On Rotation(2)

And my dumb ass had allowed it. I’d convinced myself that I was being oversensitive, that I needed to give him space, that he didn’t owe me the commitment he’d promised me. And because of my own negligence, Frederick was going to end us in the cruelest way possible. Not that he thought he was being cruel. Knowing Frederick, he probably figured that dumping a girl an hour and a half before meeting her parents was being magnanimous. I need to do it to her face, he’d probably told himself, that’s what a good guy would do. Even now, his expression was tortured, like someone was slowly driving a screw into his back. As if the burden of dumping me was one he was brave to bear.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He looked me up and down like he couldn’t help himself. “You look great.”

In contrast to his shabby outfit, I had chosen a dress that I knew he would like: midi length and navy (classy, conservative) but form-fitting (so that everyone in the vicinity would know Frederick’s girl had body). But physical attraction had never been our problem, had it?

“Thanks,” I said. I crossed my arms, waiting for him to gather his nerve. Frederick mirrored my stance, avoiding my gaze as the silence thickened. Eventually, he cleared his throat.

“You know, I really was touched when you asked me to come meet your parents,” he started. “It was nice to know that you wanted me to see you with your tribe.”

His delivery felt rehearsed, the heavy pause and pained swallow all part of a performance.

“But even then, I wasn’t sure,” he continued. “I said yes because I thought I should. It felt like the right thing to do. But—”

“Now it doesn’t,” I said, cutting his speech short. No need to hear his final arguments when I’d already accepted my verdict. “Okay, cool.”

I pulled out my keys and took a sharp left, marching toward my car. Not a second later, I heard the heavy footfall of his steps behind me.

“Come on, Angie,” Frederick tried. “Let’s talk for a bit. I feel like I owe you that much.”

I swung around to look at him one last time. Even in this getup, Frederick was handsome. Smart. So woke that he probably taped his eyelids open at night. He was everything I thought I wanted in a man, the perfect other half of the Black power couple I’d always dreamed of. The Barack to my Michelle.

But, yet again, I’d gotten ahead of myself. What about Frederick, aside from his nice car, his impressive CV, his swag, had convinced me that he could be the One? Sure, he checked off all the boxes, but every guy I’d fallen for checked the boxes too—except the one that required them to actually give a shit about me.

“You’re breaking up with me, right?” I said. When he didn’t answer, I nodded, understanding. I threw open my car door, tossed my bag in the back seat, and gave him my most beatific smile. “Don’t worry; you don’t owe me anything. We’re good. Have a nice life, Freddy.”

When I drove off, he was still standing where I’d left him, dumbstruck. I smirked. Small victories, Angie, I thought. You dated a lawyer and still managed to get the last word.





Two




The drive up to my childhood home was mercifully smooth for a Thursday morning in Chicago. It was as if all the city’s rowdiest drivers had decided to cut me a break and sleep in; I got cut off only once merging onto the expressway and swerved out of the way of only two souped-up Dodge Chargers going 90 down I-55. I turned on my favorite true crime podcast, careful to avoid any cases involving jilted lovers or angry exes, and when I tired of murder, switched to a playlist conveniently devoid of Girl Power songs and breakup anthems that could get me all up in my emotions. Today was about my baby sister. Whatever feelings I had about Frederick would have to be bottled up, boxed, and left in a cellar to ferment.

Too soon, I pulled into the driveway of my childhood home. With its brownish-red brick, charcoal roof, and well-manicured lawn, my parents’ house looked like a clone of all the others on our cul-de-sac. Still, I could make out the small additions they had made in anticipation of the Knocking*: two large ceramic pots brimming with petunias in the entryway, a row of solar-powered lanterns that lined the walkway to the front door, a thin but gloriously blooming crepe myrtle my parents had probably fought the homeowner’s association to plant. I thought about stealing one of the petunias to tuck behind my ear but thought better of it and rang the doorbell instead.

My mother was at the door in a flash, her magenta maxi dress floating around her like the petals of an orchid. She was still strikingly beautiful. She hated when I said that—“Still! Am I abrewa* already?”—but it was true. Dealing with my, Tabatha’s, and Daddy’s bullshit for a quarter century plus somehow hadn’t put a crack in that silky smooth skin of hers.

“Where’s Frederick?” she asked.

Probably, I thought, because she’s preserved in brine.

“Nice to see you too, Momma, you look lovely,” I said. I stepped around her and gave Auntie Abena, who had come to Chicago for a short trip that, so far, had lasted four months, a nod. “Auntie.”

“Yes, where is that fine boy you said you were bringing?” Auntie Abena said.

“He’s not coming,” I said, toeing off my shoes by the door. Saying it out loud stung more than I’d anticipated, and I took a deep, settling breath to recalibrate. “It smells amazing in here, Auntie. Did you make nkatenkwan?”