HBCU Homecoming
"Dr. Patricia Williams returns to her alma mater for homecoming weekend, only to run into her college sweetheart—now the university president. Twenty years of what-ifs catch fire in his office."
Spelman is exactly how I remember it.
The brick buildings covered in ivy. The women walking with purpose, heads high, futures bright. The energy of homecoming pulsing through the whole campus like a heartbeat.
I graduated twenty-five years ago. Now I'm Dr. Patricia Williams, tenured professor at Columbia, author of three books, nationally recognized expert in African American studies.
And standing in this quad, I feel like an eighteen-year-old again.
"Patty?"
That voice. That goddamn voice.
I turn, and there he is.
James Monroe. Class of '99. My first love, my first everything. The man I almost married before ambition took us in different directions.
He's wearing a suit now, not the morehouse sweater I remember. Gray touches his temples, distinguished lines frame his eyes. And the nameplate on his lapel reads: President, Morehouse College.
"James," I manage. "I heard you'd taken over. Congratulations."
"Thank you. And look at you—Dr. Williams. I read your last book. Brilliant."
"You read it?"
"I've read everything you've published." His eyes meet mine—dark, warm, familiar. "I've been following your career for years."
We fall into step together, walking through the crowded campus.
Twenty-five years melt away. We talk about careers, about life. He's divorced—amicably, five years ago. I've never married, too focused on work.
"I always wondered about that," he admits. "You were the marrying kind."
"Was I?"
"You were the settling-down kind. The build-a-life kind. I thought for sure you'd have three kids and a house in the suburbs by now."
"I was supposed to have that with you," I say before I can stop myself.
He's quiet for a moment.
"I know," he says finally. "I think about that more than I should."
We end up at his office in Graves Hall.
It's after hours, campus quiet except for the distant thumping of bass from the alumni party. His office is spacious, walls covered with degrees and awards and photos of him with everyone from Obama to Oprah.
"Impressive," I say, looking around.
"It's just stuff." He pours us both bourbon from a crystal decanter. "The real impressive things... they got away."
"James..."
"I'm sorry." He hands me a glass. "We shouldn't do this. Not tonight. It's homecoming, you're here to see friends—"
"I came because I knew you'd be here."
The admission hangs between us.
"Patty..."
"Twenty-five years, James. Twenty-five years of reading each other's accomplishments in newsletters and pretending we don't care." I take a long sip of bourbon. "I never stopped caring."
"Neither did I." He sets down his glass. "Why do you think I never remarried? Why do you think every woman I met got compared to a standard they couldn't reach?"
"Because you're particular?"
"Because I compared them all to you."
He kisses me.
Not like the tentative boy I remember—like a man who knows what he wants and has learned patience. His hands cup my face, his mouth moving against mine with decades of suppressed longing.
"The door," I gasp.
"Already locked." He backs me toward his desk. "I've been prepared for this moment since I saw your name on the alumni list."
"You planned this?"
"I hoped." He lifts me onto the desk, stepping between my thighs. "There's a difference."
His hands find the zipper of my dress.
I'm not the girl he remembers. I've added pounds, curves, the evidence of years. But the way he looks at me when the dress falls...
"God," he breathes. "Even more beautiful."
"You're being kind."
"I'm being honest." His hands trace my body—the swell of my belly, the width of my hips, the heaviness of my breasts spilling from my bra. "You think I wanted skinny? You think I wanted sharp edges? I've spent twenty-five years wanting this."
He kneels before me.
"James—"
"Shh." He spreads my thighs, pulling my panties to the side. "Let me worship like I should have done twenty-five years ago."
His mouth finds me and I have to grip the desk to stay upright.
He remembers.
He remembers exactly what I like—soft pressure, patient rhythm. He remembers the spot on my inner thigh that makes me shiver. He remembers that I like to be teased before being devoured.
"Still know your body," he murmurs against me. "Even after all this time."
I come crying his name.
He doesn't stop—just keeps going, working me through it, pushing me toward another one. His fingers join his mouth, sliding inside me where no one has been in longer than I want to admit.
"So tight, Patty. You been taking care of yourself like this?"
"There hasn't—hasn't been anyone who mattered."
"Good." He curls his fingers and I see white. "Because from now on, there's only me."
He stands, and I see his hands move to his belt.
The same James, but not. Older, thicker, more powerful. When he frees himself, I inhale sharply.
"You've... grown."
He laughs—the same laugh from college, warm and real. "Some things improve with age."
"Show me."
He enters me slowly.
Not because he has to—because he's savoring it. Every inch, every gasp, every flutter of my body around his. By the time he's fully seated, we're both breathing hard.
"Twenty-five years," he says. "Twenty-five goddamn years."
"Don't make me wait anymore."
He doesn't.
His desk shakes with every thrust.
Papers scatter. A pen cup falls. Neither of us cares. He's gripping my hips, driving into me like he's trying to make up for lost time.
"Should have married you," he groans. "Should have followed you to New York."
"Should have asked you to stay," I counter. "Should have—oh god—"
"That's right. Feel that. Feel what we could have had every night."
I come again, clenching around him so hard he curses.
He flips me over.
Bends me over the desk where he signs important documents, where he shapes the future of young Black men.
"Always loved this ass," he says, palming it. "Dreamed about it for decades."
"Less dreaming, more doing."
He laughs and slides back inside.
The second round is harder, faster, filthier.
He tells me all the things he's imagined over the years. All the positions. All the locations. All the ways he's pictured me.
"Wanted to fuck you in Graves Hall since 1997," he admits, pounding into me. "Used to sit in these classrooms imagining exactly this."
"What—what else did you imagine?"
"Making you scream so loud the whole yard heard."
He reaches around, finds my clit, and gives me exactly what he promised.
We collapse together on his office floor.
The carpet is expensive, probably. My dress is somewhere across the room. His suit is ruined. Neither of us has the energy to move.
"Stay," he says into my hair.
"The night?"
"The year. The decade." He pulls me closer. "Columbia has good people. They'll survive without you."
"You can't be serious."
"I've never been more serious." He tilts my face up to his. "Twenty-five years, Patty. I'm not wasting another day."
I should think about it.
My job, my apartment, my life in New York. All the practical reasons this is insane.
But I look at this man—this beautiful, brilliant, Black man who built an empire but still wanted me—and I know what my answer is.
"I'll need an office," I say.
"You can share mine." He grins. "I hear we work well together."
Homecoming ends Sunday.
By then, I've already emailed my department chair, contacted a moving company, and broken the lease on my New York apartment.
Some might call it impulsive.
I call it twenty-five years overdue.
The alumni newsletter six months later will announce two things:
Dr. Patricia Williams joining Spelman's faculty as the new Chair of African American Studies.
And the engagement of Morehouse President James Monroe to his college sweetheart.
Some loves never die.
They just take the scenic route home.