The Reunion Pt. 01

The Reunion

Chapter 1

Manhattan

I had picked this particular coffee shop because I knew it would be mostly empty at this time of day. Of the dozen tables in the place, only mine was occupied. When you went up to the counter to order you had whistle, or cough or do something to attract the attention of the teen barista who was, by now, completely checked out of her job and deep into her phone.

I didn't know what to expect, and the anonymity of a mostly empty café was appealing. It seemed more intimate, somehow, you know, just me, my friend if that's what she was, and a pimply teenager.

Was she a friend? More? I didn't know, which accounted for my fidgety anxiety. Logically, she was probably no more than a friend, since I hadn't seen her now in more than thirty years. But there was a certain chemistry between Sydney and me that I somehow didn't think would be gone. We had never been lovers, but the spark had been there. Would it be there still?

We had been friends first, all those years ago when we'd gone to community college together. We each had our own girlfriend/boyfriend. But we spent lots of time together and we touched each other far more often than "just friends" could account for. There was this undercurrent, this thing between us. She had joked to me once that someday, when we were old and gray, we'd come back together somehow and spend the rest of our lives together.

I was going gray now. I wondered if she'd remember the joke.

We had toiled together all those years ago publishing a college newspaper. Late nights tracking down sources, getting the story straight, doing the writing, the production, answering the phone and even driving the pasted-up flats to the printer, usually in the wee hours. I was learning my craft, and the lessons I learned there remain with me still. I was the hard news guy, chasing the misdeeds of an administration more interested in building their resumes, it seemed, than providing a good experience for the school's two thousand students. She was the culture reporter -- music, art, theater were her bailiwick, but we often pitched in to help each other out. I remember feeling awe at her encyclopedic knowledge of the arts, how, after just the first couple of bars of any song, she could effortlessly name the band, the lead singer, the album it came from, when it came out.

We were so different, in so many ways. She came upstate from New York City -- the Bronx, specifically - for her first two years of college, to get away from the grime and take in the fresh air. I was a country boy, born and raised. I was at the community college because my father had died and financially this was my only option.

I remember telling her about my dad's death, my grief still fresh in those days, my emotion raw. I looked over at her as I finished relating the story and saw a tear rolling down her cheek, glistening in the dim light of the college's student union, turning her brown skin black. She reached out and took my hand that day, squeezing it and holding it.

Our color was another of those differences between us. I was the palest of white boys, she was the darkest person I had ever really known, yet it never seemed to matter. We were utterly in-tune with each other, finished each other's sentences, laughed at the same jokes, shared outrage over the same injustices. People often mistook us for a couple and when they said as much, it evoked this awkward explanation. "Well, no, we're just friends, sort of ..."

We were so tight, so simpatico, that in our second year when I was editor and she was our number two, I heard mutterings from the other staff, who saw us as an impenetrable pair excluding everyone else. We never meant to exclude people but when we were together we saw only each other.

Our two years together was over too soon. We'd had a painful goodbye, certain that we'd never see each other again. I was heading off to University hundreds of miles away and she was as well, hundreds of miles in the opposite direction. There were no cell phones, no free long distance calling in those days. The reality was that we'd probably lose touch. It was an awful recognition evoking a feeling that was very much like grief.

For our parting we'd met at the newspaper office -- I mean, where else? -- but once there decided it was too crowded. I grabbed her hand and we went to a nearby mostly unused stairwell -- a place we'd gone to dozens of times to have conversations we didn't want overheard. I'd bought her a parting gift -- maybe just a little self-centered --a box of stationery with my new address penned inside the lid of the box. She'd gotten me an expensive silver ball point pen which I had carried in my pocket every day since. We laughed . Together they were a pair, a little like us, an unmatched set. I came determined to finally tell her how I felt. I tried to say as much, but my voice caught a little and I stumbled over the words and as I did, my emotion came pouring out like a flood. She held me, and eventually we'd kissed for the first time, long and slow and sweet, mouths open, the passion and heat denied for two years spilling out.

"Syd, I.. I..." I said, unable to get the words out.

"Shh... Steven, it's okay."

"But... I need to tell you..."

"Silly boy. You think I don't know? I love you too, Steven. Always have. Always will."

I often wonder why we didn't seize the day. Why didn't we scrap our plans and act on our love? But then I remember this was 1986, the idea of me bringing a black woman home to my family was, frankly, unthinkable. It would have meant the end of my relationships with my family. My mother would have forbidden me to bring her home, which would be the same thing as banishing me. My sister had married a Catholic, and that nearly caused a rift. There was always this chilly silence at the Thanksgiving table after the blessing, when he made the sign of the cross. A black girl at that table was unthinkable, if not for me, then certainly for the rest of my family; no matter how much I loved her. I guess I wasn't brave enough to take that step. And for her part, Sydney never suggested we do that either. I could only speculate about the kinds of pressures on her from her family.

Whatever the reasons, after we'd kissed and held each other, we'd somehow pulled ourselves apart. I got to my car in the parking lot and watched my perfect mate walk out of my life forever. Until today.

It's not that we hadn't communicated since. She was good to her word and wrote me semi-regularly over the first couple of years. We even talked on the phone a couple of times. But my career took off and I had little time for a personal life. I was a journalist, starting at a small town daily where I received an enormous break as the town I was covering turned out to be sitting on top of a horrific toxic waste dump. I covered the story relentlessly, earning many insults and a handful of death threats from the legion of employees desperately worried about their jobs. But I'd won a Pulitzer prize for those stories, and it had catapulted me out of the small town and into the life of big city dailies. It was a few years later when I'd been dispatched as the London correspondent for a major daily that we lost touch. When I came home three years later, her phone number had changed and my letters came back to me as "addressee unknown."

But then, twenty-odd years later, I wrote a book. Not my first, but this one was hugely successful -- a bestseller that had uncovered a major scandal that was now rocking the White House. Suddenly, I was the darling of Washington talk shows. My book adorned the shop windows of virtually every bookstore in America. Eventually she'd seen my photo on the back cover and made the connection. To avoid the nutjobs, my publisher had taken pains to keep my address secret. But she was undeterred. Rebuffed by the publisher, she showed up at the offices of my agent in New York City, where she lived, and argued and cajoled and eventually got him to agree to send me her name and address and phone. When I got her info, I'd called her immediately, and we'd talked, but both of us were on the run at that moment, so we agreed to meet when I came to town a week later for a book signing.

I'd spent much of the week going through the monotony of book signings in city after city, every spare moment lost in thought about Sydney. I was doing the same just now, sitting in that empty coffee shop, nominally looking at my phone and wondering how she'd changed, more than just a little nervous at the prospect of meeting her again.

"Steven?"

I snapped out of my reverie to find her there in the flesh, the woman I'd dreamt of so many times.

"Sydney."

I stood and we looked at each other a little awkwardly for a moment, but she grabbed me and hugged me fiercely, finally holding me at arm's length, examining my face closely.

"I told you."

"Told me what?"

"That we'd be together someday when we're old and gray." Then she laughed, a trill so delightfully like her younger self that any awkwardness between us vanished.

Chapter Two

Manhattan

I prodded the teenager behind the counter to make a chai latte for Syd, then rejoined her at the table.

"So, where have you been all my life," she said, turning the tired old line into a joke, with a million watt smile and a short chirp of a laugh.

"I was thinking the same thing," I said. "Why did we ever let so many years go by?"

"I don't know. Busy. Careers, I guess."

"So tell me about yourself."

"What do you want to know?"

"Well, what do you do for a living? Married? Children?"

"Well, I'm Curator of Pop Culture at MoMA."

I whistled. "I'm impressed. Perfect job for you."

She smiled. "I love it, it's a great fit. I'm divorced. We have two great kids -- one is at the College of William and Mary and the other is off the payroll... Working in Washington for a congressman. How about you?"

"Never married. No kids. Just work all the time."

"How come?"

"I don't know. It just never happened. I never found the right one. I've had a couple of serious relationships, but it never worked out. One girl told me she was tired of playing second fiddle to my career."

"Was she? Second fiddle, I mean."

"If I'm being honest, yes, she was. I was more passionate about the job than I ever was about her. I was closer to marrying her, probably, than I was anyone. I even looked at rings once. But I couldn't shake the feeling that I was compromising."

"Compromising? How?"

I smiled. There was no time like the present to be honest with her. "I kept comparing how I felt about her to the way I had felt about you, all those years ago. She came up short."

This whole time Syd had been holding my hand. She lifted it to her lips and kissed it.

"How about you? Why the divorce?"

"It's a long sad story."

I looked at my watch. "I've got time."

"I got married because my family expected me to. My dad's idea of a perfect daughter was one who married a guy with great prospects. Jeffrey was a banker, and in those days there weren't a lot of black bankers. He had prospects in abundance. Then we had kids and I stayed with him for their sake. Until Tonya, she's our youngest, went to college. Then, I just couldn't stand coming home every night to a man who rarely looked up from what he was reading."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm happier than I've been in years. All that time I feared being alone and it's not as bad as I thought it would be."

"Was he okay with the divorce?"

"No, but he didn't care enough about me to put up much of a fuss. I think he was mostly disappointed that he wouldn't have anyone to cook or clean for him."

"That's harsh."

"I know. If I'm being honest, there wasn't much passion from my side either. When we met at the lawyer's office to sign the final papers, he said 'I was never enough for you, was I Syd?' And he was right. All throughout our marriage, I knew something was missing."

"It's an awful feeling, isn't it? Knowing that you've screwed up what should be the most important thing in your life? I've felt that way for as long as I can remember. No matter what success I had, I never really had anyone to share it with. I've won three Pulitzer prizes and each time after the newsroom party I went home alone."

"I followed you career."

"You did?"

She smiled. "Yeah. I read about the Pulitzers. I was in Washington on business after the last one. When was that, 2014?"

I nodded.

"I almost picked up the phone and called you."

"Why didn't you?"

She shrugged. "I was a married woman. I was afraid of what would happen if we got together again."

"Like what?"

She looked at her cup for just a moment, before looking up and locking eyes with me.

"I was afraid I'd fall in love with you again. I couldn't let that happen." She looked at her cup again, then looked up and smile. "I see now I was right to be concerned."

"So why did you reach out to me this time?"

She smiled. "I'm not married anymore. It's okay to be in love with you again."

Her words caught me by surprise and for a moment and I didn't know what to say. I wasn't surprised that she felt that way, not really. I was more surprised that we were talking about it so openly. But that was always the way it was with Syd and me.

"I have to tell you Syd. I don't think there's ever been a time when I haven't been in love with you."

She leaned into me, until I could smell her perfume, our faces mere inches apart.

"I was hoping you'd say something like that."

Then she kissed me.

I was suddenly very grateful that I'd picked an empty café.

We decided to walk the 20 or so blocks from the café near Central Park South, to Times Square, where I had a signing at the Barnes & Noble at 7 p.m. We had plenty of time, so our walk turned into more of a saunter, as we talked about our lives and the years we'd missed with each other. She told me about her kids, and her pride was evident. She talked about her job and the challenges, how she spent most of her time raising money for new exhibits. I talked about my assignments, about the harrowing experiences I'd had in the line of fire. How I'd actually been taken hostage once by Shi'ite militants in Iraq, only to be mysteriously let go hours later. About our mercurial president and my uneven relationship with him.

We had walked holding hands, then my arm snaked around her and pulled her close. What did people think, I wondered, when they saw us, a middle-aged white guy and a middle-aged black woman, walking together down Broadway? Nothing, probably. It wasn't 1986 anymore.

When we reached the bookstore, Sydney offered to come in and wait while I signed books, but I couldn't be that cruel. "Honestly, if I'm bored, what would it be like for you?"

"How about a late dinner when I'm done."

"I'd love that."

"You pick the place. You're a local."

"I know just the place." She pulled out her phone and texted me an address in Brooklyn.

"I'll see you there. What do you think? About 9:30?"

"Probably. I hope that's not too late for you."

"After 30 years, I think I can wait a couple more hours. Text me when you get there."

It was more like 9:40 when the Uber pulled up in front of a brownstone on a quiet residential street in Brooklyn. I checked and rechecked the address, but it was right so I got out of the car and texted Sydney.

"I'll buzz you in. Apt. 1."

The door buzzed and I pushed in and saw the door to apartment 1 open just a crack. I knocked tentatively and heard her voice.

"Come in!" she shouted. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be right out."

Her apartment was gorgeous, all modern furniture on gleaming tiled floors. I loosened my necktie and laid my suit jacket over the back of her sofa and took in my surroundings. I saw photos of two beautiful young black women -- I assumed they were her daughters -- on a credenza opposite the sofa. On the walls -- what else -- but modern art. At one end of the living room, occupying a wall all its own was a giant modern abstract canvas. I did a doubletake, because it looked like an original, from a well-known artist. I didn't know much about art, but I had an idea what a canvas like this might go for.

I was studying it when Syd came up behind me and put her arms around me.

"The artist is a friend of mine. Technically it's on loan."

"It's spectacular," I said, then turned to her. I was stunned.

She was wearing a burgundy colored silk robe that came half way down her thighs and, apparently, nothing else. She was grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

She kissed me, long, slow, passionate, building. My hands started at her back, and slid down 'til I could grab her ass, which I did, then slipped my hands under the hem of her robe to confirm that she was indeed wearing nothing else.

"This is not what I was expecting," I said as we came up for air.

"I decided that I've waited my whole adult life to make love to you and I'm not waiting a moment longer." She took me by the hand and led me to her bedroom, where she slipped the robe off her shoulders and began to undo my necktie, then the buttons on my shirt. As she reached the bottom button, she pushed it back and it slid off my shoulders. She kissed my chest and I went to grab her arms when I realized that my cuffs were still buttoned and my shirt had me tied up in knots. She chuckled and turned to unbutton each in turn, then wrapped her arms around me again, each of us reveling in the feel of skin on skin.

It was my turn to hold her at arm's length, and admire her trim and toned body.

"I'm an old woman," she said self-consciously. "I wish you'd seen me when I was 19."

"Sydney, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on." I kissed her again and allowed my hands to explore her body, starting with her breasts and sliding down, I cupped her sex with my right hand, allowing my middle finger to slide through her wetness, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath from Sydney.

Sydney's hand went to my belt buckle and started working it awkwardly. I kicked my shoes off and took charge of the belt removal and as soon as I had, Sydney pushed down my suit pants and boxers, dropping to her knees and grabbing my cock with one hand and my balls with the other.

"I've wanted to do this for so long," she said, looking up at me with a radiant smile before taking me fully in her mouth. The sharp intake of breath now was mine, and she only kept me in her mouth for a few moments before dropping lower and taking my balls in her mouth one at a time. She went back to my cock and was attacking it so aggressively that I knew I wouldn't last long. I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her upright, then led her to the bed and pushed her down onto it.

"My turn."

I kissed her breasts and first licked, then sucked on her nipples, one then the other and began to kiss my way down her body, stopping at her navel and licking it, a surprisingly erogenous zone. When I got to her pussy, I started by teasing her, licking everywhere but. Then slowly I licked the edges of her mons, working my way up to finally sliding my tongue through the slit, from bottom to top. I sucked each labia into my mouth, moving my mouth up and down as I did so finally culminating in paying attention to her clit, drawing it into my mouth, alternately sucking on then licking it, driving Syd wild. Her first orgasm hit her like a ton of bricks, coursing through her. I watched her belly ripple from the powerful contractions of the orgasm and I lifted my face from between her legs and watched as her whole body was absorbed by pleasure. As it was fading she grabbed my shoulders and pulled me up to her where she kissed me passionately, then rolled me over on my back, and took me inside her.