Warren pulled away from her and slipped on a pair of sweats. “You want anything from the kitchen?”
“Nope, I’m good.”
Erica took his question as a truce, picked up her beer and then patted the seat next to her on the sofa.
Late the next morning, Erica slipped out to the corner shop for food and was placing their continental brunch on the living room coffee table when Warren walked in yawning. “What’s this?” His shawl-collared robe was open at the waist.
“Bagels, morning glory muffins and a few slices of melon to get the day started,” she handed him his coffee. “Your blackberry kept ringing this morning but I didn’t answer it.”
“Probably one of the geeks from the job. We have our monthly metrics meeting on Monday.” Warren worked under contract as a software engineer for mobile telephones.
“How much longer on your contract?”
Warren shrugged. “What time do you need to be at the bookstore?”
“Two.”
“I’ll go with you. But ten minutes, tops.”
Erica hugged his neck.
When they arrived at the Books a Million in DuPont Circle, Warren held the door for her and reminded her once again not to take all day.
“Promise,” she said and was off.
Brandon Sykes was a midlist mystery author that Erica’s company was trying to build, and like many of her authors, he was demanding and filled with self importance.
“I asked for navy Sharpies, not black,” he chided. “I never write in black, it’s too easy for people to forge my signature,” Brandon tapped his wire-rimmed glasses. His eyes were the same storm gray as his receding hairline, and matched his wool vest.
“I’ll take care of it,” was her signature line, but when she returned with the correct pens, he continued to complain.
“I can’t go to the podium and pour my heart out to a handful of people. It kills my creative flow. How was this advertised?” he demanded. Erica turned up her publicist smile and told him to give it five more minutes. She asked the events manager to make another in-store announcement.
Warren had strolled to where Erica could see him and mouthed, do you need any help? She winked at him and shook her head no. Turning her attention back to the stack of books, she lifted the dust jacket and flapped the books to the title page to make them faster for Brandon to sign. A few stragglers arrived, and once the folding chairs were half-filled, she pushed Brandon to begin.
He cleared his throat, took a sip of water, adjusted his glasses and read. Erica had not intended to stay, but after the first few minutes, she could tell that Brandon needed help with his presentation. She took out her turquoise note pad and jotted a few notes.
1. He’s speaking too slowly; the audience is falling asleep.
2. Start the reading with chapter 1, instead of 13. I’ve read the story and I was lost.
3. Don’t wear so much gray.
Brandon took a few questions, autographed books, and posed for a picture with the staff, which was clearly the highlight of his day. It was the first time Erica witnessed a hint of a smile. Gathering Brandon’s things, she walked him out to his hired town car and pressed a business card into his hand.
“Call me if you need anything,” she said, deciding to wait until she got back to her office in New York to give him her notes.
“Oh, I intend to,” Brandon called from the window as the car pulled away from the curb.
Warren walked out of the store with a bag biting his bottom lip.
“What did you buy?”
“Nothing. You ready?”
“Sorry, the guy was terrible, I just couldn’t leave him stranded.” She reached for his hand.
“It’s cool.” Pulling his skull cap down on his head, he started towards the car.
The problem with long distance relationships was that there was no time to fight. With only seventy-two hours together and a good portion of that reserved for sleeping, things needed to be resolved and fast.
Warren put the key in the ignition. Erica reached over to the dashboard and pressed the buttons to warm their seats. After driving a few streets south, he parked on Wisconsin Avenue down the block from one of their local hangouts.
The Big Hunt was an unpretentious dive bar that offered twenty-seven varieties of beer on tap, flat screen televisions, a pool table, lots of seating, and a jukebox with good soulful music.
Warren held the door open and then led her over to empty seats at the bar. “What’re you having?”
“The Raging Bitch I.P.A,” she said, and watched him hold back a smile. It was what she drank the last time they were there, when Erica dedicated a karaoke song to him. Even though she sucked at singing, her theatrics had the audience cheering her on and Warren stood in an ovation.
Erica knew Warren remembered, even though he kept his eyes on the game. He was a sucker for HD television and the Wizards were playing the 76ers on the mega-sized flat screen. But after dealing with Brandon, Erica needed music. She pulled a five dollar bill from her purse, strolled over to the jukebox, and scanned for a song that would get the party started. Warren acted like everything was cool, but she knew her man: he wanted all of her and the book signing had taken longer than she promised. Bob Marley was the perfect remedy, and seconds later Erica shifted her hips to the sultry sound of “Is This Love.”
I wanna love you and treat you right;
I wanna love you every day and every night
This was their song. They had danced to it on their one week anniversary at Café Creole in the West Village. Erica slid her stool closer to him and laced her fingers through his, humming with the music. Warren ordered a second round. The point guard for the Wizards shot a three-pointer to end the half. Warren pumped his fist and Erica moved in circles to the music. The beer had made her happy and she was singing the lyrics softly but out loud.
“Who’re you rooting for?” Warren turned.
“The Sixers of course.”
“Can’t you ever root for my team?”
“I am on your team, just not the Wizards’,” she leaned in and dragged her glossy lips over his cheek until he turned and kissed her back.
Bob Marley, the Wizards’ victory, and three pints of Raging Bitch beer had Erica laughing brashly on the elevator ride to Warren’s apartment. The hallway was long and narrow with four beige doors on each side. Warren’s unit was on the right and while he unlocked the front door, Erica’s cell phone started ringing. Her mother’s name flashed across the screen and Erica gritted her teeth. What could she possibly want now? Her mother knew better than to interrupt Erica’s weekend with Warren.
“Yes?” came out sounding annoyed.
“If you weren’t gonna send the money, you shoulda just said so,” her mother hiccupped.
Warren closed the door and was fastening his fingers around Erica’s waist, but she shook him off, mouthing that it was her mother.
“I walked four blocks in the pourin’ down rain, with no long johns, and you know my arthritis in this damp weather.”
“Ma, I deposited the money last night,” Erica padded down the hall, closing the bathroom door behind her.
“Wasn’t there and it’s freezin’ in here.”
Erica opened the vanity and reached for her hair clip. She wasn’t in the mood for her mother’s drama.
“Okay, let me call the bank.”
After ten minutes of holding, she was told that the money had been withdrawn from an ATM down the block from her mother’s home. A persistent tapping worked her temples as she listened to her mother explain.
“Chile, I ain’t crazy. I went down to the store; put the card in the machine, and nothing. Maybe the person behind me stol’ it,” clucking her tongue.
“Ma, you been drinking?”
“Pepsi is all. Just tired from that long walk. God as my witness I never got that money. Can you send it again?”
God was going to strike her Pinocchio ass down. Erica wasn’t a fool. An enabler, yes
, but not a fool. The money had been spent on a liter of Bacardi, four Colt 45s and a hard pack of whichever menthol lights happened to be on sale. It was the same story.
Erica shifted her weight against the pedestal sink listening to her mother ramble. Warren’s white bathroom was spa-like, with jasmine-scented candles and stark white towels stacked in wooden shelves. Ordinarily, it was a room that relaxed her, but talking to her mother had her wound-up and irritated. When she looked at herself in the mirror she wondered why she even bothered. Her mother had celebrated her fiftieth birthday last year and Erica didn’t understand why she couldn’t get it together. Every conversation with her was the same, beginning with a need, ending with what she wanted, and Erica was exhausted.
“It’s so cold in here, I’m wearin’ my coat. ’Member that red one Aunt Mavis gave me with the big black buttons?”
She remembered.
“Well, Mr. Handy won’t fix the heater without the money. Tues-dee’s first of the month and I told you I’m selling my pills. I’ll pay you then. Promise.”
Promise? If Erica had a book for every time her mother broke a promise, she could build a library.
“I don’t have it,” she responded flatly.
“Come on Slim, I’ll pay you back.”
“Ma, I’m with Warren.”
“He’ll understand. Will take you ten minutes then I’ll be outta your hair.”
Erica tapped her foot against the floor.
“Come on Slim, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it. I tried all of my friends but everyone I know is broke til Tues-dee.”
It took effort for Erica to control her tone. “I don’t know why you think I’m an ATM. I had to spend an extra seventy-five dollars to get here because I missed my train.”
“Warren don’t pay your way?”
“Ma, that’s not the point.”
“You right. Well just do it for me one more time. I’ll help you with a little extra to get you through next week,” she hiccupped again. “Thanks baby.”
Warren sat in the leather recliner, working a soft cloth in and out of the front valve of his trumpet. A piano soloed in the background and a single tea light burned on the coffee table.
“Everything all right?” he looked up from his horn.
“Yeah,” Erica said, fumbling with the buttons on her shearling coat. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where you going?”
“To the bank. Keep practicing, I’ll be right back.” She closed the door behind her with more force then she intended. Anger was percolating inside of her like a strong pot of coffee. Her mother was a damn leech and once again Erica had found herself trapped in her bloodsucking clutches.
Warren was still coddling his horn when she got back to the apartment. Her mother had completely killed her buzz, and since she had a headache she was debating between ibuprofen and water or a glass of chardonnay. Then she opened the refrigerator and saw the frosty bottle. The chardonnay won.
“What do you want to eat?” she called out.
“I know you love Tex-Mex, so I just ordered. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” she mumbled, uncorking the wine. Everything inside of her was tense and after a few sips she was still restless and decided to do a word search puzzle, a habit carried over from adolescence that she found soothed her nerves. She reached for the top left kitchen drawer where she stored her book, but it would not open. She gave it a yank but the drawer only slid an inch forward, which surprised her because nothing was out of order in Warren’s apartment.
He was Mr. Fix-it and organized almost to a compulsion. Vintage records were coordinated alphabetically, toiletries stowed in labeled baskets, shoes stuffed with shoe trees and stored in the original boxes, and take-out menus arranged by the specialty of cuisine. With the flat of her palm she reached inside and after a brief tug-of-war pried the culprit loose. It was a thick envelope that bore Warren’s company seal and Erica knew what it was without opening it.
Warren was a software engineer by day and a jazz musician by night. They had only been dating a month when his father scored him the very lucrative position in D.C. When he left New York, he promised that it would only be temporary. But when the first six month contract ended, another one popped up.
Just then, Warren entered the kitchen whistling a tune. “Pour me some water, babe?”
The package had gained weight in Erica’s hand and she didn’t move. When Warren’s eyes adjusted to the situation, he rushed to explain.
“I was going to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” she stood.
“Brett just offered it to me on Thursday. I haven’t really worked it out yet.”
Erica opened the envelope and read over the conditions for the new contract. “Another whole year?” she tossed the papers on the counter.
“They want me to head the project, and the money is sick.”
Erica had never cared about money and she reminded him of that. It was him that she wanted.
“But then you wouldn’t have to work so hard. You know, with your mother and sister. Let me do this for us.”
“Don’t throw them in my face,” she chided. “It’s already been a year, now you want to make it two?”
“Move down here. You could start your own PR firm,” he said.
“Why do you keep saying that? You know what I’m trying to do.”
“Because it’s logical.”
The food arrived just in time.
Warren made small talk with the delivery guy and then returned to the kitchen with two bags in hand. “You want to eat in the kitchen or the living room?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten anything all day. Let’s enjoy our meal and talk it over.”
“What is there to talk about? When you left New York a year ago, you said it wouldn’t come to this. Now I’m wondering how committed you are to this relationship.”
“Like you can talk? You can’t even make it a whole weekend without working. Selfish.”
“I’m selfish?” Erica tightened the clip in her hair. “I’m just reminding you of what you said.”
“Yeah, well things change.”
“Oh, now you have the nerve to be pissed?”
Warren laid the tin container on the counter and removed the plastic lid, ignoring her.
Erica stepped in front, blocking his path. “If you aren’t committed to being together then why are we even doing this?”
“What are you talking about? I didn’t say that.”
“Actions speak louder than words,” Erica shouted.
“You are being ridiculous.”
“Whatever.” Erica couldn’t think straight, so she walked off into his bedroom, closing the door behind her. On top of the headache, now her stomach was twisting in knots.
With all of the men walking the streets of New York, why did she have to fall in love with a man who lived and worked four hundred miles away? And loving Warren was an understatement; Erica revered him. There were times when they were together that she couldn’t stop touching him—her hand on his forearm, a toe rubbing his calf, or a finger resting in his belt loop. So many nights at home alone she wondered what it would be like to just dissolve into him, breathing his air, and feeling his heart tick.
And there was no way possible that she could move. Erica had worked hard for B&B publishing for five years, starting as a publicity assistant, then becoming a full fledged publicist, publicity manager and now associate director of publicity. Her director was preparing for maternity leave, and Erica wanted to be named her successor. The promotion would make her one of the youngest ranked African-American women in the company. Publishers Weekly, the industry trade magazine, would do a story on her, maybe even Essence. She couldn’t stop now and Warren knew that.
The bedside clock marked each second until Erica grew tired of listening to it. She opened the bedroom door and headed back to the living room. Warren was chewing on a bite of his steak taco. It amazed Erica
how his appetite never failed him, not even in the midst of a major fight. She sat on the sofa with him, leaving lots of space between them, focusing on the potted plant in the corner next to the double paned window.
Warren had a green thumb and his houseplants were thriving. There was a devil’s ivy with leaves hanging from the windowsill, two types of ferns full and luscious, and a pretty African violet with big velvety leaves and lavender flowering. His whole apartment reminded her of something off of HGTV. It contained all the usual bachelor pad elements—the mega flat screen television, booming sound system and lazy boy recliner—but everything was high end with uncluttered lines.
When she looked down at the table, Warren had her quesadilla unwrapped and had scooped a bit of sour cream on top.
“Thanks,” she said, cutting into the tortilla and taking a bite. They ate with their eyes glued on the television. Warren poured her a glass of wine and popped open a beer for himself.
When she finished the quesadilla, he pushed the remote towards her. “Want to watch a movie?”
“Sure.”
Erica carried the empty containers into the kitchen. The contract was still on the counter. Disappointment washed over her, but before it felt consuming, Warren was there wrapping his arms around her and pulling.
“There’s nothing in the world I want more than you. We’ll get through this.”
“But I’m tired of just getting through it,” she said and her resistance made him hold her tighter, pressing his pelvis and chest against her until she retreated.
Warren unclipped her hair and ran his fingers over the curve of her neck, “You’re my first round draft pick. Just trust me to run the team.”
He was such a man. After spending most of her life without her father, and having an incompetent mother, Warren was just the rock that she needed, and that knowledge was sometimes as scary to deal with as the distance.
Chapter Three
Publicity 101
On Monday morning Erica dressed happy, in a taffy colored pantsuit and patent-leather peep-toe-heels. She brushed her eyelids with Glad Ginger, rouged her cheekbones in Bitter Bisque, and slid Pouting Plum over her lips. On the subway ride to work, she watched two lovers bump against each other with each shift of the train, enjoying each other as if no one was watching. A block from her office, a teenaged couple cuddled over a Styrofoam cup of cocoa, kissing and keeping warm. At the corner, a stooped man held the door to a diner open for his wife, waiting as she hobbled through. Every scene reminded her of Warren and how it seemed they would never have Monday mornings together.
Love in a Carry-On Bag Page 2
