Page 12 of His First Wife

“Yes, we! You have to come with me.”

“Why?” I asked. “He’ll see me over here. Isn’t that enough?”

“Kerry . . . I need to look casual and I told him I was coming with you. I don’t want to seem like I’m alone and came here just for him—”

“Okay, fine,” I said.

“Do you promise to be nice to his friends too?” she begged.

“I’m always nice to his friends.”

She shook her head.

“I’m not?” I wasn’t.

“They call you Killer Kerry,” she said and gave me the “go to hell” stare.

“I do not give them the stare!”

“Look, just promise to be nice today. Please! I really need this.” She was pleading as if the future of the relationship depended upon that one night. It was so cute seeing people in love . . . even if I wasn’t.

“I’ll be nice,” I said. I knew why she was so anxious. We were about two months from graduation and Marcy had to make some strong leeway with Damien. After he left the confines of campus, there was no telling where he was going or who he’d meet there. His parents might even have had someone handpicked for him.

“Hello, Damien,” Marcy said casually when we made our way over to the group.

“Marce,” he said, turning to her. I’ll admit I wasn’t the biggest Damien fan, but he was quite a handsome man. Just a few shades lighter than a bit of cocoa butter, he had a friendly face that looked like he was always flirting, thick brown eyebrows with thin, secretive eyes that smiled with his lips. He had the kind of confidence in his eyes that made you wonder what he’d seen and where he’d been in his life, even though he was only twenty years old. “You ladies look lovely tonight,” he added, kissing both of us on our cheeks.

“Thank you,” Marcy said, digging into my arm with her nails.

“Fellas, you all know Kerry, right?” Damien asked the guys behind him. “Marcy’s roommate?” In usual Morehouse fashion, all of Damien’s friends were just as handsome as he was. Drones of each other, they all had the same laugh, the same gait, and the same privileged, confident demeanor. I was sure I’d seen them all before, met three or two at a dorm room party, probably even went on a bad date with one, but then, as they all nodded their heads in agreement that they knew me, one came pushing to the front of the group and smiled at me.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” he said. He put his hand out for me to shake it, but I was too busy looking into his eyes to return the sentiment.

Marcy nudged me hard in the side.

“Oh, I’m Kerry,” I finally said, extending my hand. “But you probably already know that. I mean, he just said it and that’s my name. Kerry. That’s me.” It would be short to say I sounded like a mad woman. Both Damien and Marcy were looking at me like I was insane. But there was something about the face in front of me. It was fine . . . yes. It was friendly . . . yes. But there was something else there. Something promising. Something real. Something familiar in a haunting way. Something that made me wonder what his name was.

“I’m Jamison Taylor,” he said as I noticed that a twinkle of the strobe light was dancing in his eyes, hypnotizing me. “And you probably don’t know that because no one said it, but now you do because I said it.”

Both he and I laughed at his little joke in response to my nervous blunder, but no one else seemed to get it.

Damien rolled his eyes and looked back at Marcy.

“Well, great then,” Damien said dryly, “Marce, you want to dance?” Before she could answer, he snatched her hand and began pulling her to the dance floor.

“Hold this,” she said, handing me her clutch.

I watched her walk away, nervously wishing I was escaping too. But not because I wanted to leave. I was standing there alone with Jamison, this beautiful man, and had nothing to say. It was like one of those dances in prep school where I’d be standing right beside the one guy I liked and butterflies rose and fluttered in my stomach until I did the only thing my body would allow: walk to the punch bowl. Only I didn’t want to do this. I wanted to talk. To say something. To grab his hand and take him to the dance floor too. But I couldn’t, so I just watched Marcy and Damien find their place in the crowd. The other guys began chatting amongst themselves, and a few found partners and were also headed to the dance floor. Time was ticking fiercely in my ear. Just say something.

“You want to dance?” Jamison asked.

“Me?” I asked.

“You’re the only you there is,” he joked.

“Very funny.”

“Well . . . do you?” He was confident, but not self-important. The question was really a question.

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