Chapter Eighteen

 

Kimba

 

 

Coming to Mona’s cookout was a bad idea.

On so many levels.

Level one.

I could quite possibly eviscerate her guest bathroom. I’ve been either sitting on or kneeling before the porcelain throne for the last two days, digestively prolific from both ends, and I’m about damn tired of it. Between diarrhea and vomiting, I’ve been chained to my mother’s house. There’s a reason I put several states between us. We love each other, God knows we do, but after a day or so, two alpha females under one roof is a whole-ass mood.

Not a good one.

In addition to Mama’s usual lecturing, advising and “guiding,” she’s also fussed over me, assuming I’m sick, a much more logical conclusion than the truth. The detox pills that may re-start my period arrived. The catch? They have run through my body like a typhoon.

Never thought I’d say this, but I better bleed.

Several of my homeopath’s patients have not only restored their cycles through this remedy, but have gone on to have babies.

Do I even want to have a baby? I was hoping that wasn’t a question I’d have to answer quite yet, but apparently, if I want to give birth naturally, the time is now…or at least within the next year or so…or never.

But first, my period has to come back. That’s pretty much square one with reproduction.

Level two for why coming to this cookout is a bad idea?

Ezra Stern.

He’s an old friend. A blast from the past. An all grown up, broody, brilliant, intense, tall and handsome blast from the past.

And he’s taken.

Let that sink in, Tru.

I can’t stop thinking about him, though. I keep seeing him, not just as he is now—handsome and towering and sex-on-a-magic-stick—but as he was then—kind, slyly witty, compassionate, and protective. He was my solace and my secret. No one else knew how amazing Ezra was back then, and I liked having him to myself. Now he belongs to someone else, and I have to respect that.

Our friendship always went deeper than connections I’ve had with other people. Aside from how I felt with Lennix and Vivienne, no one else came close. All my life I kept waiting to feel that kind of knowing with someone else. I mean, we were thirteen. But I never have. I thought, maybe hoped, we had outgrown that visceral bond, but it’s still there. At least, I felt it immediately. It’s the fiber of our friendship. You don’t blame magnets for being drawn to each other. But if they’re far enough apart, they can’t stick. For the last two decades, Ezra and I were far enough apart not to stick, but now…

This is a bad idea.

I pull up to the address Mona texted me, surprised at the long line of cars crowding the street and wrapping around the block. If all these people are here for Mona’s cookout, she would also call Coachella “a small gathering of friends.” I park as close as I can and walk back toward her place. The Old Fourth Ward has changed a lot in twenty years. Now there are coffee shops, a yoga studio around the corner, and every other house is a newly-constructed three-story with a van or an SUV in the driveway.

Ah, gentrification. Atlanta is not immune.

I went through our old neighborhood to get here. Driving down the streets where Ezra and I used to ride our bikes, seeing the old park, now upgraded, the old rickety swings replaced with new ones, took me back to those days. Mrs. Washington’s house, where she’d pretend to be watering plants so she could hear everyone’s business, is still there, but there’s a SOLD sign out front. Probably a close and doze. Our houses, mine and Ezra’s, still stand facing each other and look almost the way they did before, just with fresh coats of paint.

I shove aside old memories. Considering the awareness between Ezra and me, revisiting the past won’t serve me well.

I climb the steps to the wraparound porch, ringing the doorbell and taking in the swing, hanging plants and fairy lights while I wait. When the door opens, Mona greets me with hooping, hollering and hugs.

“Girl, get in here.” She drags me farther into the house, which is wall-to-wall with people eating, drinking and talking.

“You found it okay?” she asks, steadily picking her way through the crowd.

“I did. Thanks for inviting me.”

The last year has been dedicated to electing Maxim Cade president. There wasn’t much time for cookouts or hanging out. I was on the road and on television a lot more than I wanted to be, but hey. That’s the job, and God and Mateo Ruiz willing, I’ll be starting up the next cycle in a few weeks. This is a reprieve and a chance for me to reconnect with my family, and this city that used to be my home.

And with old friends.

Noah runs up to me right away, his dark blue eyes lit and excited.

“Kimba!” he says. “You’re here.”

“I am.” I’ve never been a kid person, but something about this one gets to me.

“Come play with me.”

Play? I’m definitely not one of those “aunties” who gets down on the floor and crawls around with small humans on my back. Not even my own nieces and nephews, though cleaning up after Joseph was quite the baptism.

“Um…play?” I hope I don’t have to crush his opinion of me as a “fun adult” this soon.

“Chess.”

Chess? I should have known. This is Ezra’s child after all.

He leads me to a chessboard set up on Mona’s screened-in porch. I’m incredibly competitive, so I have to remind myself to go easy on him. He’s just a kid.

“Checkmate,” Noah says twenty minutes later, wearing a triumphant smile so wide it practically hangs off his face.

“But…wait.” I review our last few plays. “How did you do that?”

“Strategy.” He taps his temple and winks at me. “It’s all up here.”

“Well, you better bring it down here for a rematch,” I say, reaching across the board to grab his king.

“No fair!” he squeals, running around to my side and reaching for the chess piece.

“She cheats, Noah,” Ezra says from the porch door, muscular arms exposed by a short-sleeved T-shirt and folded across his broad chest. His hair is a sable cap shorn into ruthlessly restrained waves. His eyes, that navy color I remember when he’s most relaxed, rest on his son in obvious affection and then turn on me, sending a jolt right down my middle.

“I do not!” I can’t quite meet Ezra’s intent gaze, so I focus on Noah. “That was beginner’s luck.”

“Who’s a beginner?” Noah cocks one brow. “I’ve been playing since I was five.”

“He’s so much like you when you were this age,” I tell Ezra. “And that may not be a compliment.”

Father and son both laugh, and I find myself laughing, too, feeling lighter than I have in months.

“Son, go wash your hands,” Ezra says, bending to kiss Noah’s head. “Food’s ready.”

Noah runs inside. There are other people on the screened-in porch, some playing dominos or cards or just drinking, but the space seems to suddenly cave in on us, making it hard to breathe. It’s the first wave of a Georgia summer, so it’s already hot, but that doesn’t account for how my breaths truncate, and I’m suddenly covered in a thin layer of simmering tension. It feels like this porch just became a tiny chessboard, and I’m awaiting Ezra’s opening move.

“Don’t feel too bad.” Ezra plucks the king from my fingers and lays it on its side. “He almost beat me. Once.”

“You created a monster in your image,” I say, the laugh I force coming out breathier than it should.

“I like to think so. I taught him the most important thing to remember in chess.”

“And what’s that?”

He glances up from the board, his eyes tracing my face in that deliberate way of his. “The queen is the most powerful piece.”

The bridge is out, and we stare at each other from opposite sides of it, each daring the other to leap. I break eye contact and clear my throat. “I think you held back some stuff when you taught me how to play.”

He shakes his head, a rueful tilt at the corner of his mouth. “I never held anything back from you, Tru.”

There’s no innuendo in his comment. He’s not flirting with me, even though you wouldn’t know that by the fluttering wings beneath my ribcage. It’s just the truth. We had that rare friendship with no limits other than the ones the world and our parents imposed.

“Remember when I explained that a black queen starting on a black square is called a queen getting her color?” he asks, grinning.

“I went around for days telling everyone I was getting my color.” I chuckle and lean back in my seat, crossing my legs. I feel his eyes on me, following the length of my body. He lets himself look for a moment and then turns his head to stare through the screen out to Mona’s backyard. I can’t help but think of the man so blatantly staring at my ass a few weeks ago at my doctor’s office. That did nothing for me, but a man restraining himself—Ezra trying his hardest not to look at me—stirs liquid heat in my belly. Even the stare he averts burns.

Mona walks in from the backyard.

“You guys ready to eat?” she asks. “Ezra, you’re the only chef I know who abandons his masterpiece.”

“You mean the hot dogs on the grill?” Ezra asks. “My work was done.”

“And steak, and chicken,” Mona says, looping her arm through his. “Noah will eat so much you have to roll him home.”

“I have no idea where he puts it.”

“You used to be the same way.” I walk with them into Mona’s backyard.

“All Ezra’s food went to the future.” Mona laughs, squeezing one of his well-defined arms. “And was just waiting for him to catch up when he got to high school.”

“Very funny,” Ezra says. “And do me a favor? Tell Noah it was the vitamins that made me grow so much bigger. It’s the only way I can get him to take them.”

“He’s hilarious.” Fondness is apparent in Mona’s tone as we approach a table laden with too many dishes for me to even process.

Noah walks up and takes his place in front of his father in line. As we wait our turn, there’s such an ease between the two of them. It’s apparent Noah respects his father’s authority, but they also seem to be friends. A lot of eight-year-olds would be squirmy with affection from their dads by now, but Noah leans into Ezra often, even grabbing his hand sometimes when he’s making a point.

“I’m going to Jewish camp this summer,” Noah tells me, his voice and face vibrant with excitement.

“Your dad used to go to camp in New York sometimes when we were growing up,” I tell him, spearing a hot dog but skipping the bun. I’m hoping the homeopathic regimen will get my weight back to normal, but there’s no need to tempt the goddess of cellulite with lots of carbs. My stomach has been surprisingly placid today. I hope the worst is over and I don’t have to ruin Mona’s bathroom. I keep envisioning that scene when Ben Stiller overflows the toilet in Along Came Polly. It could be that bad. Worse.

“I know.” Noah frowns at the fruit Ezra dishes onto his plate, but doesn’t voice the objection on his face. “I’m going to the same camp. Bubbe says it’s a family tradition.”

Ezra said something similar when he’d go up to New York for a few weeks each summer to the camp his bubbe preferred. He loved that woman so much. When I glance at him, his eyes are shadowed and his full mouth settles into a sober line. Some things you never quite get over, and somehow, I suspect Bubbe passing is one of those things for Ezra. I give his hand a compassionate squeeze.

“She was something else,” I whisper to him while we wait for the steak.

“What?” He looks down at our hands and back up to my face. “Who?”

“Oh.” I pull away hastily. “Sorry. I thought you might be thinking of your gran.”

He stares at me for several seconds, and then his mouth tips at one corner. “Yeah, I was, actually. How’d you know that?”

It feels strange to know the path of his thoughts when it has been so long since we’ve seen each other—to still feel like some part of me is plugged into his emotions. To feel I might be able to know his mind as well as I know my own.

“Just guessing.” I shrug, unprepared to go there with him, not the way my body lights up every time I catch him staring.

I turn my head and he’s looking at me. I lose myself in his eyes, not in that dreamy, romance-y way, but in the mystery of them—of what lies behind the midnight-blue shade he pulls over his thoughts. 

“Hey!” Mona snaps her fingers in the space that separates our faces. “You two are not doing that thing you used to do. I forbid it.”

I blink several times, breaking the spell of ancient memories and new mysteries. “What are you talking about?”

“The two of you used to block everyone else out, get lost in some corner and only talk to each other,” Mona says. “This is a social event.”

“My favorite thing to escape from,” Ezra says.

“Daddy’s an introvert.” Noah bites into a Hebrew National hot dog.

“Thanks, son,” Ezra says, his mouth a wry curve. “I think they know that about me.”

“He used to be a Kimba-vert,” Mona says. “He was only social with her. Then I came along and he was at least sometime-y with me.”

“Why?” Noah asks around a mouthful of hot dog.

“What have I told you about talking with food in your mouth?” Ezra asks softly. “And why what?”

“Why were you a Kimba-vert?”

Our gazes collide, and I look away first. I don’t want to hear how he would answer that question, so I reply for him. “Your dad and I knew each other literally since we were babies,” I tell him and take a sip of the freshly-squeezed lemonade Mona set out. “Longer than anyone else, so we were always really comfortable together.”

“That’s nice,” Noah says. “I want a friend like that.”

“You have Peter,” Ezra says, taking a pull of his beer.

“But I’m not a Peter-vert,” he says.

We all laugh, but once the humor fades, I find myself drawn to look at Ezra again. And dammit, he’s looking back.

More people join us at the table, and soon everyone’s laughing and telling stories. Most of them work with Mona and Ezra at YLA. It’s obvious they respect Ezra a lot. And it’s obvious to me that more than one of them, guys and girls, are crushing on him. If he weren’t with Aiko, he could have his choice of office romances.

As the meal winds down, the bright colors of sunset fading into evening, I take my cue from Mona and start carrying empty dishes back into the house.

“So what’d you think of Barry?” Mona asks, opening the dishwasher and loading a few plates.

“Who?”

“You know. Barry.” Mona straightens, puts her hands on her hips and offers a suggestive smile. “Dark hair, pretty brown eyes, wearing the Georgia Tech T-shirt.”

“Oh, him. Am I supposed to think something about him in particular?”

“He asked if you were seeing anyone,” she lilts.

“He did? Hmm. Not sure he’s my type.”

“Because he’s not rich?” Mona asks, rolling her eyes.

“No, of course not. He’s got a biker body.”

“Biker body?”

“You know, that real lean look. Like he hasn’t had a meal that wasn’t an energy bar in a while and like he metabolizes every calorie before he even eats it. I’m not a little girl. I like a not-a-little man or I feel like I might crush him.”

“You’re not a big girl.”

“Bigger than him.” I laugh. “Does he or does he not bike?”

Mona blows out a short breath. “I hate you.”

“I knew it.” I point a serving spoon at her. “He’s got that Lance Armstrong look.”

“I can confirm he has both his balls.”

I angle a WTF look at her.

“I mean, I don’t know know, like firsthand,” Mona says, laughing. “But one can assume.”

“Well, this one doesn’t need to know.”

“Are you not in the market for a relationship? Or even a fling?”

“I don’t know what I’m in the market for.”

“Girl, same. And my mama is riding me hard about grandkids. I tried marriage and it wasn’t for me. Lasted about two years and ended badly.” A shadow crosses her face, and though I can see her try to shake it, she doesn’t quite succeed.

“You think you’ll try again?” I ask.

“Probably. Right person, yeah, sure. I love kids and might if only to have a baby and a partner I respect enough to raise it. How about you? You want kids?”

The question crashes into me unexpectedly, like a wrecking ball right to the chest. When people asked me that before, I played it off, or shrugged and said someday. Now my someday has an expiration date. I haven’t allowed myself to process it, but standing alone in Mona’s kitchen with an old friend, the first person I confided my “girl” stuff to, everything comes to the surface.

“I’m in perimenopause.”

Mona frowns, then her eyes widen in realization. “You’re in what? Menopause?”

“Perimenopause, but yeah.” I point to my midsection and pelvis area. “All of this is vacating the premises earlier than expected.”

“But we’re in our thirties.”

“Exactly.”

Mona stops loading dishes and gives me her full attention. “How do you feel? What does this mean for, like, kids? You want them?”

“I think I do, yeah, but not now. I didn’t want them right now, and my doctor makes it seem like now or never. She thinks I may have a year and a half to two years, somewhere around there, if I want one naturally.”

“Shit.” Mona digs her hands into the front pockets of her denim cut-offs. “You already started treatments? My mother did hormone replacements.” She winces. “Not that you’re like my mom’s age or anything. I didn’t mean it to sound like—”

“Don’t worry. I know what you mean. My mother’s barely in menopause, much less me. And my doctor wanted me to try a homeopath first.”

“How’s it going?”

“Oh, it’s going all right.” I grimace. “I’ve been ‘going’ for two days straight. She gave me some detox pills and some other stuff to try to restart my cycle and address some of the other symptoms I have just a little of.”

“Wait.” Mona’s eyes widen. “You don’t have a period anymore?”

“Not in four months.”

“And once your period comes back? Do you then start trying to have a baby?”

“Well I don’t have anyone to do that with. Even if I can get pregnant, it’s the worst time for that. I’m about to go back on the road for a campaign.”

“Who?” Mona leans forward, her voice lowered.

“I hope Mateo Ruiz,” I say, a bitter curve to my lips. “But he’s not sure he wants me yet.”

“You just elected the president,” Mona says indignantly. “You don’t have anything to prove.”

“Yeah, that’s how I thought about it at first, too, but each candidate has to feel comfortable with the person leading their campaign. He’s right not to assume that just because I was the right person for Maxim that I’m right for him.” I give a self-deprecating smile. “Besides, Daddy always used to say it was better to be accused of modesty than of being too big for your britches.”

“He was such a great man. I know we haven’t seen each other in a long time, but I would have come to the funeral if I’d been in town. Glad Ezra made it. I was surprised you two didn’t keep in touch after seeing each other again.”

“We were both really busy, I guess,” I tell Mona, turning to place dishes in the sink because I don’t know what my face would give away. “Lennix and I had just released our book. It hit the New York Times, which neither of us expected. Between the book tour and running a few campaigns, I didn’t have much time for going down Memory Lane.”

“What a fabulous life you’re leading,” Mona says, her smile pleased, proud. “And now, if Congressman Ruiz is smart, you might help Georgia elect its first Latino governor.”

“It’ll be quite the fight. If I get the job, it won’t be the best time to be pregnant.”

“Oh, yeah.” Mona’s expression falls. “You have a lot to think about.”

“I’m hoping this time off here at home will help me figure out what I want, what’s right for me.”

“Well, while you figure it out,” Mona says, tipping her head toward the window overlooking the backyard, “there’s a fine biker dude who might take you on.”

“I don’t know about a summer fling. My life’s too complicated right now for anyone to get the wrong idea about what I’m expecting.”

“Maybe just a few dates.”

“Nah. I don’t really like to date. I just like to fuck.”

Mona’s eyes widen looking over my shoulder, and then squint as she laughs. “Oh my God! If you could see your face, Ezra.”

I swing around and Ezra’s standing at the door holding an empty tray. He doesn’t look at me but walks past us to place the tray in the sink.

“Just like old times,” he says. “Me walking in on some conversation I wish I could un-hear.”

I wish I could un-say that last comment.

“Where’s Noah?” I ask, changing the subject quickly.

“Beating another victim at chess.” He doesn’t look at me as he continues loading the dishwasher.

Is he judging me? I shouldn’t feel self-conscious about what I said. It’s the truth. I do prefer just fucking. I don’t like strings, to be tied to someone emotionally or socially simply because we had sex. By and large, sex has been physical with very few side effects on my heart. I’m fine with that, and Ezra doesn’t get to judge me for it.

The silence that settles between us doesn’t have the chance to grow awkward because laughter and shouts reach us through the window. I peer out to the backyard. Overhead lights strung in trees lend the scene a warm glow. Two lines form, people facing each other, and Marvin Gaye’s “Got to Give It Up” drifts into the kitchen, the dance standard that no cookout is complete without.

“Oh, it’s on!” Mona says, hips already swaying, fingers already snapping, arms already in the air. “Soul Train line! Come on.”

“You guys go on ahead,” Ezra says, giving Mona an indulgent smile. “I’ll finish up in here.”

“You sure?” I ask, meeting his eyes for the first time since my awkward comment. “I can help.”

“Nah.” He extends his smile to me, though it’s less natural. “You know I never met a dance floor I liked, even if it is grass.”

A memory takes shape. Me dancing with Jeremy, and Ezra swaying awkwardly with Hannah, our eyes meeting over their shoulders. Boyz II Men singing “I’ll Make Love to You” before we even knew what it meant to make love. We had no idea our first kiss was right around the corner and down the hall. No idea it’d be with each other. Breathless innocence. The first taste of passion. My heart pounding through my training bra, and Ezra’s hands so strangely certain even at that age of how to touch me. Not in bases, first or second or third, but in stages. Exploring, easing, caring.

“Girl, he hates dancing,” Mona says, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the door. “You know that.”

I shoot one last look over my shoulder as we’re heading out back, and he’s watching me again. I don’t have to wonder if he’s remembering that night, that dance, that kiss.

That ending.

I know he is.