Chapter 3
Three
Ibutton my shirt as quickly as possible while watching the office door, anticipating Sebastian’s return from the bathroom.
My mind cycles with a million thoughts: how much I liked the way his mouth tasted, how his hands found every curve of me as if he’d been touching me for years, how his smell slowed the beat of my heart, how resting in the crook of his neck felt weirdly like home.
I shake my head as if I can empty those thoughts right onto the floor.
I can’t believe I had sex with him. What was I thinking?
I know I have to get out of here. I hustle into my shoes, grab my purse, and scribble a note on his desk pad with my phone number.
I’m sorry. I had to go.
I don’t stop running until I’m back in my car, then race out of the parking lot and back home before my body tries to turn around and explain myself.
The clock ticks in the hall as I sit on my couch, wrapped up in a blanket and my anxiety, Sebastian and Death and seeing my articles again all spinning on a loop.
My phone trills with a notification. My heart flutters. It’s an unknown number, but I know it’s him.
Hey Vivian,
It’s Sebastian. Sorry to see you go earlier. Everything alright? Was it because you lost our argument and needed to save face?
I can’t fight away a grin.
No problem. It was good to meet you too. I thought you might be embarrassed after I poked holes in your carefully constructed thesis.
I toss my phone away before I type anything else. The phone has landed face up, and three dots are wiggling under his message. I can’t help watching them start, stop, disappear, and start again.
I don’t move, waiting to see what he will say next.
In another minute, my phone trills again.
Well, we should continue this debate of ours. A proper date. I found an invitation to First Fridays at the McMullen Art Gallery downtown tomorrow at ten a.m.
They’re featuring some works from the artist who painted the piece in my office, and I thought it would interest you.
I’m sure he sees my many stops and starts before I finally hit send.
If you want to have your entire scholarly career up for debate, then I guess we should go and continue our discussion. You might have to write a letter to the editor of The New Yorker with clarifications and edits.
I pad along the hallway into the kitchen as a guilty thrill ripples through me.
There’s a wrongness to this feeling, an echo of something I used to chase.
Sleeping with a man who knows my words—my soft spots, my ghosts—should scare me.
Instead, I crave it. He’s like a gorgeous blue fire, dangerous and beautiful, and I’m already reaching out, knowing full well I’ll burn but craving the heat all the same.
Maybe I need it, just to feel something sharp again.
The phone vibrates in my hand. I’ll see you there, Vivian. Looking forward to proving you wrong.
I arrive at the exhibition late, debating with myself the entire time.
I am wearing a white dress and low heels, my curls piled high on my head, with a few pieces at my temples pulled out to frame my face.
I walk in and spot him dressed in a white polo, dark-blue jeans, and navy-and-white sneakers.
He’s holding a bouquet of white hydrangeas, pink roses, and tangerine daylilies.
I almost laugh. It’s been decades since anyone’s brought me flowers. It’s such a simple gesture. Yet, the flutters have returned to my chest.
“You look beautiful,” he says, kissing my cheek. “I thought these might help soften the blow when you lose our argument.”
I laugh and inhale the flowers’ delicate perfume. “Is that what happened?”
We loop around the exhibit, indulging in some mimosas and exquisite mini pastries.
This is one of those moments that begs to be written down.
I remember how captivating he was speaking to last night’s audience.
I feel that pull again as he explains the work of Shawn Bines, the vulnerable but strong charcoal lines of his male models.
We talk for hours and don’t find our way back to our argument.
I learn he’s decent at chess but will crush an opponent in checkers, has an aversion to every kind of artificially processed cheese, and has a scar on his left knee from falling from an apple tree when he was ten.
He’s warm, charming, and considerate at every instance.
But when he turns the tables on me, I do what I’ve always done and stick to vague details about my past.
We are among the last to leave, lingering in the magnolia-scented breeze.
“Lunch?” he suggests. “I know a great local West African restaurant owned by the family of one of my students.”
I have an article that needs to be written, and as much as I’ve missed this feeling, this possibility, I hesitate for a moment. Only for a moment.
We walk to the car, he opens the passenger door, and we drive.
“So, what’s the catch, Sebastian?” I ask.
“What catch?” he says while changing the music.
I enumerate the facts on my fingertips. “A PhD, seemingly unattached, loves history, appreciates my writing, has a taste for adventure, and, not to stroke your ego, is sort of handsome.”
He purses his lips. “Based on eyewitness accounts, I’d say definitely handsome.”
“You rely on biased sources to make your case,” I say with a wink. “I have to dock you points. But I have to be missing something.”
He leans forward. “So, you do think I’m handsome?”
“Sort of handsome. I thought scholars paid attention to detail. Facts.”
He tilts his head, glasses glinting, the sun kissing his skin. “I know what you’re doing,” he whispers. “You’re searching for the big flaw, my secret shame. Is that right?”
“There must be one . . . like, how many women currently believe you’re in a relationship with them right at this very moment? How many children do you have? How many baby mamas?”
He laughs, the sound deep and rich, how chocolate would sound if it made noise.
“No baby mamas. No children. Not that I’m opposed,” he says, holding up his hands.
“No wife, and no girlfriend.” He pauses, the twinkle in his eye slipping, replaced with sadness.
“I wouldn’t do that to anyone.” He glances away, and I barely hear his next sentence. “No one alive has a claim on me.”
I follow his gaze to the window.
I know that tone. I’ve lived that tone.
Only losing love to death hurts like that.
We sit in traffic, the shrieks of laughter from a nearby school bus full of children at odds with the heaviness of the moment.
I put my hand on his before he shifts the gear.
He looks over gratefully, brushing his thumb across the back of my knuckle, the awkward moment sliding away.
I’m not one to press him. I have my own secrets and pain to bear, but in that instance, we share the weight. It feels like a bit of relief.
“How about you?” he asks in return, the moment gone but not forgotten. “I’m not keeping you from anybody, am I?”
I shake my head no because what else can I say? I am waiting for Death? I give him the semblance of the truth. “I moved back last summer. A friend passed away, and I wanted to make a change.”
“Sorry for your loss.” He waits a moment before continuing. “You said ‘back.’ Are you from Savannah?”
“Yes,” I admit. “But, with all the changes, it seems like another lifetime. It felt like coming home was the right thing to do.” I don’t speak my secret thought—of how fitting it would be for it to end where it all began.
“I can understand that. It’s part of why I came back to Georgia too.
My mom’s from here and has needed more help than she’d like to admit ever since my dad passed away two years ago.
The move was unexpected, but when the position became available, the dean contacted me to interview.
Just another example of the good luck I’ve been experiencing lately. ” He winks at me.
“Good luck?”
He lists things off on his fingers, miming me. “The sun is shining. I met this infatuating woman who loves to argue with me. The food is about to be great. The day’s glorious.” He draws attention to the sky like the day is perfect just for him—for us. “All good luck.”
When he grins, I can’t help but smile back.
Part of me feels like I’m awakening from a deep sleep, seeing the world with fresh eyes again.
After Winston, I’ve been barely living, barely writing, hovering on the edges of existence, and Sebastian makes me want to take part again.
To spend less time thinking of Death and far more relishing the present moment—planting a seed deep down in my heart once more, a fallow ground where I swore nothing could grow again.
We arrive at the restaurant and feast on jollof rice, egusi, and spinach stew. I forget myself while conversing with the owner, slipping into Igbo and then French when his wife from C?te d’Ivoire joins us, astounding Sebastian.
He gapes at me as we leave. “You’re a puzzle, Vivian. All the things you know, languages you can speak, and to be so young. How?”
I just smile and grip his hand tighter. “Testament to a life well lived.”
“Up for one more adventure today? Since we both are fans of history?”
I can’t back down from his challenge. This time I don’t hesitate. “Lead the way.”
Before heading to his surprise location, we grab lattes and pastries from Ruby at the café, then traipse along Broughton Street, perusing the stores, stopping to peer into Leopold’s Ice Cream and to finish our coffees under the shade of the SCAD cinema marquee.
“Is this what you do every day?” I ask as we continue down the street. “Surely you have classes to prep for.”
He tosses his cup in the trash. “Summer sessions don’t resume until the seventeenth, and I can’t think of a better way to spend the time.” He holds my free hand as we walk across the street. “Why? Are you trying to get rid of me?”
I fight a blush. “No, of course not. Well, not yet,” I tease.