They started meeting on the beach in the evenings when the light was low and the water was calm. Walking, mostly talking. The conversations went deeper each time, the way conversations do when two people have decided without discussing it to be honest with each other. She told him about the company she had left behind in San Francisco, about a business partner who had taken credit for 2 years of her work and a management structure that had tacitly allowed it because it was easier than confronting what it meant. About leaving not in anger but in something worse a profound exhaustion with pretending any of it was fine.
He told her about the first year after Diane, about the well-meaning people who had looked at him and seen first a black man, then a grieving man, then a single father in that order, and rarely a human being who might need something simple and uncomplicated, like for someone to ask how he actually was and then listen to the answer. People would come over, he said one evening, walking along the shoreline and bring food and say how strong I was. Every single person said it. You're so strong, Marcus. I don't know how you do it, Marcus.
He paused. And I knew they meant it kindly. But after the 40th time, you hear it. You start to wonder if people are calling you strong because they're impressed or because it lets them off the hook. Because if you're strong, they don't have to sit with you in the hard parts.
You've already solved the problem of yourself. Clare was quiet for a moment. That's one of the most honest things I've ever heard anyone say. Probably shouldn't have said it. Why?
It's true. It sounds like complaining. It sounds like a person who has been isolated by a narrative that was never his. She said that's different from complaining. He thought about that for a long time.
You do that, he said eventually. Do what? Say the exact right thing and make it sound like common sense. I say obvious things clearly, she said. People mistake it for wisdom.
Maybe that is wisdom. She was quiet. I've been thinking about what you said about people letting you solve the problem of yourself. She glanced over at him. I do that too in a different way.
I walk into rooms and I read them immediately. I always know exactly what version of myself to present, exactly what to say to keep things smooth and professional and fine. I've done it for so long, I'm not always sure which version is the original. What do you mean? I mean, she stopped walking.
He stopped, too. She was looking out at the water. I mean that I moved here because I needed to find out if there was still a person in here who existed outside of being useful, outside of being competent and professional and composed. She turned to look at him and most days I'm still not sure. You're sure enough to say it?
He said that's something. Barely. Barely is enough. She looked at him and for a moment the careful composure dropped away completely. And what he saw underneath it was something he recognized, not grief.