Tappin' On Thirty

by Candice Dow

  He responded with one-word answers. “Yeah.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did you hang out with any of your old friends?”

  “No.”

  I slipped past him. As I scampered up the steps, I announced, “I have to grab my purse. I’ll be back.”

  I glanced in the mirror again and sprayed Gucci perfume on my hot spots. I mouthed, “Taylor, work your magic.”

  After taking a few more gulps of my drink, I touched up my makeup. Then, I skipped down the stairs and put my glass in the sink. My body was warm, but I tried to remain cool. “Okay. I’m ready.”

  He opened the front door and pointed. “You first.”

  Indecisively, I stepped toward him, than backward. He chuckled. “Um, I’m trying to remember if I put my keys in my purse. Uh. You go ahead out. I need to set the alarm.”

  He smiled and stepped out of the door, closing it behind him. I took another deep breath before setting the alarm. Then, I stepped out of the house and admired him standing patiently at the end of my walkway. When I got closer to him, I noticed his old car. “Oh my God. You still have Shameka.”

  Shameka was a 1991 charcoal Honda Civic that Scooter’s parents bought him the summer before senior year. Scooter smiled and shook his head. “I can’t get rid of Shameka.” He tapped the hood. “This is my baby girl.”

  “Yeah, she was always number one.”

  He punched my cheek softly, and said, “Whatever. You were number one.”

  “Are we driving Shameka?”

  “Hell yeah, we’re driving Shameka.”

  Shameka was spotless. “Did you drive this car from Connecticut?”

  He stopped and looked at me as if I’d smoked some weed. “Girl, my father takes care of Shameka. He keeps her clean for when I visit.”

  When he started the car, the engine hesitated a little. I raised my eyebrows. It coughed for a few moments. This car didn’t sound like it could make it out of my development. The automatic seatbelt rapidly came up and choked me. I laughed. “I forgot that cars used to have these stupid seatbelts.”

  We replayed our Shameka stories during the ride. Unconsciously, I rested my hand on top of Scooter’s on the gearshift. When I finally realized it, I snatched it back. Before I could pull away, he grabbed my wrist. “Keep it there.”

  When we arrived at Dave and Buster’s, we immediately ordered drinks. As the circus of people scurried around us, Scooter appeared irritated. He wrapped his arm around me to protect me from the crowd. He whispered in my ear, “You really want to stay here? It’s kind of busy.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I thought you wanted to play pool.”

  “I did, but I was having a good time just reminiscing.”

  Feeling that our memories would reconnect us, I blushed. “So, do you want to just reminisce?”

  “Yeah, let’s just chill. We can grab a movie and go back to your place.”

  As I put the key in my front door, Scooter was so close I could feel his breath on my neck. My stomach felt queasy. I fumbled with the door. Finally, it swung open.

  To calm the intensity rising between us, I quickly turned on the television. Scooter sat on the couch and got comfortable. I went into the kitchen and poured two glasses of wine. I gulped some rapidly before I returned to the living room. When I handed Scooter his drink, I sat Indian style in front of the television. After rummaging through my DVD drawer full of chick flicks, I pulled out Bad Boys II.

  “You want to see this?”

  “I don’t care. It’s whatever.”

  I popped in the movie and grabbed the DVD remote. After slipping out of my shoes, I sat beside Scooter. He asked, “Remember we thought we were going to be the Huxtables?”

  I reminded him, “Well, we both stuck to our plans. We’re just not together.”

  “You’re right.”

  I was curious about this female he labeled his girlfriend. Where did he meet her? What did she do for a living? What was her name?

  Instead, I concluded not bringing attention to her would make him not think about her. The movie began and the surround sound blasted through the speakers.

  He looked around. “I could chill in here. You have it hooked up like a guy.”

  “Well, I have a lot of movie nights.” I added, “Alone.”

  “Whatever, Tay-Bae. You probably have dudes all over you.”

  “It’s not the number of dudes on me. It’s how many I want on me.”

  “Yeah, it is hard out there. That’s why I—”

  As he was about to acknowledge why he settled down, I cut him off. I laughed hysterically when Martin Lawrence got shot in the behind. “He is so silly.”

  His bottom lip sort of dangled as if he really longed to complete his sentence. I jumped onto conversation that would keep him close to me.

  “Remember we used to watch Martin faithfully?”

  “Yeah that was our show.”

  I nodded. “Yep, every Thursday.”

  “We used to sit on the phone and only talk during commercials.”

  “Yep.”

  We laughed. Our “remember-when” session continued. Whenever we stumbled onto uncomfortable territory, I would steer us back into our past in hopes to unite us.

  After intoxication conquered my senses, I moved closer to him. He turned to face me. And just as he did at the reunion, he opened his mouth and kissed me. I didn’t resist. I couldn’t resist. I was lost in the moment. My mind fast-forwarded to me walking down the aisle with him. In slow motion, we made love with our mouths and I fantasized about the possibilities with each twirl of the tongue. He backed up and landed a few kisses on my face, then finally on my forehead. He held my face in between his hands. “You asked me a question the other night.”

  Still entranced, I nodded.

  He said, “No.”

  No? I asked a whole bunch of questions. He smiled and said, “No, I’ve never loved anyone like I love you.”

  Confused as to how I should react to the response that I prayed to God for, I smiled. Then my mind began claiming victory. So, I wrapped my arm around his neck and embraced him tightly. His arms made their way around my lower torso. He lifted my shirt and rubbed my back. “You’re still so soft.”

  Seductively, I straddled him. He held my waist and slowly pushed it back and forth. I searched his eyes for answers.

  He fumbled with my pants. I climbed off of him and pulled my jeans down. He shook his head. “You still got it.”

  He ripped his clothes off. “We staying down here?”

  As I led the way to my quarters, his nature boldly protruded from him. I was anxious to feel him. We entered my bedroom and he cupped my girls with his hands and massaged them. I fell to my knees. He kneeled in front of me and kissed my breasts. He stretched me out on the floor and asked, “Do you have any condoms?”

  I told him to get one from my nightstand. He quickly returned with a strip of three. Hopefully, he wasn’t planning on multiple rounds. It had been a long time since I could do that. He masterfully rolled the condom on as he stood over me, arousing me, making me anxious to feel him. Finally, he carefully spread my legs apart and playfully tantalized me. Pushing my hips upward to receive him, my body begged him to end my despair.

  Finally, he fully submerged. My eyes watered. I wrapped my arms around his body and welcomed him. Slowly, deeply, my first love glided inside of me. Hesitant breathing. Expectations. I raked his back. He kissed my face. Harmonious lovemaking landed me on cloud nine. I floated in the moment. Then, I came down. He lay on top of me, but I felt empty. I couldn’t speak. He was first to break the silence, saying, “I need some water.”

  I slid from beneath his moist body and he rolled on to his back. Though I thought I wanted this to happen, I instantly regretted the encounter. I sat up and slowly rose to my feet. How could I be so vulnerable?

  I took slow, concentrated steps to the kitchen. What the hell was I thinking? When I returned to the
room, Scooter was lying in my bed with the remote control in his hand. I handed him the water and he flipped through the channels. He mumbled, “Thanks Tay-Bae.”

  For the water or the sex? I climbed in the bed beside him. I pulled the covers up to my chin. When I reached over to rub his arm, he didn’t reciprocate. I began to talk, but realized I had very little to say. We chatted about miscellaneous issues. He eventually dozed off. I sat there staring at the ceiling. Time swiftly escaped. Just as the sun rose, Scooter’s cell phone rang three or four times in a row. I fumed, because I knew the person on the other end had to be his girlfriend. Scooter squirmed. I folded my arms and replayed our night.

  Finally, he grabbed his phone and scrolled through the call log. The alarm clock buzzed. I jumped up and darted for the shower.

  As the water ran down my face, my tears blended in. It was as if Scooter came over to see if he could still hit it. After he achieved his goal, our communication down-shifted to neutral. I scrubbed my skin like a rape victim.

  When I finally opened the bathroom door, Scooter was gone. My heart dropped. Then, I heard him walking up the steps. He walked into the bathroom to join me.

  He stretched. “I’m on vacation. I’m not supposed to be getting up this early.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Well, somebody thought you should be up this early.”

  “You know how it is.”

  I gave him a puzzled look, and replied, “No, I don’t know how it is.”

  He kissed my cheek. “Tay-Bae, you’re a trip.”

  I closed my eyes, breathed deeply and rummaged up enough courage to ask, “Scooter, where do we go from here?”

  He answered with a question. “Did you enjoy being with me last night?”

  Like a dummy, I nodded. He said, “Well, that’s all that matters. I enjoyed myself too.”

  “Scooter, why did you call me?”

  He took a deep breath and didn’t answer. I was pressured to ask everything before we parted. “You said that you didn’t want to risk what you had. Why did you call?”

  He folded his arms and leaned on the sink. “Taylor, I guess I needed to know too.”

  “Needed to know what?”

  “If I still cared about you. I hadn’t thought about us for years. When you put it out there Friday, I thought you were trippin’. When we kissed, I felt like . . .”

  He shrugged his shoulders like it was so simple. I longed to hear him say he needed me in his life. I desperately asked, “What did you feel?”

  “What did I tell you last night?”

  As I struggled for each response, I felt guilty. His ability to communicate his emotions is what separated him from every other man I’ve dated. Was this a result of me hurting him? Did I create this stoic man in front of me? I pouted. “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone like I loved you.”

  He stressed the past tense on his statement. Still, I clung to his every syllable. I gazed into his eyes. “So, what’s next?”

  He hugged me. “I don’t know. We’ll see. You know I’m in a relationship.”

  The sting from his honesty silenced me. He was a grownass man and not the little sucker who used to be madly in love with me. I proceeded to get ready for work. Scooter watched TV until I was done and didn’t appear interested in discussing our future.

  We had coffee and debated current events. I scrutinized his words and gestures and found nothing but a man who belonged to someone else. Who is she? Finally, I grabbed my things and we walked out through my garage. Outside, he grabbed me and held me tightly. I searched for more in the embrace. Offering me just an inkling of hope, he kissed my cheek and promised to call.

  5

  SCOOTER

  Just when I settled with not having it all, the full package waltzes back into my life and claims she still loves me. For the life of me, I had no plan to be driving to my parents’ house this morning overwhelmed with confusion. Guilt stricken, I read Akua’s messages. WHERE ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOU DOING? CALL ME.

  How could I come home for three days and find myself questioning if she’s even the person I want to be with?

  When I walked into my parents’ house, my mother was up and ready for work. As soon as I opened the door, she grunted. I walked into the kitchen and kissed her cheek. She twisted her lips. “Where have you been, boy?”

  “Am I grown?”

  “Yeah, you’re grown, but when your little girlfriend starts ringing my phone at seven in the morning . . . she put her hand on her hip. “Then, I got the right to ask where you been.”

  My eyebrows wrinkled. “She called here?”

  She nodded inquisitively.

  “What did she say?”

  “I didn’t answer. Hell, I didn’t know what to tell her.”

  I kissed her cheek. “You’re my girl.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Uh-huh.”

  I laughed. “I drank too much last night and I crashed over my boy’s house.”

  She rolled her neck. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

  “Ma, you’re a trip.”

  She grabbed her keys and walked to the garage door. “Look who’s talking.”

  I smirked, and she said, “Boy, don’t you come here and lose your mind.”

  I contemplated calling Akua with the scent of another woman reeking on me. Instead, I hopped in the shower first. The urge to smoke a cigarette kidnapped my senses. Smoking is a habit I picked up in medical school as a stress reliever. Knowing its effects forces me to try to kick the habit, but I can’t seem to shake it. Akua’s constant warnings have decreased my intake, but still in stressful situations, I revert back to my dependency.

  I carried the cordless phone outside, along with a pack of Marlboro Lights. I took a puff to dismantle my guilt before dialing my girl.

  After a quarter of a ring, she picked up. “Where the hell have you been?”

  I took another puff. “Where do you think I’ve been?”

  “If the hell I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you. Would I?”

  The nicotine had totally taken over as I attempted to reverse the blame on her. “Man, I paged you before I went out last night. Where were you?”

  She huffed. “You know I was on call last night.”

  “All right then, I didn’t expect to hear from you until this morning.”

  “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

  “Akua. I’m off work. Why would I be up at seven in the morning?” I huffed.

  “Whatever. You’re always up.”

  “I went out with the fellas last night. I was asleep.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You miss me?”

  “What do you think?”

  She never responded positively to mushy questions, but I needed it at the moment. I needed her to reaffirm why I’m planning a future with her.

  “I don’t know. Tell me.”

  “Do you miss me?”

  I chuckled and tried to give her what I wanted. “Yes, baby, I miss you. I miss you and I love you.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Are you ready for me to come home?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What time are you going to sleep?”

  “I was about to go to sleep. I’ll call you when I wake up.”

  “A’ight. Call me when you wake up.”

  “Make sure you answer.”

  She hung up and I shook my head. That’s my girl. She’s a little abrasive, but that’s her style. I played with the phone. Then, I began to feel bad for just thinking about leaving her. I can’t leave her. Despite her flaws, she’s committed. That’s more than all the superficial things that constitute what I declare as my ideal mate.

  6

  DEVIN

  Life couldn’t get any better than this. Clark and I danced in an empty room. All the money in the world couldn’t replace what we shared. Our relationship was like a melody that didn’t need lyrics, like exercise that didn’t require movement. Side to side, back and for
th, we swayed. The disco ball served as a compass as we spun on our own axis.

  When my alarm clock buzzed in my ear at 8:00 A.M., my real life was spinning out of control. Here I was, dreaming about a long-gone relationship that ended more than six years ago. I’d been married to someone else and divorced. The third beautiful woman in one week lay beside me in my bed, and still I yearned for something more, something real.

  She wrapped her arm around me. I slid it to the side. She moved it back. I took a deep breath. Staring at my high ceilings, I wonder why I even subject myself to this. It would make more sense to just take women out, go to their house, get my rocks off and leave before the sun comes up.

  She moaned, “You okay?”

  I cleared my throat. “Are you okay?”

  When I slid out of bed, she stretched out, like she’d been asked to stay longer. If not for dignity or my political aspirations, I’d pay for sex. I stood at the foot of my bed and watched her lie there peacefully. I grabbed the remote from my armoire and turned on my stereo. The bass blasted through the speakers.

  Her head popped up and she whined, “Devin.”

  As I lowered the volume, I apologized. That strategy works with most women. Instead, she lay back down. I decided to jump in the shower and hoped she’d get up and begin gathering her things. Wishful thinking. Even after I’d gotten dressed, she slept.

  I shook her arm. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m about to get out of here. So . . .”

  She plopped her head back down. “I’ll lock the door. I’m exhausted.”

  Isn’t this just great? Why do I feel the need to play nice guy? Women take that nice stuff to the extreme. This chick has spent two or three nights and each time, we go through this. I sat on the side of the bed. “Look, baby. I’d rather you leave now.”

  “Devin, why don’t you trust me?”

  Maybe cause I don’t know your ass? I rubbed her back. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. I don’t really like to leave people in my house.”

  She grumbled and I massaged her shoulders. “I hope you’re not upset.”