by Jane Igharo
She waves goodbye, and her face disappears and so does the spectacular view of Valencia.
Alone again, I spin on my chair and look through the window. There are no stars tonight, no silver dots gleaming and decorating the vast mass of nothingness. Everything is bleak. I should feel hopeless like I have many nights before. Instead, I feel the slightest hint of something else. Joy. It’s so small. It probably measures to a speck of sand, but I feel it anyway. And I know the source of it.
Azere.
chapter
10
I step out of the conference room, my head bopping to Beyoncé’s “Diva.” The song is on replay, an earworm that’s the perfect soundtrack for this moment when I’ve just slayed the FeverRun presentation. As Rafael and I walk our new clients—Mr. Ojo and Mr. Oliha—to the elevator, I restrain myself from dancing.
“Azere,” Mr. Ojo says, turning to me. “Excellent pitch. We look forward to working with you and Rafael.”
“Likewise,” I add.
“Why don’t you both join us for dinner tonight—to celebrate.”
“You know, that sounds great.” Dinner will be the perfect distraction while I wait for the test results. “Where do you have in mind?”
“Heritage, an amazing West African restaurant. I go there whenever I’m in Toronto. Are you familiar with the place?”
“Of course. I love that restaurant.”
“Wonderful. Then we’ll see you both at seven.” The elevator doors open, and our clients step through them.
“Azere,” Rafael says once the steel doors slide closed. “You did an amazing job on the presentation.”
“You both did an amazing job,” Dev raves, stepping out of the conference room where we left him. “Brilliant presentation.” He grins widely, and his mustache extends along with his lips, his features exaggerating until he looks like a caricature of his former self. “Well, I have to go. I’ve got a conference call in . . .” He glances at the two-tone watch on his wrist. “One minute. I’ll catch up with you two later.” He marches off in an ungraceful haste.
“So,” Rafael says, “I guess I’ll pick you up at six thirty.”
“Pick me up? For what?”
“Dinner. You know the location, I don’t. We’ll go together.”
“You know, there’s this magical device called a GPS.”
He scowls, and I shrug.
“What? There is. Just throwing it out there.”
“Azere, we’re a team. Let’s go together.” He says it as if expecting no further objections, and I don’t offer any.
“Why don’t we discuss next steps for the campaign in my office?” I ask.
He follows my lead, and when we’re behind the glass door, in a space that has my signature style, he looks around—from the cactus plants on the windowsill to the blushing pink swivel chair behind the glass desk.
“Nice office.”
“Thank you,” I say, following his stare. “It’s much nicer than yours.”
His eyes land on me, a brow raised and a playful smile on his lips. “Is it?”
“Mm-hmm. I mean, look at that view.” I gesture at the large window. “It’s pretty damn impressive.”
“Eh.” He shrugs. “It’s okay. I’ve seen better.”
“Um . . . Rafael.” Suddenly somber, I squint, lean into him, and examine a spot on his neck. “What’s going on there?”
“Where?” Noting my serious, assessing gaze, he frowns and runs his fingers along his neck. “What is it?”
“It’s your skin. Looks like it’s turning a little . . . green.” I cross my arms and smirk. “With envy.”
His hand falls away from his neck, the worry on his face fading as he watches me, his lips gradually stretching until he bursts out laughing. “All right. You got me.”
“You should have seen your face.”
For a little while, we just laugh. And it feels so good to only have humor between us—nothing else, nothing complex.
When we sit, he lays out his plan with details of the team he wants to put together, then he asks for my input. I like working with him. He’s intelligent and easygoing. Now, if the test results would prove I’m not pregnant, things can remain like this— professional and uncomplicated and my life can unfold as I’ve always envisioned.
The landline on my desk rings, and I pick it up reluctantly. “Hello?”
“Hey, Azere,” Arianna says. “You have a visitor. And just so you know”—her bubbly voice reduces to a whisper—“he’s hot. Really hot.” She ends the call without giving me the visitor’s name.
“I’m sorry, Rafael,” I say, dropping the phone. “But can we pick this up later?”
“Um . . . yeah. Sure.” He’s polite, but I note disappointment in his low tone and hesitancy in his movement as we leave my office.
“So.” I drum my fingers on the receptionist table that wraps around Arianna, enclosing her in a sphere. “Where’s this so-called hottie?”
Arianna’s eyes float above my head, and her glossy lips stretch into a wide, goofy grin.
“I guess that would be me.”
I recognize that voice—deep, smooth, with a generous dose of confidence, or as some may describe it, cockiness. Though disinclined, I turn around and brace myself for no other than . . . “Elijah.”
“Hey, Azere.”
Here he goes again, looking like Morris Chestnut circa 1999. In the movie The Best Man, there’s a scene where Morris Chestnut’s character ogles his fiancée as she descends a flight of stairs. Right now, Elijah is giving me that exact look. His lips form a confident side-slung grin, and his suggestive gaze moves along my frame. I wish he would stop. I wish he would leave. More than anything, I wish he wasn’t here.
“Elijah, what in the world are you doing at my job?”
“I wanted to see you. Thought I could take you out to lunch.”
Lunch? Does he believe he can waltz into my life after six years and hit Play on our relationship? Obviously, he needs a reality check. And I do love giving reality checks.
“Arianna,” I say, “can you give us a minute?”
“Huh?” She wrenches her eyes from Elijah. “What?” When I repeat my request, she pouts. “Fine. I was due for a break anyway. Bye, handsome.” She waves at Elijah and sashays off with a lot more flair than usual, as if begging for an audience.
“Eli, you can’t just—”
“Azere, you look beautiful. Amazing actually.”
“Oh . . . um . . . okay.” Shit. I can’t give a good reality check when he’s throwing compliments at me all willy-nilly. “You . . . you can’t just show up here, Elijah.” Already, I’ve lost the edge in my voice, and what’s a good reality check without some bass and sass? “How’d you even know where I work?”
“Your mom,” he says. “She kindly shared your phone number, your work address, and your home address.”
“Of course.” I’m not surprised. “Well, you need to leave.”
“Azere, your mom is a very persistent woman. She wants us to—”
“What? Date? Get married? Have three kids?”
“Well, I was thinking two kids and maybe a dog.” He grins to show he’s joking, but my face is passive.
“Elijah, you’re blowing my mind right now. Did you honestly think you could show up after all these years—smile a little, flirt a little, and reclaim me? What? Thought I would forgive you and fall back into your arms like some damsel with no damn sense?” I scoff. “You thought wrong.”
“Azere, I understand you’re still upset. But it’s not like I left to hurt you. Everything happened so fast, and I didn’t really have a choice. I was wait-listed for medical school at Stanford, but it was the end of summer, and I thought I wouldn’t get in.”
When Lenny from accounting appears, Elijah stops speaking. Lenny’s loitering by t
he elevator, idly scratching the bald spot in the middle of his head. It’s clear he’s interested in the conversation Elijah and I are having. He keeps glancing in our direction. When the elevator finally arrives, he makes an unenthusiastic exit.
“Anyway,” Elijah says, redirecting his attention to me, “that night, after I walked you back to your cabin, I checked my email. There was an acceptance letter from Stanford. Classes were scheduled to begin in a week, and I had made no preparations. My mom picked me up early the next morning and a day later, I was on a flight to California.”
“You already explained this to me, Elijah. Remember? A month after you’d been gone, you finally called. A month later.” And therein lies the problem. “Do you understand how it felt to wake up the next morning and find out you were gone? You didn’t even return my texts or calls.”
“Zere, I didn’t know how to face you.” He takes in a big gulp of air and releases it. “I made all those promises to you, and I meant them all. Zere, I wanted to be with you but . . . but . . .”
“But you were a coward,” I say, my tone curt. The edge has returned. “You were a selfish coward. I was only nineteen.” Something trembles in my chest—the early beginnings of a sob. I suppress it. “I trusted you. And you took my virginity and left without a word or an explanation.” Six years later, this fact still makes me want to break down and cry. “How the hell did I ever love a man like you?”
“Azere, I wasn’t a man then. I was a stupid boy who made a huge mistake.”
His eyes are remorseful. I want to look away, but they’re pulling me in, forcing me to acknowledge his sincerity, compelling me to offer my forgiveness.
“Azere, I never wanted to hurt you. Never. I’m so sorry. I know I screwed up everything between us, but I’m back in Toronto for good now. I’m doing my residency here, I want to build a life here, and I want another chance with you. Azere, I’ll do anything for another chance.”
“Go to hell, Elijah.” I whirl around and start to march off, but he grabs my arm before I can get far.
“Zere.” He stands in front of me and expels a sharp breath. “Listen to me. I still love you.”
The first time he told me that, I was nineteen. It was the week before church camp—the week before I lost my virginity. He was driving me home from a summer fair. His ability to consistently toss a basketball through a moving hoop earned me one of those gigantic stuffed animals people rarely win. I was practical in choosing a name. I called the bear Brown Bear, honoring its chestnut fleece. As Eli drove, I huddled the prize against my body, preventing it from plummeting over the dashboard.
“That thing is bigger than you,” Eli said, laughing.
“It’s so fluffy,” I squealed. “I love it.”
“I love you.”
It was an unexpected confession that made my hold on Brown Bear loosen. Assuming it was a slip of the tongue, I said nothing. The ride to my house was quiet, uneasy. When he pulled into the driveway, he parked his red Mustang and came to the passenger door. With both hands on Brown Bear’s paws, he pulled the gigantic stuffed animal out of the car and waited for me to step out.
“Thanks,” I said, averting my eyes from his. “I had fun today.”
“Me too. Your mom home?”
“No. She has a shift at the hospital.”
“You ever gonna tell her and your sister we’re dating?”
“Maybe when it gets serious.”
“When it gets serious?” There was a sharpness in his voice. Maybe it was irritation or hurt. I couldn’t tell, and I couldn’t look at his face to confirm. “Zere, I just said I love you.”
“Oh.” My eyes rose to meet his. “You meant that?”
“Of course I meant it. I love you, Azere.” He took a step toward me, but the stuffed animal in his hands kept us apart. “This stupid thing is starting to get on my nerves.”
“Hey!” I said playfully. “Don’t diss Brown Bear! I love him. But . . .” My voice softened. “I love you more.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Really.”
We stood there for a long while, grinning too broadly, regarding each other with lustful eyes, an oversize bear between us—the perfect depiction of fools in love.
Even now, after all these years, I still taste those words on my tongue. I love you. Though, now, they carry a bittersweet flavor. He did that—took the sweet simplicity of our love and ruined it.
“Elijah, I have to get back to work.” I tilt my head toward the elevator, gesturing for his departure.
“Azere.” He ignores the obvious hint. “I know it’s asking a lot, but I need to know. Will you ever forgive me?” His pleading eyes almost trigger my compassion.
“No,” I say. “I don’t know,” I correct. “Elijah, please leave.”
This time, he has the good sense to obey. He turns around, shoulders slouched and hands stuffed in his pockets, and walks away. The elevator arrives, and he steps inside.
When I return to my office, Christina is in a chair, flipping through the Cosmopolitan I bought a month ago but never got an opportunity to read.
“Finally! There you are!” She tosses the magazine on the desk. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
In the company of my best friend, I try to forget about Elijah and his recent attempt at redemption. “Well, here I am. What’s up?”
“I want to know about the presentation. How did it go?”
“You know, for someone who claims to be psychic, you’re kinda always clueless.”
“Azere, I’ve told you several times. I’m a part-time psychic. Some days, I have it. Some days, I don’t.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Now, tell me about the presentation. How did it go? How did you do?”
“Great.” I flip my braids over my shoulder and smirk. “Nailed it.”
“Awesome. Proud of you.” She clears her throat. “So . . .”
“So . . . what?” Something tells me she isn’t genuinely interested in my recent success.
“How was last night? You know, working late with Rafael. As I recall, there was a thunderstorm. Did you two get cozy, rekindle that old flame, relive the past?” Her thin eyebrows dance suggestively.
“Christina, I’m having a great day. So do me a favor and keep your dirty thoughts to yourself.” I drop into my chair and click on the computer. “I have lots of work to do, so skip away, little one.”
“Fine. But before I go, how was your appointment with your gyno?”
“I should get the results today, but I doubt I’m pregnant.”
“Um . . . okay.” She frowns and eyes me. “What makes you so sure?”
“As you pointed out, I took a test from the dollar store. It was probably a knockoff or expired. I’m not pregnant.”
“Okay.” She doesn’t look as hopeful as I sound.
“Right now, things are going well for me. This campaign could really help my career. Do you know how long I’ve wanted an opportunity like this? I can’t be pregnant.”
“Okay.” She still doesn’t look as hopeful as I sound. There’s concern in her eyes. Concern for me.
I can’t help but wonder if that concern is warranted.
chapter
11
At exactly six thirty in the evening, there’s a knock on my apartment door. I’m fussing with the spaghetti straps on my maxi dress, ensuring they rest flat against my shoulders. It’s my favorite dress—made of ankara, an African wax fabric designed with vibrant colors and bold prints. The colors on this material are ruby red, fuchsia pink, and sunflower yellow. The vivid shades swirl together, creating patterns of circles both big and small. My mother would be happy to see me in this dress. To her, I don’t wear enough Nigerian clothes. There’s some truth to that.
Once the straps are smooth on my shoulders, I admire myself in the full-length mirror. The matte red lipstick adds
a hint of seduction to my smile, and the red strappy heels offer the elegant height nature denied me.
Another knock reminds me there’s someone waiting outside my apartment. I open the door to find Rafael looking both understated and elegant in a simple combination of black dress pants and a white oxford shirt.
“Hi, Azere.” He glances over my physique, eyes lingering before finally meeting mine. “That’s a very beautiful dress.”
“Thank you.” I would appreciate another compliment, one relating to how I look in the beautiful dress. But considering we recently vowed to keep our relationship professional, maybe that would be inappropriate.
“Shall we?” he asks.
“Yeah. Sure.”
The ride in the elevator is quiet and a little uncomfortable. I stand parallel to him, my head a few inches short of hitting his shoulder. Rafael’s quite tall, and as he looms over me, so does his signature scent—clean air and cedarwood. I close my eyes and breathe him in.
“Damn, you smell good.” My eyes fly open. Oh Lord. Did those words just come out of my mouth? I turn to Rafael, biting my lip.
He’s staring straight ahead. There’s a tiny crease between his bent eyebrows.
“I was actually talking about the . . . um . . . the elevator,” I say. “Yeah. The elevator smells . . . really good.” Surely, those words have never been uttered by any sane human being. But at this moment, I can’t classify myself as a sane human. My attempt at damage control is worsening the situation, making me appear unhinged. “So . . . um . . . when I said, ‘You smell good,’ I was actually referring to the elevator ’cause sometimes, I like to personify objects. And the elevator is an object. Yeah . . . I didn’t actually mean you, Rafael. I don’t like . . . go around smelling people. That would be weird. So. Yeah.”
