March 15th, 2019
When Darnell picked me up around six, I was standing in front of my house in a turtleneck and jeans, debating whether it was too late to call the whole thing off. I was thinking, when he pulled into the driveway, You know he won't have a good time, and neither will you.
My heart trembled in my chest as I watched him get out of his car. He walked towards me with a grin on his face and a bouquet of dandelions in his hands. He wore a cardigan over a t-shirt and a pair of jeans.
"Nia," he said, as he handed me the bouquet. "You look nice."
"You don't look too bad yourself," I said, smiling. "Thank you for the flowers. Let me just—." I fumbled awkwardly with the bouquet and reached into my pocket to retrieve my keys. I opened the front door, set the bouquet on the end table in the entryway, and closed and locked the door behind me again.
When I turned around, Darnell was still there, still grinning. "Shall we?" He held out his arm, and I took it.
The twenty or so step walk to the car seemed much longer as I held onto him, not listening as he told me our plans for the evening. My mind was in his car, thinking up all the things that could be in the glove compartment, on the floor mats, under the floor mats.
What if I saw something? How would I get out of it?
Darnell unhooked our arms when we stopped at the car. He opened the passenger door for me. "...good seafood," he was saying, but all I heard was, What's on the floor what's on the floor watch your FEET you might have to run—.
I leaned into the car and examined the carpet, the mats, the center console, the steering wheel. I saw that there was nothing to worry about, and I relaxed. I released a long, shaky breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
"Did I pass the inspection?"
My eyes widened. I looked at him and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, I..." I trailed off. I wasn't going to tell him the truth, but I didn't want to lie to him, either. I wanted to try something different this time.
"You have a thing?" He offered. He sounded sincere, like he wanted to understand. Like someone else I know.
"Yes." I nodded. "I have a thing."
"Okay," he said, and he gestured into the car. "Whenever you're ready."
I got into the car, and he closed the door behind me. I already had my seatbelt on when he got in on the driver's side and started the car.
"I think I'll get the shrimp remoulade," he said.
He turned on the radio. Big Pun's "Still Not a Player" was playing.
"Hm?"
He glanced over at me and laughed. "You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"
I shook my head and laughed, too. "No"
He backed out of the driveway and drove onto the street. "You know, I'm starting to think you don't like me as much as I thought you did."
"You're right. I just don't want to pay to watch Waiting to Exhale," I teased.
He grabbed his chest and feigned hurt. "Ouch. You really know how to hurt a guy, Nia James."
I shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a player."
I turned the radio up, and we sang along.
We spent the 20-minute drive to the studio laughing and singing. We talked about our childhoods, our families, our careers. We discovered that we both have connections to New Orleans. I had been born and raised there. Darnell was from Baltimore, but he had moved to New Orleans for college.
"I went to Dillard," he said, as we pulled into the parking lot of the strip mall where the studio was located.
"I went to Xavier," I said. "I guess that means this date is over." Our schools have been rivals for decades.
"It's too late. We're already here." He gestured to the storefront across the street. The sign above the door read, in big purple and green neon letters, D.C.'s Sip-n-Paint.
We were the first people to arrive.
The artist, a young woman named D.C., took down our names and handed us blue aprons to wear over our clothes. We put them on and went to sit at a pair of easels in the middle of the studio. When the other participants began to filter in, a waitress started going around and asking everyone for their drink orders. I ordered a bottle of water; Darnell ordered a soda.
It's safe to assume we were the only people who were completely sober when D.C. welcomed everyone and invited us to shout out themes for tonight's paintings. The other people shouted everything from elephants to the national deficit. Darnell turned to me and whispered something in my ear. He raised his hand, and when D.C. called on him, he said, "Why don't we paint our favorite Bushisms?"
A chorus of half-drunken groans answered him.
"You two can do that," D.C. said, motioning between us.
Darnell looked at me and shrugged. "I'm cool with that."
I grinned. "Me too."
An hour and a half later, I was standing at the front of the room, holding up my canvas. On it, I had painted Texas and Tennessee. At least, I'd tried to; Texas was a rectangle with a dozen jagged edges all around it, and I had somehow managed to make Tennessee look like a cow, but the intent was there. The Bushism was, ""There's an old saying in Tennessee—I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee—that says, 'Fool me once, shame on...shame on you. Fool me—you can't get fooled again.'" I didn't remember all of that when I told everyone what it was, but what I did remember was the place and date of the quote: "Said in Nashville, Tennessee. 2002."
There was spattered clapping throughout the room. I nearly tripped over myself getting back to my seat. I heard Darnell laughing next to me, and I also heard D.C. asking for the next volunteer. I lifted Darnell's arm into the air. "He'll go!"
Darnell got up and went to stand where I'd stood with my disfigured states only moments before. He waved his canvas around the room like he was holding up a prize card on a game show. "Any takers?"
I hate to admit it, but he was a much better painter than I was. His fish looked like fish. His stick people, even though they had square faces and round chins, looked like people. I raised my hand.
"Ah—yes, the pretty woman with the afro."
I rolled my eyes. "It's 'I know the human being and fish can coexist peacefully.'"
"Correct!" He turned to the other participants and explained, "President Bush said this while he was discussing dams and their impact on fish in Saginaw, Michigan. 2000." He thanked his audience for their obligatory applause and came back to where we were sitting.
We stayed until every else had gone up and shown their paintings. Some of them were doing things I didn't like; some of them had painted things I didn't like. I was uncomfortable, and I wanted to leave, but I didn't say anything because I didn't want to embarrass myself. And Darnell, for his part, was a very good distraction.
After we left the studio, we had dinner at Leufroy's, a seafood restaurant in Cleveland Park. We sat out on the balcony and felt the cold wind on our faces while we talked and ate. Darnell had the shrimp remoulade; I had the crawfish bisque.
While we were waiting for the check, sitting quietly under the moonlight, peering down at the busy street below, Darnell looked over at me and said, "I had a great time tonight."
I smiled. "I did, too."
He started to smile back, but it faded as quickly as it had appeared. "Yeah, well, I've been thinking. We can't...happen while the campaign is still going on."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that, no matter what you say, I know Senator Harris is entering the race."
"I didn't—."
"—say anything, I know. But you don't have to." He smiled sadly. "I know for myself that within the next month, or maybe even the next week, my candidate and your candidate will be running against each other. And this—." He motioned between us. "—would only complicate things for the both of us."
I sat there and watched him for a moment, just imagining the possibilities. What if we said screw it and kept this going, anyways? How long could it last? When would it all fall apart? Because it would; I was sure of it. As much as I like Darnell, I know that if we ever have a time, it can't be now. He's right – we'll both be senior staffers on major campaigns in the coming months, and the campaign trail is nowhere to build a lasting relationship. We'd never have time to see each other without the stress and anxiety of supporting a presidential candidate weighing down on us. Not to mention, I wouldn't have time to explain my OCD to him, and he wouldn't have time to understand it. Still, as I sat there looking at him, I found myself thinking, if only, if only...
"You're right," I said, finally. "I don't know what the senator's planning to do, but in any event, I think we should just let tonight be tonight."
"And?" he prompted.
"And?"
He grinned. "This is the part where you say, 'we can still be friends.'"
"You hear that a lot, don't you?"
"Whatever helps you sleep tonight."
Darnell dropped me off at my house at half past ten. He walked me to the front door and handed me his painting as a parting gift. "You can tell people you painted this instead of cow-Texas."
"Cow-Tennessee," I corrected.
He rolled his eyes. "Whatever."
I opened the door and set the paintings underneath the end table where the flowers were. Then, I pulled the door behind me and turned back to Darnell. He was holding his hand out for me to shake, a marker of our new relationship.
I shook his hand. "Good night, Darnell."
"Good night, Nia James. See you on the campaign trail."
I started to protest, but he held his finger over his lips. "Shh. May the best woman win." With that, he turned around and walked back to his car. I went inside and picked up the flowers he'd given me earlier in the evening. I'd just found a vase for them when I heard his car pull off, and I smiled to myself.