Pt. 4 Looking for Merci: Reunion
It's about time.
Merci stood outside the door with her lipstick chewed halfway off. Her hand trembled, clenched in a fist, suspended in the air.
Just knock.
She exhaled and slid her hand down her side instead, defeated. Clusters of braids fell freely at the shoulders of her pink two-piece short set and down almost to her waist. It was quiet on the other side, but her wife confirmed Whitney would be in the office this Saturday. She jumped at the sound of plastic buckets that dropped to the floor. The weekend cleaning crew was ready to get started.
Just. Knock.
It’d been five days since her wife said “some woman named Whitney from your hometown” was in the office. Merci thought there was no way it could be her, Whitney. It could be buck-tooth Whitney, who sang in the choir. Or stuck-up Whitney, who teased her all the time. She still owed that Whitney a nice crisp slap across the face, so that wouldn’t exactly be a total waste. There was no way it was Whitney with the pretty hair…and soft lips. She resisted asking until yesterday. Very casually, she asked her wife about the progress of the audit prep - and Whitney’s last name.
Knock. Damnit, just knock.
The door cracked open under the weight of her fist. The office was cluttered with notebooks — but empty.
Merci’s feet carried her in a fog to the bullshit-mash-up shop for emotional support Bordeaux. Lululemon-clad walkers and tourists were stuffed into every available window seat. She paced up and down the shop, frustrated, and cut through a crowd of teenagers who blocked the path to the rear seating area. One seat left next to a woman with a messy bun, typing away on a laptop in a white t-shirt with ripped denim jeans. The woman’s natural curls revolted against what was probably a press a few days ago—curls oddly familiar to the same curls Merci helped tame all those years ago.
“Whitney?” she asked, hesitantly putting her wine down on the side table. Whitney lifted her head. Her mouth opened and closed quickly as if the words were terrified, so they slammed the door shut.
“It’s me. Merci,” she beamed, clutching her chest. Whitney gripped the edge of the loveseat. Their eyes locked. The laptop wobbled back and forth on her bouncing knee.
“Please tell me you remember me,” Merci pleaded. In all the times she thought of Whitney, it never occurred to her that Whitney didn’t think of her. But she hoped God couldn’t be that cruel twice.
Merci fidgeted. “Light on the Hill of Zion Baptist church, remember?” She asked. “I know we were young, but I thought you might remember me?”
Whitney stared at her without a word. A minute of silence ticked by in agony as the room seemed to shrink around them. And then, Whitney exhaled.
“I could never forget you,” she replied, the words inched out cautiously. Her shoulders lowered, and her leg bounced a little slower. “I wasn’t sure if it was you or tall-Merci on the praise team when your wife mentioned it. I was too afraid to ask,” she swallowed.
“How are you?”
Lightning struck twice. A familiar rhythm of conversation wrapped around them like a forgotten favorite blanket and settled their nerves. They were 11 again in the back pew with rambunctious laughs peppered between quiet tears. Cracked open. Alive. Every story spilled out one after the other in a breathless search for every word they never got to say.
***
A few weeks later…
Whitney opened the blinds to her corporate housing. She would miss the beautiful kaleidoscope the setting sun cast over the beige walls.
“This is KAHYUTTTEEEE,” Merci squealed, sliding in behind her. “I can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow, and this is the first time you let me come over.”
“You act like I’ve been here for years. It took me a few weeks to make sure you weren’t crazy. Who knows what you could be into by now in this crazy ass city.”
“Oh, I think you know what I’m into,” Merci cooed, sliding closer to Whitney on the couch. Whitney fidgeted.
“And what’s that?” Whitney finally asked. The feeling burned a hole in her stomach so much that she made a call to her doctor back home for an emergency antacid prescription refill last week. She’d told Merci it was all the new food she tried because there was no way to tell her it was simply how she felt anytime Merci said her name. Merci leaned in close, a delicious grin on her face.
“Enchiladaasss!” she squealed, nudging Whtiney’s phone like a puppy with their bowl.
It’d been a few short weeks since their encounter at the bullshit-mash-up shop, and they’d seen each other as much as possible since. Broadway shows, ice cream in DUMBO, an open-top bus tour, and whatever other silly tourist thing Whitney found on Instagram. Merci didn’t believe in social media—she’d never even had an account—but obliged the requests anyway. They’d even stood in line for two hours to get a doughnut at some Brooklyn pop-up. It was delicious, but that’s not the point. Merci’s designer sneakers were ill-equipped for this much damn walking. But whatever Whitney wanted—wherever Whitney was—that’s where Merci wanted to be. Merci tucked her feet under her and rested her head on Whitney’s shoulder to look over the delivery options. Whitney froze, her breathing rapid, the phone stuck on the first page.
“You alright?” Merci whispered, more into Whitney’s neck than her ear. The feeling roared. Whitney’s fingers sank into the softness of her belly, trying to soothe the pain. Merci slid one hand on Whitney’s back, rubbing in slow circles.
“Breathe, baby. Just breathe,” Merci inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. She followed Merci’s rhythmic breathing and relaxed into her arms.
If Whitney hadn’t heard the sirens outside, she might swear she was still in the closet of her bedroom weeks after Merci was snatched away. Crumbled in a blanket, stifling cries for her friend. Praying God didn’t hate her. Maybe God might find enough love for her, to let her have Merci. But God never did—until now. Whitney toyed with one of the braids that hung over Merci’s shoulder. Twirled it, traced it up, and cupped Merci’s neck softly. Their kiss was as gentle as it was that day. Light and hesitant, then famished, as if they’d starved the last 20 years. The feeling raged, and Whitney let herself be devoured for a few precious moments.
“Wait,” Whitney breathed out. Merci was straddled on top of her on the couch with her top flung across the room. She moved back and forth rhythmically but slowed to stop at Whitney's request.
“We can slow down, baby; I got you,” Merci reassured her, kissing her forehead.
“This is…this is just too many sins at once.” Whitney flung both hands up, covering her face. “You’re married.”
Merci chuckled. “Something like that.” Whitney gently lifted Merci off her lap to sit beside her. The sun was almost gone now; the apartment was silent except for their breathing and the hum of the AC.
“It’s not just that. I can’t risk gaining one thing that I can’t even have and losing the rest. You told me all the shit you went through when you came out. I could never survive that.”
Merci grabbed her hands. “Things are different now. People are more accepting. You could give the folks that love you a chance to know you. The real you.”
“You just don’t get it,” Whitney’s shoulders slumped, her eyes welled with tears. How could Merci understand? Merci was okay with choosing this thing over everything, and she won in the end. What if it didn’t work out that way for Whitney? Merci could say this was a fling and stay married. Whitney’s mama could disown her. And then what would it all have been for?
“You want to live a lie forever?” Merci asked, lifting Whitney’s chin.
“Aren’t you?” Whitney scoffed, agitated at the accusation. Merci recoiled.
“Excuse…excuse me?” Merci stammered.
“You always thought you could fool everybody. But not me. The life you living isn’t you. Perched up here like some pretty bird - you aren’t doing anything you said you wanted to do. And now you’re about to do the same thing you cry about your wife doing,” Whitney fumed. The fear wrapped around her heart like an electric fence. She knew this couldn’t go forward, and there was only one way to stop it. This was the only way. Whitney had initiated the kiss. She wanted it. She still wanted it. But she could not want it.
She crossed her arms. “Sound like a lie to me. And living one lie ain’t better than another.”
“It’s not a lie. It’s not!” Merci got up, pacing the room. She snatched her shirt from the floor. Heat rose, and the room spun. As usual, Whitney saw right through her, but Merci was not ready to be seen, not like that. It stung like somebody throwing ice water on you in the middle of a deep sleep. Merci folded her arms, rattled.
“At least I don’t hide who I am. WHAT I am,” Merci shouted, unable to control it.
Whitney was up now, too, both hands shoved deep in her pockets. Merci was fuming now, and Whitney knew every button to push. She launched the final dagger.
“You sure about that?”
Every moment of the last three weeks evaporated. It sank like a lost city to the bottom of the ocean between them, leaving nothing but sore waves of reality in its wake. Silence. Then, the slam of the door ripped Whitney in half. She fell to her knees and cried alone in the apartment—not for Merci this time, but for herself.
To be continued...
Stay tuned - Part 5 is the last segment of this romance series.
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why did you do this to me