In the Wake of Wanting (33 page)

“You’re friends with everyone,” Dad tells me. “You’ve never gone to a volunteer site and not come back with a new friend.”

“Yeah,” I say with a sigh.

“Anything else happen today?”

“Asher was arrested.”

“What? That’s a story you lead with, son. That’s incredible news.”

“Yeah. The cops found a cab driver that had taken Asher and Pryana to her apartment, and there was surveillance video of him walking away from her place a couple hours later. They got a search warrant and found her keys at his place. So… I guess that’s enough to bring him in for more questioning, at least.”

“I bet the girls are all relieved.”

“I think so,” I tell him.

“I’m glad you had such a good day. I hope it only gets better for you,” he says kindly.

Thinking about what I’m about to do, the guilt starts to set in. When I can feel myself getting sentimental, I decide to end the call. “Dad, traffic’s pretty bad, so I’m going to concentrate on the drive to JFK. I’ll call you tomorrow between classes.”

“Sounds good. I love you, son.”

“Love you, too, Dad.”

Is everything okay?
I think of my father’s question again and remember the agreement Zaina and I made when she left for Oxford late in the summer after we graduated from high school. The night before her flight to England, we stayed up all night talking on her back stoop. I’m sure the only reason her parents allowed me to stay was because they could hear our voices beneath their window well into the early morning hours. Sure, we kissed a lot that night, but it never went beyond that. We just wanted to spend time together, and we knew the only way we’d get to do that was by being on our best behavior.

We’d acknowledged the difficulties of a long distance relationship. One thing we’ve both always been is realistic, and the reality is, 3,400 miles is a lot of distance to put between two people. Still, we were in love, and we wanted to stay together. We agreed, though, that every winter and summer break, we would have a relationship status check. A simple question exchanged: “Are we okay?”

After three checks so far, the answer has been yes for both of us. Maybe the yeses wavered in certainty, but they were still yeses, and that was all that mattered to us.

Today, it’s not time for another status check. This is just a mid-semester break for her. Things
should
be fine between us, and based on recent conversations, it’s possible that someone in a long distance relationship may think that things
are
fine–if that’s what they
wanted
to believe. But anyone close to me would know that things aren’t fine between Zaina and me.

One person in particular knows this better than anyone.

As if on command, my Range Rover announces another communication: “Incoming call from
Her
.”

I don’t bother to fight the smile from spreading across my lips. It’s innate. It’s the most natural reaction my body has ever had to another human being. No matter how melancholy I feel in this moment, no matter how much I’m dreading tonight, she still makes a spontaneous grin appear with just the thought of…
her
.

I can’t answer her call, as much as I want to. This evening is Zaina’s, and I’m pretty sure Coley knows that. Soon after the ringing stops, I get a text message from
her
.

- -
☺
Something to listen to later.

“Voicemail from
Her
,” my car states loudly.

Still smiling.

I hope she can feel it.

Finally past all the traffic and at the airport, I find the baggage claim where Zaina should be and I wait. I put on my sunglasses, hoping to avoid being recognized, but they don’t do much good. Most people just look at me–I don’t need to catch them in the act, either; I can feel their eyes on me–but some actually approach me, saying hi and asking me for a picture.

I think of
Her
to make the smiles look genuine.

“
Tria
!” I hear Zaina’s shout over the rest of the noise in the terminal. My heart still reacts to her nickname for me, having grown accustomed to it. When I see her, I just want to hold her in my arms. I can honestly say I still love her. I’ve known that I hadn’t stopped, but I’ve also known that my love for Zai isn’t romantic anymore.

Her body crashes into mine with force, and I wrap her into me tightly, swaying gently from left to right. There’s a part of me that wants to protect her from the pain I’m about to inflict on her.

“Welcome home, Zai,” I say softly.

I continue to keep her close while she tries to push away, no doubt to kiss me. I finally ease up and she laughs, thinking I’m teasing with her. She grabs the collar of my shirt to pull my face to her height, but I turn my head to the side just enough to make a statement. It’s not one she’s ready to absorb.

I meet her curious gaze as she pushes me back, releasing my shirt abruptly. Tears are already beginning to form in the corners of her eyes. I hold her free hand tightly in my sweaty palm, smiling apologetically.

“Are we okay?” she asks, punctuating her question with a tear on each cheek. She’s so quick to react to my unspoken message. I didn’t expect her to ask me so abruptly, and I’m not quite sure how to respond.

She knows me as well as I know myself, though, and no lie will get past her.

“No,” I barely whisper as I shake my head, my eyes never leaving hers. It’s just then that I notice people in the distance recording this moment when a flashbulb goes off. I don’t think she’s realized it yet.

“No,” she exhales in a long breath, looking up at me, shocked. I pull her back into my chest as she starts crying, hiding her face from prying eyes and cameras. I can feel the quick breaths as she weeps into her favorite shirt while I try to soothe her, running my hands up and down her back.

“I’m parked right outside. Let me take you to the car and I’ll come back for your bags. We aren’t alone here,” I tell her.

“Okay.” My arm still across her shoulders, and her head still nestled into my body, I guide her to the parking lot and get her settled into my SUV. I hand her the tissues my mom had tucked behind the passenger seat the last time I had a cold.

“How many bags?”

“Three,” she tells me. “Same ones as last time.”

“Good. I’ll be right back, Zai.” She nods after I shut the door, and when I turn around, I notice a few people had followed us to the garage. “Can you please give us some privacy? Please?” I ask as patiently and politely as I can, given the intensity of the situation.

A paparazzo shows up just then, his telephoto lens pointed at my car and the camera shooting in burst mode. “What’s happened to Zaina? Why’s your girlfriend crying?” he asks, not bothering to look at me as I walk past. When I don’t answer, he catches up to me, hurriedly switching cameras. “You too good to talk to me?”

“Back off,” I tell him as he glides directly in front of me, now recording me on video.

“Just answer my questions, and I will. You’re a journalist. I’m a journalist. Just trying to get the story. You know how it is.” I put my hand over my face, trying to take away any more opportunities for a good interaction. He’s just insulted me by comparing himself to me.

“With all due respect, what I do and what you do are not even on the same echelon, my friend.”

“True,” he says. “You’re just a college student, and I make bank for my work. I probably just made five Benjamins in the last two minutes.”

“Let’s meet up in twenty years and talk, big guy, okay? We can look at income, cars, health, expanse of homes, attractiveness of wives, number of children and dick size, just to get a good comparison. You in?” I ask, shoving past him with my shoulder when I see Zaina’s luggage on the carousel.

“Classy language for an Ivy Leaguer!” he calls after me. “With that video, I bet I’m up to a grand!” he boasts. As I grab for the last piece of luggage, I flip him off with my free hand, not caring what he does with any of his material at this point. Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, he’s still there when I head back to my car. “Did someone die?”

I ignore him, walking intently to my car.

“Or are you fighting with Zaina today?” he presses on.

“Mind your own damn business, all right?” I holler at him, agitated. I should have stayed calm, because I probably just gave myself away.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, then laughs. “I bet you’ve got some sweet piece of ass on the side.” I stop walking as I close my eyes and force myself to breathe. If I don’t calm down, I’ll hit him. If I hit him, he’ll sue. He’s already making money off of me, and I hate that. “Yeah, you do. Of course you do. And it’s now my personal mission to find out who it is.”

“Stay away from me, asshole.”

“No can do, brother. You’ve set forth a challenge, remember? I’ve got a mansion to earn, and you’re my ticket to getting it.”

“Yeah, fuck you.”

“You’re
all class
today, Trey!” he says sarcastically. “Fighting with your girlfriend in public. Using language your mommy’d probably wash your mouth out with soap for.”

“It’s in your best interest to not speak of my mother. And I don’t know who taught you grammar,
Mr. Journalist
, but that sentence makes me want to tear my ears from my head and shove them down your
fat fucking
mouth
.”

“I bet your daddy’s gonna be proud of you today.”

“Don’t flatter yourself by thinking he keeps up with your bullshit excuse for
news
. If he did, though, he’d wonder why I didn’t rip the camera from your filthy hands and find a way to take pictures of your insides, you mother fucker.” I make note of a courtesy officer standing at the entrance of the parking garage. “One more step toward me, and I’ll make it happen.”

“You threatening me, Holland?” he asks as he keeps the camera rolling.

“Yeah, I am.” I glance at the man in uniform who’s watching our interaction. He comes over to us and stops the paparazzo from following me into the garage. On my way to the car, I see Zaina in the passenger seat. She’s composed, but blotting at tears with the tissues I’d left. After putting her things in the back of my SUV, I glance at the photographer. He has his telephoto lens again, and I hate that he’s exploiting her in this way. Hurriedly, I get in the car and peel out of the parking spot, anxious to put as much distance between his camera and my soon-to-be ex-girlfriend.

“What’s going on?” she asks as she looks behind us.

“Vultures,” I tell her simply. “He’s not following us.”

“Okay.” Her voice is soft.

“How was your flight?” I ask her, not knowing what else to say. I don’t want to get into the other conversation while I’m driving, and I hope she’s okay with that.

“Long. I’m exhausted.”

“Yeah. You didn’t sleep at all?”

“No. I was too excited…” Her voice trails off, and a few seconds later, she’s sniffling into a new tissue. “Too excited to see you.”

“Do you need me to stop anywhere before we get to my place?” I ask her. “Need any food? Something from the drug store?”

“You’re still taking me to your apartment?”

“Yeah,” I respond.

“Oh,” she says, sounding surprised by this fact. “Ummm… I haven’t eaten dinner. Can we go get something?”

“Sure. What are you craving?” Anytime she’s in town, I let her pick where to eat unless she wants me to plan the evening because she misses the food she’s used to in New York.

“How about Tamarind?” Of course she picks the site of our first date. A calculated choice, I’m sure.

I work out the way home quickly because the restaurant is in no way close to my apartment. “That’s fine,” I say, getting into the next lane and making a last-minute exit off of the highway. “Why don’t you call it in so we can just run in and pick it up?”

“You don’t want to eat there?” she asks.

It hadn’t occurred to me that she thought we’d go
out
to eat. “Not really,” I tell her, not wavering from my original plan. “I have their number programmed in my phone. Do you know what you want?”

She hesitates before answering. “I guess so.”

After pressing the Bluetooth button in my car, I direct it to call the restaurant.

“Thank you for calling Tamarind? How can I help you?”

I look at Zaina, who’s just staring out the passenger window. “Uhhh,” I start. “We’d like to place an order for pick up.” I tap her on the forearm to get her to speak.

“You order first,” she whispers.

“I’m not hungry,” I say quietly back to her.

“You’re not getting anything?”

I shake my head.

“Hello?” the man on the other end of the phone says. “What did you want to order?”