“You and Nolan ain’t shit, you know that?!” I called after him.
He didn’t reply or slow his steps.
5
Now…
So I guess this is when I admit that I’d had a little crush on Neil McClain since first laying eyes on him, even though he didn’t have cornrows. It was weird, because I wasn’t attracted to Nolan at all, and they were twins. But I guess there was just something about a tortured-ass man that turned me on. It was a horrible trait that’d brought me much heartache in the past if you add to it that when I like a guy, I’m all in from jump. Then factor in that my love affairs are always, always, one-sided, and you have the pathetic existence I’d lived nearly since I grew titties. Sage Marjoram Moniba had never heard the words I love you sincerely flow from the mouth of a man except for her father. He was such a great guy, really, and he loved me so much. I didn’t get why I always chose the wrong men when I had grown up with such a great example, but I suppose your destiny is your destiny, and mine was to be in lop-sided relationships where I did all the giving and the men did all the taking.
Anyway, I had a long talk with myself before this meeting with Neil, told myself that he was doing me a favor, being nice. I was a charity case who couldn’t get her real boyfriend to marry her. Did he know that? I really hoped not. That shit was just embarrassing.
He sat across from me in Jo’s and Big South’s living room, wearing jeans and a plain white t-shirt with Nike slippers. His eyes were on me, those dark eyes that always looked sad and wise at the same time to me. He had a goatee and mustache like Nolan, but his wasn’t as neat as his twin’s, and Neil’s hair was a little longer than Nolan’s, too. If not for those subtle differences, I would’ve felt bad for lusting after him since he looked like my friend’s husband.
“So…you wanted to meet with me?” His deep voice filled the room.
Damn, how long had I been sitting there staring at this man? I really needed to get my shit together. “Huh? Oh…yes! I wanted to thank you and to be sure you were okay with doing this—marrying me, I mean. I know it’s a big thing to ask you to do. You don’t know me. Not really.”
He smiled at me, a smile that reached his dark eyes. “Yeah, I’m okay with it. I wanna do this. I wanna help you.”
“Uh…you know we’d have to stay married for at least three years, right? Could take up to five for me to get my citizenship. They told you about that?”
He nodded. “They told me, and I’m good with it.”
“Is your girlfriend good with it?”
He frowned a little. “I don’t have a girlfriend. I have a fiancée.”
“Oh! Is she okay with this? I wouldn’t want to mess up your relationship with her.”
“You’re my fiancée, Sage.”
“You were talking about me? Shit, I’m dumb.”
He chuckled and left his seat, sitting down next to me and making my pulse throb in my neck. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I’d one day marry a man like this, a man who was such a…man. Built, handsome, smelled divine. Damn.
“I don’t have a girlfriend, no relationship. But I’m about to marry what I’ve been told is a wonderful woman, and I hope, at the very least, we can be friends through all this since we’ll be living together.”
“Yeah…me, too,” I said to his lips.
“So, I hear we’re having a big wedding?”
“Uh, yeah, if that’s okay with you.”
“It is. A Christian ceremony?”
“Well, yeah. Is that a problem?”
“No, but I’ll want to make some minor adjustments to the vows. I’m not exactly a traditionalist.”
“Oh, that’s fine. Um, I want to go with an all-white color scheme. I thought I’d run that by you since I know you’re hotep and everything…”
He shrugged. “I’m cool with that. The Creator created all colors. But, uh…you sure you don’t want an accent color or something?”
“No, I’ve always had a thing for the color white. So I don’t want any other colors except maybe the groomsmen’s ties.”
“Okay. I’m with it. So, is there anything else I need to prepare for? Anything special you plan on incorporating into the ceremony?”
With wide eyes, I nodded. “Uh, yeah…I mean, not the ceremony, really, but I wanna do the traditional Liberian entry at the reception. And my dress will be a traditional Liberian one for the reception, too. My mom’s gonna get you an outfit to match mine, so I’ll need your measurements.”
“Okay. Your parents know about this arrangement? They’re okay with it?”
I shrugged. “They know how I am, how impulsive I can be. I’ve always kind of done my own thing. When I told them I was getting married, they assumed I fell in love with you on-sight, because I sort of have a history of doing that, and I didn’t bother correcting them, so they’re just going with the flow like they always do. Oh! My dad needs to see your house, though. He wants to make sure it’s nice and that I’m not marrying a man who, and I quote, ‘is a Jack who pumps tires’ for a living.” I mimicked my father’s waning Liberian accent.
Neil chuckled again, and I joined him because my dad was a mess.
“Okay, no problem. We need to figure out when you’re moving your stuff in anyway.”
“Right. Uh, Neil? What exactly do you do for a living? My mom asked, and I just said you work for yourself.”
“I own a bookstore when Ev lets me own it. And I write music. Those are my main sources of income, but I used to paint and dabble in photography, too. I write poetry from time to time, as well, but I never got paid to do that.”
“Okay, so I’ll stick with my initial answer.”
He laughed. “Uh, you do makeup, right?”
“Uh-huh. It keeps me pretty busy.”
“You do your own? You look beautiful.”
“I do? I mean, yeah, I do my own makeup. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Hey, um…what bills do you want me to pay?”
His eyebrows rose, and he leaned back a little. “Uh…none. I got it.”
“You sure? I can pay the mortgage, maybe? My income isn’t exactly stable, but I do pretty good.”
“Um, my house is paid for, a gift from Ev. I can handle the utilities.”
“I can do the groceries, then. I gotta pay my way.”
“If you want to…”
“I do.” I fell against the back of the couch and shook my head. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”
“Yeah,” Neil said, “we really are. So…the kiss?”
I sat up straight and tilted my head to the left. “Kiss?”
“At the wedding. We’ll have to kiss. That could be…”
“Awkward?”
“Yeah.”
“Right, so maybe we should practice?” I suggested. Please say you want to practice.
“That’s a good idea. We could practice now.”
“All right…”
“Tongue or no tongue?”
“What?”
His eyes were on my mouth as he repeated, “Tongue or no tongue?” Or shit, maybe I imagined him looking at my mouth.
“Uh, no tongue?” I was definitely not ready for tongue. Not ready at all.
He gave me a boyish smile and nodded. “No tongue it is.”
Moving in closer to my face, he nearly whispered, “You ready?”
“Uh-huh,” I sang softly.
“On a count of three,” he murmured. “One…two…three.”
His lips brushed against mine so softly that I had to open my eyes and see if he was still there, if it really happened. Then, with his eyes shut, he reached up and grasped the back of my head and kissed me for real. Like, for-real, for-real. That tongue of his darted out, my pocketbook started shmoney dancing, and the next thing I knew, we were both moaning into each other’s mouths.
What in the whole hell was this?
Whatever it was had me as wet as the English Channel.
Shit! This was some electric, insta-chemistry stuff!
Then he snatched his mouth away from mine, hopped to his feet, and with this wild look in his eyes, said, “Uh, sorry about that.” He cleared his throat. “You said no tongue, and I…”
“No—it’s okay.” It’s very okay.
“So…you got my number from Jo, right? Just text me and let me know when you want to move in and bring your folks over.”
“Ah, all right?” I said, reaching up to rub my lips. Did I just dream that shit?
He nodded for probably the twentieth time and left. And I just sat there thinking that maybe I shouldn’t marry this man, but at the same time, my vagina said, “Bitch, please.”
6
“…and I tell her, you do it? I-will-whip-you-and-you-will-cry!” Four days after Jo and Bridgette dropped the marrying-Neil bomb on me, my father was holding court in Neil’s living room as the movers carted my stuff into the house. Neil had directed them to take the boxes to his bedroom for my parents’ sake.
I didn’t have much to move since I’d left all my furniture at the apartment I shared with Gavin’s sorry ass, just clothes and my makeup. But I had a lot of makeup, boxes upon boxes of promo kits and stuff I’d purchased myself. And shoes. I loved shoes. Oh, and perfume. I liked smelling good. In short, I was moving in a bunch of shit.
Neil laughed at my father’s attempt to embarrass me. I say attempt, because I barely knew this man anyway, so embarrassing me in front of him was totally impossible.
“So, she was a handful, huh?” Neil asked.
“Aaaayah! I tell you! It’s tee trufe!” my dad shouted. “She a biggity one, too! Got dear taste!”
When my father was in his element, his words rushed out so rapidly that I couldn’t understand him sometimes. So, I knew poor Neil had to be struggling. “He’s saying I’m stuck up and have expensive taste. Neil doesn’t know Liberian Koloqua, Papa.”
“I speak good English-oh!” my dad declared.
I fought not to roll my eyes, and Neil chuckled. It looked like he was really enjoying this little conversation with my father.
“Aaaayah! Turn Back tee Hands of Time!” my father added, garnering a confused look from Neil. I’d have to tell him later that my father quoted Tyrone Davis like he was quoting damn Tennyson or somebody. It was a problem.
“Sage! You hear me! Come here!” That was my mother, acting like she’d been calling my name for years.
I sighed, stood from Neil’s leather sofa, and left my father to his performance.
“Yes?” I said, as I entered the gorgeous kitchen full of sleek, stainless steel appliances.
“Help me with this food,” she said. While my father lived for moments when he could display his accent, my mother worked overtime to shed hers, although it slipped out at times.
I fell in beside her at the counter, spooning Jollof rice and plantains into Neil’s nice white bowls, fufu onto plates, and potato greens into separate bowls.
“He’s handsome. Built,” my mom said.
“He is,” I agreed.
“And nice. All those books in that living room? He likes to read?”
I almost asked her how I was supposed to know that, but instead, said, “He owns a bookstore.”
“Oh?! He know book, eh?” There was her first slip of the day.
“Yes, he’s very smart,” I replied.
As usual, that slip led to an avalanche of Koloqua. “He a growna man, dat one. Fine, fine as can be. Too-fine! I see why you marry so fast!”
I couldn’t help but laugh at that, and I was still grinning when I called my father and Neil to the kitchen for dinner.
I felt like I was in the middle of an Afrocentric dream, sitting at a table with people from the motherland, eating authentic Liberian food. If Sage can cook like this, this shit just might work out in my favor.
I took a gulp of water and went back in. The food was spicy as hell, but damn, it was so good!
“Neil, my man…you like my Baby’s cooking-oh?” Mr. Moniba asked me.
“Samuel, let the man eat!” Mrs. Moniba scolded. “Let him finish before you start asking about the food!”
“He about to be family! Da-me! You know dat! You behind me all tee time for no-ting!” Sage’s father complained. “Mom’s Apple Pie!”
I frowned, wondering if her dad had Tourette’s or something. “It’s good. Thank you, Mrs. Moniba.”
With a huge, proud smile on her face, Sage’s mother said, “You’re welcome, son.”
“Aaaaaye! In tee Mood!” her father declared.
As I helped Sage carry her boxes from my bedroom to the guest bedroom, now her room, I said, “I can’t believe your mom’s first name is actually Baby.”
“Believe it. Strange names are a trend in our family. My mom’s name is Baby, I’m Sage, and my sister is Ferula. Weird.”
“Your parents were into plants?”
“My mom was, still is. She’s always had a garden. You know the potato greens we ate tonight? She grew the sweet potatoes for them.”
“Wow, really?”
“Yep.”
“And your father is a carpenter?”
“Uh-huh. They’re both hard-working people, unlike me.”
“Nah, I bet you work hard.”
She shrugged as I followed her back to my room to grab more boxes. “I guess. I like it, so it never feels like I work hard.”
“Yeah.”
We were all done moving things to her room, and both just stood there kind of staring at each other until she finally said, “They were impressed with you. My parents, I mean. Thanks for being so nice to them.”
“Your folks are cool, so it’s no problem. And thanks for explaining the Tyrone Davis thing. I was like, what the hell?”
She giggled. “I know! He needs to stop that mess!”
“Naw, I like your folks. It was fun hanging with them.”
“Well, they like you, too. My mom thinks you’re fine.”
“For real? I’m a’ight, I guess.”
“No, you’re definitely more than ‘a’ight.’ I couldn’t ask for a finer fake husband.”
“Hmm, well…I could say the same thing. You’re stunning.”
She dropped her eyes and covered her mouth with her hand. “You don’t have to say that.”
“It’s the truth.” And it was. Sage was shorter than me and was thick as hell. Big thighs, hips a mile wide. Back in the day, I wasn’t really into women built like her, but she had the kind of curves that could make a man lose it. And she wasn’t a light-weight. She was built like those women Leland loved to date. She had a little gut on her, but that just added to the appeal to me, knowing she ate like a real woman. I honestly didn’t know why I never noticed how attractive she was before, but I guess I was in too deep of a mental hole to see her clearly.
“Uh, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll leave you to get settled in. Your bathroom’s across the hall. Shit, I already showed it to you, didn’t I? You know what? I’ma just shut up and leave you alone. You know where my room is, if you need me.”
“Yeah, thank you again, Neil. I don’t think I can say it enough.”
“No problem. Oh, and I’m truly sorry about that kiss the other day.”
Her eyes narrowed at me. “Don’t be.”
7
Neil’s house was an older home located in Venice—LA, only a few blocks from the beach and not far from the canals. It was small, maybe one thousand square feet, and besides the living room, kitchen, and dining room, had two bedrooms, two baths, and a gorgeous backyard garden area. There were padded swings on the front porch that my father had a fit over when he saw them. My parents loved the place when Neil led us on a tour, but then again, it was a beautiful home, and it felt like…it felt like it was my home, like I belonged there, and I couldn’t understand why. Wishful thinking, maybe? Perhaps I just wanted it to be my home? Or was it that I wanted a home, period, someplace to hang my clothes without fear of hav
ing to pack them up again when my relationship inevitably went south.
He gave me his guest bedroom, and I slept better that night than I had in a long time. Possibly, that was because the issue of being deported was now solved, or possibly, it was something else—a serenity that folded itself around me and squeezed me tightly from the moment I laid my head on the pillow. Neil was a tortured soul. He was nice, kind, but he still wore his scars. I could see them in the sadness that lived behind his eyes, so it didn’t make sense for the place to feel like such a sanctuary, but it did.
I walked around the small living room that housed a tan leather sofa, matching recliner, and a coffee table shaped like the continent of Africa. My dad had a fit when he saw that, too. Two of the walls held bookcases filled with books, making the space appear even smaller, but not in a claustrophobic way. I stepped over to one of them, running my fingers over the book spines—James Baldwin, Octavia Butler, Cornell West, Michael Eric Dyson, Ta-Nahisi Coates, bell hooks, Dr. Carter G. Woodson, Alex Haley, Dr. Claud Anderson, Baba Ifa Karade, Axsal Johnson, Henry Louis Gates Jr., Isabel Wilkerson. So many books. I wondered if he’d read them all. Then I turned around and scanned the room again—no TV.
“Grand rising.”
I jumped at the sound of his voice, so much like Nolan’s. In my morning haze, I almost forgot I’d moved out of his and Bridgette’s house.
“Hey,” I replied, my eyes on his bare chest. Daaaamn. “You were out back?”
He nodded, shifting his body so that he was leaning against the door facing that led into the dining area. “Yeah, meditating. Tryna keep my mind right, stay on the right path.”
“You’re a Buddhist?”
“Nah, not really. I kind of study all religions. Meditation is a part of all of them in some form.”
I’d seen a Quran, a Bible, the Handbook of Yoruba Religious Concepts, and a Tripitaka on one of those shelves, so he was definitely doing some religious research.
“What’ve you learned?” I asked.
He shrugged, crossing his arms and making his pecs flex. Double daaaamn. “That they all have things in common, and that they all have things I disagree with, other things I agree with.”
Let Me Free You (McClain Brothers Book 4) Page 3
