jacket and a pair of skinny black chinos. I’d picked a very basic white shirt to go with them and a narrow burgundy tie. I was going to wear my burgundy dress, so I thought it would look cool to match.
“Do I need the shades too, to go totally men-in-black?” he’d asked, picking up a pair, like he’d need them in the restaurant. Justin’s sense of humor was foolish at times; but he was just living life while I’d spent a year hiding from it.
I’d flashed him a smile, took the shades off him, and put them back on the shelf.
I’d smiled a ton of times today.
Once, when he’d been joking with Becky, I’d overheard and looked up, caught his gaze, and, God, there was a massive transmission of information between us, like it downloaded in a rush. And it poured right into my heart, sending tremors to my belly.
We were good together.
I kept telling myself that as we walked into the restaurant later. We’d stopped in a bar around the corner and had a drink for courage and I was now a little intoxicated, and anxious–terrified. We’re good together. The words whispered through my head. My parents wouldn’t think so.
The maitre d’ had given our coats to someone at the door, and now we trailed behind him as he led us across the busy room, weaving about tables.
My sweaty palm pressed against Justin’s as his hand gripped mine, our fingers threaded. I wanted to wipe my palms on the skirt of my burgundy dress, but it was silk and that would ruin it. And besides, I didn’t want to let go of Justin’s hand.
I caught our reflection in a mirror as we passed it. Justin looked good in his jacket and tie, and we complemented each other. We are good together.
“Portia.” I turned to see Dad stand up, and then Mom. They both looked at Justin. It wasn’t the color of his suit or tie they noticed; it was the color of his skin. It wasn’t that they were racist, it was just that they wouldn’t think he was the right guy for me …
“Mom, Dad, I told you I was bringing a friend. This is Justin Preston.” I took a breath, I had to do this. I had to give him full credit. “We’ve been dating; he’s my boyfriend.”
Justin let go of my hand and reached out. “Mrs. Hemming, It’s nice to meet you.”
Maybe I should’ve warned them he was black, but I didn’t think it mattered. Justin was Justin, the color of his skin was irrelevant. Mom stared at him for a second or two, then finally took his hand and shook it. “Justin.”
When she let his hand go, he turned to my dad, and held it out again. “Mr. Hemming.”
“Justin.” My dad’s acknowledgement was short and sharp. Then he threw Mom a look that said it all. What the hell.
They could think what they wanted. I was done with their fake life, and their stupid facade.
Justin pulled out my seat before the maitre d’ could, and helped me sit, pushing the chair back in.
“Well then, what brings you to New York?”, I asked as Justin sat. My hands were shaking, and my stomach felt like Jell-o.
“Can we not come to the city to see our daughter?” Dad opened.
Except… they weren’t visiting me, they’d come to shop and sent me an invite to visit them.
“Is there some fashion thing going on Mom?” I looked at Dad then. “Or do you have some particular friend in town that you wanted to visit.” I couldn’t resist the dig. I knew there was something that must have brought them here, it wouldn’t be me.
“It’s going to be like that then, is it Portia?”
“Perhaps.”
Justin’s fingers gripped my thigh beneath the table, offering reassurance–solidarity. Go team Portia.
The conversation dropped to silence.
“Your menus.” Having handed them out, the waiter began explaining every dish in complex detail, trying to get our taste buds flowing–mine were numb.
When he walked away, Mom said over the top of her menu, “So what do you like to eat, Justin?” She was speaking to him like he was a child.
“Mom, Justin works on all the
“Do I need the shades too, to go totally men-in-black?” he’d asked, picking up a pair, like he’d need them in the restaurant. Justin’s sense of humor was foolish at times; but he was just living life while I’d spent a year hiding from it.
I’d flashed him a smile, took the shades off him, and put them back on the shelf.
I’d smiled a ton of times today.
Once, when he’d been joking with Becky, I’d overheard and looked up, caught his gaze, and, God, there was a massive transmission of information between us, like it downloaded in a rush. And it poured right into my heart, sending tremors to my belly.
We were good together.
I kept telling myself that as we walked into the restaurant later. We’d stopped in a bar around the corner and had a drink for courage and I was now a little intoxicated, and anxious–terrified. We’re good together. The words whispered through my head. My parents wouldn’t think so.
The maitre d’ had given our coats to someone at the door, and now we trailed behind him as he led us across the busy room, weaving about tables.
My sweaty palm pressed against Justin’s as his hand gripped mine, our fingers threaded. I wanted to wipe my palms on the skirt of my burgundy dress, but it was silk and that would ruin it. And besides, I didn’t want to let go of Justin’s hand.
I caught our reflection in a mirror as we passed it. Justin looked good in his jacket and tie, and we complemented each other. We are good together.
“Portia.” I turned to see Dad stand up, and then Mom. They both looked at Justin. It wasn’t the color of his suit or tie they noticed; it was the color of his skin. It wasn’t that they were racist, it was just that they wouldn’t think he was the right guy for me …
“Mom, Dad, I told you I was bringing a friend. This is Justin Preston.” I took a breath, I had to do this. I had to give him full credit. “We’ve been dating; he’s my boyfriend.”
Justin let go of my hand and reached out. “Mrs. Hemming, It’s nice to meet you.”
Maybe I should’ve warned them he was black, but I didn’t think it mattered. Justin was Justin, the color of his skin was irrelevant. Mom stared at him for a second or two, then finally took his hand and shook it. “Justin.”
When she let his hand go, he turned to my dad, and held it out again. “Mr. Hemming.”
“Justin.” My dad’s acknowledgement was short and sharp. Then he threw Mom a look that said it all. What the hell.
They could think what they wanted. I was done with their fake life, and their stupid facade.
Justin pulled out my seat before the maitre d’ could, and helped me sit, pushing the chair back in.
“Well then, what brings you to New York?”, I asked as Justin sat. My hands were shaking, and my stomach felt like Jell-o.
“Can we not come to the city to see our daughter?” Dad opened.
Except… they weren’t visiting me, they’d come to shop and sent me an invite to visit them.
“Is there some fashion thing going on Mom?” I looked at Dad then. “Or do you have some particular friend in town that you wanted to visit.” I couldn’t resist the dig. I knew there was something that must have brought them here, it wouldn’t be me.
“It’s going to be like that then, is it Portia?”
“Perhaps.”
Justin’s fingers gripped my thigh beneath the table, offering reassurance–solidarity. Go team Portia.
The conversation dropped to silence.
“Your menus.” Having handed them out, the waiter began explaining every dish in complex detail, trying to get our taste buds flowing–mine were numb.
When he walked away, Mom said over the top of her menu, “So what do you like to eat, Justin?” She was speaking to him like he was a child.
“Mom, Justin works on all the
Similar Books
