Page 12 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
My stomach flutters unexpectedly, and he rummages around in his desk before removing a large album. “Maybe this will prove that I do love nothing more than our history and only the thingswesee.”
I flip it open, finding expertly preserved clippings from Black writers spanning hundreds of years. We tumble into deep conversation about history, journalism, and writing. His words set off a light inside me that triples when he touches me again, directing my hands to find certain pages and passages. I continue to soak in the words as we spar. Here, among these greats, I find myself reminiscing. The memories wash over me as I find one of the pieces I wrote before learning that Winston was sick.
I run my fingers along the protective plastic preserving the article as if I can feel the words and remember the typewriter I used: “Beauty exists in all forms, all around us. Though the world’s darkness may dim our sight, we should always know beauty is there.”
The sentences may as well be a stranger’s. I fight the surge of emotion as Sebastian watches. I don’t know if it’s the day, if it’s the waiting on Death, if it’s seeing my words, or if it’s Sebastian.
He stands, moving to sit in the vacant chair beside me. “Did I say something to upset you?”
“No,” I say, though his closeness rattles me. It draws up a want I thought had long since faded, buried by time and quiet years. The intensity of it surprises me—it’s been so long, I’d almost forgotten how good it could feel.
His eyes burn into mine as if he’s searching them, but for what?
“There’s something so familiar about you. The way you talk. Your turns of phrase. I can’t place it. Part of me feels like I’ve met you before ... or read—”
I press his accusation back into his mouth with a kiss.
Three
Ibutton my shirt as quickly as possible while watching the office door, anticipating Sebastian’s return from the bathroom. My mind cycles with a million thoughts: how much I liked the way his mouth tasted, how his hands found every curve of me as if he’d been touching me for years, how his smell slowed the beat of my heart, how resting in the crook of his neck felt weirdly like home. I shake my head as if I can empty those thoughts right onto the floor. I can’t believe I had sex with him.What was I thinking?I know I have to get out of here. I hustle into my shoes, grab my purse, and scribble a note on his desk pad with my phone number.
I’m sorry. I had to go.
I don’t stop running until I’m back in my car, then race out of the parking lot and back home before my body tries to turn around and explain myself.
The clock ticks in the hall as I sit on my couch, wrapped up in a blanket and my anxiety, Sebastian and Death and seeing my articles again all spinning on a loop.
My phone trills with a notification. My heart flutters. It’s an unknown number, but I know it’s him.
Hey Vivian,
It’s Sebastian. Sorry to see you go earlier. Everything alright? Was it because you lost our argument and needed to save face?
I can’t fight away a grin.
No problem. It was good to meet you too. I thought you might be embarrassed after I poked holes in your carefully constructed thesis.
I toss my phone away before I type anything else. The phone has landed face up, and three dots are wiggling under his message. I can’t help watching them start, stop, disappear, and start again.
I don’t move, waiting to see what he will say next.
In another minute, my phone trills again.
Well, we should continue this debate of ours. A proper date. I found an invitation to First Fridays at the McMullen Art Gallery downtown tomorrow at ten a.m.
They’re featuring some works from the artist who painted the piece in my office, and I thought it would interest you.
I’m sure he sees my many stops and starts before I finally hit send.
If you want to have your entire scholarly career up for debate, then I guess we should go and continue our discussion. You might have to write a letter to the editor of The New Yorker with clarifications and edits.
I pad along the hallway into the kitchen as a guilty thrill ripples through me. There’s a wrongness to this feeling, an echo of something I used to chase. Sleeping with a man who knows my words—my soft spots, my ghosts—should scare me. Instead, I crave it. He’s like agorgeous blue fire, dangerous and beautiful, and I’m already reaching out, knowing full well I’ll burn but craving the heat all the same.
Maybe I need it, just to feel something sharp again.
The phone vibrates in my hand.I’ll see you there, Vivian. Looking forward to proving you wrong.
I arrive at the exhibition late, debating with myself the entire time. I am wearing a white dress and low heels, my curls piled high on my head, with a few pieces at my temples pulled out to frame my face. I walk in and spot him dressed in a white polo, dark-blue jeans, and navy-and-white sneakers. He’s holding a bouquet of white hydrangeas, pink roses, and tangerine daylilies.
