives.”
“That’s still more of what you think you have to say.”
“Well, what about you? How could you be so sure about everything?” I asked, trying to shift the focus from me. “This isn’t some romance novel where you can fall head over heels without having any reservations.”
“I’m not the type of man that works with reservations,” he said. “I know what I want and I chase it. This feeling has been with me for too long to play games.”
“Dame,” one of his assistants barked, nearly skidding into the couch with her BlackBerry in her hand, “I need you for some interviews and Naima wants to know when you’re ready.”
“Thanks, Emily.”
She pressed the phone back to her ear and rushed over to Benji.
“I guess you didn’t count on leaving with me,” I said snidely. I knew Naima had a reason for looking at me sideways earlier.
