Page 168 of Score
“I call it arealvacation,” Verity interjects. “In the summer, schools, businesses, don’t operate on normal hours. You might see folks swimming at two in the morning, doing yardwork in the middle of the night. No set schedule.”
“We’ve been working so much,” I add. “I can’t wait to leave my watch on a bridge somewhere.”
“Congrats on your show, Verity, by the way,” Charlie says. “When do the first episodes drop?”
“February.” Verity releases a long breath. “I’ll be promoting the heck out of it and back in production for season two before you know it. That’s why this trip is so needed.”
“Nobody can accuse y’all of not resting,” Charlie says. “’Cause you travel every chance you get.”
We do travel whenever we’re not working. Our schedules are so demanding. I’m scoring another movie now, not one that requires me to be on set or as involved asDessi Bluedid, but a huge undertaking. Verity is just as busy. Last year we did Christmas in St. Barts because we were both exhausted and needed to be somewhere else.
Leaving America from time to time feels like self-care for Black folks.
“What else they gon’ do with no kids?” Shrieva teases. “Though looks like you got the magic touch, Verity. I could see you with one of your own.”
Shrieva nods to where Kelsey has fallen asleep on Verity’s shoulder. Verity’s smile freezes and falls. I can’t read her expression. She pats Kelsey’s back lightly and presses her face into the toddler’s rounded cheek.
“You okay?” I ask, low enough for only Verity to hear.
“Yeah. I’m good.”
I make a note to ask her again later. Sometimes I think I’m as tuned into Verity’s moods as she is. I’m no expert, but I’ve learned a lot about bipolar disorder over the last two years we’ve been together. I never want to suffocate her with my concern, but we share every aspect of our lives, including the vigilance it requires to keep her healthy and stable. Good sleep hygiene, daily yoga, and meditation. She stays in contact with her therapist and psychiatrist, of course, but I joined a support group for people whose partners have bipolar. We check in with Dr. Palmer occasionally as a couple, too.
“Hope I didn’t miss the cake!” says my father from the front door. “I heard we got a birthday girl to celebrate.”
A big, brightly wrapped box is tucked under his arm, which I’m guessing is a hat. My mother may not be anybody’s first lady anymore, but you’d have to pry elaborately designed hats from her cold, dead hands. That one is probably for Easter.
“Now you know you didn’t have to do that, Wright.” Even still, as she says it, there’s an eager light in Mama’s eyes when she takes the gift and sets it on the table with the others.
My father is around more than he has been in a long time, especially since Ray passed. He was here for Thanksgiving and Christmas. All his kids and grandchildren are here, so it’s convenient to come to Mama’s for family celebrations and holidays, but he’s not just here for us. He’s here for Mama. They have an interesting dynamic. It’s not romantic, but they’re good friends who care deeply about each other. Who know each other. It’s a different kind of forever. The marriage certificate is long abandoned, but this connection—the friendship they found a way to restore even after my father’s betrayal—has endured.
And that’s what Verity and I have. A different kind of forever. Not the one I originally envisioned when I was a kid, with the bride in a white dress and the ceremony, my dad officiating and all the trappings culture wraps forever in. Our love is stripped of all those things, but so rich and so true and so real. I’ve seen Verity at her lowest, and she’s seen me at mine. I don’t need vows about sickness and health to know I won’t leave her. Our love goes beyond being of able body or mind. Till death do us part? That’s what it will take to separate us. If one day Verity decides she wants marriage and a wedding, we can do that, but I can truly say I don’t need it. Sheisthe fairy tale. There’s no happy ending without her.
If this love is our song, it’s the deep cut of human emotions. Not that thing everyone thinks they know, assumes about what it is to be committed, but the lovingly worn groove of how it feels tostay. To stick when it would be so easy to slip. I have to believe it’s rare because if everyone had this, the world would be better. We would care more. We would lend more grace. So I’m convinced this—what we have—happens once in a lifetime… if you’re lucky.
Later after we’ve eaten ourselves into food comas, and the kids break out Taboo and video games, I look around, ready to taunt my girl into playing a hand of cards. I walk from room to room, but don’t spot her anywhere.
“You seen Verity?” I ask Shrieva, who is in the den with a sleeping Kelsey on her lap.
“She was in the kitchen helping Mama clean.” Shrieva gives me a shrewd look. “You better keep that one.”
Brows lifted, I lean my shoulder against the doorjamb. “Nomake an honest woman out of heror chastising us for shacking up?”
“We all find our way.” Shrieva pats Kelsey’s little back and twists her lips ruefully. “I always knew you wouldn’t be settling down at Hope to direct the choir or nothing like that. It was clear you had a different path. A great one, but different. I think it took all of us some time to understand, but we’re proud of you. And, yes, you do whatever you gotta do to keep Verity.”
“I used to think she was the worst thing that ever happened to me,” I say, the memory of years without her making my chest ache. “But she’s the best.”
“And considering you just won an Oscar forDessi Blue,” Shrieva chuckles, “and are one statue away from an EGOT, that’s saying something.”
Our film racked up lots of nominations during awards season. Though we didn’t win the Oscar for Best Picture, the accolades were overwhelming, and the name Dessi Blue was on everyone’s lips.
As it always should have been. As she deserved.
People make a big deal of the EGOT, which, for the record, I hope to ultimately achieve, but being with Verity these last two years has made me realize how much more she means to me than all the acclaim.
“I’mma go find my girl,” I tell Shrieva, stepping farther into the room to kiss her cheek and Kelsey’s sweat-damp hair. “Love you.”
“Love you, big brother.”
