Page 90 of Love in Mission City
I crossed First Avenue to greet him.
His demeanor and stance made it clear to me that he wanted to talk. I’d always been able to read him. “Hey, Cullen.” I ordered my heart to slow and the butterflies in my stomach to knock off the incessant fluttering.
“Hey, Gil.”
For a moment, I thought he was going to offer me a hug. Instead, he held out his hand.
I took it. That grip hadn’t changed one bit either. He’d always been a muscular guy, but the years had filled him out further. He was broader than I remembered. In comparison, I was not so buff. Tall and lanky, I did better with swimming—lean and sleek.
Cullen held my hand a moment or two longer than was strictly necessary. “Andrew Gilbert Herrington the Third.”
I winced.
He grinned. “TheSonin Herrington, Herrington, and Son.”
“Yes.” Once I realized he wasn’t mocking me, I stood a little taller.
My grandfather had founded the law firm that bore his name—bore all our names—half a century ago. We’d been a fixture on Third Avenue in Mission City for almost all that time. He’d first started out running his firm from the parlor of his Seventh Avenue home, but eventually he’d convinced the city council to allow him to set up shop on Third Avenue. First Black-owned business to do so. Quite a feat back in those days. Our firm ran out of a large turn-of-the century home on Third Avenue with three lawyers, a paralegal, and a receptionist.
“Could we…?” Cullen glanced around. “I’d love to take you out for coffee. The kids are with my sister—”
“Uh, sure.” I scratched my chin, pleased to find only a hint of stubble, despite the lateness of the afternoon. “You’ve got two, right?”
“Yeah. A boy who’s seven and a girl who’s four. She’s the spitting image of her mother.”
Jesus. “I was sorry to hear about Catherine’s passing. I…wasn’t certain if I should attend the funeral.” Cullen and his family lived in White Rock, which wasn’t far from Mission City. I’d heard about Catherine’s death from mutual friends. I’d debated going but, in the end, had sent a flower arrangement. That’d felt impersonal. Yet I hadn’t felt like I could do more. Cullen knew where I lived. He’d known how to find me.
He hadn’t asked me to come to him, and he hadn’t come to me, and I’d assumed we’d never see each other again.
“I miss her, Gil, but it’s been two years. What with having two kids, and school—”
“School?”
He offered a grin. “Let’s go for coffee and I can explain.”
We settled for the Starbucks on the hill. A table near the back offered a degree of privacy I appreciated.
I opted for a herbal tea—because I wasn’t ingesting caffeine at this hour—and Cullen opted for his Americano. I rolled my eyes. After we sat, I opened with, “Okay, school. Talk.”
He nodded. “Yeah. After my son was born, Catherine convinced me to go back to school. Part-time, of course. So I worked construction during the day, picked up my engineering studies part-time at night, and did my best to fit in fatherhood around that.” He spun his ceramic coffee mug ninety degrees. “Until Catherine got sick, at least.” He gazed up at me bleakly. “I quit classes again. Just before she passed, though, she made me promise to finish.” He blinked. “I could never deny her anything.”
After a moment, I reached out and placed my hand over his. Eight years ago, I’d have never done that. Times had changed.Ihad changed.
He grasped tight. “I don’t know how much you heard…”
I cleared my throat. “Marta was in touch.” She’d been Cullen’s dorm monitor and good friend. “She gave me the outline. Cancer?” Even saying the word created a weight in my stomach, as my grandmother had died of the same thing.
“Breast cancer.” He spun his mug another ninety degrees. “She found a lump when she was five months pregnant. She faced a choice…and she chose our daughter. We waited until the baby had a fighting chance, and then Catherine had a C-section. She had surgery and started chemo and radiation right away, but the cancer had spread.” He swallowed convulsively. “She was such a fighter. I believed she’d win. Two years, and…” He finally met my gaze. “You know the rest.”
But I didn’t. I didn’t know how he’d dealt with her death. I didn’t know how he’d moved on. Or how he’d taken on the challenge of being a single parent. And he’d gone back to school? That sounded Herculean to me. Yet here he was—sitting before me—looking hale and hearty. Well, if a little pale from the retelling of this horrible story. “And the kids?”
He shrugged. “They don’t remember her. I thought I could get our son to hold her memory, but he was so young. Now she’s just a picture on the mantel and someone we discuss in the abstract.” He spun the mug again. “My sister, Edith, has been amazing. I don’t think you ever met her—”
“No.” I snapped the word. I’d refused to meet his family. I’d refused to interact with him much beyond the university. And even then, we’d always kept a decorous distance. I’d never wanted a hint ofthe gayto waft my way.
That knowledge brought me shame.
I squeezed his hand. “But you survived.”
