The Liminal People by Ayize Jama-everett

she remembers breaking my heart. Instead I get a sideways shrug, and her back as she strolls over to change the music.
    The food came with mimosas. I pour a champagne-heavy one, thinking how nice it would be to reduce my alcohol tolerance and make myself useless to her. Her narrow chin is hanging open, laden with a prepared speech when she returns to her chair. She crosses her legs like a lady of the highest court and asks me to sit with her eyes. Despite my aerial view of her now buttoned-up breasts, I comply.
    â€œWhen I left you, I was young. I wasn’t sure what was pushing me away from you. The easiest thing to point to was the thing you do. But six years ago, when you had that note delivered to me, and when I heard about what could’ve only been you trekking across Africa—hell, whenever I heard anything that sounded like your name—I had to think about the truth. I figured it out a while ago. It seemed too inconsequential to call you over. It didn’t change how I felt about you. Didn’t change the fact that I was married with a beautiful daughter, doing what I always wanted to do. So I left you alone. But you came when I called. You say you don’t want my money. I respect that. But can I give you this knowledge as some form of payment for what you’ve done, and what you’ve committed to doing?”
    I don’t answer, and she takes that as permission to continue.
    â€œIt wasn’t the healing. I’m sorry that I made you believe that it was. Oddly enough, me calling you a freak was my way of trying to be compassionate. The truth is, I left because of you. My god, Taggert, think of what you could have been doing with your power. Even under cover you could’ve applied to medical school; even nursing I would’ve understood. But instead you drove around London in an ambulance, always volunteering for the most dangerous shifts in the most disastrous neighborhoods—and for what? Just to see if you could survive it? You thought I didn’t want to hear your stories when you came home because they bored me? Taggert, you terrified me every night. I was constantly afraid you’d never come home. I understand the concept of necessary risk. But your risk was reckless. How could I think of marrying you, or starting a family with you, when you lived in harm’s way for no other purpose than it excited you? Taggert, I left because I didn’t want to see you die. I should have said that, I know. But I was young, and you were scaring me. I thought maybe it had something to do with what happened with your brother. I thought maybe the guilt over—”
    â€œIf you want to see your daughter again, I suggest you shut your fucking mouth.” I say it the calmest voice I can. I’m rageful. And no part of me regrets it. I won’t touch her. Not ever. In any way. Again. I’m standing and walking over to the window to get away from her petrified stare. She didn’t know what I could do, how hard I could go. She does now. Bitch.
    I’m miles away from her now, though I’m standing on the porch. She brought up Mac. She’s the only one I ever told about him. Nordeen didn’t know about him until I gave it up as a price for my sabbatical. She brought him up. She says I feel guilty about him. But she doesn’t feel guilty about breaking my heart with a letter? For calling me a freak, for throwing me away and then pulling me back when she needs me? There’s guilt, but it’s not mine. There are no words for what I want to do to her.
    All of a sudden, she’s behind me. Her arms wrapped tight around my waist from behind. I can feel her half-melon-sized breasts resting on my back, loose again, and I wonder if I could grow hands and a tongue on my back just to recapture what I lost all those years ago. When did she unbutton her shirt?
    â€œIf you want, I’ll sleep with you,” she says, trying to sound like the idea