On Rotation

by Shirlene Obuobi

We watched it, pausing every few seconds to say, “Oh my god, shoes,” then pulled up the classic 2006 “Shoes” video to round it out.

LOL

“Well, I’d best let you go, then,” the big-haired woman said, giving me a look that was everything but appreciative. She was older than I had assumed from first glance, but clearly maintained, her eyebrows arched in that slightly villainous way that could be achieved only with regular Botox.

She rules

“Babe, come on,” he said. “All of these great cocktails, and you go for the wine?” “I’m not your ‘babe,’” I muttered reflexively.

I hated the sudden awkwardness between us. It had never existed before, and now I was sorry I had caused it. “I think the lomo saltado looks good,” I tried. “Yeah, I was looking at that too,” Ricky said wearily. He didn’t look up from his menu.

Sensing tension and wanting no part of it, our waiter chuckled nervously.

When he scuttled out of earshot, I folded my arms. Ricky did the same. We glared at each other from across the table for a full minute, listening to the din of clinking glasses and spirited conversation.

“That’s . . . pretty good,” he said, not lifting his eyes from my mouth.

I jerked backward, leaving the ceviche spoon hanging in Ricky’s mouth. Jesus Christ, I thought. Maybe we should get this meal to go.

The haze of lust whipped away like a curtain being yanked open.

True love, the kind that Ricky’s grandparents had for each other, that my dad had for my mom, that Tabatha had for Chris—wasn’t in my cards.

Im literally going to cry

“Okay,” I said, and after that, he let me go.

You asked him if you could be his girlfriend, I reminded myself, and in response, he dropped off the face of the Earth.

Not a single text, I reminded myself, then ground my teeth and got to work finishing my notes and updating my sign-outs. Not a call. Not a messenger pigeon, or a bat signal, or anything showing that he ever actually gave a shit about you.

I took selfies mimicking the expressions of the subjects in classical paintings and sent them to the Sanity Circle group chat.

I poured myself a generous glass of a red blend that I sipped with my meal, and another that I toted into the living room for a long night of bingeing The Great British Bake Off. I lit a massive vanilla-scented candle, dropped onto my sectional, and let myself sink into the cushions. After a couple of episodes, a fuzzy feeling of contentment washed over me. If I were a cat, I would have been purring.

It had been less than a week since La Ventana, but already Ricky felt unfamiliar, and I wrapped my arms around myself to recenter.

Even at the obstetrician’s office—” I snatched my hand back. At the obstetrician’s office? “You went to her appointment?” I said, alarmed.

FUCKING LOL

The audacity of this man, really. The peace I had managed to build around myself had just been knocked down with a battering ram, but I would put it together again.

Just as soon as I got this berserker out of my home—

“Listen, Angie,” he said firmly, and I jolted, jarred by the shift in his tone. “I want to be with you all the time.

Every time you say you need something, I want to be the one to do it for you.

“honestly, I wasn’t sure if we were on the same page about what that meant for me. It’s not just a label for me. I’m looking for someone who can be my family.

We stood like that for a long time, my cheek against his chest, his chin balanced on the top of my head, and I closed my eyes, savoring our closeness.

In love with you. They were words I’d wanted to hear my entire life but had thought might always elude me.

Words that felt so foreign that I’d convinced myself no one could actually open their mouth to say them, words that seemed more suited to romance novels or cheesy movies than real life. But Ricky had spoken them like they were indisputable, like his feelings for me were too big to contain, even as his arms trembled around me.

Cavorting with real boys was unthinkable; the ones in my circle were awkward and smelly and mean, and, on top of all that, had the nerve to not look like Morris Chestnut.

I sat in the ramparts, observing them, and decided that, unlike those other girls, I would be discerning. Only ever with someone who actually cares about me, I told myself.

How were you supposed to know if a man cared about you? He could say he cared all he wanted, could bring you flowers you didn’t want, whisper sweet nothings into your ear to break down your resolve, but he could also leave, without an explanation, with nothing but an Actually, I don’t think I’m into you like that, and where would that leave you then?

He loves me, I reminded myself, letting myself flood with warmth again. I took his hand, smiling back. Look at how he’s looking at me. He loves me so much.

This is what it’s supposed to feel like.

My whole body felt like it was buzzing, like another version of myself was hovering just millimeters above the first.

How did I tell Ricky the real truth: that my moments alone had been revelational? That they had forced me to recall the three and a half years between Sean and Frederick, and realize that they had been joyful? That I could count the number of times that I had cried in that time on one hand? I

had felt like I needed romantic love to feel whole, but the truth was that every man I let into my heart took a chunk of it with him, made me feel less when I should have felt more.

It had always been when you meet Abuela. When we take that pottery class. When we go to New Orleans.

The last vestiges of Ricky’s control snapped. I could see the transition happen in his eyes, like an elastic band pulled too tight, or a fuse running out.

It seemed like an inglorious way for our saga to end, with a sigh instead of a bang.

Dr. Reed called me immediately upon its receipt to rejoice, but all I felt upon reading it was the sensation that I had successfully climbed up one rung higher on an infinite ladder.

“You seem like a nice doctor. Please stay that way.” This was probably the first time I’d been mistaken for a doctor, rather than a nurse or a cleaning lady.

I laughed, reliving the afternoons we’d spent practicing in the mirror before the dance, trying to make our asses clap.

This was what love was supposed to feel like: uplifting, encouraging, renewing. If I had to let go of a love that was not quite that, that was okay.

A few concerned passersby stalled by me, but, deciding that I was probably another wasted girl having a breakdown on the sidewalk in the middle of River North, kept walking.

Maybe the white people at work hadn’t noticed the difference, but the Black people sure did, judging by the cutting way that Miss Bernice asked me when I was gonna fix my hair during pre-rounds.

This would look cute, Michelle said, sending me back photos of packs of plastic-packaged weave. Her grandparents owned a beauty supply in Jersey, and she’d grown up learning the difference between Remy and Kanekalon.

But now? I could imagine her on the phone with Momma, cutting her down through gritted teeth: What kind of mother are you, huh?

Hoisting my backpack over my shoulders, I took one step away from my chair, then another, and then bolted out of the workroom before James could change his mind.

“Ricardo, this is the girl I told you about. Mi angelita.”

Awww

Our fingers brushed as the drink exchanged hands. “Thanks,” I said. Ricky gave me a long, blank look. Then he nodded and pivoted away.

I have known that I would outlive my son since he was young.”

He would most likely die here, and . . . Abuela knew this. I suspected she’d known from the beginning, and the sobs that had racked her body when I met her at the elevators the second time had been from grief. She had simply been keeping vigil ever since.

Ricky’s arms snaked around my waist. I stared down at the crown of his head in shock, my shins knocking against the base of the couch as he tugged me closer in between his legs. From this vantage point, I could see that his shoulders were trembling. He pressed his face into my stomach, leaving it warm and wet. It took me a moment to realize that he was crying.