Love's Inconvenient Truth

by Love Belvin

  My mouth dropped. That was news.

  “He did?”

  “Yeah.” Michael snorted. “Pain in my ass, but I got it. Good man.”

  In that second, my phone trilled with a text as the doorbell sounded.

  “Excuse me,” Michael murmured before making his way out of the room.

  My attention went straight to my phone and heart pounded as I saw Jackson’s name as the recipient. The text was a YouTube link. After clicking on it, Lauryn Hill’s “E-Factor” began to play.

  Weird.

  I sat, watched and listened, trying to understand the meaning of it. I almost wanted to text back and ask for clarity, or if it had been sent by accident, but quickly thought against it.

  I heard deep voices from behind, reminding me of Michael’s visitor. I stood and made my way toward the door prepared to leave when I found an olive skinned man, just inches taller than Michael, but thinner. His features were as classically gorgeous as Michael’s—square chin, high cheekbones, long aquiline nose, and thick sable eyebrows—only he had the most piercing ocean blue eyes. He glared at me with an intensity I’d grown accustomed to since knowing Jackson. In fact, there was that flicker of desire in them as I’d seen from Jackson, too, but not as dark. He simply found me attractive. That was funny.

  “Elle, this is my brother, Liam.” Michael turned to his brother. “Liam, this is my neighbor, Elle,” he grated every word, clearly unhappy about his brother’s surprise visit.

  I nodded, seeing it odd to shake his hand considering my appearance. He probably thought I was a hooker in a long cotton robe, tiny pink boy-shorts exposing all of my thighs and a matching fitted tank. Feeling indecent in the presence of his three piece tailored suit, I wrapped my robe around me.

  Clearing my throat I managed, “Nice to meet family of Michael’s. He’s a great guy.”

  Liam didn’t utter a word, only gaped at me with an impossible glower. God, he was a gorgeous white man—unbelievably attractive, like nothing I’d ever seen. I wondered if he was an actor or formal model, he was that beautiful. I’d never been preoccupied with Caucasian men outside of a few actors, so my attraction to him caught me by surprise. Refusing to stay under his cavalier gaze, I nodded again and said my goodbyes to Michael as I left out.

  I was tired enough to toss my robe onto the single folding chair I had left from having my furniture packed up and put into storage and crawled into bedding I’d refused to wash since the last time Jackson made love to me on them. Gross, but true. I could still smell him and that helped me sleep some nights.

  Tonight, I had another sleep aide: the video Jackson texted me. I listened to the seventeen-year-old track that appealed to my estranged lover in some way until I drifted off.

  As I stalked into the reception area of DiFillippo’s this time I had an idea of the gathering of my Dynamic Branding team. It was Brad’s birthday, according to the interoffice invite a couple of days ago. I hadn’t been in the office much from attending the Southern Gentleman’s tour at Madison Square Garden, coordinating the after party sponsored by HorseLake—closing the HorseLake endorsement deal between them and Dale—and troubleshooting Erika’s Paris Fashion Week that seemed to have been going well. I felt horrible about not being by her side, but the idea of me moving closer to her in California bought Erika’s forgiveness easily.

  I was tired, under-rested thanks to the aching threat of a migraine. I’d been up late reading between the lines of “Ex-Factor.” My head had been throbbing since I cracked my eyelids this morning. I couldn’t decide if it was from being dehydrated from all the drinking I’d done with Michael and not taking a moment during my hectic day to eat or drink today or from the days of mental duress I’d been experiencing. Either way, I didn’t have an appetite and wouldn’t be staying long. Needless to say, I was in no position to celebrate anyone. However, I had no choice. I needed to be a team player.

  I was greeted by the same brunette hostess with locks reaching her lower back. We trekked deeper into the restaurant than last time. I figured they requested a private room for a rambunctious Brad. The throbs in my head resounded in my ears as I strutted in my heels. I really needed to find an alternative solution to this. I was embarking on a new life and would love to do so without this impediment. Of course, life would seem more hopeful if Jackson were coming with me.

  Shit!

  That thought elicited a sniffle as I continued trailing the hostess.

  No more Jackson.

  Fuck!

  Another dry whimper.

  No! No! NO! Not here, not now!

  What was going on with my emotions? Why was I now plagued with anxiety wrapping its way up my spine like a vine at the prospect of moving away from Jackson? He, himself, was thousands of miles away getting along with life.

  Without you…

  “SURPRISE!”

  Damn if I didn’t freeze in my tracks, staring wildly at a table full of familiar faces: Bridgette, Greg, Marie, Tim, Brad, Jamie—my entire DB team—Candice, Trevor and…

  Jackson.

  He was here instead of in Houston, closing a deal that would garner the merited respect of his partners. He was here to send me off in spite of how cold I’d been to him since spreading my legs helplessly to him for months. He was here after I’d spied on him, followed him to another state, breaching his privacy and then demanded more answers. He was here although I pathetically disclosed my love for him and still decided to leave him, abandoning my team for reprieve. From him.

  Out of nowhere the “Ex-Factor” lyrics came rushing to the forefront of my brain, synapses firing off with lightning speed. Jackson was declaring his love for me. Explaining his perspective of the fucked up web of confusion I’d put him through. Yeah, I’d opened my legs to him without hesitation, but I knew he wanted more and I refused it. The song was about his wayward love for me. For months I’d presented myself as available to him physically, but would reject him emotionally. And when he’d shown wisdom in that and would stay away, I’d find a way to pull him back in. And now…here…I was attempting my final withdrawal from his life, emotionally.

  He was a recklessly handsome man, young, vision-baring, educated, successful on many levels, and single. I’d known this and had taken advantage of him. What decent woman would do that to any human being? I was no better than Valerie and the late Quincy. I’d hurt him per the lyrics—and apparently more than anyone else. That was fucked up.

  My chest expanded, pain rippling through unlike anything I’d ever experienced. My lungs filled to painful capacity, threatening to explode. My stomach toiled an unfamiliar pang I was sure was not from hunger. They were all here to celebrate my next move, showing support I’d never in my life had. And he was here, although about to lose me, still showing unwavering support.

  His eyes were heavy with despair. His shoulders though broad, were unusually wide. Jackson was forcing his courage. This was painful for him, but he was here. For me.

  First, my face cracked, screwed into the most wretched moue. Then my nose expanded in a fight against my impending cry. Next, my shoulders shuddered. And finally the tears fell. In public, in front of the people that had come to mean more to me over the past few months than anyone else in my life, I fell into a fitful cry.

  Before I knew it, my feet began to move and I was in the main hall, then in the reception area. Finally, I was pounding the street in five inch heels, searching frantically through blurred eyes for a cab.

  “Elle!” I heard him call behind me. I turned and saw Jackson taking long lunges toward me. “Honey, you don’t have to leave tomorrow. I can call Rayna and work something out—”

  He stopped when he caught my emphatic shaking of the head.

  “No. I’m going. It’s for the best.”

  “Is it really, Elle? Why? Because of you? The one who thinks she knows what’s best for me more than my very grown ass?”

  “Jackson, you know if I were to stay nothing would change. We’d just be two broken, haunted i
ndividuals who feed from each other for sick reasons. You deserve better than that. You said it yourself last night…your text! You let go and I’ll let go, too!”

  He recoiled at that, recalling the sentiment of the song. He pulled his fist to his mouth, fortifying himself. “Elle—”

  “You don’t need me! I’m no good for you. You need a nice young girl…who sings Lauryn Hill’s “Ex-Factor” to you! Go break hearts and live and love freely. I’m not that for you.” I screamed from the top of my lungs that were fighting against the brisk March temperature.

  “The only person who’s breaking hearts around here is you. The only heart that’s being broken is mine. Elle, I’ll take that if it in some kind of fucked up way includes just me and you!” Jackson bit right back at me, twisting my heart and expanding the hollowness of my soul.

  That’s when I saw Candice, Bridgette and Jamie just behind. They’d heard. My colleagues had just learned of my Jezebel ways. My secret of sleeping with the boss had been revealed. I’d been caught. Old story, new characters.

  A cab finally pulled up to the curb, just inches from my toes. I turned back to see Jackson’s palms resting on his hips, his eyes hard, nose flared and jaw twitching.

  “I’ve never lied to you…or Valerie.” I spoke at a volume that he would catch, alone.

  I opened the door and crawled inside. After pulling off, I sputtered my address to the cabbie, unable to control the tears. Once inside my apartment. My hysterical sobs continued as I undressed, showered, laid out my clothes for my flight the following day, and sniffled under lung spasms as I packed the remainder of my things in the empty apartment. The last thing I did before shuffling in my bed was something I hadn’t done in years.

  I fell to my knees, opened up my soul and prayed. I groaned things heavy on my heart, even things I had no idea were in the back of my mind, hiding in my heart. I prayed through twitching fits of my entire frame. I didn’t do it with instant relief in mind, per se; I did it out of desperation. I felt myself falling back into the bowels of depression. Losing Jackson was not as eventless as he suspected. Letting him go left me wounded beyond repair. I don’t know when I stopped praying.

  When I was awakened by the sounds of the trilling alarm of my phone I was still on my knees.

  And so my journey in California began. A part of me was reasonably nervous about the prospect and the other piece, excited about something new. After being picked up at the airport by the Jacobs’ staff, I was taken to the apartment in Marina Del Rey where there was a concierge service awaiting me. My things were brought up to the penthouse that was larger and far more elegant than the pictures portrayed.

  The apartment was colossal! High ceilings and immense windows throughout the entire place gave a breathtaking vista of the Marina. The all-white furniture of the living room, including the legs of the coffee table and end tables made the room airy and ultra-contemporary. There was a formal dining room with dark tones trimmed in mahogany wood. The paintings on the walls held vibrant colors that masterfully blended with the themes of each room. I wouldn’t be able to occupy all of the space! There were four bedrooms and five and half bathrooms.

  The entire place was furnished but for a bed in the master suite. Odd. I settled myself in one of the smaller bedrooms for the duration of my time there. Suffice it to say, it took me no time at all to get comfortable in my temporary home. I soon learned it was where Azmir and Rayna lived before moving into their Orange County home a month ago.

  I jumped into work right away, compiling information about Love’s Improbable Possibility aka L.I.P. and vetting media mediums to assist in spreading the word. I was given an exorbitant budget for my campaign, no doubt an A.D. Jacobs endowment. That made my options limitless. I worked day and night, in the streets of L.A., and outskirts, learning the lay of the land. It was easy to lose myself in the work, not having anything else to be concerned about. This resembled my life in New York after leaving home. In L.A., I was simply starting all over.

  I worked the social circuits with Rayna to spread the word about L.I.P., even accompanying Azmir himself along with Rayna to events that would benefit our cause. It helped that Rayna was bright and articulate. An educated woman herself, she was particularly passionate about her foundation.

  For me to be most effective in my job, I needed to ‘get’ the mission, understand what transformations were taking place from the works of Rayna, her First Lady, Twanece Edmondson, and other clinicians armed with professional degrees to aid in the mission. I sat through countless group sessions with women sharing their stories of failed love, betrayal, and brokenness amongst other ailments. Many stories were down right heart-wrenching. I didn’t react to any, though, only recorded good sound bites to share in print and pitch.

  Around my third week out, Rayna invited me over for dinner where I met her beautiful babies. My reaction wasn’t as painful or dramatic as I feared. Dasu and Kennedy were gorgeous replicas of their parents. Her husband traveled a lot, but I was able to interface with him on occasion and even in his opulent home. When engrossed in his children, one could easily forget the no-bullshit mogul Azmir Jacobs was reputed as. And once the babies went down and he only had Rayna to focus on, things got a bit intimate. He constantly touched her, made lighthearted comments of praise to her. Rayna would try to dismiss his flirtatious gestures, but it was clear she was completely taken by his affection. I experienced them alone a few times and knew he wore her down when she’d stop physically pushing him away. Then it was time for me to end my visits with The Jacobs. J.G, Wizer and Hunter expensed a car, so I was completely mobile out there.

  Rayna never spoke of Jackson, though some days I wished she would. I knew they were good friends and kept in touch, but wondered if she knew about his demons or that he and I once shared a bed. If she did, Rayna never let on. That bothered me. I did, however, check in with my old DB team back in NYC and would receive soft details of the happenings of Jackson Hunter.

  I still worked with Dale and Erika, but they didn’t require the hands-on efforts they once did when first recruited, though I’d occasionally have lunch with Erika. My connection with her turned less professional by her pushing for more girlfriend-ish ventures. As Jackson once advised, Erika really was a sweet girl. I didn’t relate to her much, but indulged her desire to keep in touch beyond work. Dale and Patience had a home in L.A. and had me over twice. Patience and I were slowly learning that we were on the same team: Dale’s. Meetings and discussions became less hostile. I could now understand her aggression, her quest. She wanted what was best for her partner and age played no role in that: simple commitment did.

  Candice called me weekly, providing updates on her official relationship with Trevor. He finally told her he was a virgin. That freaked Candice out, but explained a lot to me. Trevor turned out to be a decent kid. A small piece of me wished I was around to keep an eye on those two—a very miniscule part of me. I didn’t understand my attachment to her, but missed that kid. While she hadn’t been with a lot of guys, she’d certainly never come across a virgin. Each time we spoke, before disconnecting, I’d warn her, “Don’t fuck this up!” She promised not to, and so far hadn’t.

  Clarice called more often. The first few weeks were with complaints about Jamie. She’d finally learned of his affair with Marie. Needless to say she was deeply offended by it and expressed it profusely. I handled that rather quickly by not lending an ear to it. She caught on just as quickly and would occasionally slip in mentions of Jackson, slyly thinking it would buy my interest to her reckless relationship with Jamie. After a few weeks of this, I came to the realization that we’d done the same thing: gotten in over our heads with younger men. Though I knew when to fold my hand, it was unfair to be insensitive to a friend who couldn’t do the same. Clarice needed time to assume the same wisdom.

  She got it when she met a man at the grocery store when shopping for cat food. Apparently, deciding on Purina versus Friskies can spark a connection. Since then our conversatio
ns were filled with talks of hot sex with John, the fellow cat lover. Go figure.

  Nights at the marina were long and cold. Jackson and I didn’t spend every night together back in New York, but it was enough that I could recount each to torture myself to sleep. I didn’t know my brain held such capacity until my thighs began to quiver at night and body burned for his touch. My nightmares returned in spades and suffering from them in silence had begun to wear on me.

  I hadn’t heard from Jackson directly since leaving New York City. He funneled all of his communication through Bridgette. The seamless transition eased the sting of having a barrier between me and the love of my life. All communications from him were forwarded via email. Seeing his signature in emails always sent zings of anxiety through me. What was once an intimate reporting system back when I was in New York was now a chain of command type of setup designed by Jackson. It was no different from the distance between me as Susan’s assistant and the J.G., Wizer and Hunter heads in my former role at the firm. They were my leaders on paper, but no one I worked with directly. I never sat with them in a boardroom or spoke to them in person. This was now Jackson and me.

  One session with L.I.P. resonated with me. It was a rare event where Rayna spoke to the expanding group of about thirty or so women, ranging in age, about her childhood. She spoke about her parents abandoning her and how it had a destructive domino effect on her emotional state as an adult.

  While she continued to share her story, First Lady Twanece whispered in my ear, as we stood against the wall in the back the room, there on their church property, “This is a huge breakthrough for Rayna. She never publicly gives her personal testimony.”

  I listened, totally engrossed until she was done. Rayna’s plight touched me, had me considering my relationship with my own mother.

  What could be salvaged?

  When Rayna was done, she passed the microphone to someone else and made her way to the back of the room where she stood next to me.

  While staring straight ahead, she muttered, “So what’s your story, Elle?” Then her eyes raked over to me.