Chapter One #3
“You’re not a quote unquote public figure either, where age matters to publishers, readers, and fans,” I said, raising an eyebrow. I could see Dustin getting into what looked like a rideshare, but he was in the front passenger seat and there was no driver. “What is that you’re in? Who’s driving?’
“They got these robot cars out there in Detroit yet? It’s called a Waymo.”
“If we do, I haven’t seen one. Looks interesting, though.”
“Taylor and I will have you— without Antoine —out here real soon, and we can ride in one,” Dustin said. “We got a place in Oakland and a place in San Francisco, so you can pick your flavor when you get here.”
“Okay, perks of being the first gent of the university. Lucky you, marrying up after our little entanglement.”
“You funny, Renny, and we don’t have to bring up the past. Anyway, maybe Taylor and I can have our book club do one of your books. We got almost thirty members in our group—all queer or figuring it out, mostly Black and other POCs. Can you believe it?”
“Tell that to my publisher,” I said as a bar server brought my second and final glass of wine to the patio along with a small dish of potato chips. “I also got dropped by them today.”
“Fuck, man. I’m really sorry. My timing is not the best.”
“You had no idea. I’ll figure it out.”
“Well, between Taylor and me, we can float you if you need,” Dustin said. “And we’ll take care of getting you out here if you need a little getaway.”
“Appreciate that,” I said, downing the second glass of wine quickly. I needed to order food and get to my condo, anticipating Antoine had not cooked anything. “Maybe a break or change of location is what I need.”
“Maybe you do. Let’s talk about it later.”
“Later.”
Twenty minutes later, food ordered, my rideshare dropped me off where I’d left my Escalade in the subdivision’s guest parking spots.
Slowly and carefully, because of the wine I’d had earlier, I drove the short distance along the winding lane to my driveway, parked, and did what my parents would do when I was a kid but didn’t quite understand why.
I sat in the parked car for a bit to stall before going inside.
I was too old to be avoiding going into my home—the home I inherited from my mom.
I remembered the certified mail Antoine told me about and decided to enter quietly through the front door rather than signal I was home by raising the garage door.
A pair of orange Crocs sitting at the foot of the stairs and a gray zip-up hoodie and a Detroit Tigers cap on the banister indicated Antoine had company.
I sighed and rolled my eyes, and as I got to my bedroom door upstairs, I heard the headboard banging in Antoine’s room, which was across the hallway from mine.
No more fucking housemates for me, even if it was a favor for an ex-partner and employee. I was too old for this.
Once inside my room, I opened the first piece of certified mail.
A bill from the Internal Revenue Service for almost thirty thousand dollars, apparently unreported income from premature withdrawal from my retirement account to keep me afloat during a few recent book releases and book tours my publisher didn’t pay for.
I also had another bill from the IRS for another thirty thousand dollars related to my late mom’s condo, something about back taxes and capital gains on inherited property.
I didn’t understand either one. Words and concepts above my pay grade and interest. Fuck, I thought, where the hell was I going to get that kind of money?
I’d figure it out later. I rolled my eyes at the tax bills and stuck them in the top drawer of my nightstand, where other pieces of urgent mail I didn’t want to deal with sat.
I was getting too old for living a financially precarious life because of choices I made for concert tickets, weekend trips, shopping sprees, and dinners and drinks out, all for people not in my life currently, plus my monthly bills and author life expenses.
My family would have chastised me for squandering the scaffolding and insurance money my parents left me.
I was getting too old to keep hiding my relationship and financial struggles.
Second piece of certified mail. My undergraduate alma mater in Missouri.
Apparently, I’d been shortlisted to receive a Black Alumni award, and due to the unexpected passing of another recipient who was to have received an award, the Black Alumni Association wanted to know if I would accept being honored at the event in a couple weeks.
All expenses paid. Plus a small cash gift to be donated to the community organization of my choice.
Why the hell not?
I scanned the QR code at the bottom of the letter, entered my information for airfare, campus hotel, and the correct name spelling for the award.
After reviewing and editing the biography they wrote for the program and confirming my attendance, I lay diagonally across my bed and stared at the ceiling.
I smiled, thinking about the Black Alumni award.
Finally, after the day I’d had, some good news.
A Ring alert notification indicated something equally satisfying. My food delivery had arrived. I’d eat, sleep soon, and then figure out the mess of my life in the morning.