Claire said, “Normal is a low bar, sweetheart.”
Sarah smiled anyway. “He’s kind. He texts me when he gets home. He remembers I hate grape. He’s steady.”
Richard nodded the way men nod when they are filing a name and not yet agreeing to it. “What does he do?”
“Deliveries. And he’s going to college in the fall.”
“Where?”
“He’s figuring the money out.”
That was not the whole truth, and it was not a lie. Marcus had told her Georgia Tech was the plan. He had told her he had applications, aid, a path. He had not asked her to carry the finest details into her father’s living room for him. Some facts, she thought, ought to arrive in a person’s own voice. She did not yet know how expensive that preference would be.
On the evening that mattered she dressed the way she meant to be seen. Long chestnut-brown hair in a trendy layered blowout with soft waves. Blue-gray eyes. Shaped brows. Subtle mascara, soft blush, glossy pink-nude lips. A fitted cropped cream cardigan over a black camisole. A pleated dark mini skirt. Sheer tights. Ankle boots. Small silver hoop earrings. The delicate necklace Claire had given her at sixteen. She had tried on a longer skirt and taken it off. She was not bringing Marcus home to apologize in advance.
They had met in January at a Saturday rec league on a court with one dead bulb. Sarah was there because a friend had dragged her. Marcus was there because he played when the routes allowed it. He was tall even among people who were tall, lean and athletic, deep brown skin, dark-brown eyes, a defined jaw, a clean youthful face with only the lightest beard coming in. His hair was neat shoulder-length black locs with a clean low taper at the sides and hairline. He passed her the ball once when her own teammate did not.
“You were open,” he said, and did not make a speech about it.
After the game she thanked him for not letting her be decoration. He laughed a short real laugh. “You made the layup. I just threw it.”