Missionary Position (17 page)

STUNNED, I SAT in silence with my mouth open, looking neither beautiful nor smart.

“Anita is your wife?”

“Ex-wife.” He stared at me. “Ex.”

Who were these super human, beautiful weirdos lying about their names and relations?

“Just to clarify, she’s never been your sister?”

He laughed. “No, never. Wife only. Now ex-wife.”

“How ex?”

“What do you mean?”

“How long have you been divorced?”

He glanced at the road, then back at me. “Four years, almost five.”

I silently did the math …

“We divorced when I was thirty.”

Thirty and divorced? “When did you get married?”

“Too young.”

I stared at him. “Fourteen? How young are we talking?”

“Twenty-two, the summer after I graduated Harvard.”

“That is young.”

He faced the road again when a truck moved into our lane.

“Why didn’t you tell me when we met?”

He frowned and looked over his shoulder to steer around the truck. “I don’t really know. Anita set it up by saying she was my sister, and because I figured we’d never see each other again, why contradict her.”

“But …”

“But …” He paused. “I like you …” Another pause. “Enough to stalk you to Ghana.”

“Stalked me to Ghana, had your way with me for a week, and still didn’t tell me the truth.”

“Remember when I told you some people think I’m a bastard?” He ran his hand over his neck.

“I do.”

“Well, it’s a pretty big club.”

“Club? Of ex-wives?”

“No, the Kai is a bastard club. Besides my father and sometimes Anita being members, there are probably others. I haven’t always been the best man.”

“Or comfortable with the truth.”

“That too.” He smiled shyly. “But I want to be truthful with you.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you.” He reached out to touch my leg. I didn’t move away. I had nowhere to move with my back against the door.

I stared out at the green rolling hills to the right. The occasional tin roof of a home or chop joint broke up the lush foliage. While I observed the scenery, I digested Kai’s revelation. Alongside the shoulder of the road, black plastic bags littered the ground, a reminder of the crap we leave in our wake—sometimes literal, but mostly figurative crap.

“Why did you call Anita your sister?”

“I didn’t.”

Revisiting our conversations, I tried to recall him ever saying his sister and couldn’t.

“Do you even have a sister?”

He shook his head.

“When I texted you saying I met your sister in JFK and calling you Gerhard, did you think I was crazy?”

He nodded. “A little. Like I said, I immediately texted Anita to find out what was up.”

“The code?”

“Right. We agreed you might think that it was weird my ex-wife was setting you up with me.”

I pinched my thumb and forefinger together. “A little.”

“We’re not one of those divorced couples who hate each other.”

“Apparently not. Unless setting you up with me was some sort of attempt at revenge.”

“Never. Anita is more of a sister to me, now.”

“You could be related. You’re both overly tall and blond, like giant Dutch Barbie and Ken.”

He chuckled. “Gee, thanks.” He glanced over at me again. “Are you mad?”

I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Honestly? A little. I’m confused more than anything.”

“A little I can work with.”

“First the name thing, now this.”

“We can blame Anita for both.”

I gave him a side-long look. “I’m sure it’s fine to throw your ex under the bus, but you never set me straight before. Why now?”

“Ama.”

“Ama? What does she have to do with all this?”

“At dinner the other night, when I announced I would be staying, she gave me the scary Ama speech.”

“After she hugged you?”

“And slapped my face? Yeah, then.”

“What did she say?” I chuckled thinking of Ama taking on Kai, all six foot something of him.

“She told me to do right by you and stop with the games.”

“She knows about Anita?”

He nodded.

“Yet she never told me either.” I frowned. Ama and I needed to have a little chat when we returned to Accra.

“I asked her not to. When I arrived, you told her my sister Anita introduced us, and when I didn’t correct you, she suspected something.”

“Why the sneakiness?”

“You’ve said several times you aren’t the marrying kind, and you don’t have the mothering gene.”

“And you are.”

“I was. Divorced, remember? I haven’t rushed to remarry.”

“I still don’t understand.” I shrugged.

“I didn’t mean to deceive you. I had no idea what to expect from you, from this trip. I don’t believe our pasts define us. You know me as the man I am now. Why complicate things with my history?”

“That makes sense. I guess.”

“I’m sure you have a few secrets and interesting stories in your past.”

I blinked at him. If he only knew.

“Now that I’ll be staying for a few months, it changes things.”

“It does?” I stared at him.

“For me it does. This isn’t only about sex. I didn’t come to Ghana to get laid. It’s never been about the sex.” He paused. “At least not for me.”

I let his words settle inside my brain, allowing them to dissolve against my skin. “What is
this
?”

“Dating?” he asked.

“Dating.” The word hung between us. “Okay.”

“You’re not mad?” He sounded relieved.

“I wouldn’t go that far. You’re like one of those Russian dolls.”

“How so?”

“You keep revealing new layers, new secrets.”

“Isn’t that the joy of dating? Getting to know someone?”

“I thought the joy of dating was having sex on a regular basis.”

“Maybe you weren’t doing it right.” His smug grin returned.

“Watch it, cocky. I’m still mad at you.”

“Let me make it up to you when we arrive at the hotel.” His hand moved up my thigh, leaving a trail of heat behind it.

Sex was easy. The everything else, when it came to Kai, made my head hurt. At home I avoided complications and history, never sticking around long enough to have to deal with someone else’s baggage, let alone my own.

KAI PULLED OFF the main road and parked along a dirt shoulder, promising food and an amazing view for lunch. I hoped the view came with booze. After his revelation, I needed a cocktail. And a cigarette. I clawed inside my purse for my gum, ruing the stupid idea of quitting smoking.

The restaurant sat perched on a low bluff overlooking a narrow cove where waves crashed against dark rocks. Beyond the shade of the thatched umbrella above our table, the sun beat down, water sprayed from each large wave cresting the rocks, and unseen birds squawked in the nearby palm trees.

A thousand thoughts flickered and fought for attention.

Ex-wife.

He ordered grilled fish and beers for us while I stared out at the ocean.

Kai had been married.

Of course a man like Kai would have been married. He probably wanted to be married again.

Our beers arrived and I sipped mine, still silent and stewing. The calming effects of nicotine from the gum slipped into my bloodstream.

Barely visible through the hazy air, an enormous white structure loomed above the water in the distance.

I gestured to the ghost building. “Is that Elmina Castle?” It did resemble a castle with its parapets and towers. However, beneath its whitewashed exterior lurked the ghosts of slavery’s horrible history.

Kai turned and squinted into the sun. “It is. Built by the Portuguese, but occupied by the Dutch for over two hundred years when this area was called the Gold Coast.”

Two hundred years of slave trade. Thinking about the enormity hurt my heart, yet looking around, life went on along the coast. Fishing boats bobbed in the water and crowded the shore; resorts lined the beach. Modern life surrounded the vestiges of past atrocities. Death, love, horror, sickness, birth, and happiness coexisted in this place as they did everywhere.

“Strange to think about the horrors of history while sitting in the sun, eating and drinking.” He frowned, his forehead furrowed.

“History is odd that way.” I gazed at the crashing waves.

“Odd how?”

“Buildings and places hold memories. We imbue them with human emotion and memory. A rock, a field, a building become vessels for our memories. The rock on a battlefield is no more special than a rock on a beach. It’s easier to hold onto something in the past when you can still see, taste, or smell the memories.”

He stared at me for a beat or two.

I continued, “The need for memorials, to mark, to say ‘this happened’ or ‘this person lived’ is as old as humans. We celebrate our triumphs and mourn our defeats and failures with physical reminders.”

“That’s true on personal levels.”

“Very much. It’s universal, from a ring to demonstrate your love to arches celebrating the dead no one living can remember.”

“The history still exists in stories and books, even if the physical evidence disappears,” he argued.

“True, but memories fade. We need tangible reminders—places to visit, to touch—in order to feel.”

“The same could be said for love.”

“Not a believer in absence making the heart grow fonder?” I asked.

“No, not really.” He lifted his sunglasses. “I think love can die from neglect. Not think, know.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“I don’t know how much you want, or need, to know about my past, about my life with Anita, or about my mistakes.” He waited for me to nod, then continued, “The short version? I’ve grown up a lot in the last five years.” He laughed. “That’s an understatement. In my teens and early twenties, I believed I could do no wrong. Anything I wanted, I had. Anyone I wanted, I had.”

That I could believe.

“I split my time between Europe and America, acting spoiled on two continents.”

“How many continents have you visited?”

“Six. You?”

“Five. I’m interrupting. Sorry, continue.”

“No, it’s okay. I love that you enjoy traveling.” He met my eyes. “Sure you want to hear this?”

I motioned for him to continue; he’d piqued my interest. I wanted to learn about Anita, and what went wrong.

“Anita’s parents were friends with mine, but we didn’t see each other often. I attended boarding school in the States.”

Boarding school? Holy rich boy.

“One summer during college while I was home for a month, Anita and I met again at a party. Turned out, she’d been going to Brown.”

Damn super humans with their super human smarts.

“We started dating. Everyone approved.”

“Approved?”

“Her parents, my parents.”

“Ah. The golden couple.”

I thought of my friends Ben and Jo. Despite fooling around with me freshman year, Ben was destined to marry someone like Jo. They were the perfect couple with the perfect life and perfect kids.

Kids.

Suddenly something Anita had said at JFK flashed in my mind.

A teen daughter.

“You have a daughter.”

KAI NEARLY CHOKED on his beer. “Anita told you about Cibele?”

“She told me she had a daughter, but not her name. I’m guessing that means you’re Cibele’s father?”

He gave me a tiny smile. “It does.”

I nodded, my ears ringing. My brain swam with beer, nicotine, and revelations.

Not only was Kai the marrying type, he was the daddy type.

Kai was a DILF.

Or in my case, a DIF.

I didn’t do kids. For the most part, they didn’t like me and I didn’t like them, especially the little ones. And babies? No way. Too much screaming and shit. Literal shit. Too many babies born the last two decades. When my friends had outgrown their baby-making phase, the gays started adopting. Or breeding. My best friend Quinn and his husband had a baby. Or surrogated a baby. I didn’t know the lingo. Lizzy had joined our motley family of friends and brought along non-stop regurgitation and pooping. And cuteness, I reluctantly admitted. She’d be much better in a few years. Or decades.

A teen daughter.

Kai had a daughter.