Queen Move

“It was the margaritas.” I reach up to gently disentangle her hand from around my neck. Her arms flop to her side and she looks up at me, her expression earnest.

“It was beautiful. We slept together and it was beautiful again,” Aiko says, though I don’t know if she even believes that. I was too wasted to remember if it was beautiful or not. “I just want to get back to us.”

“And this is your solution?” I shake my head. “Not interested. I don’t want an open relationship. Or one that feels like…”

A prison.

I don’t say it because I don’t want to hurt her, but our life together, that bed when we’re beside each other, feels like a cell. I still care about her deeply, admire her. But I want to be her friend again, not her inmate.

“Remember in counseling when we talked about what we saw growing up?” I ask, taking a different tack. “What we saw in our parents and how it affects us?”

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes resigned because she knows my history—probably knows what I’m going to say.

“We’ve been struggling for a while, but I wanted to make this work for so many reasons. I wanted us to be a family for Noah. I wanted it to work because you’re fantastic, and who wouldn’t want to spend their life with you?” I sit on the edge of the window sill, looking out at our backyard, the garden Noah and I planted, the memories we’ve made here as a family.

“But you know what I’ve come to realize?” I ask, shifting my gaze back to Aiko. “I also tried to make it work because I grew up seeing my parents trying to make it work. Saw this huge gulf between them grow bigger and bigger, and the love that brought them together in the first place wasn’t enough to fill it. They never gave up on the marriage, but somewhere along the way, they gave up on each other.”

I take her hand and look into the familiar dark eyes swimming with bright tears. “I’d rather give up on this relationship than give up on you, Ko, and if we continue down this road, I’m afraid we’ll keep going through the motions but end up resenting each other.”

“You resent me?”

“No, but I think there’s something you need that I’m not giving you and something I need that I’m not getting.”

“Is it that piece of paper?” Her voice is dismissive, her tone bordering on derisive. “You’re such a traditionalist. If we’d gotten married, would you be ‘getting what you needed’?”

She’s right. In a lot of ways I am traditional. I did always think I’d get married, even when I was young. In the midst of this thorny conversation, a memory sprouts, a fragile bud that opens, reminding me of my earliest ideas of marriage and family and what it meant to choose one person for the rest of your life.

When I was six years old, I got married on a spring day in my backyard. The bride wore a Paula Abdul T-shirt that declared Straight Up on the front. There was a tiny hole in the toe of her Keds, and her pink sock poked through it. Her hair was artfully arranged into two afro puffs. The groom wore a Superman cape and swimming trunks. Who knows why six-year-old Ezra was obsessed with swimming trunks, but there you have it. Mama had taken me to Aunt Rose’s wedding in New York, and I knew as soon as I got back to Atlanta, my best friend and I should get married.

For once, Kimba let me have my way.

The low-hanging branches of the elm tree out back formed our chuppah. I couldn’t remember any of the Sheva Brachot, so I made up my own seven blessings. I’m pretty sure they were things like all-you-can-eat pizza and Super Mario Brothers high scores. I grabbed two tabs from cans of Coke in the refrigerator for our rings. I can still feel the cold metal encircling my finger. I couldn’t remember why they broke the glass at Aunt Rose’s wedding, but we dropped one of Mama’s mason jars on a rock, jumping back and laughing when it shattered everywhere.

And that was it. We were married. Kimba said we shouldn’t tell the grown-ups because they wouldn’t understand, and we should wait ’til we were older. She always seemed to know best, so I agreed.

“Ezra,” Aiko prods. “Would marriage make a difference?”

I clear my throat, refocusing my attention to look her straight in the eye. “No, I don’t think we should get married, but you keep bringing up this open relationship. Tell me the truth. Is there someone you want to sleep with?”

To her credit, she doesn’t flinch, but I know her. That left eye twitches, which gives her away when she tries to lie or hide something from me. It’s how I always beat her in poker.

“There’s a guy I might…” She tightens the kimono belt at her small waist. “Might be interested in. You know the photography safari I’m going on next week?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s, um, going, too,” she says quickly, licking her lips.

Now it makes sense. She wants me to agree to this ridiculous open relationship so she and her fuck buddy can have at it for a month in the Serengeti.

“It’s not just me,” she says hastily. “An open relationship would mean expanding the parameters of fidelity for us both. I know you’ve been faithful. So have I, always, but isn’t there someone you’ve…ya know, been attracted to?”

I swallow hard, not quite catching the memory I suppress on a regular basis before it rises up to torture me. Kimba Allen, all grown up and grieving at her father’s funeral two years ago. So lush leaning into me. I wasn’t prepared for the hug—hadn’t expected to feel her. The elegant black dress had caressed her full, firm curves, and I’d curled my hand reflexively at her waist. I hadn’t wanted to let go. As children we’d been close, but the thing I felt when I saw Kimba for the first time since the summer of ninth grade? It was more. Instantly more, and the kind of attraction a man feels for a woman. In just those few moments, it felt real and deep in a way I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had. By then, Aiko and I were already in counseling and things weren’t great. My strong response to Kimba warned it wouldn’t be wise to maintain contact, but I’d still started the question.

“Should we…”

Exchange numbers? Stay in touch? Hold on tight?

I didn’t ask, but she looked at me, read me, I think.