The Yearning of Distant Hearts
Pieces of myself have always hidden within the development of my characters. Hazel eyes…caramel complexion…my classic pixie cut…the balancing act of poise and grit…forever buried inside of them, and in my next novel, I use four best friends to candidly expose the matters of my heart.
The Yearning of Distant Hearts is a portrait of mistakes and fulfillment. It stands as an homage to three men who managed to linger in both heart and mind…altered me in my twenties. This body of work is a love letter to what could have been and reveals the depths of my insecurities, desires, strengths, and weaknesses as a lover and as a woman. Introducing my audience to Misa Maxwell, Essence Bellamy, Delilah McCoy, and Clarke Fairbanks, is pulling back the layers of who I was during different stages of my life…during three of my most profound relationships. Each of them embodying the fullness of love and war; how I’d been left with bruises and how I managed to bruise others. My character, Hassan Davis, is Misa’s greatest love and is a tribute to the men who made me pause…made me think…made me feel…made me yearn. Hassan is a tribute to the men who saw what a hot fucking mess I am and chose to stay…chose to love me anyway. My words for this summer romance novel are not rooted in regret nor resentment but simply hold space in reflection.
To all the men I’ve ever loved, I loved you the best I could for who I was then…
June
“…every day, for eight years, I prayed for the man I once knew…”
MISA MAXWELL
There is a peculiarity that rests within the makings of true love.
All those years ago, I found my purest form of existence within the depths of him, and together, he and I molded the inner makings of bliss and freedom, thrill and desire, but in the current happening, we sat across from one another completely unknown. A familiar passion nestled itself in the space between us. Time had changed who we once were…managed to rearrange the significance of our history, but our hearts were just the same…still longing, still yearning.
There is this profound strangeness that rests in the makings of true love which causes the heart to do odd things, caused me to do odd things. I had not seen him in seven years. I found myself unacquainted from the man who sat across the table from me, but every day, for seven years, I prayed for the man I once knew. Spent most of my time lost in the thought of him, wondering what type of woman I would’ve been had I continued to wait. Out of sight, out of mind had not cured me of him, had not cured me at all. My yearning only worsened in his absence. I searched for him on Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn, and never saw his name, never saw his face. He was untraceable, and yet, his presence was now the art of divine manifestation, and in me, there was this burning. All of our regrets made a mess of the white cloth that covered the table, guilt and resentment pulled up their own chairs, joining us. My heart raced, mouth went dry. I tried to conceal my feelings, but inside, I held this natural urge to taste his lips…curious to know if they felt the same. The urge was so intense that my hands shook as I raised a glass of water to my mouth in an attempt to soothe the fire growing in the center of me.
I vowed to myself that I would never talk to him again, but my summer assignment carried me back to who we once were. I was to spend my summer how I spent every summer before, in Maxwell Estates, a predominantly Black beach-town founded by my great-great-grandfather, Elgin Blake Maxwell. The estates were situated off the coast of Lake Sanchez, right outside the city of Rochester, and it held a strong history for being the top destination where Black wealth went to play from early June until late August. Year after year, Rochester’s elite gravitated towards the estates with my family’s name being the most prestigious and influential, of course. I was supposed to spend my summer sharing cocktails on the beach with friends, planning my engagement party, and interviewing the owner of Rochester’s hottest new nightclub, Samir Bennett, but Samir cancelled at the last minute and told my secretary that he would send an associate in his place, leaving me to sit across the table from my first love…my only love. I didn’t understand what was unfolding before me, and after all the years I spent searching, I never thought that I would find him in the estates for he didn’t belong there.
We were positioned at a lonely table tucked in the back of Sapphire, an upscale restaurant with an open layout which included floor to ceiling windows that provided warm and inviting views of the beach. The sun was beginning to set, its beauty reflected off the lake. Prying eyes hid behind designer shades as locals walked the pier, anxious to spread the word that Misa Maxwell was spotted on the beach with a man who was not her soon to be husband. I buried the thought in the back of my mind and admired the sand. All those years ago, he and I made love in that same sand…swim trunks and bikinis left by the shore as we kissed and touched from one end of the beach to the other. My nails clawed at his back as waves gently caressed our toes, flirted with our ankles underneath the summer moon…just before graduation…just before the weather began to change and carried him away.
He sat across from me and said nothing at all, but it was the way he carefully released every breath that let me know he was taking all of me in, admiring what he saw. His eyes studied the makings of my face, my sun-kissed tan, the curve of my breasts, my messy pixie cut, my engagement ring. He stared so intently at my engagement ring, carefully inspected it in a way that filled the depths of my soul with shame. Ashamed to be engaged. Ashamed of my fiancé. Ashamed to be creating a life with anyone but him. Ashamed of myself for not waiting. He stared at the ring with such deep disappointment, critiqued every carat in a way which caused me to remove my hands from the table and place them in my lap…hidden. His jaw tensed and the pain on his face mirrored our past. He continued to stare at the table where my hands once were for quite some time, only redirecting his attention once our waitress returned to take our orders. I ordered a Cobb salad while he ordered salmon, mixed greens, and a bottle of champagne.
His dark eyes asked if I remembered, but how could I forget?
All those years ago, we celebrated our younger victories with champagne. Back then, there wasn’t much time for sleep, we ran off of the very things that made life worth living…love, and creativity, and ambition, and dreams. We had these wild aspirations, and together, we built and created from the comfort of our cramped dorm rooms, popping bottles of expensive champagne all over Lunceford’s campus as we quickly made names for ourselves. I stole two bottles of champagne and crystal Baccarat flutes from my parents’ bar after he launched his first promotion company and successfully threw his first party during freshman year. I finished writing the final chapter of my first novel when we were sophomores, and he congratulated me by massaging an entire bottle into my skin before kissing…licking…sucking it off of me. I used the empty champagne bottles as flower vases and candle holders on the rare occasions we had time to sit down and eat dinner. They served as remnants of our successes, and together, he and I cherished them like trophies. I only trashed them after he had been gone for a year…only trashed them after I realized I had to move on without him. Our potential and aspirations were so deeply intertwined all those years ago, and now, I sat across from him more accomplished and refined than ever before, but still, there was an aching when the waitress returned with the champagne. We promised to grow together, but instead, we grew apart. That small truth made us failures in a way, made us failures in the midst of much individualized success. There was no need for champagne, there was nothing for us to celebrate which made a sadness linger over me.
I shifted my focus and reached into my bag, pulling out my phone and opening the voice memo app before placing it in the center of the table. I finally gathered my words and prepared to start the interview, but before I could part my lips to speak, he stopped the recording and locked eyes with me as he asked, “where did you go?”
His question had paralyzed my movements, took my breath away. His question forced me to remember the very things that I tried so desperately to pray away, but I had grown too prideful to grant him the access of seeing me weak. I disappeared within myself and allowed a coldness to cover me before saying, “I am here to conduct an interview with the owner of Club Agape, Samir Bennett. I am already at a loss because he could not make it here today, and unfortunately for me, he sent you on his behalf. Let’s try to stay on topic. How are you affiliated with Samir and the club?” My tone was harsh as I thought to myself, all you have to do is get through this interview and you’ll never have to see him again, but a gentle smirk appeared on his face, amused by my level of discomfort…amused by the falsehood of my brash demeanor. And now, it was me, taking all of him in. He sat across from me in a white linen dress shirt that melted into the darkness of his complexion, broad shoulders, strong shoulders that carried the heaviness of an unmoving confidence. His eyes were more mature, held more wisdom than the wild curiosity I once remembered. Ebony hair edged into the perfect low-cut fade to compliment his goatee. A moan dared to escape from me, but I replaced it with a deep sigh before I repeated myself.
“I heard you the first time, Misa.” Noone said my name the way he did…slowly…passionately…carefully holding on to every letter as if he missed them the moment they left his mouth. He sat back in his chair and held my gaze, finally allowing his soul to exhale.
“Where is Samir, and why did he send you?” I repositioned myself in my chair. “Are you his assistant?”
He cleared his throat which caused his smirk to fall as though I offended him. “Samir isn’t calling any shots, Misa. He works for me. Samir Bennett is nothing more than the face of Agape. He has an impressive following on social media which is something you and I both know I have never been a fan of. I hired him, not the other way around. I pay him to front, and in return, his followers show up to my nightclub.”
I couldn’t wrap my mind around his words, and again, my heart raced because he spoke with such certainty that I knew better than to question him, remembered that he hated for me to doubt him, but still, there was this confusion. All week, Samir Bennett and I met to discuss Club Agape and how he planned to take over Rochester’s nightlife. He invited me to the club a few hours before opening to show me the daily operations. He made me his favorite cocktail at the elaborate high-rise bar on the first level and introduced me to his staff. He went into great detail as he described the layout and design, knowing everything from the type of wood that was used for flooring to which luxury department store the tumblers and champagne flutes were shipped from. Samir had provided me with all the information that I needed for his feature only for me to discover that he did not own the club at all.
And then, my intuition settled. My chest tightened. Skin stung. “You set this up?” My question was lower than a whisper as I fought back unwelcomed tears…tears of frustration, tears of sadness…still yearning, but I held them in. The waitress returned with our entrees, stopping him before he could answer me, but the truth resided in his silence. “Why come looking for me now, after all this time?!” My poker face had fallen, mask was beginning to crack, and still, he sat there in complete silence, eyes admiring the mess I became in front of him. Focus on your job. Focus on your deadline. Don’t you dare allow this asshole to see you fold, those were my inner thoughts as I tried to gather what remained of myself, tried to catch the rhythm of my breath. “I have a deadline to meet, and if you aren’t going to give me the interview, I’ll let Garcelle know and she can conduct it herself.”
My assertiveness had annoyed him. His eyes darkened, jaw tightened. “You’ll get your interview after you answer my question.” He paused, and in that moment, I saw that his mask was also beginning to crack. His eyes wore a deepened hurt. “Where did you go? Why did you leave me like that, Misa? I told you, I was coming back for you, and you left me.”
On impulse, I rose from the table and grabbed my purse. I was beginning to unravel, but I remembered who I was, remembered my family’s name, remembered that eyes were always watching. There was always someone ready to report my movements back to my mother, and the remembrance stopped me from running as I gracefully slowed my pace and walked away from the dinner table. I took a few steps before I turned back around to face him once more. “Stay away from me, Hassan. Please, stay the fuck out of my life.”
And the tears escaped me the moment I turned away from him. Hassan called after me, chased after me, but I never turned around. I was running away from him, again. Our history painfully repeated itself. I no longer cared for maintaining the proper composure of a Maxwell and became a brokenhearted woman as my swift movements caused my Tory Burch mules to create a symphony on the marble floor. I ran out of the restaurant and rushed down the entrance steps as I dug into my purse for my valet ticket, and I could feel his eyes glaring down at me from the top of the staircase, his heart called out to me, but he was too timid to move closer. My heart called out to him, but I was too timid to look back. Neither of us wanted to cause more harm, but both of us, still yearning. The valet pulled my car to the front of the restaurant and I disappeared inside. A vintage Jaguar XK140 painted in sage green. A family heirloom that my father gifted me to celebrate moving on…to celebrate the courage it took for me to move forward in both my professional and personal life after Hassan disappeared.
I drove until I was miles away from Hassan. I drove until my tears had dried. I drove until my view of the beach shifted to buildings and city living. I drove until I was out of Maxwell Estates and back in Rochester, sitting outside of Adorn magazine’s office to meet with my boss, Garcelle Toussaint.