“Most of the house burned down way before the Civil War. This is all that’s left. The kitchen was on the ground floor. The kitchen slaves slept upstairs, came down to cook for their masters, and then went back upstairs at the end of the day. They hardly ever left the house.”
I look out the nearest window onto Foushee Street. The rest of the block was developed into apartments decades back, but nobody knocked this particular building down—this two-story testament to Richmond’s illustrious history. You can ignore it without trying too hard. There’s a stone engraved with the date 1797 near the entrance, hinting at the building’s past but never describing it outright. Tanner walked by without so much as a glance.
My eyes scan the dining room. Limited seating; ten tables, each occupied by posh patrons. All white. We’re the youngest customers by far. This place just opened so Tanner must’ve pulled a few strings to get us a res. He’s trying hard to impress me, but from the petrified look on his face I can tell he has no idea of the place’s heritage.
That’s Richmond for you. Everywhere you step, there’s another history lesson just under your feet. This whole city’s a graveyard. You’re standing on graves no matter where you go.
“Wow…I had no idea. Is that on the restaurant’s website or…?”
I decide to let him off the hook. “I’ve always been fascinated with Richmond’s history. I took a course in college and just kinda kept at it.” I’m not going to go into how enslaved cooks were a point of culinary pride for their masters, that the fried okra appetizer going for fifteen bucks, not to mention the rest of this overpriced menu, has its roots in the esculent traditions of the slaves who cooked for these Richmond dynasties.
“You’re a closeted historian? I should be taking notes, shouldn’t I?”
This isn’t the best blind date banter. I could simply tell Tanner I prefer not to be defined by my career, which is to say I’m currently in between jobs, gunning for a spot at a lauded advertising agency while spending the summer dicking around at my dad’s law firm as his most prized social media manager. But I’m not here to brag about my office accomplishments, am I?
“I’m a serial killer, actually.”
Tanner locks eyes with me as if this is the first time he sees me.
“Amara and I have this routine”—I continue to fuck with him, now that I have his undivided attention—“she selects rando guys she finds at these catering gigs and gets them stoned, then she’ll casually mention she’s got this friend who she thinks would make a great fit. Then I wine ’em and dine ’em, get them tipsy enough to lower their guard, lure them back to an undisclosed location where Amara waits, and we chop them into tiny pieces together.”
Tanner doesn’t blink. “That’s…not what I was expecting.”
“Trust me”—I lean in and whisper—“they never do.”
“So…” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “What do you do with the bodies?”
I’m warming up to this guy. “Disassemble them, of course. Dump them in the James.”
“Makes sense.” He smiles. It’s a nice smile, I’ll give him that. “But you can’t just dump them all in one place. You gotta, like, sprinkle them around a bit. Spread them out.”
Tanner has joined in the fun, ladies and gents. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
“Me? Nah…My brother was butchered by a pair of serial killers.”
“Oh no! I had no idea.”
“It’s all good. I’ve spent the last year tracking down his murderers. Avenging his death.”
“And you found me! This must be fate.”
He laughs. A genuine laugh. I see him for the first time, what he must’ve looked like as a child. “Meant to be, right?”
And there it is. It’s faint, but I can feel it now. A heartbeat. The ECG picks up the pulse, just the slightest blip on the monitor.
This date may not be so dead after all. “Okay,” I say. “You can live. For now.”
“Whew.”
My phone vibrates. I assume it’s Amara checking in. My ribs seize when I see it’s Silas. Not now. I flip my phone over and wade back into our conversation. “So. Ever been on a blind date before?”
“Not really. You?”
“No.” Richmond is small enough that one’s romantic past is public record. You have to leap out of your own social circle to meet someone who doesn’t play in a band with an ex.
“So why’d you come?” Tanner asks.
For the pulse. The quickening heartbeat. I’m bored with my taste in men and, at twenty-four, it’s high time I break free from my bad habits. I’m that fish crawling out from the primordial ooze of my past relationships, ready to shed these exes and walk on my own two feet. To breathe. I need to evolve out of my disastrous love life.
“Amara’s got a pretty good sixth sense for guys, so I trust her judgment,” I lie.
“How’s her sixth sense working tonight?”
“Reply hazy,” I say, doing my best Magic 8-Ball impression. “Ask again later.”
Tanner’s got his fair share of charm, but I’m not totally sold on a second date. I won’t ghost, though. I’m here to, as Amara pleaded, expand my horizons. I need to leave my comfort zone of scruffy drummers and embrace the unknown. No more guitarists. No more suburban revolutionaries in keffiyehs. I never would’ve agreed to a blind date if Amara hadn’t outright begged. She’s like a cat who brought me a dead bird, offering up its bleeding corpse in her mouth. Look, I caught you a tech bro!
“So.” Tanner clears his throat, snapping me back. “Amara says you’re a community organizer?”
That’s the best she could come up with? Jesus, I’m surprised he agreed to see me.
“In college,” I manage. “Not so much anymore. I used to do a lot of work with local nonprofits that focused on addressing prejudices within the university system—”
Tanner’s eyes cloud over.
“—helped coordinate the social media campaign for—”
I’m losing him again. He’s flatlining on me.
“Do you mind if we skip over the job talk? Even I’m getting bored listening to myself.”
Tanner comes back to life. “You wanna jump straight to the dirty laundry?”
“Yeah. Go for broke, right? Tell me something you’d never tell anyone on a first date.”
“Sounds too risky for my blood.”
“Come on. What’ve you got to lose?”
“Okay, you’re on.” Tanner’s being a good sport. “Ladies first.”
“How chivalrous.” It takes a moment to come up with something worthwhile. Something devastatingly honest. “Okay. Here we go. Ready?”
“Ready.”
“I was…” Deep breath. “A pageant girl.”
“Get out.”
“Little Miss Confederacy. I was a JonBenét Barbie, complete with the pastel cowgirl hat. Every yearbook picture of me looks like a Glamour Shots spread.” I cringe just thinking about it, but Tanner’s tickled.
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true!”
“I’m sorry, but I call bullshit.”
“Why would I lie?”
“I just can’t see it. Got any proof? I want photographic evidence.”
“Not on your life.” I don’t tell him I snapped every tiara I ever won on my tenth birthday. Mom discovered the pile of jewel-encrusted bones in the center of my bedroom. She still hasn’t forgiven me. All those rhinestone ribs. “That’s third date material, if you’re lucky.”
“Man, I had no idea I was on a date with Southern royalty.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.” I’m not going to let on that I’m a direct descendant of General Ambrose Powell Hill Jr. on my dad’s side. I’ve dated creepy guys who actually get off on that Civil War shit. This city is full of legacy gentility types. “Your turn.”
“How can I top that?”
“It’s impossible.”
“All right, I think I got something—”
My phone vibrates again. I flip it over and glance at the caller ID. Silas again.
“You want to answer that?”
“No.” I manage to smile. “Just a friend. Nothing important.”
“It’s no problem, really.”
“No, it’s fine.” I power down my cell and slip it in my purse. “So…what’s your secret?”
* * *
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