Christina giggles. “Okay. Fine,” she says, settling down. “But, Azere, if you really want a man, you gotta stop letting your mom set you up. She’s a terrible matchmaker. Maybe it’s time you pass the baton to me.” She grins widely, exposing the gap between her two front teeth. “I’ll set you up. With my cousin. Leo.”
“Hmm. Leo.” I consider the name. “From your father’s side of the family?”
When she nods, I shake my head.
“Chris, I only date Nigerians. You know that.”
“Yeah. And how’s that been working for you?”
I say nothing, and she eyes me.
“Mm-hmm. Exactly. Now, let me set you up with Leo. He’s a great guy, and he’s super cute. He looks like a young John Travolta with a hint of an older Robert Downey Jr.”
“I’m having a hard time envisioning that combination.”
“No need to. You can meet him in person. You two could work out. And if you’re wondering, a Nigerian woman and an Italian man can make a pretty cute kid. Check it out.” She waves her hands over her body like she’s a displayed prize on The Price Is Right. “I’m proof.”
I smile and nod in agreement. Christina is a beautiful woman. The mixture of black and white in her DNA adds an undertone of russet to her beige skin and a delicate kink to the brunette locks that puff out and coil past the length of her neck. We interned at Xander together—right out of university. The first time I saw her, attempting to balance a stack of files on her arms, I noticed her eyes. They were wide and frantic, a stunning hazel hue that complemented the ginger-colored freckles on her cheeks. I took half the load off her arms, and the next day, she thanked me with a latte. We became inseparable soon after, having lunch together every day, ranting about our boss, and bonding over our shared Edo heritage.
Christina, unlike me, was born in Canada. I became a citizen at twelve, shortly after immigrating.
Canadian. It’s a title that is both empowering and demanding as it requires me to give up portions of my Nigerian culture so I can fit into my Western setting. And I’ve been doing that for years—compromising, losing bits and pieces of my original identity in an attempt to reinvent myself. However, the one thing I can’t compromise on is the ethnicity of my future husband.
“So,” Christina says, “should I give Leo a call and tell him someone special wants to meet him?”
“Absolutely not.”
“What?” Her thin lips shrink then turn downward. “Why not?”
“Chris, you’ve known me for years. You know what I want.”
“Yeah. You want to marry an Edo man and have his babies. Sounds good. But what makes you think life is gonna turn out just as you expect?” She scoffs. “It hardly ever does, Azere. Maybe it’s time you become a little flexible, open up to new possibilities— let go of the life you’ve planned and accept the life that’s waiting for you. I’m just saying.” She shrugs and struts out of the kitchen, her heels clicking and clacking against the ceramic floor.
Let go of the life you’ve planned and accept the life that’s waiting for you.
For a moment, I wonder what that would be like. If I hypothetically let go of the life I have always envisioned, the life I have meticulously planned, what else would there be? What else would be waiting for me?
chapter
3
Rafael Castellano
Sweat gathers at the root of my hair and drips down my forehead. According to the watch on my wrist, I ran six miles—six miles that did nothing to relieve the stress of being newly employed at a company where my one-night stand coincidentally works. The shock and disbelief of seeing Azere quickly turned to elation and relief. Though, she didn’t share the sentiments.
The private elevator slides open, revealing my spacious, two-story penthouse. I step out, walk to the kitchen, and grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator. I guzzle down the chilled drink, knowing I’ll soon be interrupted by the quick pitter-patter of small feet. Right on cue, the interruption arrives. The toy fox terrier hastens toward me, his tongue hanging out of his open mouth and his tail wagging at an incredible speed. He stops at my feet and barks, demanding my attention.
“Hey, Milo,” I say, crouching down to pet him. “Did you miss me?”
He licks my hand, his way of answering.
“Missed you too, buddy. Did you enjoy your walk with Jenny? Were you a good boy?” He usually is. As I rub a spot under his chin, I recall getting him two years ago. He was exactly what I needed, someone other than myself to take care of. Unfortunately, we haven’t spent much time together lately. I’ve been occupied with moving back to Toronto. Now, with my new role at Xander, I’ll be occupied with trying to prove myself and impress higher-ranking colleagues who already expect so much from me. The pressure to succeed is higher than ever. To make matters worse, I haven’t been able to focus entirely on my new tasks. I’ve been thinking about her a lot.
Azere.
Today, while sending emails and taking phone calls, I found myself periodically looking straight ahead at where she sat in the office directly across mine, holding her gaze in the brief moments our eyes connected. The image of her in my arms—naked and spent—came to mind throughout the day.
It comes to mind now.
I still recall the details of that night—not just the pleasure derived from touching her and being touched by her, but the hint of emotion that sprouted out of my guarded heart like a plant through the ground. Being with her—laughing, talking, touching—was the first time in three years I felt something other than utter bleakness. It’s still a mystery how she managed to do that—reacquaint me with my old self, a man who was unburdened and easygoing. Azere did all that in one night, and then she was gone. The only evidence of our encounter was in my mind, and sometimes, I found myself questioning if I had imagined it all. And then today, I saw her—flesh and blood, muffin crumbs dusted on the corner of her lips, and eyes wide with surprise. It was as if our meeting again was the contrivance of some unseen immensity—God, angels, something. Now, she wants me to stay away from her. Fulfilling that request will require mustering a colossal amount of willpower.
“Come on, Milo.” I stand and walk through the open-concept space, stopping at a shelf in the living room. “How about some music?” I sort through the collection of records, choose one, and place it on a vintage record player. Seconds after dropping the tonearm, traditional Spanish folk music projects through the copper horn.
The music reminds me of the many summers my family spent with my grandmother in Spain. If I listen closely enough—beyond the combination of the guitar, the bandurria, and the castanets—I can hear my feisty grandmother singing along, her voice rising and falling with the same theatrical flair as the singer on the record. I can hear my siblings chuckling as we link hands and attempt to perform the sardana. My parents’ voices are also audible—my father passionately negotiating with business associates and my mother talking and laughing with her sisters. The effervescent music and the familiar chaos fills the empty, quiet spaces in the penthouse; with it, the constant ache of loneliness lessens.