by Raqiyah Mays
“Um . . . hello?” Chad asked, breaking my stunned silence. “Did I scare you?”
“No . . .” I said. “I’ve just been living with what I thought was a curse on me my entire life. And to hear what you said is surreal.”
“Well, on the flip side, maybe there is a curse. The mind is powerful. If you tell yourself something long enough, you’ll start to believe it. If it comes from a parent, the child believes it,” he said. “If you believe a lie about yourself long enough, you manifest its reality. The minute it loses power is when you realize the truth, think something different, truly believe, say and accept it. Truth is love.”
I was still silent. Quiet in awe. Mesmerized by truth. Loving what Chad had told me as I slowly flashed back to every time I’d heard word of “the curse” throughout my entire life. To every feeling that I didn’t fully fit in with my family because I was a Butler and everyone else was a Mitchell. At that moment, I knew the truth. The epiphany. There was no damn curse. It was all in my head. And if there was one, like Chad’s family believed, it was all on the Mitchell side. I was safe.
“So,” he continued, “now that you know you’re not cursed anymore, when can we meet? Are you free Sunday afternoon for brunch?”
“You don’t want a picture of me?”
“Well, I’ve dated many women with beautiful bodies and ugly personalities. You have a beautiful personality, eyes, laugh. So you know what? I’ll see the rest of you in person.”
“That’s risky.”
“It is. But I have a good feeling about you. I like to go with my gut. So we’ll see if I’m right on this one. I have nothing to lose,” he said, before coughing. “Unless you rob me or something.”
We met at an Italian restaurant on a side street near the Hudson River. The place evoked old-world Sicilian charm, with cobblestone streets and dimly lit corners holding old gentlemen with black blazers. Their legs crossed as they sipped red wine at two in the afternoon; Frank Sinatra played from the speakers, vibrating sounds that bounced from tables aglow with candles. Tiny flames gave light to old, wooden, two-person seating arrangements. Wobbling, the tables ached for the weight of customers to add charm.
When I stepped inside, I looked around for Chad. No sign, that was unless he was the old man sipping the wine, and I couldn’t see that.
Lil, the critic, began chattering with unsure vulnerability inside my head. Why is he not here? Is he coming? Is he late? That’s not good. He’s going to cancel.
Big came to her defense: He’ll be here. Why wouldn’t he? It’s you. The queen.
I pulled out my phone to send a text. Hey Chad. I’m here.
His reply seconds later: Me too. Outside.
I headed to the front door, stepped outside, and heard, “Oh! Meena Butler! Superstar in the flesh. Wow.”
I looked up at the brother staring at me. He wore a black fedora and a brown blazer. I squinted my eyes to jog the memory. His familiar face softened as I remembered the name.
“Carl Murphy? Remember? I know I look different. I cut my dreads. I gained weight. I know, I’m working on that. And last night I shaved my beard. I mean, you never saw me with that, but I did. Cleaned up a bit. But look at you!” He looked down at my dress. “You look beautiful. Like a model . . .”
“Last I saw you was a year and a half ago on the C train complaining about your girlfriend. You were hiding under a hood and behind a book.” I laughed, staring at him up and down. He looked different. No longer the insecure, geeky kid from high school, hiding out in the library. He was beautiful. A bit overweight but still handsome, and way more confident than I remembered. The messy dreads he wore back then had hidden his face and soft, caring eyes. And he’d gotten his teeth fixed, straightening into a perfect Hollywood smile. “You were at NYU, right?”
“Got the master’s. Working in the city now. Helping the people. You look nice. All fancy. Let’s step inside. Don’t want you to freeze.”
He opened the door and winked at me.
I blushed. “Oh, this is my date outfit.”
“Funny.” He laughed. “I’ve got my date outfit on, too. You like?”
He posed and tipped his hat with a curl. His brown blazer with white collared shirt and matching brown pants exuded a Sunday-afternoon, post-church charm.
“Very sharp,” I said. “Looks like you just came from church.”
“Well, thank you, my dear. Because I did,” he said, laughing. “I had to go pray that this date went well. And I was about to think she stood me up till I got a text from her. She should be coming out any minute. Use your journalistic instincts to tell me what kind of vibe you get, okay?”
I nodded.
“What have you been up to?” he continued. “Still writing masterpieces?”
“Trying, writing, living, being free, and now attempting to date. Pre-dating.”
“Pre-dating?”
“You know, making friends and hanging out before you decide if you actually want to date someone?”
“That’s dope. I’m using that from now on. I’m stealing that term. Pre-dating. Hell yeah,” he said, glancing at the front door of the restaurant. “But it’s funny, ’cause I actually am on a blind date today. Trying to start the year off right and get my personal life on track.” He shook his head and giggled nervously. “Somebody I met online. Isn’t that crazy?”
My body went numb. Dead.
“The interesting thing is, she seems cool. I mean, we have a lot in common and I can’t wait to meet her. I hope she’s not fat. But even if she is, it’s cool. I’m kinda fat. So we can just jiggle stomachs together.” He started laughing. “Nah, but her personality seems golden. I like it. And we stay on the phone for hours.”
Carl talked. And I just looked at him. Unable to speak, squinting and imagining what he’d look like if he wore glasses and had a beard, until I gathered my wits and asked, “What’s her name?”
“Fey,” he said, glancing at the door again.
“That’s my middle name. Meena Fey Butler. And I’m here to meet my blind date, Chad.”
Carl stopped midsentence, staring wide-eyed in disbelief. His pupils were huge, face shifting from shock to amusement, back to amazement, and then into a warm smile.
“That’s crazy, because Chad is my middle name. Carl Chad Murphy.”
Moments moved at the rate of thick Southern molasses, sticking together, freezing frames.
We’d talked so much about my work, his nonprofit life saving the world, his mother, and our personal dreams and relationship issues that we never fully delved into where he went to high school.
We stared at each other as if we were fine porcelain sculptures.
“This is weird!” he said, shattering the awkward hypnotic moment. “Oh shit!”
We both cracked up.
“Well, nice to meet you, Fey. I mean, um, Meena Fey Butler.”
I smiled as he yanked me up, giving a huge bear hug that made me laugh out loud.
Chapter 33
For the first few months we pre-dated. Flirting each moment. Teasing and cracking jokes the next. Talking nonstop. Hanging out like old friends. By Spring, we’d negotiated the next phase of official exclusive dating. Touching. Kissing. Eventually sexing. That last part was the most mature experience I’d ever had. We didn’t just fall into bed after boozing over glasses of sangria. We discussed it in depth. What sex would mean, what we liked, what it might be like, what would happen after, the emotions that might come. We finally agreed and decided that when we did sleep together, we should be exclusive. And we were. For the first time, it wasn’t the casual romp we’d both been accustomed to having. It was between a man and a woman putting all of their energy and focus into making it work with each other. I’d never felt so safe.
He grabbed me with a delicate yet firm force that pinned my arms over my head. Then he slowly kissed me, l
icked me, like a feather tickling every bit of me. His final move of the lips landed between my legs. Massaging me down with the length of his tongue. When he whispered in my ear as he pushed himself inside of me, he asked, “You like this, Meena?”
But I couldn’t speak. I mumbled something inaudible. My eyes were closed. The room was spinning. And the intensity of the experience threw me into a space full of twinkling stars, bursting bright lights, and flashes of ecstasy that I’d never seen or felt on this Earth before. It was the best sex I’d ever had. And I knew right then I was falling in love.
Six months later, the problem became that the spell of unexpressed love began to creep in with its uncontrollable passions and high-strung emotions. The insecure baggage popped up to be unpacked.
“Do you always read people’s cell phones?”
Carl typed a message. I casually leaned in, looking. He kept typing.
“I mean, I don’t care if you read my cell phone.”
“And I don’t care that you read mine,” he said, texting away. “But the difference is that you always look at mine. Like, I feel like I’m under investigation. Do you trust me?”
I let the question linger. Probably for a second too long before answering, “Yeah?”
I sounded like a ten-year-old in a twenty-nine-year-old body. Adding a question mark to the end of my sentence, full of uncertainty and shame.
“What’s that?” he asked, putting down his phone. “Are you not sure?”
“No, I’m sure. I just . . . I mean, I don’t know why I said it like that. Do you not want me to look at your phone? Fine. I won’t look at it anymore. I mean, I don’t have anything to hide.”
“I don’t care that you look at my phone. I have nothing to hide. As long as you’re not doing that sneaky snooping shit.”
I found the most interesting piece of lint creeping along the floor, feeling like a guilty spy.
“But it just seems like you tend to make an effort to watch,” he continued. “Not like we’re sitting next to each other and typing. But like you walk over to me. Or you might say something sarcastic.”
“I do not.”
“You do. You did it last week. You went, ‘Who’s that? Your boo?’ You do it a lot. And I typically never say anything. But since we’re having the conversation, I feel the need to bring it up. If we don’t have trust, we have nothing. Have I given you a reason to not trust me?”
“No.”
“Do you think I’m going to hurt you?”
“N-no,” I stuttered. “I-I don’t think so.”
“See, you paused. What’s up with that?”
I didn’t know. I didn’t know how to answer or break the tension or change the vibe of the room. So I walked over to him, sat on his lap, kissed him, and began unbuckling his pants.
“No.” He gently moved my hand to the side. “I’m not feeling that tonight. We can have sex after we deal with this.”
I sat there in awe. Mouth damn near open. No one had ever resisted my advances. Carl had never denied me. He waited for me to say something. And I just sat there. Embarrassed. In shock. Mouth frozen in dumbness.
Standing to fix his pants, he grabbed his coat. “I’ll call you when I get back from the conference.” He leaned over and kissed me on the lips. “I just want you to trust me, Meena. I need you to trust.”
Still silence from me. I honestly didn’t know what to say or how to say it.
He looked me in the eye for a long, uncomfortable stretch, then left.
When I heard his car pull away, I could move again. Fear ran through my fingers and I dialed Meredith.
No answer. She had her new dentist man, was all happy in love, and catching her at night was difficult some days. So I pulled out my journal. With tears in my eyes I began to write.
Lil: I’m fucking up. What’s wrong with me? He’s going to break up with me.
Big: You don’t know that. People don’t break up with you for making one mistake.
Lil: But he thinks I don’t trust him.
Big: Well, do you?
Lil: I want to.
Big: Has he done anything for you to not trust him?
Lil: No. But so many guys have cheated on me and hurt me.
Big: He is not so many guys, Meena. He’s Carl. Remember? Geeky dude reading the thick comic books with the corny lines who always complimented you in high school. Remember?
Lil: Yeah. But he’s not the same guy.
Big: And he’s not your father. He’s not Sean or Dexter, Michael Tubman or Emmanuel, or any of the other idiots that hurt you. He’s Carl. He’s a good guy. He’s done nothing to hurt you.
Lil: I know. I think I love him. And I’m scared. I’ll never admit that to another man. I don’t want to be hurt.
Big: You might want to talk to somebody about this. You haven’t been to Dr. Weisman in months.
Lil: I’m all better now. I have a boyfriend.
Big: Just because you have a relationship doesn’t mean you’re healed. There are plenty of people in pain who are in relationships. It’s OK to talk to someone. Brush up on what you learned and may have forgotten.
Lil: But I was in therapy a year. I should be better by now.
Big: I know you want to heal on your time. On your clock. Control it all. But be gentle with yourself, Lil. It takes time. And if you’re patient, you will heal. And that’s not to say old issues won’t pop back up. They might. You just have to recognize them and deal. Listen, you didn’t wound yourself. But now that you know where it comes from, it is your responsibility to heal it. Now that you know the root of the issues, you can’t blame anyone for where you are today or what happens in your life. You’re all grown up. It’s all up to you. And you can do it.
Lil: (sigh) I know. It’s so hard.
Big: Sometimes it is. But it gets easier with time. You can’t bail because it gets tough. You have to stay committed and stick in there. You wanted a relationship with a nice guy. Here it is. Now do the work to make it work. That might mean looking at yourself. And I’m so proud of you for all the work you’ve done toward healing. I know you’re brave enough to do more and finish it.
Lil: I’m brave.
Big: I know you are. Are you brave enough to call Dr. Weisman tomorrow?
Lil: Yeah.
Big: Good job. I love you. I am so proud of you for taking the steps to be better and do better.
Lil: I love you, too.
The next morning I called Dr. Weisman. Although she was heading out of town on a two-week vacation, she took the time to counsel me over the phone.
“Have you communicated to him why you might feel like this? This distrust?”
“Well . . .” The words trailed off into embarrassment. “He knows about my past a bit.”
“Tell him how you feel. Your fears are normal. You are an abandonment survivor. Tell him what you’ve learned.”
“I think I love him.” Hearing myself say that out loud—it was as if an anchor was pulled up out of my heart and through my mouth. I suddenly felt lighter. “I told Meredith that. But I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want to scare him away.”
“Love shouldn’t scare someone who truly cares about you away.”
“But it scared the shit out of me.”
“That’s understandable. You’ve been through a lot of pain,” she said softly. “It’s the authentic you he cares about. Expressing your feelings in a caring way, being honest about what you feel, even what you’re not sure you feel, is healthy. It’s called being vulnerable.”
“It’s called being a damn punk,” I said, sucking my teeth. “I am so scared.”
“Being vulnerable is a brave thing to do. And you might be surprised by what he says in response. Treat him the way you want him to treat you. Stay conscious. And when those little inner-child feelings come up, have that inner d
ialogue so she doesn’t act out. Daily. You have to do this daily, Meena. Snooping and spying is acting out. Fear. Would you want him to do that to you?”
“No.” I was like a kid answering. The embarrassment of knowing the truth and still acting like a child. Dr. Weisman called me out without actually doing so. She pointed it out via questioning.
“Do you think you can be honest with him? Tell him what you’re scared of?”
I was quiet. Silent for a long minute in considering the repercussions of being vulnerable. Of actually showing someone the flaw I had in being scared of rejection. Abandonment. Of not being able to deal with not being loved back. I didn’t want to push him away. But the fear made me do it. And I hated it. I needed to face it. But how?
“I can try,” I finally said. “Maybe I’ll write it out first or something.”
“That’s okay. Or you can just speak from the heart. Whatever makes you feel comfortable. Let’s set up an appointment for when I get back. I want to see you in two weeks. Okay? You’ll get through this.”
Chapter 34
I hadn’t spoken to Carl in a week. He was off in Arizona at a leadership-building conference and I was back in Brooklyn, shaken. Nervous. Staying in the moment the best I could not to dwell on my fears of an impending breakup. I’d texted him a couple of times. He took hours to reply. And when he did, they were short. Cold.
Yes.
No.
Cool.
Busy.
I hated that. I hated texting. So I stopped what felt like that familiar old habit of chasing creeping back.
“Just give him some space, girl,” Meredith said one night. We sat at a sports bar, eating nachos, sipping margaritas, and watching the Knicks game. “Fall back. You know they always come back.”
“But what if he breaks up with me?”
“Then it’s not meant to be. It’s his loss. And if he breaks up with you over one thing, then he wasn’t really feeling you to begin with. There are other fish in the sea, girl.” She smiled at the cutie behind the bar. “Trust.”
