20James Maddin was the man of Amara's dreams. Throughout high school she was picky about who she went on dates with, always holding out for the "perfect" man. Her friends would tell her she aimed too high, and that no such man existed. But Amara insisted that she would find him. She hadn't dated anyone since she started college, and was on the verge of giving up on finding exactly what she wanted when she met him.
Amara had met James during her junior year at Columbia. He was a senior at NYU and was in a jazz band. She and Stasi had gone to a jazz club where Spoken, James' band had a weekly gig.
Amara sat at the bar listening to Stasi complain about one of her drawing classes when a voice broke through all the commotion in the club. It was sweet, yet piercing, almost as if it was searching her soul, like it knew her soul. Amara lifted up her hand to silence Stasi mid-sentence as she craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the voice. She had to know who it belonged to.
And there he was – sitting on a stool behind a piano, crooning a tune that Amara was sure had been written just for her. She was drawn to him.
The rest of the night she stayed in a dream-like state, soaking in every word of every song that he sang. The harmonies the group created where insanely beautiful, the rhythms mesmerizing, and the improvisations absolutely amazing. Amara had studied enough music in high school and college to recognize talent. And James obviously had talent.
They stayed the whole night, even though Stasi had long gotten bored and was ready to go home. And they were back the next week. And the week after. And so it went for two weeks until one night, in between sets, James walked up to the bar where they sat and ordered a drink.
"Can I get you ladies something?" his speaking voice was as smooth and sexy as his singing one. Amara could only stare, her mouth beginning to hang open. "I'll take that as a no?" James said, smiling sheepishly.
"You'll have to excuse my friend," Stasi said before she gave Amara a sharp kick. "She's not used to handsome young men offering to buy us drinks."
Amara snapped out of her ecstasy and gave James a weak smile. She lifted her drink, a Shirley Temple, to show that it was full. It was moments like these that made her glad for her dark, chocolate skin. Her embarrassment was easily hidden.
James proceeded to order himself a glass of water. Alcohol dried out his voice, he quickly explained, afraid he might come off as a loser. Neither of the girls cared since they didn't drink themselves. Instead they often ordered non-alcoholic drink with fancy names. A name like "Shirley Temple," "After Midnight," or "Barefoot and Pregnant" seemed to make up for the lack of liquor even though neither Amara nor Stasi really cared. It was somehow just fun to pretend.
So every Thursday, Amara and Stasi would sit at the bar and listen to Spoken work the stage. And every Thursday, in between sets, James would join them, drinking water and sharing himself with them. He was obviously interested in Amara, and Stasi began to bring Jonathan on these formerly girls' nights to not feel like the third wheel.
He was a music major at NYU. Focus on jazz improvisation. A born New Yorker, he dreamed of fame and fortune, but still wanted to remain true to his unique musical style. Although he had gotten offers from various labels, James said he'd only move forward if he could do it with his band.
"I wouldn't be here without them," he said. Most of their lyrics came from poetry he and some of the other band performed at spoken word competitions and things like that, hence their name. "They are my best friends and where I go, they must go too."
He liked that Amara was a writer. Or wanted to be one anyway. Two writers are perfect for each other, he'd croon into her ear. He'd slip lines of poetry to her before he would get back on stage. He'd dedicated new songs to "the pretty girl at the bar." And while every girl within the bar's radius would scream with excitement, Amara knew he was talking about her. He even had her sing with him as a guest performer one night.
It continued like this all throughout the fall semester. Their relationship remained bound to the jazz club. But Amara was sure she had found him. James was the one. There was this urgent and powerful appeal about him and Amara found herself drawn to him.
He was beautiful. His hair was a curly black afro, which Amara longed to run her hands through. It gave him a boyish look as it was always slightly ruffled. His lips were thick and luscious – ever so kissable, although Amara was yet to kiss them. She loved to simply look at them and wonder what they would feel like. They were so structured and so full. Behind his lips was a winning smile. Even with a chip on a front tooth, it was captivating. A little mischievous, a little adorable. His forehead was always slightly furrowed; the series of wrinkles increasing when he was deep in thought.
What drew Amara the most was his voice. Whether he was singing or speaking, it enthralled her. She hung onto every word that came from his lips and was disappointed when he stopped. Not that often he did. Most of the time he spoke about himself; he rarely asked Amara about herself unless necessary. She took his self-indulgence as complete openness and the fact that he held nothing back from her, made her fall for him even more.
Stasi didn't like him. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something just didn't feel right. Why did they only meet him at the club? Why did he seem so conceited and self-absorbed? And why, when others came around, did he treat them like mere acquaintances and not people he has spend every Thursday night for the past 4 months with?
She didn't say anything though. Amara was happy and as long as she didn't get hurt, Stasi swore she would put aside any negative feelings she felt toward James and try to see the good her friend saw in him. Maybe she was simply being overprotective.
In the spring, James began to extend his and Amara's relationship beyond the tiny jazz club. His band had begun to play at other locations and he often invited her to come with them. Although he visited her a couple of times at Columbia, Amara made more trips to NYU, bearing care packages and other little tokens of her love. She was in heaven. At least until the summer when Spoken decided to go on tour.
While the other band members asked their girlfriends or current flings along with them, James seemed adamant that she stayed and enjoy her summer without him.
"Being on the road will get tiring," he said. "You won't like it. And I'll be practicing or performing most of the time, we won't have much time to ourselves."
He promised to send a postcard from every city they went to as well as e-mails everyday. "And I'll call you every free moment I have," he had promised. And so she sent him off to have fun touring the 50 states.
The postcards arrived during the first week. They were from Pennsylvania, Maryland and Washington – not too far, although for Amara it felt like he was in another country. He never wrote much. Usually along the lines of: I'm enjoying the city, hope you like the postcard. Be here for 3 days. Miss you. They seemed to get shorter and shorter with each postcard he sent. After the second week, they stopped coming all together.
The phone calls grew shorter and shorter as each day passed. Soon they were skipping days and sometimes weeks. And although she e-mailed him everyday, he almost never responded. Amara tried to rationalize it all, telling herself he was simply busy.
"James, are you just too busy to be in a relationship?" she asked him when they finally spoke near the end of the summer. Their last conversation had been nearly a month ago.
"Babe, you know things have been crazy up here," he said. He sounded irritated and slightly distracted. "Um, look, I got to go. I'll see you in about two weeks."
He hung up before she could say goodbye.
In two week, when she met up with him the night he came back from tour, he broke up with her. He said something about her being too needy and not giving him the space to work as freely as he needed.
"Besides," he said as she struggled to hold back her tears, "I've graduated and moving to bigger places. You'll only hold me back."
She had fallen so hard for him so hard, but instead of being caught in his arms for all eternity, she had been left to hit the ground. She stood before him, the tears she fought to hide, tumbling down her cheeks, gasps escaping her.
He shifted uncomfortably before reaching out and pulling him toward her.
"Look, I'm sorry," he said. "I like you and all, but I don't need this right now." He sounded a little disgusted by her tears. Amara pulled herself away from him. She would not allow him to mock her or feel pity for her.
She walked out of his life then, never looking back. And although she saw him occasionally from a distance or heard about him from some mutual friends, she had had no contact with him in a year.
Until now.
Now, he stood before her, watching her cautiously as if unsure if he made the right choice by approaching her.
"What are you doing here?" she repeated. Her voice had lost its shock and had gained an icy stone monotone.
"I came to see you," he said. "I mean, I wanted to talk to you …." His voice trailed off as Mr. and Mrs. Abbah returned with the remaining gifts and Daniel pulled up with the van.
James exchanged greetings with Stasi's parents and offered to help them load the van. Amara watched, remaining where she stood. Where does he get the audacity to show up here?, she thought. It's been a year. Hasn't he moved on? Haven't I?
By the quickened beating of her heart, Amara knew that she hadn't. She had thought of James often since he broke up her with. All the pain, confusion, and love returned each time she saw him or heard about him. Each time she thought she had moved on, he seemed to float into her life seamlessly, bringing back every feeling she had for him. And here he was again, in the flesh, coming to torment her.
"Oh, there is still not enough room!" Mrs. Abbah's voice broke into Amara's reverie. The van was full and there was still a small pile of presents left. "What are we supposed to do with these ones, eh?"
"I could put them in my car," James offered. Amara shot his a searing look. "I'm in no rush."
"Oh, you are such a nice boy!" Mrs. Abbah beamed at him. She turned to Amara and said, "Daniel and your friend can follow you to the house. Mr. Abbah and I will stay here to finish handling some things. We'll follow in a while."
Before Amara could protest, both adults had walked back into the reception hall. She turned to face James.
"Just hurry up and get your car." She climbed into Stasi's car and placed her head on the steering wheel. It was all she could do to keep herself from crying.
It was a perfect day! Why did he have to show up and ruin it? And what exactly did he want?