Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
niomi
“So glad you’ll get to experience your first real homecoming,” Janelle tells Ron in the small room inside Finley’s student union.
We’re about thirty minutes from the interview beginning, and as nervous as I am, you’d think I’m about to sit down with the leader of the free world.
“I mean, I went to homecoming at State for undergrad,” Ron asserts. “That wasn’t an HBCU, but how different can it be?”
Janelle and I catch eyes in the mirror as I put the finishing touches on my makeup, sharing a knowing smirk. I stand to face my cousin and pat his shoulder. “Like she said, your first real homecoming.”
Ron rolls his eyes and laughs good-naturedly, receiving the teasing in the spirit we gave it.
“Alright, cuz,” he says. “Then I’m counting on you for the full experience.”
“Oh, you’ll get it.” I run a brush through my blow out before grabbing the lapel mic and fixing it to my collar. “You still down for the step show tonight?”
“I’m down for whatever,” Ron says, sending a meaningful—and if I’m not mistaken, slightly lascivious—glance Janelle’s way.
“Be careful what you ask for, lil’ boy,” Janelle chuckles, shaking her head and sending her braids swinging. “Might get more than you can handle.”
“Why’d you have to tell her how old I was?” Ron grumbles.
“She didn’t tell me how old you are,” Janelle corrects. “She told me how young you are.”
“What’s ten years?” Ron steps close to Janelle and tugs one her braids, his eyes warm and teasing. “Dating me won’t send you to jail, though I do have some handcuffs if you’re into that kind of—”
“Alright.” I cut in, stand and walk toward the door. “I’m not sure which is more embarrassing. Your abysmal lack of game or that Janelle actually looks interested.”
“I mean, pickings is slim out here, Ni.” Janelle runs an assessing glance over my cousin. “And it is homecoming.”
“Aren’t you like on duty or something?”
“Duty don’t prevent the booty.”
I gag a little, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth like I might be sick. Not sure I’m faking because ewwww.
“Fun is over.” She winks at Ron. “For now. Come on, Ni. Time to interview the man you had a massive crush on from the day you laid eyes on him in freshman orientation.”
“Not true.”
Janelle rounds on me, eyes narrowed and knowing. “Did you or did you not predict at the freshman pre-dawn party that you and Touré would be married by age thirty and have a boy and a girl, Carver and Octavia?”
“I was drunk.”
“Were you drunk on that Zoom call a few weeks ago when you were looking at Touré like this?”
Janelle flutters her lashes and puckers her lips and pants.
It’s confusing and disgusting and amusing.
Ron and I both laugh, but I stop almost immediately because I probably was panting, seeing Touré for the first time in so long.
The man is still fine. Like fine fine. Not to mention intelligent and funny and sophisticated in that world-weary way that makes a woman want to soothe his troubled brow. That troubled brow trap.
Over the years, I made peace with how Touré left and never looked back.
I thought of the globetrotting man who found acclaim risking his life for the story in distant lands as different from the one who helped me pass history class by setting facts to music.
50 Cents’ “Magic Stick,” to be exact. But on that video conference call, I could not trick myself into separating the guy I knew from the one who was in front of me.
“He’s here!” Janelle squeals, waving her phone at me. “Looking for us. I’ll be right back.”
“Here?” I ask, keeping my tone calm like the Emmy-award winning journalist I am. “You’re bringing him here now?”
“Uh, yeah. Where else would he go? I’ll be right back.” Janelle sweeps past us and out of the room.
I check my reflection in the mirror. Thanks to my girls Pat McGrath, Bobbi Brown, and Charlotte Tilbury, the makeup is on point.
Face card approved. The bright pink Zac Posen dress slides over my shapewear-engineered curves and hits just above the knees.
It’s sleeveless, but the cardigan I slipped on over it will protect me from the cool autumn air out on the Yard.
“You look good, cuz,” Ron assures me. “You’re not nervous, are you? A college campus? You could do this interview in your sleep.”
“True, but Touré will probably win a Pulitzer someday. Not to mention the fact that he’s given maybe three interviews in twenty years. I don’t care if this interview is taking place at the Waffle House, it’s a big deal. My producers are thrilled. They’re out there chomping at the bit.”
“He seemed pretty down to earth for the thirty seconds I saw him on your Zoom call.”
“Of course, he is. He’s our friend, but he’s also become . . this other thing. This other guy and I’m still getting to know that person.”
“Well you got questions, he got answers. Today is the perfect day to get reacquainted.”
The door swings open and Janelle walks in, laughing with her arm linked through Touré’s.
As soon as he crosses the threshold, the air seems to exit the room.
To leave my lungs. It’s sudden and startling, being in the same space with him again.
Not the grainy image of him through an unstable connection on Zoom, but the hum his energy injects into the air.
The rugged features, a merging of known and new.
The same dark eyes, but now fine lines fan out at the corners.
The same full lips, but bracketed by a layer of gray-flecked stubble.
The same bones, but more stark in a face yielded leaner and somehow more handsome through the years.
He has grown into himself, physically and in every other way.
I’m so busy absorbing the ways he has changed, that I almost miss that he’s studying me with the same intensity, his eyes tracing my face and down the length of my body.
“Oh, my god!” A young woman squeals from just behind Touré and Janelle.
She’s petite and pretty, her face alive with humor. Goddess locs are caught up at the sides and falling down her back. She wears a Miss Finley sash over a slim-fitting floral dress.
“Ms. Spencer! Oh my god. I love your work. You’re amazing.”
I can’t help but smile, not only at her fan-girlism, but at Touré’s longsuffering expression.
“Niomi,” Touré drawls. “I’d like to introduce my daughter Celine. As you can tell, she’s a fan.”
“Thank you for being here,” Celine gushes, stepping close and grabbing my hands. I give her fingers a squeeze and smile at her.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Celine. I wouldn’t miss the chance to interview one of the most elusive journalists of our time.”
She glances at her father as if just remembering he’s there. “Oh, yeah. Dad.”
We all laugh, and even Touré grins, shaking his head. “I gets no love at home.”
“Maybe you would,” Celine mumbles softly. “if you were ever home.”
Janelle is momentarily distracted by a message on her phone, and I think I’m the only one who heard Celine’s comment.
The smile melting from Touré’s face tells me he heard, too.
If he didn’t have years of training, of disciplining his features, I might have missed the hurt that flashed in the eyes so like his daughter’s.
“And you may remember my cousin Ron, Touré,” I say quickly, hoping to cover any awkwardness left by Celine’s remark. “You met him virtually when we had our video call.”
“It’s an honor.” Ron steps forward, hand outstretched. Touré hesitates for the space of a heartbeat before accepting the proffered hand. His narrowed glance flicks between my face and Ron’s.
“If you’re looking for family resemblance,” Ron says. “You’re wasting your time. Technically I’m her step-cousin, but close enough. If anything, she’s more like a big sister. Annoying and always in my business.”
“And always for your own good,” I tell Ron, bopping him lightly on the side of his head. “Got you out of more than one scrape by being in your business. You’re welcome.”
I’m still laughing and teasing Ron, so it’s a second before I look back to Touré. His tight expression eases with something that looks like relief and he daps Ron up.
“I do recall her being all up in my business a time or two,” Touré laughs. “She and Janelle both.”
“Ms. Spencer was like a sister to you, Dad?” Celine gapes at him. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Sister?” Touré’s glance slides to me, his brows lifting. “I wouldn’t say that.”
My breath catches at the warmth of the look he pours over me like honey, sticking to long-needy places and skimming neglected spots like he’s saving those for later.
Maybe it’s my imagination, but when I glance at Janelle, her brows are lifted in that okayyyyyyy way of hers. She leans in and whispers in my ear.
“I saw that.”
“You ain’t see nothing,” I hiss back at her.
I turn to Touré, careful not to quite meet his eyes in case that heat is still there.
I can’t afford to be distracted by this obstinate what if attraction I feel.
This may be a chore for him, something he’s doing to win points with his daughter—because obviously he needs some wins on that front—but it’s one of the biggest interviews of the year for me and my show.
The door opens again and Frank pops his head in. One of our production assistants hovers behind him in the hall with an iPad clutched to her chest.
“Come on in,” I say, waving him inside. “This is Frank, everybody. One of my producers at AM.”
“Nice to meet you all.” Frank runs a kind if cursory glance over the small circle gathered in our makeshift greenroom.
His eyes stop on Touré and his smile broadens.
“Mr. Wallace, we are so honored to have you. I know you’re here for Finley, but our cameras are out there and our team is capturing clips from the interview.
We’ve been conferring with your agent to make sure you have final say on any footage we use. ”
“Great. And I’m sure you know it, but you have one of Finley’s crown jewels on your team.” Touré swings his gaze back to me, smiling the smallest bit. “I don’t talk about myself much, and Niomi’s one of the few who could persuade me to do it.”
Boom! I offer him an appreciative smile. The team at AM knows my worth, but doesn’t hurt to have someone like Touré remind them with contract negotiations coming up.
“Believe me. We know what we’ve got in Niomi. Thank you again for sitting down with us.” Frank tips his head toward the door. “Let’s get out there and do a quick check for sound. That crowd is roaring and ready.”
The look Touré casts my way somehow shrinks the room down to the two of us, some coded message embedded in his gaze. Whatever he’s not saying, I may not hear it, but I feel it. Feel the warmth and the focus of his stare; of his attention.
“I’m ready,” he says. “You ready, Ni?”
I take in a deep breath and wonder if, faced with an hour one-on-one with the man I always wished and wondered about, my next words are truth, lie, bravado or something in between.
“Yup. I’m ready.”