Erica was here for one of two reasons—to clear the air and end things on a good note, or to give it one more try. Warren slipped his crossed fingers into his pockets and hoped for the latter. Awkwardness had entered the room, and he searched the kitchen cabinets for a conversation starter.
Erica beat him to the punch. “I got your messages. They were nice.”
“I played myself. You can say it.”
“Well, just a little bit,” she teased. “But it was cute.” She couldn’t keep her eyes off of him. Warren’s strapping frame leaned against the refrigerator with both hands plunged deep into his pockets. Erica couldn’t remember the last time she thought sweatpants were sexy, but they were doing the job on Warren. Their eyes met and clung, like they did a few weeks ago at the Iridium jazz club.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“What do you want?”
“You.”
“But you left me.”
Warren pulled his hands from his pockets and sighed. “I felt like I was running into a brick wall. Every weekend there was something. I don’t operate well in gray space.”
“What was gray?”
“Your commitment. I was going through a lot and you had no idea.”
Warren recapped what he had overheard about Bernard and Jared at the wedding rehearsal and how he just lost it.
“When I confronted my father, he practically kicked me out of the house in the middle of a party. That’s why he was here,” and he told her what his father had just revealed about his parent’s marriage and their agreement.
“So all this time I’m all bent out of shape, and Shar really is the great love of my father’s life.”
“Wow, that’s crazy.”
“It feels crazy, like my family had been living this great lie just to keep up appearances.”
Warren grabbed a bag of Utz party mix and started eating out of the bag. He offered some to Erica but she declined, and sipped her soda.
“I’ve been struggling with making peace with my parents too. You won’t believe who I called today.”
“Who?”
“My father,” her eyes widened as she ran down their catch-up conversation. “It was much easier than I thought and I felt a lot better afterwards.”
“I’m proud of you. That was a really big step.” He folded over the bag of chips and fastened them with a clip.
“Yeah, it was.” Erica looked down at her toes. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why did you break up with me in Philly?”
“Because you checked out long before I said the final word.”
She had prepared herself for Warren’s answer, but was still unsure how to respond. Erica wanted him to understand where she had come from, and when she opened her mouth, she told him things that she had never said to anyone.
Erica took him back to her earliest memory and walked him through her life. She told him about the legacy of the women in her family, her parent’s fights, the overwhelming responsibility that she had at an early age raising Jazmine and herself, while the neighbors on Monroe Street whispered about her family, and pegged her as the girl to get pregnant and ruin her life.
“No one gave me anything. I had to make it up as I went along. And I’m talking about from the smallest detail, like being out at a business lunch and trying to figure out which fork to use, to the big stuff like negotiating my salary, and presenting myself like I came from the same stock they did,” she paused. “Then you came along, giving me all the love and comfort that I hadn’t experienced since my father left. It was almost too much. I felt myself needing you, and I’m not the needing someone type of chick.” Erica stood up.
“Not being able to support myself was never an option for me, that’s why I worked so hard, because I thought the higher I climbed, the less likely I’d fall. It was never enough for me. As soon as I reached a goal, I wanted more, the next position, the next salary, the bigger office with the view. It was almost like an obsession,” she took a band from her pocket and pulled her hair into a ponytail. “I was running, scared shitless that my upbringing would catch up with me and rip the new Erica down that I had worked so hard to construct.”
Warren leaned across the counter that separated them with the urge to grab her hand, but resisted.
“You were worrying about not needing me, but I was the one who needed you.”
“And so you turned to Blanche,” Erica flung her words, and the fury of catching that heifer in Warren’s apartment crashed through the room like a hurricane.
“I never cheated on you.” Warren walked to the edge of the counter and stood in front of her. “I swear on my mother’s grave.” His fingers were on her chin, and he lifted her face so that their eyes met.
Erica hated when he did this because it was hard for her to hide when Warren looked so deeply into her soul. But the trench, the heels, what was she doing in his apartment?
Warren talked fast. He told her that those first few days after they broke up were like being swallowed by hell. “I know I said the words, but losing you was like a death. I couldn’t sleep, wasn’t performing at work…”
“What does that have to do with Blanche?”
Warren explained how he went into his music room, connected with his mother’s spirit and played for so many days straight that he had lost all concept of time.
“Blanche came over that day because I hadn’t been to work in a week. I don’t even know how she got my address,” he slapped his palms against his thighs. “You were right about her, she did come after me, but nothing happened. I left her here to go play in Arlington with James. She was waiting on takeout.”
Erica sat quietly.
“You’ve got to believe me, baby.”
Warren had a way of calling her baby that made her feel like the most precious thing in the world. Like she was really his baby, his charge to care for, nurture and protect. When she looked up he was standing against the wall with his shoulders sagged, eyes heavy, lips hung, and the need to touch him overwhelmed her. But it also frightened her.
He reached for her but she moved him aside. “Let’s go into the living room,” she offered.
The neighborhood seemed quiet for a Friday night, except for someone leaning on a car horn outside his window. Erica chose the easy chair, and when she sank into the cushions she put both hands on her head to think, but Warren pulled them away and forced her to look at him.
He was on his knees in front of her. “Do you think I could ever not want you, Erica?”
“I don’t know.”
Her answer seemed to take him aback. She could see the weary lines etched into Warren’s face and wondered if he was growing sick of trying. Her back ached. It was past late. Going to bed was the sane thing to do.
“I’m going to head back to my hotel.”
“Stay here. You can have my bed.”
Her brows crinkled.
“I’ll sleep on the couch.”
Erica realized that she was too tired to argue. “Can I borrow some shorts?”
“You know where they are,” Warren walked over to the sofa and dropped a few pillows in the groove for his head.
Erica was so exhausted that she couldn’t sleep. She laid there for what felt like forever with her mind moving a mile a minute. When she did doze, it was into an uncomfortable fit of dreams; tossing, turning, running, stumbling. Then she thought she heard Grandma Queeny’s deep voice, “Chile, stop moving ever witcha way. It’s time to plant your feet in the soil and sprout up new trees.” That was what made Erica sit up and wipe the perspiration that had gathered on her temples and moistened her chest.
She clicked on the table lamp and let her eyes adjust to the colors of the room. There was a framed photograph of Warren as a teenager playing his horn in what looked like his daddy’s suit because of the way it hung off him. Erica picked up the picture from the nightstand and held it to her face.
Slowly, she pushed the patterned duvet aside and slipped barefooted into the ha
ll. On the balls of her feet, she tiptoed into the living room, where Warren was nestled into the sofa and dead to the world. His chest rose and fell, and a light snore drifted from his nostrils. Warren could sleep through anything. Watching him, she could picture what their son would look like curled up taking a nap. Erica pulled a throw over herself and waited for him to stir.
Two hours later, the sun’s rays bled through the mini blinds. Warren opened his eyes with a jump and seemed startled that she was sitting there. Then his body relaxed as the memory of the night before entered.
He stretched and yawned. “How’d you sleep?”
“Eh.”
“What’re you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“To tell you that I’m sorry,” she moved to where he had slept. The cushions adjusted under her and her bare knee grazed against his.
“Warren, I need you too. I’ve been suffocating without you. You are my perfect complement,” her fingers found his face. “But I’m scared.”
Warren looked at her, but no sound came from his lips. It was his eyes that cleared away her confusion. Then they were kissing, morning breath and all. Slobbering like two teenagers in the back of a parent’s car.
“You are my number one draft choice.” His mouth was on her chin.
“I’m so sorry.” Her hand stroked his neck.
“I’ve been sick without you.” His shirt came off and was flung to the floor. Her shorts slid down around her ankles, then disappeared. A quick shuffle dance and Erica was on her back. His chest rested against her breast, pelvis swelled between her thighs, fingertips gripped her wrist, while his lips slow dragged with hers. The intense weight of Warren’s body made Erica teary. Dear God she had missed him.
Their bodies synced. Hugged and held. Sweated and panted. But then Erica’s body got away from her. A fiery sensation blazed in her groin with an intensity that pushed her to a place she had never gone. She moaned deeper than the walls could absorb. Warren tongued her ear, egging her further. The room felt fuzzy. Her midsection burned. Nothing else mattered. Just them, their rhythm, and all Erica wanted was to swallow him whole.
But Warren pulled back and fanned her face with his hand to cool her down. Bars of a Keith Sweat song popped into Erica’s head as Warren whispered. “You’re so beautiful. My pretty girl. I would do whatever for you. Walk in the rain. Sing you every song,” he held her hands while moving his body in that marching band tempo that always sent her over. Erica could hardly breathe as she tightened her legs around him, thrusting her hips like she was tapping a drum. Ta, ta, ta, ta, ta, ta, ta, ta. Neither could hold on, a burst of wetness soaked the crevasses between them, healing their grievances and christening the start of another weekend, together.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chocolate Covered Every Day
The next morning, Warren drove her back to the Jefferson hotel for her things. In the elevator, his hands found her waist and she rested her head against him. Erica’s room was three doors down on the right, and as soon as she slipped the keycard into the lock, Warren’s fingers worked the back zipper of her dress.
“You want me to order some room service?” she asked. The heavy sheets gathered around her bare waist. Her reddish hair was tossed and tangled, but she had never felt more beautiful and alive.
“I’ll do it,” Warren walked across the room, opened the curtains and stared out at the Washington Monument. He whistled at the view.
Erica let the sheet fall to the floor and came up behind him. “You never asked what I came to D.C. for?”
“You said work, right?”
She turned him around so that they were facing each other. “My author brought me here to make me his speaking agent. We agreed on eighteen percent.”
Warren looked as if he didn’t understand.
“I’m starting a business.”
“What about B&B?”
“They don’t know yet,” Erica tightened her arms around his waist. “I’m considering leaving the company.”
“Whatever,” he chuckled.
“Seriously. I’ve decided that I can do better than killing myself trying to climb somebody’s corporate damn ladder. Entrepreneurship is in my blood. I get it from my daddy,” she said, tipping her chin. “I’m thinking about trying to start something full time. On my own.”
Warren ran his hands up and down her shoulders. “Baby, that’s wonderful. Where? When?”
“Well, I haven’t decided on all of that, trumpet boy. But maybe I could spend more time in D.C.”
“You’ll move?”
She grinned. “Doesn’t seem like such a far-fetched idea. I don’t want to spend another Monday without you.”
Warren picked her up off of her feet, and kissed her like she was the last woman left in the world.
“Or Tuesday, or Wednesday.”
Love in a Carry-On Bag Page 26
