Chapter Fifteen

 

Ezra

 

 

“More water, sir?”

The server doesn’t look much older than the girls at YLA, but if I’m not mistaken, she’s checking me out. Mona and Aiko always say I’m bad at picking up on these things, but she’s come to my table four times in five minutes offering water, and every time, the looks are bold enough that even I know what’s up.

“Uh, no.” I give her a polite smile. “I’ll order something when my friends get here.”

“Okay.” She points to her chest…name tag. “Cherise. Just holla if you need me.”

I give her another polite smile, this one a dismissal.

My phone rings and I know it’s Mona before I even look at the screen.

“Let me guess,” I say, already smiling. “You’re running late.”

“You don’t know my life.”

We both laugh because I very much do know her life, and she knows mine. Except I haven’t told her about the breakup. Yet.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“Well, my cousin Alicia and I needed to run by this shop.”

Flea market.

“And we were supposed to start early, but got behind,” she says. “I’ll be there fifteen minutes, tops. Kimba there yet?”

“Not yet.” But if she comes soon, I’ll have fifteen minutes alone with her.

“Some things never change,” Mona says. “You were always early, I was always late, and Kimba was always—”

“Right on time,” I say as Kimba walks into Tips and surveys the Saturday lunch crowd. “I’ll see you when you get here.”

“K, bye.”

I wave to get Kimba’s attention, smiling in a way I hope is normal. I don’t feel normal. I feel…jittery, like my body resumed the adolescent state from when we were friends before. My palms are sweating. My heart is pounding. I’m this close to shoving my hands in my pockets even though I’m sitting down.

But she’s so damn beautiful.

I’m not the only one who notices. A few men here with their girls cast discreet looks Kimba’s way as she walks by, her stride confident, her generous curves shown off to perfection in the orange dress that stops a little above her knees. Curls riot around her face and brush her shoulders. Her makeup is light, but flawless. She looks…expensive. Even though she’s dressed simply, sophistication clings to her as faithfully as the dress clings to her body. And when she gets close enough, her scent floats around me and makes me want to breathe so deep she’s the only thing I can smell. It’s lemony with something earthier beneath.

Cocoa butter.

She always wore it when we were kids. Her mother practically bathed them in it. Hell, more than once Mrs. Allen said I was ashy and randomly slathered it on me. Detecting the familiar scent beneath the light citrus makes me feel like somewhere under all this sophistication, she’s still the girl I knew.

I stand when she reaches the table, opening my arms like it’s natural, like I get to hold her every day, when it’s actually been so long. Her hesitation is a millisecond before she smiles and steps into the hug.

She feels…womanly. Her breasts, soft and full, give against my chest, a seductive press. She’s wearing flats and doesn’t quite reach my chin, and her soft curls brush my jaw. Of their own accord, my hands slide down her back, trace the deep cinch of her waist and settle at the rounded curve of her hips. We both stiffen and our eyes hold, our breath seemingly suspended between us at the contact.

What the hell are my hands thinking?

I step back immediately, hands in the air. I never touch Mona or the other female teachers at YLA that way. I would never presume, but maybe it’s our history, how close Kimba and I once were, how badly I want to know her again, that tricked me into a familiarity I haven’t earned.

“I’m so sorry. I—”

“It’s okay,” she cuts in with a quick smile. “It’s good to see you, too.”

I laugh in a way that only mocks myself and gesture for her to sit down.

“Let me guess,” she says, her smile wide and white against glowing coppery skin. “Mona’s running late.”

“Got it in one. She’s on her way. She and Alicia hit every flea market within a ten-mile radius on Saturdays in search of their next great treasure.”

“You can find some amazing stuff in flea markets.”

“Somehow, I’m having trouble picturing you there,” I say dryly.

“Don’t be fooled. You can take the girl out of the A, but you can’t take the A out of the girl. I could roll down to College Park right now and rip through a flea market.”

“I’d like to see that.”

“I said I could.” She winks and takes a dainty sip of the water Cherise left on the table. “I’ll leave the flea markets to Mona.”

We laugh, and I turn my attention to Cherise, headed for us with her notepad.

“Y’all ready to order?” she drawls, much more businesslike, but still friendly, now that Kimba has joined me.

“We’re waiting on one more,” I tell her. “But do you still have those fried pickles? I didn’t see them on the menu.”

“Yep.” She gives me a teasing grin. “You must be a regular.”

“Regular enough. We bring our students here sometimes. The school isn’t far.”

“Which school?” She tilts her head and frowns.

“Young Leaders Academy of Atlanta.”

“Oh my God!” Her face lights up. “My cousin Tribbie goes there.”

“I know Tribbie. Seventh grade. She’s in the chorus. Alto. Beautiful voice.”

“And can’t pay her to sing at church on Sundays.” Cherise laughs. “My auntie says it’s been so good for her. She also said you don’t charge and it’s a private school. How y’all manage that?”

“Fundraising.” I shrug. ”Generous donors from the community. Grants.”

“Well, she loves it. Her grades are better and she—” Cherise shoots Kimba a self-conscious glance. “Oh. I’m sorry.” She clears her throat and says, “I’ll get those pickles right out. Did you want something other than water, ma’am?”

“Water’s fine for now,” Kimba replies with a smile, watching me speculatively when Cherise leaves. “Sounds like you’re doing good work. Not that I doubted it. Daddy wouldn’t have selected you if you weren’t.”

“Running into him was such a fluke, but sometimes what we call a fluke is fate, at least I like to think so.”

“What’d you guys talk about? What’d he say?”

The hero worship for her father that so characterized her as a child is still in her eyes. I see that hunger for every detail of a loved one you didn’t get nearly enough time with at the end. That was how I felt when my grandmother died, asking my mom dozens of questions she didn’t want to answer, pouring over photo albums so I could see my bubbe at each stage of her life. Every detail was precious and made me feel closer to her.

“He said exactly what I needed to hear,” I tell her because it’s true. “I wasn’t sure I should start the school—wasn’t sure where to start, but he probed to figure out the things I was most passionate about.” I laugh, the details of that fateful meeting coming back to me with a rush of fondness and respect for the man who was such a huge part of my life when I was a kid, and who was so notably absent after the night of the dance.

“He used to say your mission starts with people.” Kimba brushes the gold ring on her thumb. “And your passions should fit on a napkin.”

“Yup. He asked me about the kinds of students I wanted to help, and he jotted it down on a napkin while I talked.”

“What’d you say?” she asks, her stare a welcome weight on my face. “What’d he write?”

I don’t answer, but reach into my back pocket, pull out my wallet and extract the folded square I rarely take out, handling it like it’s antique and fragile and worth preserving. When I spread it open on the table, she gasps, a smile blossoming on her mouth and her eyes shining with sudden unshed tears.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen his handwriting.” She traces the loops and curves of the brusquely written words with one finger. The ink is faded, but the words are still legible.

Poor. Underserved. At risk. Bright. Ambitious. Capable. Hardworking.

And that’s my kids. Those are the people, the families YLA is reaching, is helping. Even though I rarely take this little slip of vision out, it has guided me the last few years.

“What was on your napkin?” I ask, unable to look anywhere but at the woman seated in front of me. I was bowled over by her beauty when I saw her on television, even at the funeral and at the event the other night, but she was a symbol—almost untouchable. This woman, right now, at my table, sitting so close I can’t escape her scent, impresses me with her heart. She’s tough and smart and takes no shit. You only have to spend a few minutes with her to know that. But she’s also real and soft and warm. I touched her with my hands, and as she discreetly swipes a tear from the corner of her eye, I see I’ve touched her heart.

“Um, let’s see.” She clears her throat, slants a smiling glance at me from beneath long lashes. “What did I write on my napkin? Disenfranchised. Marginalized. Forgotten. Left behind.”

“And your mission?”

“To put leaders in power who care about the people I do; who’ll work hard as hell to make life better for them. I could have done it a hundred other ways, but when I worked on my first campaign, politics chose me.”

“It’s a tough game.”

“I’m a tough girl.” She drains her glass of water. “Ask all the people who call me a bitch. They’ll tell you.”

“I see more than that.”

“Maybe you see what you want to see.”

“I want to see you.”

The thread of awareness that has been slowly tugging me closer to her pulls taut. She looks up, her eyes widening and then narrowing at my words. I want to answer the questions in her eyes. She knows when someone is attracted to her. She knows about Aiko, about my family. Her unasked question hangs in the air between us. I want to reassure her that I’m no player and explain something to her I haven’t even told Noah or Mona yet.

“So your napkin tells me what you’re doing now,” she says. “What have you been up to the last twenty years or so?” Her dark eyes soften. “After that night, where’d you go, Ezra Stern?”

“Jewish camp.”

“I know that,” she laughs. “And then? Like…everything kind of disintegrated. A few weeks after you and your mom left for New York, your dad left, too. Next thing I know, there’s a For Sale sign in your front yard. You guys disappeared.”

“I went to camp as planned for a few weeks, and then we moved to Italy.”

“Italy? I didn’t expect you to say that.”

“I didn’t expect it either. Dad got that job he’d been wanting, but it took us overseas.”

“How was that?”

“It was hard at first. I missed…”

You.

That one unspoken word lands on the table between us, invisible but completely present. Kimba bites her lip and glances down at her menu.

“I missed everyone,” I continue. “Missed home, but then I realized it was the best thing that could have happened.”

“How so?”

“We moved into this neighborhood where several basketball players lived.”

“Like, American basketball players?”

“Yeah. Guys who never made it to the NBA, used to be in the league, couldn’t get a contract. Whatever. They ended up playing for an Italian team. And guess what?”

“What?”

“Half their kids were mixed like me. Literally white moms and black dads everywhere.”

“Professional basketball players marrying white women? Shocking,” she says with a laugh. “So you fit right in, huh?”

“Well, I was still me, so I’m not sure I’d ever ‘fit right in’ anywhere.” We chuckle. Basically a case of it’s funny because it’s true. “But there were people who understood my in between-ness—who’d faced some of the same challenges living in America that I had. It was the perfect situation for me to be in at that time.”

“How long were you there?”

“Four years. All of high school. My parents actually stayed a few years after I returned to the States for college.”

“What school?”

“Howard for undergrad. UCLA for my master’s and doctorate.”

Her brows elevate. “An HBCU. Another thing I didn’t expect.”

“My mother made sure I understood my Jewish heritage, but when I look back on my childhood, besides your family, I didn’t have a lot of influences from that other part of me. I needed that, too, and Howard proved to be the perfect incubator to grow my confidence—my understanding of myself. The whole me.”

“And then grad school in Cali?”

“Right.”

“Is that where…” She glances down, runs a finger around the rim of her glass. “You met Aiko in California?”

“Yeah. I had just started my doctorate at UCLA. She was taking pictures at a party not far from campus.”

“She’s beautiful. I mean, I only saw her briefly at the funeral, but she was beautiful. There’s a lot of her in Noah, too.”

“She’s an amazing mother.”

Kimba runs her finger along the condensation of her glass. “So she doesn’t believe in marriage?”

“No. I did ask when we found out she was pregnant, but she turned me down.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

She gives me that look again, full of speculation and a tiny bit of censure. “Look, Kimba, there’s something I want to tell you.”

“Whoop! Whoop!” Mona says, plopping her oversized bag onto the table.  “Hey, good people. Sorry I’m late. I had one nerve left, and Alicia worked it. Late ass. I love her, but she can’t be on time to save her life.”

“Must run in the family,” I say dryly, forcing down disappointment that my fifteen minutes alone with Kimba are up.

“Watch it.” Mona points a warning finger at me. “Sorry I’m late, Kimba. I promised you a good time and then stuck you with this guy.”

Kimba breathes out a laugh, shrugging. “It wasn’t so bad.”

We look at each other, and it feels to me like the width of the table between us pulses. It pulls on my senses so strongly. Kimba lowers her lashes, sips her water and picks up her menu.

“Well I, for one,” Mona says, “need a drink. Where’s our server?”

I nod to Cherise, who is even now approaching, pad in hand and smile in place. “Here she comes, but you do realize it’s only noon.”

“I told you Alicia drained me,” she sighs heavily and turns on a beatific smile for Cherise. “How’s your margarita?”

Cherise snorts. “Strong.”

Mona splits a smirk evenly between Kimba and me. “I’ll have two.”