When I Was Your Girlfriend

by Nikki Harmon

  We spend the rest of the evening so engrossed in her wedding plans I forget to tell her that I’m looking for Candace.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Saturday morning, spring has sprung, and my townhouse is filled with early morning light. My townhouse makes me feel like a grown-up. I bought it just as this neighborhood was being gentrified. It’s completely renovated from an old brownstone – hardwood floors, moldings, built-in bookshelves, even a stained glass window in my bathroom with a skylight! But it’s got all the good modern conveniences as well, microwave, laundry nook, and kitchen island sink.

  I decorated my house in all the colors I love – plums, sage greens, and sky blues. It’s colorful but soothing. My bedroom, I painted an interesting mauve. With certain lights on, it becomes an intense red, with other lights on, it’s a warm and cozy eggplant. I like to have options. This morning I woke up in my cozy queen bed alone. It was quiet, peaceful, and comfortable. I got up and made myself breakfast, read the paper, played some samba, called my mother, and looked out onto the magnolia tree in bloom. Then I smacked myself on the forehead. Ugh!

  I’m dumbfounded at how the obvious has eluded me. I get my laptop. I google Candace and get nothing, just a mention on a list as a Spelman – so I know she graduated but that’s about it. But then…. Vaguely I remember hearing from a friend of a friend of a girl who someone used to date that one of Candace’s friends from high school owns a hair salon. I decide to give it a try. I google Shari Charles and the shop, Hair We R, comes up with mixed reviews, a coupon, and an address in West Oak Lane. Sweet! I need my hair did anyway. Am I crazy enough to try and go on a Saturday? Yes! Did they have any appointments? No! I make it for next Thursday.

  Feeling quite pleased with my detective work, I check my e-mail next and there’s one from Laurie and Leslie inviting me to a “ladies party” at a restaurant in the Loews Hotel tonight. They casually mention that their artist friend will be there. I usually try to keep my personal and professional life separate, so I’m a little hesitant. But what the hell, I have nothing planned tonight. Besides, I’m feeling a little adventurous. I take off for a run feeling optimistic, hopeful even.

  ~~~

  That night, remembering my frumpy dinner with Bernie, I try to dress up a little. I find a low-cut white blouse, a push-up bra, and the black dress pants that make my ass look spectacular. And I add a touch of eyeliner and gloss. I don’t want to try too hard, but I want to be noticed. In the back of my mind, I’m imagining greeting Leslie, maybe having a casual drunken dance with her, and accidentally falling into her arms. But what I’m telling myself is that this could be a great networking opportunity – lesbians are having babies now – and anyway, this artist chick might be cool. You never know.

  I arrive at the party and instantly feel like I’ve made a mistake. This is not my usual artsy crunchy, activist, home girl lesbian crowd. This is a high-income, executive, affluent, and influential lesbian crowd. On one side of the room is city’s Director of Human Relations and her wife, on the other side is a local TV anchor, in the corner is the owner of Marlene’s, and the CEO of a Philadelphia-based food distribution service is ordering from the bar. These are serious women who have made it on their own terms. They have power and influence and money. I am feeling short and self-conscious, even with my heels on and hair blown out. I head over to the bar to get my bearings and a Jack and Coke. Oh, maybe I should drink wine? Champagne? I think to myself and laugh. Great! Now I look crazy.

  “Jack and Coke, please,” I order when the bartender finally notices me. Even she looks way out of my league. Get yourself together, Dee! I boost my confidence by thinking about the most academic and cerebral paper I wrote in college (I’m smart!), then I think about that last very healthy, very beautiful baby I delivered (I’m magical), and then I think about the last time I had sex with Pepper. I knocked her socks off! (I’m hot!). Smiling, I take a sip of my drink and survey the room.

  I see Leslie and Laurie making their way over to me with a very gorgeous woman trailing slightly behind them.

  “Hi, I’m so glad you could make it!” says Laurie, her dimples just dimpling, her hug taking the breath out of me. Though her baby bump is just barely visible, she is truly radiant with this pregnancy.

  “Hey, so good to see you out of the office!” adds Leslie. I am painfully aware of her muscular body through her thin silk blouse as we hug hello. As they fall into line, arms around each other, making a lovely picture, Leslie turns and gestures the other woman forward.

  “This is Noema,” says Laurie. “Noema, this is Dee Armstrong, our midwife and protector of all things we hold dear and sacred.” I give Laurie the side eye and smile, extending my hand to Noema.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I say.

  She shakes my hand and says, “Nice to meet you too. I’ve heard a lot about you.” She is an interesting mix of funky artist and high society chic. She is slightly taller than me, and a couple shades lighter. She has a nose ring and I can see a tattoo climbing up the back of her neck. She’s got that corkscrew sandy brown hair, but it’s tamed and piled up in a neat bun on her head. Her jewelry, though chunky and colorful, looks expensive. Her dress, while giving off a Mexican peasant vibe ripe with colors and stripes, definitely looks well made and luxurious. She’s also checking me out, so I try to look confident but gracious yet still fun. I wonder about how big that tattoo is and how low does it go?

  They order cocktails and we all make small talk. I find out that Noema is a painter, a sculptor, and a gallery owner. I also find out that she is immensely popular as we are interrupted a dozen times by various women all seeming to have a compelling interest in her artwork. I exchange business cards with her and she, Leslie, and Laurie move on to mingle.

  I end up talking with a few women, handing out my business cards to those who seem interested in my services. Those women who were not immediately interested in childbearing, however, seem to have little to say to me at all. It’s as if I am more part of the service industry than a peer of this group. They’d call me when they needed me, but I was not really one of them. After my third drink I decide to move on. I find Leslie and Laurie in a tight clutch of women talking about the real estate market and say my good-byes. Noema is nowhere to be seen.

  In my buzzed state, I decide I’ve had enough of these uppity chicks and stroll around the corner to the 12th St. Bar. The 12th St. Bar is deep in the gayborhood of Philly. Its entrance is on a piss-smelling alley backed up to a parking lot. It’s seedy, it’s divey, it’s a perfect place to go if you don’t want to be seen heading into a gay bar.

  It’s still early so I take my perch at the bar, a little overdressed but feeling 10 times more comfortable. I order my usual Jack and Coke and people watch. A lesbian couple is at the other end of the bar – they look like college girls, kind of scared but happily gazing into each other’s eyes, keeping their hands on the other’s knees. A pack of gay white boys just entered, loud and raucous. They head straight upstairs to the techno. I can hear it thumping and screeching all the way down here. I’m not a big fan of techno. An older black queen is holding down one of the booths in the back. She looks likes she’s waiting for someone. I hope he shows up. I think about Candace. I wonder where she is and who she might have become. Is she somewhere hanging out in gay bars or she settled down with a partner; is she married to a man with children or is she alone? I hope she’s not alone…. I hope she’s happy, right?

  As I start to wonder what I’m doing here at a bar, alone, on a Saturday night, I look across the room to the pool table in the back. A young black guy is playing pool with a woman around my age. I’ve seen her before at the clubs with her chocolate brown skin, short hair, and sly smiling eyes. She has on jeans, black motorcycle boots, and a white t-shirt with a black button-down over it. Her belt has a large Harley-Davison Belt buckle and there’s a worn leather jacket lying on the couch next to her. I forget to be sad and pathetic for a while and just watch her. I take another sip of my drink and
watch her slowly twirl a toothpick around in her mouth as she moves around the table. I look at the nape of her neck, I watch the bulge of her biceps, and I am mesmerized by the way she’s expertly holding her cue stick.

  I’m on my second drink when she finally notices me lusting after her. She lines up her ball, looks at me over the cue stick, and shoots. Ba-boom! The ball slams down and she smiles at me. I get a flutter in my stomach. She says something to her friend, puts down her stick, and walks straight over to me, never looking away. The flutter makes its way lower and lower.

  “Hi. You like pool?” she asks. She’s standing much too close to me. She puts her hand up on the bar. I’m caged in. Her hands look strong and I am suddenly weak. I try to regroup.

  “No. I don’t like pool all that much,” I say. “I was mostly just watching you.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s your name?” she asks, cutting to the chase.

  “Dee. I’m Dee.”

  “I’m Angel.” She leans forward and almost whispers in my ear, “Can I buy you a drink, Dee?” Her voice is like melted sugar, going all sticky and sweet. Her breath, warm on my neck, gives me goose bumps.

  “Yes, sure, I’ll have one more,” I say, trying not to lose all common sense.

  She orders us both drinks and sits on the stool next to mine. We toast. My drink burns a little, and my head swims.

  “I like your shirt.” she says. Her eyes are tracing my cleavage, her hands brushing my knees.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I like your belt.” She puts her hand on her buckle. I try not to stare at her crotch. My mouth is suddenly dry.

  “Do you ride?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Would you like to…take a ride?” she asks, her eyes looking mischievous.

  “On a motorcycle? No, no thanks.”

  “Well, at least come and see it. It’s big, it’s black, it’s shiny, and it’s parked right out back.” I’m shaking my head no, but I finish my drink. She caresses my hand and picks it up. She kisses my palm and I forget all my excuses. She coaxes me up, throws on her jacket and I follow her out the back exit. The door barely shuts behind me when she turns to me and kisses me. I kiss her back hard and she backs me onto the brick wall. Her hands are all over me while we kiss wildly. One hand is feeling my breast, the other is running up and down my thigh. I’m reaching around with my hand on the back of her head, the other around her waist. I can feel the hard brick on my back, my hair getting caught on its rough edges. She’s got her tongue down my throat and I am throwing up one leg to bring her closer to me. Somehow she frees my breast from my bra and she’s got her fingers mashing my nipple. It feels like heaven. I slip my hand down to her neck and pull her head down, and she lifts my breast up and puts it in her mouth. As she sucks and licks me, her hand has moved in between my legs and she’s rubbing me in circles. I’m trying to lick and bite her neck and unbutton my pants at the same time. I get them undone, she lifts her head back up to kiss me and plunges her hand in my pants, into my panties and finds my clit. I’m out here in the alley moaning under her stroking me, her other hand back on my nipple, her tongue in my mouth. I’m writhing under her and she presses her body against mine and grinds her hips on mine. I pull her closer and drag my fingers down her back. I’m breathing fast, I’m moaning louder, she puts her fingers inside me and fucks me hard and fast. Tongue, nipples, brick, fingers, leather, tongue, nipples, grinding, leather, brick, fucking, and I come, hard, shaking, yelling obscenities into her mouth. The waves of my orgasm break over and over, and she keeps her hand steady until they have subsided. My breathing slows and my clutch loosens. My haze starts to lift. Oh lord; did I just do what I think I did?

  She pulls out her hand gently. I button up and tuck my breast back into its bra. She straightens her clothes, wipes her hand on her jeans, and clears her throat. I look around. I hear the sounds of the city but I don’t see anybody else in this alley. She points.

  “Um, here’s my bike,” she says and grins.

  “Very cool,” I say.

  “Sure you don’t want a ride?” she asks.

  “No, I think I’m gonna go.” I step forward to kiss her good bye. “You were exquisite, amazing, god-like!” I grin. She grabs my hand.

  “And you are very beautiful. Don’t go yet. Stay. Let’s have another drink. It’s still early,” she says.

  “Yeah, it’s early but I’m all wet now.” I blush. “I gotta get home.”

  “Would you like some company?”

  “No, thanks. I just want to be alone. Need to be alone, I think,” I say.

  “OK, darling. Well, if you want to hook up again, here’s my card.” I take it. We walk back in the bar. I continue through to the front entrance and she goes back to the pool table and her friend. It’s around 11 p.m., the nights are not so cold, and more people are walking through the streets heading to their final destinations of the night. I walk to my car and get in. I look at Angel’s card. It reads ‘Divine Detailing Heavenly Service for your Car by Angel’. I smile. I might hold on to this.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next day, I go to my parent’s house for dinner. I bring a salad and some red wine. My mom makes lasagna. My sister made a pound cake. After dinner my parents head into the living room to watch the NBA Playoffs and my sister and I stay in the kitchen with our wine.

  “I went to go see Denise at the library,” I say.

  “Oh, how did that go?” Janine asks.

  “Well, she still hates me, her whole family hates me and she will not give me any information about Candace nor pass any on. Dead end. But I have a new lead!”

  “OK.” Janine sips her wine and plays with the tablecloth.

  I lower my voice and whisper, “I googled her!” She raises her eyebrows. “Nothing! But then I googled her best friend from high school and bingo! I have a hair appointment with her on Thursday!” My revelation does not get the reaction I was expecting.

  “Shari? Dee, are you sure this is a good idea? Shari was a good friend of Candace’s; she may not want to talk to you either. Maybe you should just leave well enough alone. I’m sure you’re going to find a new girlfriend soon enough.”

  “Sis, can you be a little supportive? I want to find her. I need to find her,” I say.

  She sighs and looks frustrated. “Dee, what are you going to do if you find her? What if she has a husband and a family? Are you going to complicate all that for her?”

  “No,” I reply.

  “Are you going to uproot your life, declare your love, and marry her?” she demands.

  “Well…. No, I love my life here….” I start to say.

  “Exactly! You are going to do what you always do, what you want to do, regardless of the consequences. I have seen you with many girlfriends who were all into you, but when you were done with them, you just left them high and dry and heart-broken.” I’m stunned by her accusations but she continues on her rant. “And poor Pepper, she really loved you and you just dropped her out of the blue! For what? Because you started thinking about a girl from high school?”

  “I didn’t just drop her, I knew I wasn’t in love with her and I just wanted….” I sound pathetic even to my own ears.

  “It’s only been two weeks and I bet you’ve already moved on . . . I bet you’ve already found someone else,” she says looking at me intently.

  I think back to the artist at the party last night, then to Angel in the alley and lower my eyes. “It was nothing,” I protest.

  “AHA! Seriously??? See! Heartbreaker! I love you, Dee, but sometimes you can be a player. Candace loved you. Despite everything that happened, we all could see that. You should leave her alone,” she pleads.

  I take a sp of my wine and feel abashed. Maybe I should just leave her alone. Am I really a heartbreaker? I hear my parents cheering in the next room.

  “I’m gonna go check out the game,” I say. Janine stays quiet and nods. I get up and leave her there. I can feel her eyes on my back.

  CHAPTER NINE />
  My week at work turns out to be productive and satisfying. Meadow published her first article in Midwifery Today Magazine, and we celebrate with an office party. Soledad has found a midwife friend willing to care for her niece, so she is off the rampage. And I have two new patient appointments due to my networking on Saturday. It’s one of those rare times when everything is going well and I am reminded of how lucky and blessed I am to actually enjoy my work. Off and on, I think about what my sister said to me. I start to have doubts about myself but I have the hair appointment and I need to get my hair done. So at the very least, I’m going to see Shari.

  Thursday rolls around and I’m nervous. Shari was the girl who took the bus with Candace every day to and from school. She was her oldest friend, her best friend until I came along. We never had too much to say to each other, but I know how devoted she was to Candace.

  I pull up to the salon and am immediately impressed. It’s a clean, well-kept looking storefront with very upscale looking signage. I walk in, a bell softly tinkles, and a young but very courteous receptionist greets me.

  “Good afternoon, how may I help you?” she says. I’m taken aback. Am I in Philly? We never get this kind of good treatment from our own.

  “Good afternoon,” I reply. “I’m here for my 3:30 p.m. appointment with Shari.”

  “OK. Please have a seat in our waiting area. There is fresh lemon water and fruit for your enjoyment while you wait,” she says.

  What the hell? Seriously, am I still in Philly? Even if this Candace thing does not work out, this is my new salon. I take a seat on the velvet chaise lounge and help myself to a couple of strawberries and grapes. Not two minutes later is my name called and I follow the receptionist to the Beauty Area.

  I have a seat in the chair and Shari walks out to greet me. She looks much the same as she did in high school, maybe a little rounder and with more grace and confidence. She’s dressed impeccably in a cream-colored cotton knit wrap dress. When she sees me, she does a double take and a range of emotions flash across her face. She’s clearly surprised, but she’s a professional and this is her place of business.