by Raqiyah Mays
“I’m scaring you? Why?”
“Well, you come here unannounced. You meet me at the train station. You don’t know when I’m coming, so you just wait. How long were you there?”
“Only an hour or so. But I know what time you get off work. And since I missed your birthday last month, I just wanted to do something with you.”
“How do you know what time I get off work?” I asked, knowing we hadn’t spoken in weeks.
“Your mom,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I called earlier and she told me.”
I could hear his words in the background of my momentary daydream. An out-of-body moment recollecting the call I’d taken from Dex on my birthday. I accidentally dialed his number, drunk and high that night off some brownies cooked with weed Meredith had gotten from Brooklyn, to celebrate. He called me back. And we ended up talking on the phone for two hours. Like old times. Laughing and gossiping. The way it was when we first met. Before the fights. Before the angry emotional outbursts. The call ended when his phone rang at 2 a.m. He clicked over. Kept me on hold for sixty seconds too long. And I hung up. Knowing what a call at that time of night meant. When I sobered up and woke the next morning, I regretted every second; he spent the next few days buzzing and beeping me. Calling the house phone. Talking to my mother. Blowing me up despite my ignoring the calls. As if we were back together. As if I’d forgotten why we broke up. And here he was. Stalking. Again.
“You didn’t know what time I was getting home. So this is crazy, Dex.” I crossed my arms and stared out the window. “You drive up from Baltimore and wait somewhere for me? You just sit and wait for an hour? What the fuck?”
“Well, I came from Maryland and I stopped in Philly to see my dad. And when I leave here I’ma sleep there and go back. I came to tell you I’ll be moving to Philly and staying with him. I’ll be close. Only an hour and a half away. Not two and a half like Maryland. So we can see each other.”
“We’re not together anymore, Dex!”
“But, Meena . . .” he whined, glossy-eyed. “Come on, we can be. If you just try. I can’t let you go.” His eyes began tearing up as he inched closer, grabbing my arm.
“Let me go!” I yelled, yanking away from his grip and jumping out of the car. “What the fuck?”
By then he’d pulled up in front of my house. There were no lights on. The porch was twenty meters away. I thought about sprinting to freedom but knew that Dexter’s ex-soldier calves, bulging atop his cross-trainer Nikes, might catch up to my heels. I grabbed my scarf and wrapped it around my face. Arms crossed. I looked up and down the street at utter emptiness. Like a horror movie, like a scene from A Nightmare on Elm Street. My worst fear flashed through my brain: chased by a serial killer and no one to hear the screams but me, dying to the bloodcurdling echo of my own voice in the distance.
I knew by now that Mom was probably dozing to the evening news. So when I got out of the car, I did the safest thing I could think of, which was to stand in the middle of the street, under a lamp. Its brightness glared, stretching my shadow long and dramatic, like the moment.
“Why are you standing there, Meena?” Dex asked with a sinister smile. “Aren’t you cold? Why don’t you go in the house?”
“Because I don’t feel like it. I feel better standing here in the middle of the street under the lamp, where I’m safe. Where people can see and hear me if something should happen.”
“And what’s gonna happen to you?”
“I don’t know. Hopefully nothing as long as I stand in this spotlight.”
“I’m not gonna hurt you, Meena. I love you.”
“Well, you’re scaring me. And if you love me, you’ll drive off, go home, and leave me alone.”
“I’m not leaving, Meena.”
“Well, I’m not going in the house then, and you don’t love me.”
“I do love you.”
“Well, then leave.”
“I’m not leaving. I wanna talk to you.”
“Leave, Dex. You wanna talk on your own terms. This shit here is spooky,” I said, crossing the street. “And you don’t care. That’s some selfish shit.”
“Where are you going now?”
“To stand in the light in front of my neighbor’s house. They’re awake. I can see lights on and the TV playing.”
“I can’t believe you’re acting like this.”
“Leave, Dex. You’re scaring me.”
“Meena . . .”
“If you love me, you’ll leave.”
“I do love you.”
“So leave and stop scaring me.”
“Meena, come on.”
“Leave. How many times is that now?”
“I just—”
“Leave!” I screamed it down the street. Icicles shivered from the limbs of tree branches as dogs barked and the squeak of my neighbor’s screen door crept open. A little girl poked her head out.
Dex and I turned to see the baby standing there under the porch light. Slippers on. Head full of barrettes. A Barbie doll in hand.
He sucked his teeth and turned on the ignition. Placing his hands on the steering wheel, Dex exhaled a long, hard huff before screeching off. I waited ten minutes in the street, anticipating his return, fingers numb, white air blowing from my lips, staring at that little girl. Feigning a smile, I waved. She looked back, bewildered, combing doll hair with a perplexed smile on her face.
“Girl, get in the house,” said Maryland Phillips. My lab partner from the tenth grade. She and her daughter still lived next door. Once a skinny girl with big boobs and a butt, she now wore a size twenty. “What are you doin’ out here? It’s cold.”
“Combing Tee Tee’s hair. We want to see the snow.”
“It’s not snowing tonight. Get in the house,” she said, pushing the little girl inside. Looking up at me, she waved.
“Hey, Meena!” She peered at me over her glasses. “What are you doin’ out in the street?”
“Oh, just taking a walk.”
“You like this fake spring arctic weather?”
“Not really. I just need to clear my mind.”
“Okay, well, be careful, it’s late,” she said, looking up and down the block. “Oh, tell ya mom I want some more of those cupcakes she made for the church.”
“Okay,” I said, slowly walking up my driveway. The minute the screen closed behind her, I broke into a full sprint toward the front porch, speed-unlocked the front door, and slammed it behind me. Walking through the house, teeth chattering, I turned on all the lights, locked each window, and ran upstairs.
Chapter 16
I couldn’t wait for the Buzz magazine Memorial Day power mixer party. Timed yearly to take place at the end of May, it was the most-talked-about event in New York, when the new issue was unveiled in a room packed with shakers and superstars of the entertainment industry. The weekend prior, I’d gotten the perfect outfit—all-white fitted pants, fluffy ruffled shirt scooped to the neckline, revealing a tad of cleavage. I’d packed my black heels, with the straps across the ankle, and a tiny clutch to accent.
The party, carefully planned to coincide with when our workload was the lightest, took place after we’d shipped the newest issue to the printer. The office was less crazy and tense. Denise would take out-of-office meetings with long lunches—some business, others personal. Editors would cram into the IT office, fighting for the remote to play the newest video game that hadn’t hit the market yet. And I spent my downtime on the phone with Sean. Placing him on hold, in between taking calls for Denise’s office.
“I need you to dial a number for me,” he asked one afternoon. “I’ll give you the digits.”
“What’s this? A three-way call?”
“Yeah, but don’t say anything when they pick up.”
“Okay, cool. Who is it?”
“Just someone I was
supposed to call and didn’t get a chance to,” he said. “This will be quick.”
“Better be. Denise’s phone rings like a broken record.”
I dialed the number Sean recited.
“Hi, this is Kelly Jones. I’m away from the office now. Please leave a message.”
“You can hang up now,” Sean said before the beep. “She must be in a meeting.”
“Who was that?”
“I told you about Kelly. She works at that entertainment news company EURweb. I’m supposed to call her about a story.”
Pause . . .
A moment of déjà vu set in. I began to feel the insecurity and remember what my mother had said more than once about women in my family. Most women in general, as a matter of fact. “We always know, feel, or sense when something isn’t right.”
In the Mitchell family, a lie is the highest form of insult. It’s like spitting at someone, or throwing a shoe at the president. And even “lawyer lies,” passive-aggressive fibs that tell part of the truth, while purposely leaving out pertinent info, didn’t escape our loathing.
“Did you have sex with her?” I asked, deciding to be frank instead of playing mind tricks with myself. “I mean, it’s cool if you did. I’m not your girl. And I know there were women before me.”
Sean paused. Void of the typical quick-witted response.
“Uh,” he began, clearing his throat. “Well, yeah, we dated a little. But it didn’t work out. She said I had too many female friends. And I was busy, and couldn’t be there when she needed me. Some emotionally unavailable self-help female bullshit. Blah, blah, blah. Didn’t make sense.”
“How long ago was that?”
He paused.
“You can’t remember?”
“About six months. Maybe a little less. I don’t know.” He awkwardly paused again before continuing. “She said she didn’t want to bring me into the New Year with her. She wanted to start the year fresh and clean. I still think she was seeing someone else. I mean, how could she stop seeing me like that? Why couldn’t we still be friends? Had to be someone else.”
“Well, for the record, I’d never ask you to call my ex on your phone. That’s just rude.”
“She’s not my ex!”
“You just said you used to date her.”
“Yeah, but she was never my girl. You’re my girl.”
This time I paused, only for another reason entirely. In the nearly four months that had passed since I’d met Sean, he had never referred to me as his “girl” before. We talked for hours and went on weekly dates. The sex occurred once or twice a week, multiple times a night. But I was careful not to think he was my man, since he hadn’t mentioned it. I hadn’t fully opened my heart to Sean. He was a workaholic. I knew about the female “friends.” And I refused to be hurt again. But his new revelation was a first that made me do ecstatic inner somersaults.
“Oh, I’m your girl?”
“Well, yeah, if you want to be. Do you?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, then. You are.”
“As long as you don’t have me calling chicks on the three-way for you anymore.”
“Done.” He laughed. “Deal.”
The party that night was at Tavern on the Green. White lights adorned trees, hanging with elegance like on an angel’s harp. Countless buffet tables filled with assorted breads, shrimp, salmon, beef, salads, crackers, and cheeses highlighted varying spots of the venue. Waitresses sashayed in sexy white heels, carrying platters of champagne. Waiters in tuxedos worked their best to elegantly sweat while rushing to appease the demand of a thirsty crowd salivating for enhanced inebriation.
I arrived with my cousin Bernard, who’d just moved to New York from Philadelphia. Looking to break into the photography world, he’d packed his camera and made a point to take shots of all my coworkers. In between his playing paparazzo, we walked the length of the party, nodding our heads to Biz Markie’s live DJ mix. It didn’t take us long to find the perfect spot at the bar, situated on a stage of sorts, where the entire view of the party could be had in one glance. Bernard maneuvered, taking pictures of my sexy pose with a glass of champagne. I simply nodded, sipped, admired, and watched the view until my pupils focused in on him: Sean. Standing in the middle of the floor talking to her: unknown. She was fairly cute. A short cut cropped to her head. A beige blouse and flowing skirt that fell below her knees. Something about her style was wholesome and churchlike. From the dainty flats she wore to the frumpy top and matching skirt seated on her calves.
But the way Sean watched this girl, standing less than two feet away, her head tilted, laughing bashfully, made me jealous. He carried a Heineken, whispering in her ear. She held on to her wine, blinking slowly with a seductive stare.
“Who are you looking at like that?” Bernard picked up his camera, hoping to get a good shot. “You look disgusted, like . . .”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to cut somebody.”
“Oh, I’m staring at Sean all over this girl.”
“Which one?”
“See the chick with the beige skirt and red flats?”
“The one with the beige shirt looking like it’s a size too big?”
“Exactly.” I laughed. “He’s standing way too close to her.”
“Well, go get your man. Take his attention off her.”
“You’re right,” I said, putting my empty glass down on the bar. “But you have to distract her. Go flirt or something. Take a picture. Get her number. Something. Just keep her away from him.”
Bernard took his orders, marched over, and like a good photographer asked whether he could take a picture. Of course she obliged, put a hand on her hip, and posed. In the meantime, I walked up to Sean.
“Hey, handsome.”
He turned around. “Wow,” he said, mouth wide open, looking me up and down. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I answered, grabbing his hand. “Let me get you a drink.”
I pulled him as he followed, mesmerized by my smooth, brown legs in super-high platform heels.
“Vodka tonic, right? Here ya go. On me.”
He laughed. “The bar is open, ya know?”
“Oh, is it?” We looked at each other as I maintained my most seductive gaze. “You should take advantage. What are you doing after this?”
“No plans. Figured I’d head home and do a little writing since I am on deadline. I shouldn’t even be out tonight, but I needed to get a drink.”
“Yeah, well, don’t let Denise see you.”
“What? Why?” He looked around, face full of alarm. “Where is she?”
“In the VIP section, surrounded by too many people,” I said, pointing at a crowded corner blocked off by a red velvet rope. “But she’s distracted and she’s drinking, so you’re good.”
He exhaled and smiled at me. “So what are you doing after this?”
“Going home with you.”
Pause . . .
I’d never been this straightforward before. But then again, it had been a long time since I’d been at an open-bar Buzz event drinking King Arthur–size goblets of wine and champagne. The fermented grapes affected my confidence, giving me superman-size balls to take verbal risks without a thought. I was feeling myself, Sean, and the moment.
“You ready?” I asked, before guzzling down my glass. “Let’s go.”
“Are you sure you’re ready?” he said. “Because with the way you look . . . and it’s a full moon.”
I grabbed his hand and stumbled out of the party. As Sean tried to hail a cab, I texted Bernard.
Gone to Sean’s house. Spending night. Thanks for keeping that bitch off my man. Talk to you tomorrow. Gnite.
He texted back.
Damn, you got your man. Ok, cuzzo. Wish I could find somebody as fierce as you.
And that bitch’s name is Kelly Jones. Works at some entertainment company. You know her?
The minute I got into the cab I was all over Sean, caressing the small of his back, nibbling his ears, unbuckling his pants. I didn’t care that the driver was watching from his rearview mirror. Wine, bubbly, and hormones had given me the confidence to be a swinging exhibitionist in a dirty yellow taxi. It gave me the will to ride him as hard as I could, on the floor, next to the futon, and eventually across his bed in Brooklyn. He grunted and moaned. I screamed and scratched, down to do anything to make him, and me, forget about Kelly Jones.
Chapter 17
The next evening, I sat in the doctor’s office, eyes long and droopy. Half falling asleep. I’d spent the last thirty minutes nodding in and out of rapid eye movement. The day had been a never-ending episode. And the night before with Sean hadn’t ended till five. I was thirsty, hungry, hungover, and under-rested. Not one to both cuddle and sleep simultaneously, I found myself having an uneasy rest at Sean’s. Tossing and turning, wiggling and scooting, aiming for the far side of the bed, away from his body. Two feet from the stifling sweat of an unmovable snuggle. I mean, I love cuddling in a man’s arms. But after the sex is done and the moment has passed, I need my own space and place to sleep—my own side of the covers, corner of the sheet, and long length of the bed.
The night and morning were long. Asleep at five thirty. Up at seven. More sex till eight. Shower. Quickie sex in the shower. And on the train from Brooklyn to Manhattan by ten. Or rather, 10:11. I was blessed to have a job where I didn’t have to report at nine o’clock. The entertainment-industry late start was perfect for someone like me who was prone to sleeping in and running ten minutes late. Always rushing.
Denise hated this lateness even though she had a punctuality problem herself. When I was hired, she’d said I didn’t need to get to the office before ten. But over the past month, she was in “acting like an editor in chief” mode, getting to work at nine thirty. And I knew I should be the dutiful, diligent, reliable assistant by her side at all times, even before ten. And I planned on it. But this particular morning, it wasn’t easy.
