“What does that say about us?” I challenged.
She smiled wryly before whispering, “We are an exception to the rule.”
“Stop being a fucking tease, Kiyah,” I warned.
“Relax, Grant.”
“I’ll relax when I’m fucking dead.”
“Hey. The table is ready,” Kieran informed.
“We’ll be there in a minute,” I said, not snatching my eyes away from the woman who torments me as if she receives a paycheck with health insurance and stock benefits.
“But—”
“Goodbye, Wesley,” Kiyah and I said, operating on the same wavelength as we always did.
Kieran huffed before giving us our space. What did we choose to do with our moment of solitude? Absolutely nothing. The world around us continued—the low buzz of conversation between dinner guests, ice clinking in glasses, a pianist tinkling the keys—but in the world that mattered most, I had Kiyah. We didn’t need words to communicate.
And despite what Dad says, I don’t live in some fucked up world of delusions. My love for Kiyah is not unrequited, that I am certain. I just need my wife to stick the fuck around and not discount our marriage as a symptom of being young and dumb. I’m not an idiot; something happened between waking up in Vegas with wedding rings on her 21st birthday and her summer trip before law school. But how can I fix it if she doesn’t let me in?
“G….”
Here we go.
“When are you going to sign the papers?”
“The day you tell Mom and Dad we’re married.”
“So, never?”
“Seems like we’re on the same page. Will I see you tonight?”
Kiyah’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “You know you will.”
I tipped her chin up with my finger. “I love you, Kiyah.”
Her eyes misted, turning her shiny brown eyes into deep pools of agony.
“I love you, too, Grant.”
Chapter Four
Kiyah
Grant Baker’s “I love you, Kiyah” has evolved over the years. I was fifteen when his love changed from brotherly to something else. He’d received his acceptance letter to Harvard, and our parents made a whole thing about it as if his acceptance was unexpected. We piled into two SUVs and made the journey to our grandparents’ estate, where the insanely wealthy folks lived and where we celebrated all our milestones—birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, first place in a spelling bee, you name it. Granddad damn near shoved a cigar down Grant’s throat upon seeing him and clapped him on the back so hard that I thought he’d dislocated the teenager’s shoulder. Dad quickly confiscated the cigar before Granddad could break out the lighter and foisted Grant to Grandma, who painted Grant’s cheeks red from her never-ending lipstick-stained kisses. Papa and Mimi volunteered to take Grant shopping for all his dorm and school supplies. Uncle Ant congratulated Grant profusely and said they’d take the yacht out one weekend to celebrate, and Ms. Simone promised to bake gingerbread cookies and send them to him in a bi-monthly care package.
It was plain as day that Grant wasn’t as ecstatic about getting accepted to Harvard as our family; at least, it was obvious to me.
Everyone was conditioned to believe Grant’s face was stuck in a perpetual scowl, but I knew better. Grant was very expressive when he wanted to be, which seemed to be when he was with me. When he was truly happy, his eyes would shine brighter than the highest clarity peridot, and his soft smile made my heart do somersaults in my underdeveloped chest.
That night, Grant did the unthinkable as Dad made a speech at the dinner table about how proud he was of him and how bright his future was. Grant stood from the table and plainly said, “I’m not going,” before walking away. The decibel of the gasps that flooded the dining room could not be quantified. After the initial shock wore off, the look of disappointment on Dad’s face was tough to ignore.
Let’s be honest, Harvard isn’t the end-all, be-all when it comes to universities, but wouldn’t you want to brag about your genius kid with your golf buddies around the 9th hole?
Later that night, after all the adults tried “talking some sense into the boy,” I joined him in the movie theater, where I found him chowing down on buttery popcorn while watching a Nat Geo documentary on fungi.
“Do you know how many species of fungi exist?” he asked without his eyes leaving the projector screen.