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How she felt that you could flick away history like shrugging a hand off your shoulder.
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The key to staying lost was to never love anything. Time and time again, Early was amazed by what a running man came back for. Women, mostly. In Jackson, he’d caught a man wanted for attempted murder because he’d circled back for his wife. You could find a new woman anywhere, but then again, the most violent men were always the most sentimental. Pure emotion, any way you look at it. What really got him were the men who returned for belongings. Too many goddamn cars to count, always some junk a man had driven for years and couldn’t part with. In Toledo, he’d caught a man who’d returned to his
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But even here, where nobody married dark, you were still colored and that meant that white men could kill you for refusing to die.
She’d wandered through the house, admiring the long white couches and marble countertops and the giant glass windows that faded into a view of the beach. She couldn’t imagine living like this—hanging on a cliff, exposed by glass. But maybe the rich didn’t feel a need to hide. Maybe wealth was the freedom to reveal yourself.
She imagined Loretta pushing off the box and stepping toward her. Her face frozen in awe, as if she’d seen something beautiful and familiar. “You don’t have to explain anything to me,” she would say. “It’s your life.” “But it’s not,” Stella would say. “None of it belongs to me.” “Well, you chose it,” Loretta would tell her. “So that makes it yours.”
You could say nothing and, in your nothingness, feel free.
