Delta Sigma Theta Secrets

Spring 1992.

Howard University. Six women, one line, infinite bonds.

We called ourselves "Six Degrees of Separation." We were inseparable for four years—through pledging, through graduation, through the early chaos of adult life.

Then life happened. Careers. Marriages. Children. Distance.

I haven't seen Denise in thirty years.

Until tonight.

The Crimson and Cream Gala is at the Willard.

I'm there representing the Atlanta chapter—Pamela Grant, fifty-three years old, chapter president, recently divorced, wearing red like my life depends on it.

And across the ballroom, in cream, looking like she hasn't aged a day—

Denise.

"Pamela Marie Grant."

Her voice is exactly the same. Low, melodic, with that Chicago edge she never lost.

"Denise Elaine Washington." I pull her into a hug. "Look at you."

"Look at you." She steps back, eyes traveling over me. "Thick and fine as ever."

"Girl, please. I've gained—"

"You've gained curves. Beautiful curves." Her gaze lingers in ways that make my stomach flip. "I've missed those curves."

We spend the gala catching up.

She's divorced too—three years now. Came out as bi to her ex-husband, to her children, to the chapter that initially didn't know what to do with her.

"Hardest thing I ever did," she admits. "But also the most freeing."

"I had no idea."

"I didn't either. Not really." Her hand covers mine on the table. "Took me fifty years to understand why my marriages never felt right."

"And now?"

"Now I know." Her eyes hold mine. "I've always known, I think. Since 1992."

My breath catches. "Denise..."

"Room 712," she says quietly. "After the gala. If you want to know what I mean."

I shouldn't go.

I'm not... I've never... I've been married twice, to men, and yes, Denise was always special, but that was sisterhood, wasn't it?

Wasn't it?

I knock on 712 at midnight.

She answers in a silk robe, crimson red.

"You came."

"I had to." I step inside. "I need to understand."

"Understand what?"

"Why I've been thinking about you for thirty years."

She closes the door.

Moves toward me slowly, giving me time to run if I need to.

I don't run.

"Spring of '92," she says. "The night before graduation. You fell asleep in my dorm room."

"I remember."

"I watched you sleep for an hour. Told myself it was sisterhood. Told myself the way my heart was breaking wasn't about what I thought it was."

"Denise..."

"I've been with women since my divorce." Her hand touches my face. "Good women. But none of them are you."

I kiss her.

First kiss with a woman. It should feel strange—it doesn't. It feels like exhaling after holding my breath for three decades.

"Pamela," she breathes against my mouth. "Are you sure?"

"No." I kiss her again. "But I need to know."

"Know what?"

"If you're the reason no one else ever felt right."

She undresses me like unwrapping a gift.

Slow. Reverent. Her hands trace my body with a tenderness I've never experienced from anyone—man or woman.

"Beautiful," she whispers. "I knew you would be."

"I've never—"

"I know." She lays me on the bed. "Let me show you."

Her mouth on me is revelation.

A woman knows a woman's body. Every stroke of her tongue is precise, purposeful, hitting spots my husbands never found. I'm gasping within minutes.

"Right there—oh God—Denise—"

"I've got you, soror." She slides two fingers inside, curling them. "I've always had you."

I come undone with her name on my lips.

"Your turn."

I'm nervous—fumbling—but she guides me. Shows me what she likes, where to touch, how to move. Her moans are my instruction.

"Yes—just like that—"

I discover I'm a quick learner.

By the time she comes, arching off the bed, calling my name—I understand what I've been missing my whole life.

"I love you," she says afterward.

We're tangled together, her head on my chest, crimson and cream all over the floor.

"I've loved you since 1992. Every day. Every marriage. Every year in between."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't have the words. Didn't have the courage." She lifts her head. "I have them now."

"Denise..."

"You don't have to say it back. Not yet. But tell me I'm not crazy. Tell me you feel this too."

I think about my life.

Two marriages that felt like performances. Decades of wondering why intimacy never satisfied me. The way I always gravitated toward women—their company, their confidence, their touch.

"You're not crazy," I finally say. "I think... I think I've been waiting for you to find me again."

"I found you." She kisses me softly. "I'm never losing you again."

The gala ends.

We stay in room 712 for three more days.

The Atlanta chapter is surprised when their president announces she's transferring to Chicago.

The Chicago chapter is surprised when two Sorors show up together at every event, wearing crimson and cream, fifty-three years old and glowing like newlyweds.

Some sisters whisper.

Most just smile.

"To six degrees of separation," Denise says on our one-year anniversary.

We're back at the Willard. Same ballroom. Same gala.

But now we're together.

"To finding your way home," I counter.

"To sisterhood," she grins. "In all its forms."

We drink.

We dance.

We go back to room 712.

Some bonds are deeper than friendship.

Some loves are worth waiting thirty years to claim.

Oo-oop.