"Some habits are hard to break." The easy smile my silent complement brought onto his mouth slipped a bit, but Isaac kept watching me, eyes alert as though he wanted me to understand some deeper meaning.
"You know that's not something that's expected here … "
The smile left him then and he glared a little at my gentle admonition. "Here?"
"In. D.C. This isn't … you're not in Georgia anymore, Isaac." I moved my chin toward him, hoping I wasn't crossing any lines. He knew who he was and where he'd come from. The habit was a hard one, it seemed, since I'd been asking him to call me "just" Riley for over two months.
"Hmmm." It was an odd little noise, something strange and quiet that seemed to come from his throat without his permission. It was all the agreement I thought I might get.
"I just mean, around here, that's not how … "
"It's not?" He sat back then, leaning an arm behind him on the empty chair at his side, seeming to want to put some space between us. It had taken all my skills to get him to sit next to me, even at the same table. Isaac was big on how things would look, no matter that I was helping him with his admissions application to Lincoln University. No matter that it was nearly ten at night and aside from his friend Lenny, we were the only ones left in the library. He'd still been skittish.
"No." I turned in my seat, facing him. "Of course not."
Isaac wasn't like other men I knew, aside from my Dad and brother Ryan. Most boys my age thought it was perfectly reasonable to talk down to me, as though a little simplification was required because I had breasts. Isaac wasn't like that. He didn't try to simplify anything for me, especially what he thought. He treated me like an equal. "Well, why don't you tell me all about it."
But lord above he was fiercely stubborn.
"Are we going to have the same debate again?"
"Maybe we are, Miss Riley. Maybe it's a good plan seeing as how you don't seem to get that you and me, we're different." I opened my mouth, the regular argument tickling the tip of my tongue but Isaac cut me off with a shake of his head and the flick of his hand. "And before you start in on the same mess about your daddy being a civil rights lawyer and how you and your whole family have gone to marches and sponsored black students and how that somehow makes things all level like, I'll remind you again that while that's mighty generous and much appreciated, it still don't mean that the whole world, even here in D.C., sees things the way you do."
"I realize that. I'm not simple, you know." I hated the petulant sound of my voice, how Isaac's assertions were likely correct even if I didn't want them to be.
"I know you're not. You're a sight more … " There was a lull in his voice, something that brought my attention to the way he held his breath, how he seemed to think on what he said, picking his words carefully. "Well. You got smarts, Miss Riley. I know that sure enough."
"And so do you, Mr. Isaac." He liked that, I saw it in the way the smile came back onto his face and how gentle that expression was.
Isaac was beautiful. There was no other way to describe him. He was tall, taller than even my Dad who stood well beyond six feet. Isaac, though, was broader, with the shoulders of an athlete and hands that were large, fingers slender and big knuckles that made three of his fingers slightly crooked. I suspected this was why he always popped his knuckles and stretched out his fingers after he'd worked for more than an hour on his application essay. Thinking of it reminded me of the first few times we'd met, how just a half hour of writing long hand had made a heavy line dent between his eyes. It had hurt him to struggle so, but was too proud to mention it.
"How's your hand? You've been writing a while."
"I'll survive." To demonstrate he picked up the pencil, twirling it between his fingers like it was nothing. "Fit as a fiddle."
I didn't buy it. Dad had spent a good part of his childhood down South too, and the stories he told of how black and impoverished white kids were treated, gave me nightmares. There were frequent beatings in front of the entire class, many meted out to left-handed students who were being forced to write with their right hands. I was pretty sure Dad had been one of those kids and I suspected Isaac had dealt with a similar issue.
"My … my dad still has problems because of the awful school teachers in the South when he was a kid." Isaac stopped twirling the pencil and sat up straighter, like he was gearing up for another round of me acting like I had any idea what his life had been like. "Not saying I understand anything about your past, but Dad still does these exercises to stretch the ligaments and bones in his hands. I thought they might help you." He kept watching me closely, a doubtful expression on his face that I wasn't quite sure how to read. I shrugged, pulling the pages of note paper together as though it didn't matter to me at all if he wanted to go on hurting without at least trying to release some of the pain.