by Tina Martin
“If it’s too much—”
“It’s a lot,” I tell him. I try to focus on talking and not crying. “My mother had a stroke. She—never recovered from it. My dad was heartbroken. The doctors say he died from a broken heart. Three days after she passed, he was gone. I buried them together. That’s the only thing that gives me peace—that they’re together.”
“I’m sorry that happened to them.”
“What about you and your parents?”
“My folks wrote me off a long time ago.”
“Why?”
“They wanted me to take the money my grandfather left me to invest in the family business, but I’d already had dreams of opening my business.”
“The media company?”
“Yeah. Now, look at me. My business has tanked, and theirs has gone under, too. Had I given them the money, I could’ve saved the family business, you know. I just didn’t believe in it.”
“What was the business?”
“Laundromats. We used to own a chain of them, but I wasn’t interested in that industry. Laundry businesses are antiquated.”
“No, they’re not. It’s a much-needed service, especially for those people who can’t afford a washer or dryer in their homes.”
“I guess. I wasn’t thinking along those lines back then, though, so I didn’t want to put any money into it.”
“So, they lost the business?”
“Yeah.”
“Gee—that’s a tough situation to be in.”
“Tell me about it…”
“Is the relationship with your folks damaged to the point where you don’t speak anymore?”
“It is, and how would it look for me to go to them asking for help when I didn’t help them when they needed help? I can see the door being slammed in my face right now.”
“Yeah. I can imagine that wouldn’t go over too well, but at least your parents are still alive. Circumstances may not be ideal, but you still have an opportunity to make amends before it’s too late. I wish I could talk to my mom and dad.”
“They were good to you?”
“They were. They were older and more mature when they had me. I didn’t have the kind of parents I had to grow up with if that makes sense. They were full-grown, levelheaded people who made sure I had the best life I could have. And I did. I had everything I needed. They were loving and supported me in everything. I miss them a lot.”
He nods.
“I didn’t tell you that to make you feel guilty, but life is short. Sometimes, those second chances don’t come back around.”
“I’ll remember that.”
I get up, tell him he’s welcome to more food if he wants it.
“No. I’m stuffed. This was plenty. Thank you.”
“Okay, but don’t leave yet. Stay right there.”
I go to the bathroom to get a comb and scissors. When I’m back, I loop my index finger and thumb into the scissors and open them repeatedly.
Cain says, “What do you think you’re going to do with those?”
“With your permission, I would like to trim your beard a lil’ bit.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. You look surprised, or is that a look of fear?”
He chuckles. “I’m not scared. I just don’t know why you want to trim my beard?”
“Because it looks like a wild bird’s nest. That’s why.”
“Ouch,” he says with laughter.
I’m laughing just as hard as he is.
“It’s fine. You can trim it if you want. What I was really trying to ask is why you wanted to touch me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why don’t you treat me like everybody else treats me?”
“And how’s that?”
“Come on, Ahmalee—you know what I mean. When I was on the streets, people looked at me like I was the scum of the earth—but you know what? What does it matter? If you want to trim my beard, by all means, trim away.”
“Are you sure?” I ask with raised brows.
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
He scoots away from the table. I step in front of him, standing between his long, opened legs. He’s so tall that even while he’s sitting, we’re almost eye to eye. I touch his face. He closes his eyes. I imagine he hasn’t been touched in a very long time.
My fingers get caught in his kinky beard. I love the texture of his hair, but some of it is matted from improper care and grooming. I know his story. I’m not trippin’. I just want to make it better.
I carefully comb the hair in sections and trim a little at a time. I cut off all the matted pieces, then I do a final comb through before evening it all up.
“Oh, and just to put this out there,” I say, “I don’t think you’re the scum of the earth. You’re a human, and you’re all right with me.”
“I am?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“Because you looked at me like I was a monster when I showed up here on Friday.”
“That’s because you scared the crap out of me! For future reference, Cain Wesley, don’t show up at a woman’s house and hide in the bushes. You just might mess around and get yourself killed.”
“Duly noted.”
I squeeze his cheeks and say, “I’m serious, boy.”
“Okay. I got it. No more hiding in the bushes.”
“Good.” I comb his newly trimmed beard and brush the hair off his shirt. I stare at my handiwork. Not bad for my first time. With my hands still resting on his beard, I send soft strokes down his cheeks, staring into his eyes as he watches me. I run my thumb across his lips to remove hair clippings. Then I’m running my fingers across his beard again. I love the way my hands feel in his hair. I’m quite obsessed with beards – just found that out now.
“Okay. I’m done.”
“Are you sure? It doesn’t appear you’re done playing.”
I smile. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to do to me, Ahmalee?”
I chuckle even though he sounds so satisfyingly seductive, for a moment, I entertain what else I can do. It’s not until after my brief brainstorming that I feel his hands around my waist.
“No,” I respond, then take a step back from him. “That was all. Go look in the mirror.”
“Okay.”
While he’s gone, I sweep up the hair on the kitchen floor and tidy up the kitchen table. After five minutes or so, he comes back quickly, rubbing his beard saying, “It’s nice.”
“I got skills.”
“You do. If you ever get tired of making candles, you may want to get into the barbering business.”
“I’m not that good, but I’m glad you like it.”
“I do like it. Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, putting up the broom and dustpan. “Well, I’m going to wind down so I can be ready for tomorrow. You can use the hallway bathroom to wash up or do whatever you need to do before you call it a night. Just remember to lock the back door when you leave.”
“I will. Thanks again, Ahmalee.”
“You’re welcome. Again. Cain.”
A powerful urge comes over me to hug him, shake his hand or connect with him in some kind of way. I don’t indulge, I just make myself aware of it. I like the way it feels. It’s good, addictive energy. Cain is quickly becoming a spark in my otherwise dull life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ahmalee
What started as me lending a helping hand to a stranger has turned into a friendship I never expected. Sonji and Jamie have their doubts, but I enjoy having Cain around. He’s good with his hands – well in the aspect of fixing things. He’s already been here for over a week and he’s mowed the lawn twice. He cleaned the gutters, trimmed the hedges, retouched the white trim around the windows and organized the shed. He takes the garbage and recycle cans to the road every Monday night for Tuesday pickup and he brings them back to the house in the afternoon. When I go grocery shopping,
he comes to the car to collect the bags and carries them all inside for me.
He still hasn’t done anything with his hair besides wash it. I was right – he does have dreads. They’re just so matted and unkempt, you can hardly tell. I don’t mind it. Everything about him has grown on me – even his thick, untamed hair.
When I left the house this morning, he wasn’t up. I suppose he slept in. I slept in a little, too, especially since deciding not to work today. Jamie and Sonji are on their own. They’ve run the store without me before so I’m not worried. I know they can handle it. I’m glad to be off. Finally – some me time.
Before I leave the house, I break out the crock-pot, put on a roast and set the temperature to medium-high. I have an appointment to get my locs re-tightened, then I’m scheduled for a full manicure and pedicure. I haven’t pampered myself in ages, but something about trimming Cain’s unruly beard prompted me to do some maintenance on myself.
The Asian lady filing my nails is asking me if I want to get gel nails. I’ve already told her I only wanted color on my real nails.
She says, “Your-real-nail-short.”
“I know. I like them short.”
She asks, “You-have-boyfriend?”
“Uh…no,” I answer.
“Men-like-women-long-nail,” she says, seemingly in one breath.
I grin. Is this chick trying to tell me I don’t have a man because my nails are short?
“Long-nail-sexy,” she says, waggling her brows.
“I can’t have long nails.” I explain, “I have a job where I work with my hands a lot. Long nails would get in the way.”
She makes some weird kind of grunting noise, or maybe that’s a word in her language. I have no clue. She says, “I-do-for-you-long-nail. Long-nail-sexy.”
Here we go again…
“No. Just polish,” I say.
These nail shop people be hustling, but if I say I don’t want long nails, that should be the end of the discussion.
I tell her I only want a manicure and polish again in a way that she knows I mean business. That fake smile slips right off of her face and she starts talking to her nail tech buddy in a different language. They share a laugh as she files my nails.
* * *
After stopping by Walmart to pick up some items – toilet paper, paper towels, paper plates, snacks and a few food items, I arrive at my haven around three. Cain is nowhere in sight, but all the work he’s done has my property looking better than it ever has.
I go inside with my bags, take them directly to the kitchen when I notice the little red indicator light on my crock-pot is turned off.
“Oh, no. No, no, no…”
I’m positive I turned it on. Why is it off? At first, I’m thinking the thing probably clunked out. It was my mother’s who, when she passed it down to me, told me it used to belong to my grandmother. Maybe it finally kicked the bucket.
When I get closer, I can see that not only is it turned to the off position, it’s also unplugged.
I glance around. There’s no one here but me, and I know for a fact I plugged it in and turned it on before I left. The only other person who could’ve turned it off is Cain, but he doesn’t have a key to my house. The more logical answer is, in my haste to get my hair and nails did, I forgot to turn the thing on. Bummer. And I had my mouth set on some pot roast today...
“Hmm,” I say, crossing my arms trying to make sense of this. I glance out the window and see Cain coming toward the house. He stretches his arms in the air as he walks. I can see the muscle definition in his arms along with the thick hair beneath them. He has on a red, sleeveless shirt with a pair of jeans today. With every outfit he wears, he looks more and more like a man who doesn’t belong on the streets. He’s not a man who belongs on the street.
I preemptively open the back door. “Hey,” I tell him.
He stops short of coming up the stairs as if he hadn’t planned on coming in. I crave his company. I hope that’s not the case.
“Hi,” he says, and that’s all he says as he stands there, looking at me.
“Um…did you need something?” I ask.
“I wanted to tell you—I heard you leave this morning. I knew you weren’t home, and I smelled some food cooking so I turned it off.”
“Wait—you did what?” I ask, stepping out onto the back porch.
“I went in and turned it off.”
“Cain—you broke into my house?”
“No. Well, yeah, but only because you left something cooking.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing, though now this is starting to make sense. I don’t know whether to be angry or happy that he took the initiative.
“You look upset,” he says.
“How am I supposed to look? I—”
“I didn’t have any ill intent,” he interrupts me to say. “I just—I didn’t want the place to burn down. Why’d you leave food cooking?”
My frustration dissipates when I realize he’s serious.
“Why are you laughing?”
“It’s muggy out here. Come in, Cain.”
He steps up and breezes past me to go inside. I walk over to the crock-pot, finger wave him over and when he’s standing in front of me, I ask, “Have you not seen a slow cooker before or know what one is?”
He shrugs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Okay, well, this is a slow cooker,” I explain. “It’s perfectly fine to stay on and unattended because it cooks slow. I was in the middle of cooking a pot roast since I knew I’d be out running errands for most of the day and you turned it off. There’s no way it’ll be done by dinner now.”
“Oh. My bad, Ahmalee. I had no idea. I thought I was helping.”
“You really didn’t know?”
“No. I don’t cook.”
“Your wife never used a slow cooker?”
“My what?” he asks and looks at me like I’m speaking a foreign language of which he doesn’t understand.
I say, “Oh, sorry. I meant your ex-wife.”
“Oh. No, she didn’t cook much. We ate out a lot.”
“Well, I know your mom owns a slow cooker.”
“She probably does, but I wasn’t around when she cooked so I don’t know for sure.”
“For future reference, if you smell the deliciousness of pot roast emanating from my house, don’t call the fire department. That’s a good thing and I promise you—my house won’t burn down.”
“Okay. Got it.”
“I’ll let it finish cooking tomorrow. I guess it’ll have to be Chinese food for us tonight.”
“Us?”
“Yeah. Us. You have to eat, too.”
“You don’t have to buy any food for me, Ahmalee.”
“It’s not a big deal, Cain.”
“You already bought me some snacks. I’ll eat that.”
“No. You’re not eating snacks. I’m ordering food for you.”
He does that amazing smile with his light brown eyes again and says, “You’re hardheaded.”
I chuckle. “No, you’re the hardheaded one. I’m not about to let you eat snacks for dinner.”
Cain slides his hands in his pockets.
“The deal was, you work and I feed you. Besides, I can’t let my crock-pot hero survive off of snacks.”
“Oh, you got jokes now.”
“Yeah. I got jokes. And I’m never going to let you forget that time you broke into my house just to unplug my slow cooker.”
I laugh until tears come to my eyes.
He does that sexy lip-biting thing.
“How’d you get in here, anyway?”
He points to the window above the sink. I never lock it because I put it up so frequently when I’m cooking just to invite the outdoors inside and rid the kitchen of the smell of vegetable oil.
I check my watch. “It’s already after four—looks like it’s about to rain, too.”
He turns to look outside. “Yeah. It does.”
I w
alk over to the counter where I left my bags and say, “Well, since you’re here, you can just hang out and watch TV or something. I can have the food delivered.”
“Ahmalee, I don’t want to disturb you.”
“You’re not disturbing me.”
“I feel like I am.”
I stop unpacking the bags, look at him and say, “Well, you’re not. I like having someone to talk to, and I enjoy your company very much.”
He smiles, just barely. “Okay.”
“I’m going to go put this stuff away, change out of these clothes and do a little light cleaning. Be right back.”
I proceed toward the hallway closet to unload supplies before heading to my bedroom. Then I change out of my outfit and put on some black tights and a fitted pink, cotton shirt. I make sure the bathrooms are okay on toilet paper and towels. I sweep and mop the bathroom and kitchen floors.
“Can I help you with anything?” Cain asks.
“No, but thanks. I can handle it.”
He was in the living room, but now he’s following me to the kitchen asking, “How was your day out?”
“It was cool. I got my locs washed and retwisted,” I say, setting the mop on the back porch. I put the broom and dustpan in the laundry closet. I close the closet door and Cain’s standing directly behind me.
“I like your locs. Don’t know if I ever told you that, but they look nice.” He reaches to touch my hair without my permission, and I don’t mind it one bit. If I can trim his beard, he can touch my hair. It’s a fair exchange.
“Thanks. I also got a manicure and pedicure.”
He takes my left hand into his and strums his thumb across my pink nails. “They look nice, too.”
“Thanks.”
He makes me nervous when he glances down at my lips, but he looks away – connects his eyes to mine again. He says, “I’m sorry I ruined your dinner plans.”
“It’s okay,” I assure him. “Just know that you can’t go around breaking into people’s houses, Cain.”
“I know. I—I wasn’t going to do it at first, but you’ve been so good to me I didn’t want anything to happen to you or your house.”
“I appreciate that. Just be careful, though. If somebody saw you breaking in, they probably would’ve called the cops and you know the cops are trigger-happy these days. Imagine what they’d do to a burglar.”
