by Love Belvin
Love Delayed
by Love Belvin
MKT Publishing
Copyright © 2014 by Love Belvin
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences are fictitious and a product of the author’s imagination.
Cover design by Marcus Broom of DPI Design
Table of Contents:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Love Acknowledges
Other Books by Love Belvin
Chapter 1
Now
May 2014
Zoey
Sitting in the bleachers, I’m twisting and turning, totally annoyed by what I see when I glance around me on the bleachers at my son’s soccer game. The women are tapping each other covertly—or so they think—on the thighs and arms as they ogle Stenton Rogers, coaching a bunch of six and seven year olds.
I don’t want to be here. Hell, I’ve declined my child’s invitation all season long to be at games his Dad was able to attend and coach, until I could no longer brush off the glint of disappointment in his little marbled eyes.
Stenton attempts, in earnest, to be a part of every sport our son is registered for. He’s even been able to pull off the title of coach, though he can’t make each spring game because of work. In my opinion, it’s best that he doesn’t attend at all. There’s always too much fanfare at these events because of his celebrity. All the soccer moms show up with their book club, painting club, linedance troupe and whatever other organization they belong to, making a spectacle of his presence. This is precisely why Stenton never brings his colleagues to any of the games to watch our son in action. If he did, it would be a zoo. It’s enough that these parents must agree, in writing, to no pictures at the top of the season. In my opinion, Stenton should stay home and leave the attention to the tikes on the field.
Again, I’m annoyed.
As I try to put my discontentment to the side, I warm at the sight of these small kids in their color-coordinated t-shirts that are supposed to serve as jerseys. My little guy, Jordan, has the number seven embroidered on his back; I’m sure paying homage to his Dad’s professional number. I know I said I’d put my unfavorable feelings for him aside, but seeing that number reminds me of how we’ve arrived at this inimical point in co-parenting. Why I’ve receded my time around him over the past few years.
I see Jordan running my way with the biggest smile plastered on his checkered-tooth mouth. Even with missing teeth, Jordan lights up my world.
“Mom, did you count my goals?” he asks breathlessly, almost bum-rushing me as I try to step off the metal bleachers to greet him.
I stagger as his dense frame collides with mine. At six years old, Jordan is a solid kid, leading in height, presumably taking after his lanky father.
“Sixteen, JR, but you have to share the ball with your teammates. This is not a one-man show, kid.”
“You sound like Dad, Mom. I’m a beast! Argh!” he literally growls.
I have a growling athlete of a child.
“Yeah, honey, but at this stage in the game, I think you should focus on learning how to be a part of a team.”
“That and aggression, all of which you’ve demonstrated out there today. I’m proud of you, son.”
Those tenor vocals poured so smoothly and effortlessly over me. Still on my haunches, talking to Jordan, I peer up to find a set of tall legs belonging to the lengthy creature towering over me. My mouth goes dry, my pulse races. That quickly, I’m disturbed all over again. His smile is filled with pride and total adoration for this little boy, the way that it always is. In an instant, I hate myself for being entranced by his undeniably magnetic countenance.
“Thanks, Dad!” my baby gushes. Then his eyes grow wide as the sun. “Mom, we’re going to dinner. You wanna come? It’s the last game of the season, remember? And me and Dad are gonna hang out. Please come. Please!”
I fight to keep from dropping my head and shoulders and maintain my smile while being cornered to hang out with Stenton. It’s the last thing I want, it’s too hard. But when I see Jordan’s little lips curl up in plea, I can’t say no. Well, not flat out.
“Bernard and I may be going out tonight, JR.”
“Awwww, Mommy!” Jordan’s crestfallen smile matches his collapsed shoulders.
“May?” Stenton points out.
I stand, regrettably, finally having to face him. My fears are confirmed when I’m squared with his six-foot, seven-inch frame. I can’t help but absorb his almost jet-black five o’clock shadow, one of my weaknesses when I stare dreamily into his marbled orbs, yet another feature he’s given to our son. Stenton smells delightful per usual, and his casual look of blue jeans and a simple black t-shirt exposing his heavily inked arms is probably what those moms and their friends went crazy over.
I lick my dry lips. “Yes. We may go out this evening.” I try to challenge him, I don’t think I like where he’s going with that question.
Stenton looks at the watch on his tatted wrist. “It’s almost seven now. If you two don’t have solid plans, I don’t see it happening this evening. How about this, come hang out with us Rogers men and if Bernard calls, you can split with us and join him.”
When I’m able to pull my eyes from his mouth, I trail them down to an anxious Jordan. The gleam in his eyes can’t be ignored. I hate being trapped by Stenton, even if it is with my little guy. It is the last game of the season after all. What child wouldn’t want to end it celebrating with both parents?
This is what I’ve always struggled with, raising a child as a single woman. I came from a two parent home and we did everything together, including struggle; I haven’t been able to provide Jordan the security of having both his parents under one roof when he goes to bed at night. There’s substantial security in that for a child. Not providing totally goes against the values I grew up with as a child. I try to make concessions where I can and try not to overcompensate in other unhealthy areas of parenting. Like now.
“Okay,” I breathe out as I face Jordan. “Where to?”
“Yay! Mommy’s hanging out with the dawgs tonight!” Jordan proceeds to do some type of stomp of a dance.
He isn’t just referring to him and his dad. Stenton has to travel everywhere with security, most times two. Tonight is no different.
I glance up at Stenton who’s grinning and I wonder if it’s because he’s taught our child this ridiculous dance or because he feels accomplished in roping me into this outing.
“I’m parked on the west side of the park. Where can I meet you?” I try for an imperceptible face.
“We’re over there, too.” Stenton offers. “We can walk you to your ride and you can follow us.”
On my way to the restaurant, I cringe at having to prepare myself for the circus that will be the paparazzi at the door, trying to capture every move we make. I abhor that aspect of being a part of Stenton Rogers’ world. It all comes with his package. He hates it probably more than I detest it.
Surprisingly, I’m wrong. There are no paps waiting in the bushes. We enter a small Italian restaurant from the rear. There’s a small section in the back awaiting us. The three of us share an amenable dinner that is fi
lled with laughter, all surrounding the one shared happiness between Stenton and me: Jordan.
It’s weird trying to avoid eye contact with Stenton throughout dinner. I can’t look at him, don’t want to become entranced and start my usual befuddlement over my checkered relationship with him. I struggle with so much guilt when it comes to my son’s father. I don’t want Jordan feeling the effects of the grievance I’ve developed over the years for his father. Stenton is an excellent dad. Any child would be fortunate to call him Daddy. I’m all too blessed that my child has that benefit, but it is that connection to him that makes my life so perplexing.
And the way that I can see from the corner of my eyes Stenton gazing at me longingly, as he always does, never fails to hurl me into the bowels of confusion and resentment that I’ve lived with for far too long. The state of bewilderment has been a mainstay as far as Stenton is concerned. The resentment and bitterness I feel for him is a new sentiment. It’s caused a shifting in me, changing the core of my optimistic being.
“So, no more Ariana, huhn?” Stenton asks Jordan.
With a bashful smile, Jordan shakes his head.
“What are you going to do when you hit first grade in September? You’re going to have to upgrade your G to get the older girls, man. Are you up to it?” Stenton continues to goad.
I watch raptly as Jordan tries to swallow his food, keen to reply. I’m not fond of the idea of my six year old having a girlfriend, but his dad seems to get a kick out of it, so I entertain it.
“You know I’mma make it do what it do, big dawg,” Jordan quips. Stenton’s head rolls back in laughter. Laughter that lightened the hold in my chest. I can tell he was inciting Jordan for just that type of response.
“Excuse me?” I demand.
“Mommy,” he cries, now sounding more his age. “You know I’m gonna do all my school work first.”
“That’s right because it’s books before…” Stenton prompts Jordan’s completion.
“Babes!” I can tell this is a mantra his dad has also been coaching him on.
My phone goes off. It’s a text from an employee, calling out of work tomorrow.
“Is it time to go?” Why does Stenton have to pierce me with those eyes? It frustrates and excites me at the same time.
My eyes swing back down to my phone, and as I reply to the text, I respond to Stenton without the eye contact I know he prefers. “No. It’s work.”
“Good,” Stenton replies smoothly.
“Oooh, Mommy, you wanna come with us to the Gameroom?”
I drop my phone in my lap and glance over at Jordan. Now, this is too much. I’ve agreed to dinner, not date night with Stenton Rogers. It had been sometime since we’d all gone out as a family. Years ago, we’d take exotic vacations together regularly. I had to put a stop to that.
“Honey, it’s really late and Mommy doesn’t do well with a whole bunch of kids running around in one room. You know that.”
“We actually have the place to ourselves. I wanted to be sure to hit up the spot with him since I had to run right after the last game. We’re calling it the end of the season celebration,” Stenton provides with his eyes penetrating me. “Right, JR?”
“Yeah, Mommy. Just come. We’re going to have mad fun!”
Stenton is trying to set me up. He knows Jordan wants me with him tonight. I feel uneasy. But when I hear Jordan talk with missing teeth, distorting the sounds of his words, I have to consider it. By all accounts, Jordan is a well-rounded kid in spite of being raised by parents in two separate households. He’s an only child and I think that fact is the cause of his extreme maturity. His father only treats him as a child when he’s disciplining Jordan and giving him some golden nuggets of life. Outside of that, these two are like best buds. I struggle with being the witch of a mom. I want Jordan to be surrounded by love.
“Okay,” I acquiesce.
I follow them over to Gameroom, which is located in Center City Philadelphia, not too far from my and Jordan’s home. Jordan will be staying the night with his father, but at least my commute won’t be so far when I leave.
Sure enough, the place is empty with only staff on standby for Stenton and Jordan’s needs. We immediately start with video games, something both guys enjoy. Then we move on to pinball machines, and after that, bowling. When we arrive at the miniature basketball courts, of course, Jordan invites me to play, and it is hard not to get caught up in the excitement of the game. The second time I miss the shot, Stenton sidles up behind me and coordinates my wrists so I can have better range with my throw. His scent is so familiar and compelling that it’s distracting, making me uncomfortable.
I toss the ball and make the shot.
“Yay! Mommy got skills! Mommy got skills!” Jordan jumps up and down on his toes.
I glance over at Stenton whose pouty heart-shaped lips are too patent and his eyes are slanted a bit more than usual as his heavy eyes rakes over my entire face. This happens each time we touch, no matter how casually. It’s also why I’ve opted not to spend time around him over the past year. It clouds my mind and judgment. It also depresses me.
“Zo,” pours from his mouth melodically. Stenton always enunciates my name with reverence and bold sensuality. “There’s something I need to talk to you about…something we need to discuss.”
My heart pounds in my chest and the palms of my hands mists. Why his request to talk causes immediate anxiety, I don’t know, but my mouth has gone dry and lips part. Fear lodges in my throat, rendering me unable to speak.
When I’m able to, I whisper, “Su-sure.” I then try for a cooperative smile.
See, that’s always been the thing about Stenton. He’s brought out those things in me that are uncharacteristic of my true nature. I’ve always stepped out of my comfort zone with him and have done things I never thought to do. At one point they were all good traits that modified the core of me. My sense of optimism and unconditional love prevailed where he was concerned. Now, those qualities have morphed into characteristics that are ugly and dark, which is why it’s time for me to go.
“I think Mommy’s just about played out, baby,” I say to Jordan as I turn to him, dropping on my haunches. “I have an early day tomorrow since one of the workers called off. I’ll see you in a couple of days?”
My heart twists at that acknowledgement, but I know he’s in the best hands. The only person who loves my child possibly as much as I do is his father. He adores Jordan.
Jordan nods, surprisingly not fighting my departure. I offer my balled hand to do our fist bump and he joins me. I can see the slant in his eyes as well. Sir Jordan is sleepy. It’s nearing his bed time. I kiss his head and turn to collect my leather jacket and purse that I tossed on a statue earlier.
When my gaze meets Stenton’s, his hand drops from his chin and his shoulders square, a sign of him opening up to me. It further coils my heart. I hate what we’ve become. I don’t know how to say a simple goodbye. Over the years, I’ve lost conversation for Stenton more and more. Luckily, he takes the lead in our parting words.
“Good night, Zo. Thanks for hanging out with us tonight. Jordan will be home on Friday.”
The brevity of his bidding me goodbye sends a fluttering sensation through my chest. Still, I don’t know what to say. So, I say nothing. I nod, turn on my heel, and give one last fleeting glance to Jordan who’s now shooting the ball, not paying us any attention, thankfully, before walking out.
When I arrive home, I shower and crawl into bed with a heavy heart and exhausted limbs. I know I should check in with Bernard, but I’m too tired, too preoccupied with images of Stenton in my head. Too troubled about the thoughts of what could have been when I realize I just spent an eventful evening with what, for years, I so desperately wanted to be my family.
Minutes into this internal battle I’ve engaged in while I beg for sleep to come, I feel my ducts fill with tears. I knew they’d arrived before they poured because dealing with Stenton for the past seven years acquainted me w
ith the act of crying, something I don’t recall doing much of before him. My chest heaves from the heaviness my heart bears and my lungs fill with the pain of what I’ve become. Then the tears. This is exactly why I didn’t want to extend the evening with Jordan’s dad in the first place.
And so here it is, another night of haunted memories, trying to figure out where I went wrong years ago.
~~~~~~~~~~
Then
June 2006 Zoey
“Girl, aren’t you pumped? Yeeeeeeeah, baby!” Angela shouted with one hand on the steering wheel and the other, holding a cup of WaWa coffee.
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah.” I yawned. “Just ecstatic. Wooohooo,” I pushed out wryly.
“Zo, you have no idea what you’re in for! And I’ll never forget my favorite cousin, who took the journey with me to get my husband! We’re going to have so much fun these six weeks! I can feel it!” Angela was so beside herself with glee, she literally exclaimed each sentence.
“How long before we’re there?” I asked, yawning again. It was around 5:30 a.m. and I was completely exhausted.
“Not long at all,” she answered as we rode in her 2000 Ford Taurus.
She had come to pick me up since Princeton is en route to Moorestown, NJ where we were spending the greater part of our summer.
“Girl, you are going to thank me as soon as you see those tall, rich and fine basketball players! I heard at least six 76’ers are going to be there and possibly two from the Knicks. Zo, we got the best assignment!” Teasingly, she nudged me in the arm as she laughed.
Angela and I had been tight since I moved to New Jersey from South Carolina in seventh grade. We had known each other prior to my move, but when I arrived we became best friends. There were no secrets between us. We shared everything and every detail of our lives.
Angela stole glances in the rearview mirror, assessing her makeup. She was beyond excited about this excursion. Her almond skin came from her mother, though her beautifully carved facial features were all from her dad. Angela and I were fairly the same average 5’5” height. Even with the whopping fifteen pounds she’d put on her last few months of college, she still had a killer body, only now, her figure seemed more mature. And believe me when I tell you she knew how to work her weight, no matter how much or little.
