I’m sorry.
Ledi ignored the text from Portia that popped up on her phone screen as she sat in her living room, sipping a well-deserved wine cooler. The Harbor Fog was the best Julio the bodegaman had to offer, and even if it was sickly sweet, it was better than thinking of her horrible news.
It was also better than thinking of the silent apartment across the hall, and how she’d had to fight the urge to go knock on the door and ask Jamal to make her feel better when she returned from her emergency appointment at the dean’s office, despite the fact that she’d run off on their date. She knew he could make her feel better—that he would—and that made it even more imperative that she sit tight in her apartment, just as she always had when shit hit the fan.
Since when had she needed outside help with anything? Even Portia had no idea when Ledi’s life got really rough, most times, because what was the use of burdening others with her bad news? She’d always kept her deepest feelings more safely hidden than porn on an unlocked laptop—folder after figurative subfolder of false file names to mask her true feelings from those who might click through. But Jamal had gained access to the folder labeled NothingToSeeHere after just a few days. She’d opened herself to him and, frightening as it was, she wanted more. Oh god, she wanted more. She wanted to curl into his lap again, to let him touch her and kiss her and make her forget that her life was in the midst of derailment.
Heat throbbed between her legs and she pressed her thighs together as if that could ward off thoughts of the man who’d barged into her life. The one who would likely be just a few yards away from her at some point soon. The skeptical, superstitious part of her wondered if his presence wasn’t connected to her bad luck.
You let your defenses down. When you do that, the bad can get in with the good.
There was nothing scientific about that line of thinking. There was no way that a few days with Jamal had led to her current situation, but it felt like it. Just like getting excited about the practicum hadn’t caused the government to shut down the Task Force, even though it felt like it. Feelings couldn’t be quantified like data in R, but that didn’t make their effects any less real.
She sighed and took a sip of the sweet wine.
It didn’t matter in the end. Jamal was temporary. Mrs. Garcia would be back soon, and all Ledi would have left of him would be memories of how he’d given her the best and most inappropriate orgasm of her life. She’d regretted having to leave him in the park, but now she was wondering if that wasn’t for the better. He was a complication she just didn’t need at the moment.
That didn’t stop her heart from racing every time she heard a sound in the hallway.
Her phone buzzed again, and she finally gave in and picked it up to read Portia’s message.
Look, I was worried and drunk, and I acted like a jerk. I went too far.
A picture of a growling Doberman came through, followed by a pic of a sad Doberman puppy. Portia knew Ledi couldn’t resist random dog pics. She sighed and texted back before she could think better of it.
I forgive you. Mostly because my life is falling apart and I need you to do friend-type things like tell me everything will be all right.
Whoa. Naledi Smith is admitting she needs help.
*looks out window*
*sees pig flying*
*shoots pig with bow and arrow and brings Naledi bacon*
What happened? Did you find out something about Jamal?
Let me just call you. Ledi tapped on the phone widget in the messenger app.
Portia picked up on the first ring, groveling like the pro that she was. Then she listened sympathetically as Ledi explained how her field study had imploded.
“Damn. Well, I was going to invite you out tomorrow night anyway, but you definitely have to come now.”
Ledi sighed. “Going on a bender won’t help this.” She took a sip of her wine. A moderate amount of booze would, but moderation wasn’t a concept that Portia was always on familiar terms with.
“I wasn’t going to suggest one.” Portia sighed. “My parents want me to go to some fund-raiser tomorrow night and I have an extra ticket—I guess they were hoping I’d magically find a guy who didn’t give me hives after one date to drag along with me.”
Ledi was going to point out that Portia didn’t do dating so much as hooking up, but it seemed superfluous.
“Their friend who works for the Department of Public Health, Dr. Okri, will be there. She’s way into mentorship and all that socially upright stuff, so I can make an introduction and see if she can get you an internship or whatever it is you need.”
Hope fluttered gently in Ledi’s chest. Could it be that simple? Really? She didn’t want to use her friend’s connections to get ahead, but she’d tried playing it straight and that hadn’t gotten her anywhere. She’d avoided all the extracurricular meetings, eschewing the networking that would’ve provided her with more options, so now she’d have to get over herself and get out into the world.
“I’d really appreciate that, Portia. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m your friend and I care about you.” Portia’s voice had gone serious, and Ledi couldn’t help but wonder what that was about. “Ledi, look. I saw something kind of weird on social media yesterday . . .”
Ledi put her wine down on the chipped particleboard surface of her coffee table and sat up straight on her futon. She’d been so busy talking about her own problems that, for maybe the first time ever, she hadn’t inquired about Portia’s well-being.
“Everything okay?” she asked. Portia was somewhat popular on social media and had cultivated a small following with her artsy pictures, trivia spanning a wide range of subjects, and interest in everything and everyone. It wasn’t a problem, but sometimes she drew the ire of weirdos.
“Yes. It’s just something about the fund-raiser.” Portia went silent then.
“Um. Okay. And what would that be?”
There was a long pause, one that was nine months along, at least, as far as tension went.
“Oh it’s just . . . the dress code is formal.” Portia said, following it up with a short, clipped laugh. “Make sure you look stunning. I can lend you a dress if you want. Or pick something out for you if you want to hit up Nordstrom.”
“I have a dress,” Ledi said. “But thank you.”
“Great. I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow.”
When Portia disconnected, Ledi was tempted to call back and ask what was really going on, but she had to worry about herself first, even if just for that night. She opened the web browser on her phone and continued searching for open epidemiology field studies, as she’d been doing for most of the afternoon; having a backup for your backup was just common sense.
After an hour of searching, she’d compiled a list of four positions that were still unfilled and three people she could cold email. She wasn’t convinced that any of the leads would work out, but she’d at least reminded herself that she was capable of rolling with the punches and handling problems as they arose.
She stuck her phone on the charger and flopped back on her futon. She heard the footsteps in the hallway, but her stomach had stopped flipping after several false alarms—it was a busy night in her building. From the smell of weed drifting under the door, the hipster down the hall seemed to be having a party.
This time, though, she heard the keys jingle, and the door to Mrs. Garcia’s apartment open and close. Disappointment diffused through her as she lay splayed on the bed.
Sure, she’d ditched Jamal on a hilltop in upper Manhattan; she’d still expected that he’d check in. She grabbed her pillow from across the bed and pressed it against her face, embarrassed for herself. A few days and one great fingerbang didn’t mean anything on the NYC dating scene. Connections in this city were fly-by-night, at best, and in this case more than others, but she’d allowed herself to have expectations, like a fool.
That was when the knock came.
Maybe it’s a lost party guest.
The knock came again, more insistent.
“Who’s there?” she called out, wanting to save herself the inevitable disappointment when she opened the door full of silly hope and found some random dude dropping Visine in his eyes instead.
“Special delivery for a graduate student having a no good, very bad day,” a rich, accented voice answered. The hope she felt was still silly, but it pulled her up off her futon and toward the door almost as fast as when the UPS guy was waiting outside the building with a package for her.
She pulled the door open and, just like that, her protective membrane was pierced, her defenses were down, and the draining events of the day were wiped away by Jamal’s bright smile. Her heart beat faster and elation sped through her. She’d once worked in a lab that researched addiction, and had watched as rats provided with cocaine-laced glucose would mope about until a researcher approached with their refill; then they’d be zooming all over the cage, eager for their next hit. Ledi thought perhaps she understood their reaction a little better now.
“Hi.” Why did she want to touch him so much? Why was she smiling so hard that her cheeks hurt, despite her definitively shitty day?
“Hello,” he said. He held up a bag, and she didn’t have to open it to know what was inside. She could smell the lunch meat, oil, and vinegar of her favorite sandwich as soon as the bag moved. “We didn’t get to eat, and maybe you were too busy to grab food since you had meetings, I assume? I just happened to pass the bodega—” He stopped talking, and his smile faded as he shook his head. When his gaze met hers again, it was intense, insistent. “Enough of these false pretenses. I don’t care about these carcinogenic sandwiches, however delicious they might be. I’m here because I wanted to see you. I know you’re used to doing everything yourself, but I wanted to make sure you were okay after receiving that news. Are you okay?”
Everything Ledi thought she’d known about her needs and wants slid away, leaving her open, exposed, and shocked by his gruff demand. She’d had support, she’d had friendship, but she’d never had a man standing before her looking so frustrated on her behalf that he might track down whoever had shut down the Disease Task Force and throttle them himself.
Ledi thought she might cry, but that was unacceptable, so she did the next best thing: she grabbed Jamal by the front of his shirt and, for the second time that day, she kissed the hell out of him. This time, she didn’t intend on stopping.