Without a second thought, I chose the blowback that came with dropping any clients that couldn’t handle a visit from the FBI.
It wasn’t insignificant, but I wasn’t a bitch, so I did what was necessary to ensure my future with Kensa. And I’d never–not even now–regretted that shit.
Never regretted her, never wanted anybody but her, since I laid eyes on her. In a city like Vegas, yes, there were women who didn’t give a damn about the tattoo on my ring finger. Hell, there were those who saw the “ring” as a damn perk.
That didn’t have shit to do with me though.
And I didn’t have shit to do with them.
The way my loyalty was set up, it wasn’t just about my family or the niggas I called my friends–my damn wife was my one and only, the person I’d ride hardest for, the one I… never wanted to fucking hurt.
But here we were.
I’d never stopped wanting her, never violated our promise of fidelity, and as far as me never being home… hell, I’d been following cues from her. Instead of talking to me, Kensa had buried herself in work–so was I supposed to sit around looking stupid?
Nah.
I found my own distraction.
Which… had apparently been the wrong thing, but… I wasn’t trying to beg her ass to be somewhere she didn’t want to be. Not after what happened.
“I’m not gonna fucking chase you like we’re kids, Kensa. Grow the fuck up.”
I hoped she didn’t think those words were burned much too clearly only in her mind.
At the time, I’d been so damn frustrated by what I saw as ridiculous complaints that I couldn’t even stop those words from flying out of my mouth–knowing the shit was wrong as I said it.
But I’d felt justified.
Truthfully, I hadn’t even meant it as harshly as it was delivered–or taken. But once it was said, it was said, and I couldn’t back down from it.
Wouldn’t back down from it.
Because none of that shit she believed was true.
It wasn’t my truth.
I understood though, that didn’t stop it from being hers.
So…
What the fuck do I do?
I mulled over that question for a long time, until Kensa finally emerged from the bathroom, in nothing but a towel. The white popped against her luminous, dark mahogany skin, hugging her ample curves as she went straight for the closet.
Approach from her truth–not yours.
My ego bristled at the idea of it–why the hell should I put myself aside when I was the only one even trying? Logically though, it was easy to come to the quick conclusion that if I was the only one trying, I’d better be giving the shit all I had, if I wanted a desirable result.
“Will you have breakfast with me?”
I posed that question from the bed, and sat there silent, waiting for a response.
None came immediately.
But then, Kensa peeked out of the closet, her natural hair piled in a high bun on top of her head now, and an oversized summer-weight sweater covering her top half. “You’re… asking?”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What does it entail?”
“Breakfast. Just breakfast,” I assured. “I already made a standing order for what I thought you would want–it gets delivered at the same time every morning. But if you want something else, you can just say the word. I’ll have it changed.”
“Are those potatoes, and the cheesy eggs… they’re in there?”
I grinned. “Supposed to arrive in about ten minutes.”
“Bacon?”
“Yes.”
“And the pineapple-papaya juice?”
“A whole carafe of it. I noticed you seemed to like that one yesterday.”
She pulled a lip between her teeth, nibbling at it for a moment. “I guess we could eat together. If you want to.”
“I’d like that, very much.”
She blinked, then shrank back into the closet some. “Okay. Then… yes. Sure.”
“Thank you.”
Her only true response was a quick nod before she disappeared into the closet again, but I caught the briefest flash of a smile. It wasn’t much–it was barely anything–but shit… I’d take it.
When the knock came announcing that the food had arrived, I was quick to the front door for the handoff. I took a moment to wash my hands, then unpacked the specialty tray from the box it arrived in, placing it at the center of the table to set it all up. I grabbed plates, cups, and whatever else we might need, and I was just wrapping up when I felt a shift in the air.
When I looked up, Kensa was in the doorway, watching.
“Come on,” I urged, taking the step of pulling the chair out for her, before I settled into the next seat. It was quiet between us as we both grabbed what we wanted and started eating.
Awkwardly so.
Which… wouldn’t get us where we needed to go.
“You remember that diner we went to, in the Heights?”
Her mouth was full, but Kensa’s lips turned up as she chewed, and nodded.
“These remind me of those.”
She swallowed, and took a drink as she agreed. “Stacks,” she confirmed. “And… yeah. Me too.”
“What were we even doing out there?” I asked, narrowing my eyes as if it would help me think harder.
“The record store that’s there–Grown Folks Music. I wanted that Songbird Dani vinyl, but it was limited–they wouldn’t sell it to me, but it was on display. So you took me to go listen to it.”
A smirk spread across my face as I remembered, and let the details start flowing back. “Yeah. We were… new. Very new.”
“And yet… you bought first class tickets to take me to listen to that vinyl. And then you took me to that coffeehouse… and she came out to sing with Logan Lewis.” She was really smiling now, fully connected to the memory. “That was… damn… like ten years ago?”
I nodded. “Yep.”
She shook her head. “Wow. Hey, you still maintain that you had no idea she was going to be there?”
“I swear,” I answered, tossing up my hands. “I took you there purely on a whim, no real plans. Shit, I was sweating bullets the whole way, hoping the owner would actually at least put it on. Us lucking up on a surprise appearance was just… icing.”
I really hadn’t planned it.
It was pure serendipity, and honestly… watching her pretty ass singing and dancing to the sultry vibe of that music, so fucking happy, not a care in the world…
That was the moment I knew I was in love.
Hopping on a flight for something small, nice hotels, gifts… I could write that off in my mind as just trying to impress her–shit I was just doing for continued access to her pussy.
It wasn’t that, but I tried to convince myself it was, instead of the damn-nigga-you-caught-feelings alternative.
But that feeling I had, in that moment–the thrill it brought me to see her so fucking joyful…
Yeah.
That was the moment.
“I really always just thought you were tricking on me,” Kensa laughed. “I mean… I liked it though.”
I smirked. “Really now?”
“Oh yeah. You were… that nigga,” she giggled. “I knew who you were before you stepped through the HLT doors.”
My eyes went wide. “Wow. So… you played me, is what I’m hearing. Because you definitely acted like you did not know who I was, or what I wanted.”
She shrugged. “I had to play it cool. You were there seeking clients–not pussy. At least… not until you saw me. I took a gamble on you being the type to want a challenge. To want a woman who made you work for it. So… I made you work for it.”
“And I loved every damn second of it.”
She laughed. “See? I knew what I was doing.”
“You definitely did.” I nodded. “But if you wanted me because I was that nigga, why did you start demanding I become… this nigga.”
Her
gaze dropped to her glass, unfocused before she shook her head. “Because… that nigga wasn’t the type you can build a fam—” she cleared her throat. “Build forever with.”
“I could see that. And… I don’t disagree. My clientele wasn’t pleased about it though. A couple of them wanted my head.”
A smile played on her lips as she met my gaze again. “But did you die though?”
“Because of my connection to the Whitfields, no,” I chuckled. “It was a little iffy for a minute there though.”
“A huge risk,” she agreed, then looked past me, out the window, to the water. “But at the time… it felt so worth it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “At the time. So… what… are you saying you don’t think it was worth it anymore?”
“You tell me, Denver.” Her eyes connected with mine, glossy and distressed for reasons I didn’t understand. “Do you still feel like it was a good risk? Like I was worth it?”
“I’ve never thought otherwise. Not even for a second.”
I didn’t have to think about that answer–it was immediate. Still, it didn’t seem to please her, or make that sorrow in her face any better.
She pushed away from the table, rushing back into the bedroom of the suite where we were supposed to be reconnecting, and yet… goddamnit, here it was again.
Another wall.
I knew better than to follow her, but I did it anyway, easily finding her curled up in the bed. Every fiber of me wanted to demand answers, but I tamped that down, opting instead to just take a seat on the bench where we’d had yesterday’s breakfast disaster.
We sat there in silence for a while before I realized she was crying.
Not full-blown sobs, but quiet, solemn tears that, if I had to choose… shit. These were more heartbreaking.
And I did not know how to make this any better.
I reached out a tentative hand, touching the closest thing I could reach–her ankle–hoping she wouldn’t pull away. When she didn’t… I took the chance and ran with it, doing something that felt ridiculous, but… I didn’t know what else.
So I rubbed her feet.
After a while, she sat up a bit, scrubbing a hand to dry her face. “What are you doing?”
“A terrible fucking job at a foot rub, if you have to ask.”
That pulled a soft laugh from her, before she shook her head. “I know, I’m just… it’s been a really long time since you’ve done that. Not since…”
She let the sentence perish.
As she always did with this topic, with me.
“I’m sorry.”
Just two little words, and when I said them, it was as if the whole world had suddenly gone silent–no gentle lap of the waves, no birds, no stray sounds of civilization traveling across the ridge from the resort.
Just me and my wife, neither of us moving, or breathing.
Until Kensa’s lips parted to whisper, “Sorry for what?”
“Sorry that… you can’t talk to me about this. Sorry that I made it that way. You should’ve been able to… pour yourself out about it–to cry, scream, whatever you needed to do. But you couldn’t,” I murmured, still absently caressing her skin as I spoke something aloud I’d never been able to bring myself to admit.
Even internally.
“I… failed you. And you suffered for it because I wasn’t somebody you felt like you could share your pain with. And I’m sorry.”
“What are you talking about, Denver?”
I scoffed. “I’m talking about the baby–our baby,” I barked, making her cringe. “We lost something, when we lost her. Not only her, but something… more. And we just… never talked about it. You were… thrown overboard. Dying because she died, and I was there, and I thought I had my hand out, but… you didn’t reach for me, Kensa. You made me watch you almost drown, and then you… saved yourself, I guess. And you never did come back to this boat. Which I get–I’m not blaming you. I don’t blame you. I fucked up. Because… why would you come back to somebody you couldn’t reach for when you were drowning?” I shrugged, feeling crazy as fuck for this metaphor I’d pulled out, but… shit.
It was what happened.
Getting pregnant in the first place… took a while.
When it wasn’t happening the “natural” way, we’d talked to doctors–so many doctors–before we found Loren. She was a private doctor, so we could count on discretion, and her vibe was a good fit for us. She calmed us down, walked us through the next level of interventions that would get us where we needed to go.
Injections, pills, smoothies, exercise, plenty of rest, no stress, we tried it all.
And then, right before we were ready to try the next level, the even more invasive–even more expensive stuff… we got that positive pregnancy test.
Kensa was ecstatic.
I was too–I loved the fuck outta Kensa, so building a family with her was a given. But Kensa’s joy was on a whole other level, which made the whole thing so much bigger.
And a much taller pedestal to fall from.
We hadn’t named her yet, when it happened. We didn’t actually know it was girl, but Kensa insisted. She’d also insisted on not finding out beforehand, or even choosing possible names until we’d really seen her, and held her in our arms.
A week into her second trimester, we woke up, and… the baby was gone.
And really… so was Kensa.
“Denver…”
She pulled her feet away from me, and tried to slip a hand in mine, but I pulled back, shaking my head.
“I need to step out for a second,” I told her, not waiting on a response before I headed out the French doors to the balcony. There, I gulped in deep lungfuls of air, trying to get my shit together.
Failing to get my shit together.
Just like I’d failed my wife when she’d needed me most.
Seven
I wasn’t one of those women who aspired to be a wife and mother.
Not that anything was wrong with that by any means–it just wasn’t… me.
By the time I’d hit my mid-twenties, I was so disenchanted with the available men in my purview that I’d started wondering if I even actually liked men. I just didn’t see what the rest of my heterosexual sistren saw that incentivized building a life with just one of them. Surely it made more sense to use them for the hip action that came along with their dicks and then keep it moving when they wouldn’t shut up about how much of a man they were.
But then I met Denver Benoit.
And goddamn I understood.
My mother’s tutelage left me well-prepared–I knew to not be too available, but still within his reach. It was hard though, when he made it obvious he wanted me, and I surely wanted him.
But balance was key.
I liked to think we got swept up in each other, and… Denver wouldn’t disagree. That moment he’d reminded me of–that trip to Mahogany Heights before we were even “official” … that had been the spark for me. That one incident that really set this thing between us ablaze.
Maybe that was how we’d ended up… here.
A fire that hot couldn’t possibly sustain itself, right?
We’d been obsessed with each other, obsessed with the concept of us as a unit–I didn’t just love my husband, I loved being his wife. But it wasn’t enough. We needed something more–something deeper.
What that something was came to me in the middle of the workday, and by the time we’d both made it home and I could actually talk to him about it, I was already aching with the desire to have Denver’s child.
We started trying that night.
And we tried.
And tried.
And tried.
All the supplements, all the specialists… we did everything we could.
And then, finally–a positive test.
After years.
There was joy, then trepidation, and then a heartbeat, and then… waking up soaked in blood.
I never did take inventory of everything I
lost that night.
And now… well… I didn’t know how to explain to Denver, he couldn’t be more wrong.
Once he’d dropped that bombshell on me and left, the emotional drain of my tears had lulled me to sleep. When I woke up, it was dark, and he was still gone–or maybe he’d left again, I wasn’t sure. He wasn’t in the room though, which was maybe for the best.
I had no idea what to say.
One thing was for sure though–I’d have to make it clear that I wasn’t making him watch me drown.
I was… letting him.
According to Loren, according the internet, according to the books… miscarriage just “happened” sometimes. It was a signal of… a glitch, basically, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it, and wasn’t necessarily triggered by something the mother had done “wrong”.
I didn’t accept that.
Of course the logic of it all made sense, so I nodded along in the therapy sessions Loren insisted on, saying everything I needed to say to be left alone. Early pregnancy loss was approached as such a normal, regular thing, and again–I got it. I understood the science, understood the emotional aspect of managing the expectations and all that, but after trying so hard, and waiting so long…
It destroyed me.
And maybe he’d already worked through it, or maybe he’d never admit it, but it ruined Denver too.
He couldn’t look at me the same anymore.
Every time, all I saw was the pain of what we’d lost in his eyes, consuming him.
I hated that.
Hated that I’d caused that depth of grief.
I had no right to be comforted by him, when this shit was my fault anyway. How fucking callous would it have been of me, to seek relief of my sorrow from the person I’d hurt?
I wasn’t punishing him by not talking about it with Denver.
I was punishing myself.
“Couldn’t even do that right,” I muttered, pulling myself up from the bed. As wrong as he was about the more current state of our marriage, I knew I had to correct his misconception about what happened between us before.
Maybe Next Time Page 5
