“Not to worry, I’ve got it right here,” Ava declared with her drink in her hand. I don’t think she placed it down the entire time. “Here, Brooke, do the honors.”
Ava handed Brooke a stunning tiara that glittered like moonlight against late-night waters.
“Oh, ladies, this is beautiful,” I said, taking the gorgeous piece from Brooke’s grasp. “This certainly didn’t come from nobody’s party store.”
“No, honey, this is the real McCoy. Brian said that you are going to be his queen. And we figured, what’s a queen without a crown or at least a tiara?” Brooke joked.
I fought back tears as I remembered why I wanted to be Brian’s wife, even through all of my stalling. I loved that man so much that at that moment, I was filled with emotion. I felt the tension from the past few days ease out of my body. My excitement returned almost immediately.
“Let’s get this show on the road, girls! WAIT!” Each of them stopped in their tracks when I yelled out. “Where the hell is my pomegranate martini?” I asked with my hands on my hips and attitude on my lips.
Everyone laughed and Brooke got to pouring. I had forgotten about the big fuss the girls had been making over my attire as well, and laughed and chatted while Brooke went into their bags of tricks and made me a drink.
“Come on, Lex, you have to see yourself in the mirror,” Ava said as she grabbed my forearm and practically dragged me into my bedroom while Dionne and Brooke followed.
I stood before my mirrored closet door and stared at myself. I couldn’t believe my eyes and didn’t know if I should laugh, cry, or what. I burst out laughing so hard I felt as if my eyes would pop out of their sockets. I sported a baby tee that had ample breasts and nipples faintly drawn on the front, with “Kiss the Bride for a Buck” printed across the front. The T-shirt was designed with an upside-down V-like opening that revealed my butterfly belly button piercing. Condoms were pinned to the nipples and the opening. The trim at the bottom of the T-shirt, as well as the edge of the sleeves, was adorned with silver sequins. The girls had also thrown a silver boa around my neck, and flung it back in the same fashion that Jackie O had worn her expensive scarves. They had replaced my white gold and diamond hoops with long, silver costume earrings that gently graced my shoulders and flowed like liquid.
My hair was pulled up into a bejeweled clasp and select pieces of hair cascaded down over the clasp and along the sides of my tiara. I was a glittery mess. But I looked good. If the tiara didn’t put me in the mood to party, then this outfit sure did.
“Wait, I have the perfect sandals to go with this,” I said and went scrambling through my closet for my silver stiletto sandals with the rhinestones across the top strap. I threw the shoes on and sashayed around in front of the mirror. “I think I’m ready now.” All of us doubled over with laughter. “Let’s go.”
“You have to look at the back,” Brooke said and turned me by my shoulders.
I looked over my shoulder into the mirror and saw “The Mrs.” printed across the back and scores of condoms hanging from pins. I shook my head and cracked up.
“Okay, where’s my damn drink. I have a feeling I’m going to need it!” I said and we all left the house, laughing, sipping, and singing “Who’s That Lady?” by the Isley Brothers.
The bachlorette party was held in a private room at a bar and lounge on Seventh Avenue. The low lights, trendy décor, and energetic atmosphere were intoxicating. Friends and some family members were enjoying drinks and appetizers at the bar while others were jamming to R&B cuts.
While I was at the bar, a gorgeous, tall man with smooth, dark, well-oiled skin approached me, read my shirt, and smiled. He licked his scrumptious lips, pulled a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet, and exchanged the condom at the opening of my shirt for the money. By the end of the night, the back of my shirt was covered with twenties, fifties, and even a few hundred-dollar bills. No one dared remove the condoms from my drawn-on nipples.
Our next stop was a strip bar where I was the guest of honor. A muscle-bound chocolate-colored dancer pulled my chair to the front of the stage and gave me a personal show. Before long, I had a throng of half-naked, sweaty bodies in various hues of brown, dancing, gyrating, and teasing me in ways I could never have imagined. My caravan of girls were hooting and hollering, snapping pictures and having a ball.
Brooke had taken the liberty of inviting Lori, Brian’s old buddy. We’d been seeing more of her since she moved into Brian’s old apartment. Lori had always been a really nice person. While the strippers entertained me, she snapped so many pictures I started to wonder about her, but then I dismissed those thoughts. I just hoped she didn’t plan on sharing those photos with Brian. That would be completely against the code, breaking all kinds of “girl laws.” Speaking of Brian, with all these hot-bodied men gyrating their goods in front of me, I thought to myself that he was in for it when I reached home, issues or not.
The night was eventful, to say the least. I had so much fun that my face hurt from laughing. Dionne drove home because Brooke and Ava were too intoxicated to handle the wheel.
To say that I couldn’t wait to get my hands on Brian was an understatement. I started getting out of the car before Dionne even rolled to a complete stop. By then, my tiara was lopsided and wouldn’t stay on my head. I had to keep pushing it up to keep it from falling in my face. Still buzzed from the liquor and festivities, I sang and danced my way into my home. I hadn’t paid attention when we pulled up and didn’t notice that the lights were still on. When I saw the glow of the lights underneath my door, I was happy that Brian was still awake. That way we could get right down to business.
My hands weren’t completely working with me but I eventually got the door unlocked and flung it open, singing the words from Diddy’s “Last Night.” What I saw quickly deflated my high and replaced my heated desire with heated anger and bewilderment. It felt like someone had shot an arrow through my chest and tried to pull my heart out through the narrow opening.
Brian was sitting on the couch with his head back, snoring lightly. In his arms was the little boy from the picture, fast asleep. The TV flicked animated scenes from some colorful cartoon. My tongue felt void of moisture and I realized that my mouth had been hanging open. Slowly, I closed the door and took small concentrated steps until I reached the couch where Brian was sleeping with his son. All kinds of questions and thoughts trampled through my mind.
Once I reached Brian, I couldn’t bring myself to touch him. I stood there staring at the little boy. Even with his eyes closed, it was clear to see that he’d gotten them directly from his father. My eyes traveled from Brian to the baby, taking note of all of the similarities—the gentle pout of their lips as they slept, the long jaw line, and the high cheekbones. Everything about this boy spoke volumes of where he’d come from. And he was here before me in the flesh. There was no denying his presence. The anticipation of how he could change our lives made me shudder. I wanted to be upset with him but couldn’t. It wasn’t his fault, no matter how much I wanted to place blame on him for what he was about to do to my life.
I gently swept the side of his face with the back of my hand. Seeing him was one thing, but touching him confirmed that he was real. Tears temporarily blurred my vision before spilling down my face, flowing consistently and silently. How was I to handle him being thrust into our lives at such a critical time? Could I handle him being a permanent fixture in my future with Brian or a constant reminder of what Brian shared with Shelly? The baby that I miscarried would have been just a few months younger than this little guy. It sickened me to know that Shelly was able to give him something I couldn’t.
I cupped my hand over my mouth to muffle the audible cry that eased up from my insides and ran into the bedroom. The door slammed behind me, against my intentions. Brian was the last person I wanted to see or talk to at that moment, and I hoped the loud noise from the door closing wasn’t enough to wake him or the child. With my back against the door, I slid to the floor, my
body heaving. The moisture from my tears filled my hands as I held my face. Then soft knocks tapped against the opposite side of the door. Unable to find words, I left his knocks unanswered. The knocks came again but I still didn’t respond.
From the other side of the door, Brian called my name ever so softly. His words seemed to drift through the air and wrap themselves around me. I shook off the feeling of comfort that his voice often caused. I didn’t want to acknowledge our attachment. What if I wanted out? It would be too hard to walk away from what we had because of this perpetual shift.
“Lexie, please. Open the door. I want to explain.” There was that tone again. The soothing one that spoke volumes without words and confirmed that everything would be alright. But I refused to believe it, so I covered my ears.
Brian knocked again, then tried the door handle and pushed the door into me. I refused to move. He pushed once more and then stopped, but he didn’t walk away. Besides seeing the shadow of his feet beneath the door, I could feel the thickness of his presence. Yet I stood my ground and remained in place as minutes ticked away.
Finally, I gained a voice and asked through the door, “Could you please do me a favor and find somewhere else to sleep tonight?”
His only response was a hard, frustrated blow against his side of the door before I felt his presence depart and heard his footsteps grow fainter. When I was sure that he was away, I peeled myself from the floor and slowly cracked the door before heading out. Hoping he was gone, I stepped out of the room in need of air, only to find Brian standing right there waiting for me. I could feel my face contort in an attempt to thwart the tears that were about to erupt when Brian pulled me into his arms. I fought him, beating his arms and chest with my fists until he caught hold of my arms, forced them to my sides, and embraced me hard, as if he would never let go. With my arms pinned under his, I could only violently shake my head from side to side to communicate my protest.
“Let me go. Get off of me,” I repeated through my tears, but Brian only held me tighter.
After depleting the rest of my energy I dropped my head and gave up for the moment. When I lost my resolve, Brian held me tighter and planted kisses along the top of my head.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said between kisses. “And you can’t walk away from me. I won’t let you.”
At those words, I pushed and pushed until he finally released his hold on me. With my eyes cast down and hurting from crying, I backed away from him until I reached the room again. Just before I closed the door, I lifted my eyes to meet his. He stood still, just where I left him, pleading with his eyes. I cut off his gaze when I closed the door, separating and defining the space between us.
Chapter 8 Shelly
I sighed extremely loudly to make sure that Brandon heard me through the phone. I’d wished he would stop asking me the same damn question over and over again. After the fourth time, I mocked him silently, moving my lips as he spoke the annoying words, “When are you coming home?” I wanted to scream, NEVER!
I was done with the whole Brandon Cabrini charade. I never wanted to go back to that house with him again. Making room for Brian to re-enter my life was my top priority. I felt as if I was finally getting through to him. If I couldn’t, then I knew BJ could. Even though he seemed pretty peeved about me leaving BJ with him and disappearing, he appeared to have fallen for him. Brian adored his son. I smiled as I remembered the endearing look they shared when he handed him over to me. I was certainly on my way to having what I wanted, so I wasn’t about to let Mr. Cabrini ruin my plans.
The thought of Brandon brought me back from my state of remembrance to the present.
“Shelly! Are you listening to me? Have you heard a word that I’ve said? You haven’t answered my question yet,” Brandon asked yet again. “We really need to talk. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m sure we can work it out. I want you and the baby home, Shelly.”
I chewed on the sides of my thumbnail, something I often do when thinking of a response. I didn’t have room in my life for Brandon now, not with all I had on my plate. I wanted to say it so badly but still didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He knew it, I knew it, heck, everyone knew it, but no one would dare speak the words. BJ’s not yours anyway, so what’s the big deal? I said in my head. I still couldn’t bring myself to release the words into the air, knowing they would cut Brandon like a knife.
“Say something, Shelly. Don’t do this to me,” he pleaded. He was beginning to sound downright pitiful. “After all this time, what happened for you to up and walk out on me like this?”
“I didn’t walk out on you, Brandon.” I had to say something because he was getting dramatic.
“Well, what would you call it? You left the house yesterday morning without a word about where you were going. You stayed out all night and didn’t call. When I tried calling you, I got voice mail every single time. I just don’t get it. If I did something to cause all of this then let me know. I need some answers here.”
I was about to give him an answer until I spotted my hollow mother as she entered the room. I wasn’t ready to reveal everything to her just yet.
“Listen, Brandon, give me a few hours. I’ll be home tonight and we can talk, okay?” I turned my back to my mother so she couldn’t hear me and watched her from a sideways-peripheral view. “I’ll call you when I’m on my way,” I said with finality as I gazed back at my mother as she pretended to be busy.
“Where are you? The least you could do is tell me that much. As a matter, of fact you owe me that much. I am your husband, aren’t I?” Brandon smarted.
“I’m with my mother. I’ll call you when I’m on my way,” I said for the last time and proceeded to release the call with a touch of the END button. But before my hand could fully reach the button on my cell phone, I could hear him trying to get in a few last words. I ended the call anyway.
When I turned in Mother’s direction, she was standing right on my heels, staring down her pointed nose at me. I hated when she did that. It was as though she could see right through me.
“Was that Brandon?” she asked me with piercing eyes.
“Yes it was, Mother.” I hated calling her Mother. It sounded so formal and distant. Yet that’s what she demanded I call her since I was a child.
One day, my mother, Sheila Winston, decided that I should begin calling her Mother instead of Ma or Mommy. She said it sounded important and reminded her of the rich. The first time I said it, it felt strange coming from my young lips and I instantly felt a sense of detachment. Even after practically begging her to let me call her Mommy again, like all the other kids called their mothers, she scolded me, refused, and insisted that I refer to her as Mother at all times, especially in front of her girlfriends and Daddy’s side of the family. Sheila, which is how I referred to her when I wasn’t in her presence, also tried to make me call my daddy “Father,” but he wasn’t having it, and I was elated. That simple demand drove my mother and me apart while Daddy and I developed a special bond.
“Tell me, Shelly,” my mother probed as she began to prepare a cup of her favorite Sunday afternoon tea. “What’s going on at home? Exactly why are you here?”
I knew it was coming, but I didn’t want to go there with her, not this day or any day. She would never understand. All of the decisions she ever made in life were based on how much she could gain. And no matter what my dilemma, she had her opinions which, as far as she was concerned, took precedence over anything anyone else had to say.
“I can’t come to visit my mother … Mother?” I asked with such sarcasm that she narrowed her eyes at me. After the piercing look, I lost some of my steam. “Just some minor issues with Brandon, that’s all. Where’s Daddy?” I asked, trying to dismiss her.
I love my mother dearly, but there are times when I absolutely don’t want to be bothered with her judgmental ass. But I was in her house, so the least I could do was engage her in simple conversation. That is, if there ever was such a thing when it came
to my mother. Discussions with Sheila usually left me feeling like I had been interrogated.
“Where did you and BJ sleep last night?” she asked as she walked toward the large sliding glass doors leading to the back of the spacious brownstone, sipping her tea.
“At my old condo,” I said nervously. “What made you ask?” I wondered.
“Brandon called every hour on the hour inquiring about your whereabouts,” she answered as she stared out into the small but beautifully landscaped yard, complete with a Tuscan-inspired water feature, cozy seating area, custom-built stone barbeque grill, and lush borders of colorful and fragrant plant life. “Why wouldn’t you tell him where you were or answer his calls? Are you contemplating leaving him?”
“Mother…” I said, then paused. Knowing how she felt about my “arrangement,” I prepared to tread carefully with this conversation. “I’m getting tired—”
“Tired of what!” she nearly shouted as she whipped her neck around to look at me directly. She had done it so fast she had to step back a tad to avoid spilling the hot tea she was carrying. Then she quickly brought her hand to the back of her neck and began rubbing it. Obviously, the sudden move had caused some level of pain. “What are you saying, Shelly?” she asked, putting the steamy cup down on a nearby accent table.
I rolled my eyes in my head and sighed. She’d never understand what I was feeling. I doubt that she ever truly loved anyone or went after anything with her heart. Everything Sheila did was purposeful and calculated from start to finish. She would examine every potential outcome, then set her plan in place, never to digress from her chosen path until she accomplished what she set out to achieve. I’d seen it a thousand times growing up.
“Ma, I’m tired of the game.” I watched gleefully as her eyes stretched wide at my disregard for her title. “I don’t love Brandon and I never did.”
In Her Mind (Mountain High Valley Low ) Page 4
