Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
CHAPTER TWELVE
niomi
TWO YEARS LATER
“He’s gonna be unbearable.”
I chuckle at Celine’s comment, but keep my eyes fixed on her father onstage accepting an honorary doctorate here at Finley College. It’s graduation on a clear May morning, and we’re seated on the very field where I graduated. Where Celine walked two years ago. So much has happened since then. For one, she’s now a producer for a talk show based in New York. We love having her so close, though we know it may not last. She has so many offers that could take her far away. Her father would be the last one to clip her wings.
“He’ll probably make us call him Dr. Wallace,” I whisper back to her.
That actually would sound sexy in bed. My heart trips a little at the prospect of trying it out as soon as we get home. We aren’t staying overnight, but are flying back to New York. I took tomorrow off, a rare day away from the morning show, but I knew I’d be exhausted. And I’m craving time with Touré. His book tour has been grueling, but better Kansas than Kabul. I’m just glad to have him home for a few days.
Two years ago I could not have imagined that home would be a place I shared with Touré Wallace, but he fit right in at my apartment. Now it feels empty when he’s not there.
“This is such an honor,” Touré says, looking handsome and distinguished in his black cap and gown. “This place means so much to me. It took being away to really understand how much I missed it. I’ve been on tour for my second book. Some of you may recall that my first book was titled Elsewhere. That book was largely about all the places I had been in my career as a journalist up to that point. That title was apt because my existence was practically nomadic as my job took me all over the world from one assignment to the next. I was never home. My sense of restlessness kept me from stopping to appreciate what I was missing.”
He finds Celine and me sitting on the front row and smiles, his eyes sober and loving.
“To stop and appreciate what I have. Who I have. I won’t make that mistake again. This new book is called Coming Home. Only you know what and where home is for you. One of the places that has always felt like home to me is this one. I didn’t even get to walk for my graduation all those years ago. My diploma came to me in Paris through the mail. I was a brand new graduate and a brand new father.”
His gaze lingers on Celine and if you didn’t know him well, you’d miss the telling emotion that tightens his fingers on the podium and clenches the muscle along his jaw. But I do know him, and I know what it means to him that Celine is here.
“Today the staff and faculty have honored me with this doctorate.” He grins wickedly and grips the mic, bringing his mouth closer and making his voice louder. “This means my girlfriend has to call me Dr. Wallace.”
“Told you,” I mutter to Celine, shaking my head and chuckling because I know him so well.
“Since I’m getting a redo on my graduation,” he continues. “I thought you might indulge me a few minutes to do something else I wanted to do when I was a student here at Finley, but missed out on. I’ve recruited some friends to help me.”
What the actual . .
My heart sprints and skips beats while I wait along with everyone else.
He points to the back, to the empty field beyond the chairs set up for graduation, and I’m confused when I see Janelle at the tunnel entrance where the football team would usually run out onto the field. With an impish grin, she salutes Touré and then blows a whistle. Finley’s band, dressed in full uniform, march out jamming, playing one of their staple tunes as they move into position on the field. They sound amazing, and the audience starts cheering and clapping and stomping like it’s a homecoming game instead of a graduation. Once everyone is in place, the song stops, and in that breath between one song and the next, I glance at the stage only to find Touré gone. I barely have time to wonder about his whereabouts when the band starts a rendition of “Whenever Wherever Whatever.” My brain is lagging behind, but my heart knows something the rest of me doesn’t because it starts hammering to get out.
The Finley Prancers glide through the drumline and the horn section, sashaying past the clarinets and flutes. Their gold foil leotards make them glimmer like stars in broad daylight. Once their long-legged strides bring them to stand in front of the band, one by one, they flip over a large poster board. I read the signs, my mind not processing what’s written on the cards or who the message is for.