by Derrick Jaxn
A Cheating Man's Heart
Derrick Jaxn
Copyright 2013 by Derrick Jaxn
SMASHWORDS EDITION
PUBLISHED BY: Delphine Publications on Smashwords
Copyright © 2013 by Derek Jaxn
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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I was four years old when something in my father gave up on being around to see the man I'd become. Something stopped him from being proud of every move I made that resembled his own mannerisms, from swelling up with pride when people told him I was his spitting image. I learned an invaluable lesson the day he never came back, and that is that nobody deserves the feeling of having someone they love to stop loving them.
For that reason, I dedicate this book to my father, Winston Earl Jackson. I love and forgive you.
Prologue:
Every child has a super hero they want to be when they grow up. But what happens when his decisions earn him the perception-turned-reality of being a villain?
What happens when that villain finds a reason to change at a time he's not ready to? Does he cower under a sentencing without a right to a fair trial or give the vain efforts of righting his wrongs even though someone else's heart is on the line?
Because in the end, everyone feels better about having someone less than to compare themselves to. It's how we solidify our position outside the circle of judgment. But in some way or another, we are all alike. Admitting it may surrender your pride, but it also opens up your heart and allows you to remember what it feels like to not deserve a second chance.
Chapter 1
Family Matters
It was about 5 a.m. on a Thursday morning. The sun was still asleep, and I wasn't. I had an appointment with a therapist in two hours that I had been waiting for all week. The only reason it took me so long to get the courage to go was for fear of making the front page of See I Told You He Was Crazy weekly magazine. Ever since my big break in the writing industry, my every move was calculated by the drama leeches aka media; the good moves divided and the bad ones multiplied exponentially. It all equaled to the price of fame.
Eyes half closed, I plopped onto the hardwood floor to do my morning routine, 200 pushups, 200 crunches, and a brief heart-to-heart with the Lord. Then I stood up to check the mirror, curious if my hairline had done any receding while I was sleeping.
The motion detectors cued the stereo to start singing Get Down On It as I brushed my teeth like they were the very strings of Kool and The Gang's base guitarist. At 25 years old, I had already entered a mid-life crisis, trying to catch up on the golden day of real music grown folks preached about.
I got dressed and pointed my keys toward the driveway to start up the Challenger, better known as Daisy Duke. She was about all I had to make me feel special. We made the other guys jealous, but so long as I was the one opening her doors, she was coming home with me every night. Fully loaded, automatic, black matte paint job; she was a beauty. And this morning her remote starter kept me from sitting on her frozen leather trying to defrost my body along with her windshield. Now that's real love.
I pulled up to the therapist's office 20 minutes early to see she had arrived only a few seconds before I did. She was walking from her car carrying two cups of coffee, a laptop bag, and biting her purse strap to free up a hand to twist the key.
"Hey, let me help you with that," I said, walking up to her.
Her facial expression was more alarmed than pleased at my offer until I got close enough for her to make out my face.
"Mr. Fletcher?" she murmured through her teeth, still using them to hold on to her purse.
I grabbed the coffee and her laptop from her and said, "That's me."
"Wow, I had no idea you were coming. The appointment was under a completely different name, a female's if I'm not mistaken."
"That would be my assistant. She booked it for discretional reasons... if you know what I mean."
"I understand. Well, all right, come on in."
We walked to the back through what seemed to be a maze. She was also young, late 20s-early 30s, very attractive, rocking a Stella McCartney pea coat and red-bottom heels. I didn't see a ring on her finger, probably a result of guys being too intimidated to marry a woman who earned more money than them.
"Right this way," she said, holding her office door open.
I set her things on the desk and looked around. It was decked out. Looked like something out of a furniture store catalog and over in the corner I could see the couch where she had earned her living faking empathetic nods to the life stories of complete strangers.
"Mr. Fletcher, I apologize for the unprofessionalism. I hadn't really had a chance to prepare the notes for our meeting today but if you want, we can go ahead and get started."
"Yeah that's fine, whatever works. I didn't get your name?"
"Oh, right. I'm Dr. Holley, but if it's easier for you, just call me Jesica."
I reached for a handshake. "All right Jesica, nice to meet you. I'm-"
"Shawn Fletcher. I know."
"You can call me Shaw-"
"I prefer Mr. Fletcher," She said sharply.
"Or Mr. Fletcher. Whatever works for you."
"If you will, go ahead and have a seat. You can hang your coat up behind you and take off your shoes if you want. Get comfortable."
I went over to the couch, found a sweet spot, and lay back.
"You watch a lot of TV Mr. Fletcher?"
"Not too much. What makes you ask?"
"Because I can't think of another reason why you thought it'd be acceptable to put your feet on someone's couch other than seeing it done on television."
I turned to see her looking over her glasses, smiling to see if I would too. "I'm sorry, I ain't mean nothin' by it. You said get comfortable so I was just-"
"I'm kidding, you can keep them there. Just a little joke to help my clients loosen up a bit. So now that that's out of the way, let's start by you telling me what brings you here."
I shifted in the seat, trying to keep up with her. She was switching lanes from business, to dry humor, and now back to business like she was weaving through traffic with a full bladder.
"Well-"
"Oh, by the way. I have to let you know that my sister and I are huge fans of yours. I love your blog site and poetry. You're very talented."
I put on a flattered face, hiding my thoughts of wondering whether or not this was a good idea.
"Thanks, Jesica. That means a lot."
"Oh, you're welcome. So, tell me. What brings you here?"
"Well, I've been-
"That one article you wrote about the girl who was raped by her supervisor. Heart breaking and beautiful at the same time."
"Um, thanks."
I paused. Waiting to see if she got it all out of her system before I wasted any more breath.
"Go on. Tell me why you're here."
"Well, I've been doing some thinking. A little too much actually, and it's keeping me from being able to sleep. I'm pretty sure it has something to do with my ex. Not sure if I should try again or let it go for good. Probably need to forgive myself of some things first but-"
"Things like what?"
"Like my past. My infidelity."
"You mean you cheated? The Shawn Fletcher was a cheater?"
I knew this was a bad
idea.
"Yes, I was. And now I'm just trying to-"
"Can I ask you a question?" she interrupted again. Apparently, therapists were falsely advertised to be good listeners.
"Sure, why not?"
"Well, I don't mean to be rude, and please don't take this the wrong way. But if you were a cheater, then why do you write about relationships and love? I mean, that's kind of ironic, don't you think?"
"Well I guess you can see it that way. About as ironic as a person who's HIV-positive advocating for safe sex." I said cynically.
She cleared her throat and looked away, embarrassed.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Fletcher, I hope I didn't offend you."
"Not at all. I get that question a lot. But who better to learn a lesson from than someone who's already learned it for you, right? I mean, I'm not saying I know everything, but if what I do know helps people, then I don't have a good enough reason to not keep them from making the same mistakes."
She nodded her head in agreement. "Right. Well, I like to start my sessions with the client opening up about their past. We've touched on it but I really want you to go into detail."
She propped her laptop on her knees in full documentation mode. "Tell me about yourself starting from the very first time you encountered love-like emotions all the way until your most recent. Particularly about your experiences with infidelity."
"Everything?"
"Yes, everything. Even if you think it was just puppy love. We're all the result of our experiences and to fully understand what you're dealing with now, I'll need to know what you've been through. And if you can promise to tell me everything, the complete truth, then I promise not to judge you no matter what. Deal?"
"Deal. But I have one request."
"What's that?"
"Can you please stop cutting me off?"
She looked down at her screen flustered. "I apologize Mr. Fletcher. I won't say another word unless you ask, I promise. The floor is all-"
"I'm just kidding. That was just a little joke I use to loosen up my therapists."
She looked at me and smiled, still not saying a word, honoring her promise.
I turned and looked back at the ceiling, closing my eyes, trying to think back to the days I first found love. It had to be in my teenage years, somewhere in the early 2000s.
Yeah, I could hear Momma's voice ringing through the house like it was yesterday.
"Boy, if you don't cut that damn music down! The bus will be here in a little. You need to hurry up and eat this food or I ain't cookin' for y'all no more. Try me if you want to!" she yelled. She was in the kitchen banging around pots and pans, making sure we didn't take for granted the fact that she not only went to work, but took the time to cook before she did.
I said, "All right, I'm comin'," carefully controlling the tone of my voice so that my talking loud enough to be heard wasn't confused with talking back. When you're a teenager, that mistake can earn you restriction from anything that rhymes with 'fun'. For the parents who liked to keep it simple, it may just get your butt whooped.
"And don't forget to write down the email of all your teachers. If I find out it's not the right email, I'mma know sum'n." She said walking down the hallway toward my room.
I'mma know sum'n is a black parent's translation for "The description of what I'm going to do to you could be used against me in a court of law, so use your imagination on just how physically uncomfortable I'm going to make you with the use of a belt or switch weaponry."
I said, "You got it. I'll even get their finger-prints in case you need to verify the scene of a grade that's too good to be true."
I was so nervous for the first day at my new high school that I was detailing the bottom of my sneakers. Being first-day-of-school fresh was like the 11th commandment. Anything less, and you pretty much wore a scarlet letter the rest of the semester.
She came and leaned in the doorway smiling. "Well, no grade is ever too good to be true. Those children gettin' straight A's don't have two brains, so there's no reason you can't do the same thing. You're smart. You're handsome, and if you keep ya head on straight, you'll get a good job one day. Maybe help me pay off some of these credit cards I ran up tryna feed ya greedy self." I started blushing. It always made me proud when she acknowledged my abnormal appetite. Something about it made me feel like a man.
"Now, I love you, and I want you to have a good day at your new school, meet some new friends, but stay away from them fast-ass girls." She walked in and sat down beside me. "I'm serious, Shawn. I don't need you bringing no babies in here and most of 'em probably got VD anyway with the way these kids actin' up."
"All right. I got it. No babies. Check."
"Now come here and give Momma a hug. I gotta get dressed for work and you'll probably be gone by the time I'm done."
"All right, Ma, I love you too. I'll see you when you get home."
She walked back out and I finished my shoe detailing. I went out of the room, pleasantly met with the aroma of scrambled eggs and smoked sausage. I was used to fending for myself in the morning with a bowl of cold cereal so the rarity was much appreciated. I fixed my plate to the unwelcomed sound of the school bus' squeaking brakes. It arrived perfectly off time and I had to stash my breakfast in a plastic grocery bag to eat on the ride to school.
I was 15 years old, the baby boy, and recently merged into a new family. I grew up with just one parent, my momma. She was the prototypical modern day black woman; strong, independent, and a connoisseur of how to discipline your kids. With multiple jobs at once, a lot of headache medicine, and cooking expertise that no culinary arts degree could teach, she singlehandedly raised four out of her five children down in Elba, Alabama.
My oldest sister wasn't ready to leave Yonkers when Momma decided to move us out of the city so my grandma agreed to keep her before she passed. Even though Momma had to play both parental roles, being the breadwinner usually took priority over her softer side of being a nurturer, but never to the point where I had to second guess her love for me. It was for that reason that I became a momma's boy, ready to take any "Yo momma" joke too seriously, no matter the time or day.
After 11 years of being approached by men who didn't cut it, she finally found somebody to settle down with; We called him Mr. Macklin. He was the old school type, worked all day and came home hungry. His upbringing was something like you'd see in The Color Purple. Not big on education, but prized work ethic as the true judgment of a man's character.
He went to church every Sunday, occasionally led songs for the men's choir, and had his own business. I respected that about him. Even though he was a workaholic, he always made time for the Lord. Well, that and a few beers after church for football Sunday, but who am I to judge? I liked him.
Being the new kid at school earned me much of the spotlight, particularly from my 10th grade classmates. I thought I was doing a pretty good job of disguising myself as normal by buying shirts that swallowed me, and pants six sizes too big(that was the style), but every teacher took it upon themselves to blow my cover, starting the class with an introduction of the new students.
As if the classroom wasn't awkward enough, the cafeteria was like a zoo. The entire school in one big room without supervision, and no one had anything better to do than to pick out what didn't belong and stare holes through it. I felt like the new Jordans on their release date at the mall; Everyone was looking, pointing, and whispering when I walked by.
I didn't realize how uncomfortable I'd be in a new environment, but minding my business was my game plan on making it through the day.
The cafeteria food smelled delicious, and with my metabolism, I could eat to my heart's content without wearing a single love handle. I was piling up my tray with goodies when out the corner of my eye, I could see a girl trying to make eye contact with me. I took a brief glance to confirm and then turned my head back to my food but not before she received her cue to come over and introduce herself.
“Hey whasup? You the new g
uy everybody talking about. I’m Brittney, nice to meet you,” she said reaching for a handshake. Everybody was talking about me? I was curious as to what was being said but more curious where this introduction was headed.
“Well, next time you see everybody, tell 'em I go by Shawn.” That came out way smoother than I expected. I met her hand briefly so she wouldn’t notice my sweaty palms.
“Well, nice to meet you, Shawn,” she said sarcastically, stressing the pronunciation. “If you want, you can sit at our table. We got room.”
“Thanks, but I got someone saving me a seat already. Maybe next time.” I was lying like a champ. In high-pressured situations, my survival instincts taught me to lie first, think later. That came from growing up trying to get out of trouble when Momma conducted her interrogations to figure out whose ass had her belt's name on it.
“Oh...okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you around?” she asked rhetorically as she walked off. By her tone I could tell she wasn’t accustomed to hearing no, and understandably so. Brittney was as pretty as any girl that ever looked me in my eye...in real life. Don’t judge me. About 5’2", curvy, fresh perm, straight teeth, and eyes that squinted when she smiled so she looked half-Asian. Typically, these girls were reserved for the popular or older guys. A scrawny, goofy-looking underclassman like myself was used to being on the outskirts of attention. I even made it my home. So of course, all it took was a little hospitality on my first day for me to feel like I had met my soul mate.
From that day on, I saw Brittney what seemed to be everywhere, and every time she gave me the little spirit finger wave. Spirit fingers are to teenage boys what smiley faces at the end of text messages are to teenage girls; I was whipped. By the end of the first week, I had mustered enough courage to ask her for her number. The tricky part was trying to catch her when she wasn't with her herd of nosy-ass friends. The only thing worse than getting shut down by a girl was getting shut down by a girl in front of more girls-social suicide.
Over the following week, I had gotten Brittney's schedule memorized. She went to her social studies class first thing in the morning, always early so she could get her seat at the front with no problem. She took her break at the end of the hallway that led from the gym so her and her crew would be the first thing the basketball team saw on their way from morning shoot-around. After that, her math, English, and economics classes were back to back with only lunch in between them on fourth hall with the rest of the 10th grade classes. Her last class got out five minutes earlier than her friends which was plenty for me to coincidentally bump into her after she came out the classroom so I could make my power move.
