Should've Known
October 2012
Washington, D.C.
“Wait. Start again. What’s going on?” Daddy asks.
I’m quiet for a moment. If I speak too soon, the floodgates will open, and he will become even more worried. I can’t imagine that any father wants to hear this story. I turn things over in my head, already hearing the disappointment and exasperation in his voice. Though he is 1,400 miles away, and there is nothing he can really do about it, I’d called as I always did when something bothered me. This time I don’t know where to start. How do I explain that it’s all my fault? That I should’ve known better?
We sat at a small table against Le Pain Quotidien’s exposed brick wall. I cupped the steaming mug of chamomile tea with both hands, hoping that it’s warmth would do the work of thawing out the chill in my body. I ignored Lisa’s jabs about Texas people and their intolerance of mildly cold weather. She finally let up and moved on to the business of her latest escapades.
“Aramide, he was so cute! Ugh!” She propped her elbow on the table and smiled into her hand. I took another sip of tea and grinned at her over the rim of the mug. We’d made a habit of this since meeting a year ago as Freshmen. Lisa would captivate me, weekend after weekend, telling tales of her cinematic encounters with whoever held her attention at the time.
“So, will you see him again?”
“Eh, I don’t know. It’s tough, ya know?”
I didn’t know. Lisa had made interacting with boys an art form. As for me, any foray into that area usually began accidentally and ended in a stunningly bizarre fashion. She noted my expression and laughed.
“Aramide, you need to give guys a chance,” she said, reaching over and grabbing my hand as a show of support.
“Hmm?”
“You know, like actually be nice to them.”
“I’m nice to them! I’m nice to everyone,” I laughed.
“That’s the problem,” she said. She looked at me the way you would look at an injured bird. “I’m serious. You’re like, really pretty, and you’re just...I don’t know, not doing anything with it. Just try flirting.”
“I flirt,” I muttered. Her lips flattened and she raised an eyebrow.
I changed the subject. It was nearly time for mid-term exams, and we made plans to meet in the library for a study session. As she talked about her classes, I half-listened, still mulling over her earlier comments.
I started off with a slow leg warm up, galloping laterally along the perimeter of the gym’s indoor track. It wasn’t the standard size, so I’d adjusted my routine. I slipped into a mile run and focused on breathing through my nose. I was faintly aware of the other students walking and running around me.
It was finally time for sprints. I poured everything onto the 50-meter stretch, over and over again. When I walked off the track, my lungs felt ready to burst from my chest; the back of my shirt was soaked through. It took me a moment to register the man walking beside me.
“Hey,” he said, “I saw you doing your thing over there. Do you run track here?”
“Thanks. No,” I said, giving him a sideways glance. I didn’t slow my pace. He walked with me for a moment longer, making small talk. By the time I reached the water fountain he’d said goodbye and gone back to his group.
It wasn’t until after I’d done a long stretch, and returned to fill my water bottle, that I remembered Lisa’s declarations from last weekend. Had I smiled? I’m sure I had. I decided that if I ran into him again, I would make a better effort.
I straightened up, turned around, and almost jumped out of my skin. His eyes went wide and he took a step back.
“I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare you like that.”
“It’s okay. Hi, I’m Aramide.” I smiled and stuck out my hand. He took it, shocked and a bit confused. Clearly not one to waste an opportunity, he immediately asked me the usual questions: what year I was in, what I was studying. I hadn’t noticed how handsome he was before. I admired the smoothness of his brown skin, the crown of lashes that fell over soft eyes, his neatly trimmed beard. He looked just a little too old to be an undergrad.
“I’m Anthony. I got my Master’s here not too long ago. I work for the Washington Post now.” We kept talking while I stood there, dripping buckets. It didn’t occur to me to be embarrassed, and he didn’t seem to mind it either. He asked for my number and I gave it to him; this was something I rarely did. I went into the locker room to dry off. Maybe there was something to what Lisa had said after all.
The next day, a notification popped up on my phone. It was Anthony. After a few messages back and forth, he asked if he could call me instead. I was impressed. I didn’t know any guys who preferred talking on the phone to texting for hours.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I said.
“So, what’s your story?”
“My story?”
“Why Georgetown? Why D.C.?”
We talked about anything and everything. He asked me questions I’d never heard before; he shared thoughts that made me laugh and made me think. We had been on the phone for an hour before he stated, in a matter-of-fact manner, that he would like to take me out. I was suddenly very aware of the way I was breathing.
We set a date for 7pm on Friday.
I turned the corner from my Village B campus apartment, reached the sidewalk on N street, and stopped short. I’d expected to find Anthony waiting for me on foot, not leaning against the hood of a shiny, black Lexus. I quickly texted his name and number to a group of friends.
He smiled and opened the passenger side door. I thrilled at the small show of chivalry that seemed otherwise non-existent on campus. He waited for me to buckle in before closing the door and going around to the driver’s side.
He took me to get Indian food in Dupont Circle. He’d remembered that it was my favorite after Nigerian food. Somewhere between the vegetable samosas and the lamb vindaloo, I began to relax. I was curious about him. He was polite, funny, smart. He listened to understand and not just to respond. Everything was going well. Too well.
We left dinner and made our way to the U Street Corridor. I hadn’t danced in so long. I was eager to get back to it and enjoy some good music. We decided that I’d show him my spot and maybe he’d show me his spot some other time.
Finally at the front of the line, Anthony stepped behind me and smoothly helped me out of my coat. I almost swooned. Who still did that? Who was this unicorn man? The coat check woman gave me a look. I see you girl.
“Everything alright?” he said, peering into my face.
“Yes!” I flashed him a smile and pulled him toward the dance floor. He had teased me earlier and challenged me to a dance-off. I intended to show him up. We weaved through the crowd and found a spacious enough area to the right of the small stage. He kept a respectful distance, nodding his head to the beat and smiling at my moves. When I looked up, he had his hands in the air, wave-em-like-you-just-don’t-care style. We burst out laughing and threw all self-consciousness to the wind.
He parallel parked his car beside my apartment and turned off the engine.
“When can I see you again?” he said. He looked directly into my eyes. I suppressed a nervous laugh and returned his gaze. I really liked that he didn’t beat around the bush.
“Well I’ve got exams, but in a week, I’ll be free again.”
“In a week then,” he said. He hesitated, and sensing that a kiss was not the right move, came around to the passenger side door.
“Goodnight, Anthony,” I said smiling.
“Goodnight, Aramide,” he said.
I walked on air, all the way to my apartment.
The next morning, still elated, I opened my laptop. I wanted to make sure he checked out. A few of his articles popped up for the Post. So far so good.
My eyes locked on an old Myspace account.
I still don’t know what made me click on it, what made me scroll to the About Me section. I do know that I stared at those dates for a long while. They told me that Anthony was a thirty-three-year-old man. He had gotten his Master’s degree from Georgetown nearly a decade ago.
It all made sense - the calls, the chivalry, the dated dance moves. By the time his text came through, wishing me luck on my first exam, a fire had already spread throughout my chest and throat. I told him, in a matter-of-fact manner, that I’d found out he was thirty-three and didn’t want to see him again. His apologies missed the mark. If there was one thing I couldn’t tolerate, it was a liar.
I clutch the phone and clear my throat. I tell Daddy that I’d been intentionally misled. I tell him that a hundred showers couldn’t wash me clean of the deceitfulness. And then I tell him that it’s all my fault. I should’ve known better. It’s what I get for believing that I needed to be any more or less of what I already was. Furthermore, it’s what I get for giving my number to a stranger. I try to shake away the image of Anthony at the gym, lying in wait for young girls.
With as much bitterness as I can muster, I recount the part about him helping me with my coat.
“I mean, really, Daddy, who does that?! The signs were there!”
“I guess thirty-three-year-old men do that my dear.” He chuckles then. I am so shocked by the remark that a loud laugh escapes and interrupts my sniffling. As I wipe away my tears, the horror of the ordeal begins to fade. I am grateful that Daddy doesn’t choose this moment to lecture me. I am grateful that he always picks up the phone.
Even from 1,400 miles away, he feels as close as ever.
Note: The original names of Anthony and Lisa have been changed to protect the privacy of these individuals.
Photo Credit: Tesia Burgos @tesiabc
