Page 13 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
I almost laugh. It’s been decades since anyone’s brought me flowers. It’s such a simple gesture. Yet, the flutters have returned to my chest.
“You look beautiful,” he says, kissing my cheek. “I thought these might help soften the blow when you lose our argument.”
I laugh and inhale the flowers’ delicate perfume. “Is that what happened?”
We loop around the exhibit, indulging in some mimosas and exquisite mini pastries. This is one of those moments that begs to be written down. I remember how captivating he was speaking to last night’s audience. I feel that pull again as he explains the work of Shawn Bines, the vulnerable but strong charcoal lines of his male models.
We talk for hours and don’t find our way back to our argument. I learn he’s decent at chess but will crush an opponent in checkers, has an aversion to every kind of artificially processed cheese, and has a scar on his left knee from falling from an apple tree when he was ten. He’s warm, charming, and considerate at every instance. But when he turns the tables on me, I do what I’ve always done and stick to vague details about my past.
We are among the last to leave, lingering in the magnolia-scented breeze.
“Lunch?” he suggests. “I know a great local West African restaurant owned by the family of one of my students.”
I have an article that needs to be written, and as much as I’ve missed this feeling, this possibility, I hesitate for a moment.Onlyfor a moment.
We walk to the car, he opens the passenger door, and we drive.
“So, what’s the catch, Sebastian?” I ask.
“What catch?” he says while changing the music.
I enumerate the facts on my fingertips. “A PhD, seemingly unattached, loves history, appreciates my writing, has a taste for adventure, and, not to stroke your ego, is sort of handsome.”
He purses his lips. “Based on eyewitness accounts, I’d say definitely handsome.”
“You rely on biased sources to make your case,” I say with a wink. “I have to dock you points. But I have to be missing something.”
He leans forward. “So, you do think I’m handsome?”
“Sort ofhandsome. I thought scholars paid attention to detail. Facts.”
He tilts his head, glasses glinting, the sun kissing his skin. “I know what you’re doing,” he whispers. “You’re searching for the big flaw, my secret shame. Is that right?”
“There must be one ... like, how many women currently believe you’re in a relationship with them right at this very moment? How many children do you have? How many baby mamas?”
He laughs, the sound deep and rich, how chocolate would sound if it made noise. “No baby mamas. No children. Not that I’m opposed,” he says, holding up his hands. “No wife, and no girlfriend.” He pauses, the twinkle in his eye slipping, replaced with sadness. “I wouldn’t do that to anyone.” He glances away, and I barely hear his next sentence. “No one alive has a claim on me.”
I follow his gaze to the window.
I know that tone. I’ve lived that tone.
Only losing love to death hurts like that.
We sit in traffic, the shrieks of laughter from a nearby school bus full of children at odds with the heaviness of the moment. I put my hand on his before he shifts the gear. He looks over gratefully, brushing his thumb across the back of my knuckle, the awkward moment slidingaway. I’m not one to press him. I have my own secrets and pain to bear, but in that instance, we share the weight. It feels like a bit of relief.
“How about you?” he asks in return, the moment gone but not forgotten. “I’m not keeping you from anybody, am I?”
I shake my head no because what else can I say?I am waiting for Death?I give him the semblance of the truth. “I moved back last summer. A friend passed away, and I wanted to make a change.”
“Sorry for your loss.” He waits a moment before continuing. “You said ‘back.’ Are you from Savannah?”
“Yes,” I admit. “But, with all the changes, it seems like another lifetime. It felt like coming home was the right thing to do.” I don’t speak my secret thought—of how fitting it would be for it to end where it all began.
“I can understand that. It’s part of why I came back to Georgia too. My mom’s from here and has needed more help than she’d like to admit ever since my dad passed away two years ago. The move was unexpected, but when the position became available, the dean contacted me to interview. Just another example of the good luck I’ve been experiencing lately.” He winks at me.
“Good luck?”
He lists things off on his fingers, miming me. “The sun is shining. I met this infatuating woman who loves to argue with me. The food is about to be great. The day’s glorious.” He draws attention to the sky like the day is perfect just for him—for us. “All good luck.”
