by L. D. Davis
I’d pinched my lips to keep myself from laughing, but my humor faded quickly.
Everything was happening too fast. He had just tumbled back into my life a few days before. I still found myself reeling from his return, as well as all the things he had told me in the few short minutes we had spent together. Those minutes had not cleared away the anger, pain, and resentment I had borne with me for thirteen years. Although I had tolerated Grant’s appearances—just barely—I didn’t have to give him anything more than what he had already taken.
“Where do you want to meet?” he’d asked.
Clearing my throat, I’d adopted his air of casualness. “Nowhere. I’m not going to have lunch with you.”
He was undeterred by my rejection.
“Because you’re still bitter.” He’d said it as a fact and not as a question.
“Yes, I’m still bitter,” I’d said, incredulous. “Our little tête-à-tête this morning didn’t fix anything between us.”
“No, it didn’t fix anything. But will you be any less bitter if you don’t have lunch with me on Saturday?”
I’d shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “No, but—”
“I know you’re scared, but—”
“I’m not scared!” I savagely objected.
He’d raised his voice and talked right over me. “But, it’s just lunch, Mayson. It’s just food and light conversation. So, even though you are afraid—”
“I’m not afraid!” I’d lied.
“I’m glad to hear it. What time should I pick you up?”
The note of satisfaction in his voice had made me clench my fist with irritation.
“Twelve-thirty, and don’t be late!” I’d slammed the phone down before he could say anything more.
I had to take a few minutes to calm down and to slow my heart rate back to normal levels.
“At least, I’ll have my freakin’ mornings back,” I’d said aloud to myself.
However, my Friday morning didn’t feel like my other mornings before Grant. I used to walk to work in my own bubble, blissfully oblivious to the people around me and my surroundings, but the bliss had vanished. People probably casually glanced at me every day, but my heart jerked every time I discovered a pair of eyes on me. I looked over my shoulder so often, that by the time I got to work my neck ached.
Admittedly, I’d searched for Grant, but I also kept a watchful eye for other faces that held some familiarity. What if someone else decided to follow me around? Grant had done it so easily. It wasn’t unreasonable for me to believe that anyone else could do it.
“Maaaayson,” Emmy sung out my name, bringing me back to our phone conversation.
“What?”
“Were you listening?”
“Not really,” I admitted.
While I was zoned out, it seemed that everyone’s kids started to wake up around the same time. I could hear Tabitha’s muffled voice as she scolded a child—or her husband, I wasn’t really sure which. Emmy threatened bodily harm to her oldest child, Lucas, and young Emily cried on Donya’s end. I held the phone away from my ear as I listened to the cacophony of motherhood.
Tabitha’s voice rose over the noise. “Leo wants to know if you can go ahead of us a couple days to the house to let the cleaning service in and make sure everything is ready.”
I didn’t really want to go to the house like the help and let the other help in, but I was only an hour away from the house. “Yeah, sure.”
“Is anyone else super excited?” Emmy asked fervently.
There was a general murmur of agreement from the other girls as I blandly said, “Stoked. Are we finished? You all have children waiting to suckle at your breasts, and I actually have things to do.”
“Your Saturdays are usually spent on your couch in front of the television while you eat enormous amounts of ice cream,” Emmy said. “I don’t think that really constitutes as ‘things to do.’ Let me know how many things you have to do after you have a kid.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I’m actually getting off the couch today. I will be showering, putting on deodorant, doing my hair, and getting dressed. Meanwhile, you’ll be walking around all day with baby feces and vomit on you and leaking milk all over the place.”
Before Emmy could truly digest the insult, Tabitha the peacemaker cut in.
“What are you doing today, Mayson?” she asked lightly.
I suddenly wished I hadn’t opened my mouth, but it was too late to go back, and I couldn’t think of a good lie.
“I’m having lunch.” My response was simple, but I hoped that it would be enough.
For a few seconds, only the sounds of children chattering, crying, and whining could be heard from the other three lines as my cousins waited for me to continue. When I didn’t, Emmy casually asked, “Who are you having lunch with?”
“Just…someone,” I said vaguely.
There were another few seconds of only background noise.
“Oh my goodness,” Tabitha said breathlessly. “It’s a guy. That’s why you’re being all weird! Because it’s a guy!”
“Who!” Emmy demanded. “Who is it? Where did you meet him? Oh, my god, I really started to believe what my mom said about your vagina was true!”
“Give us a name,” Donya said, much more subdued than the others.
They waited.
I sighed.
“Grant. It’s Grant, okay?” I felt all prickly after feeling forced to say his name.
“Grant,” Emmy murmured, confused.
“Who’s Grant?” Donya asked.
“Grant?” Tabitha nearly shouted. “Grant Alexander?”
“Grant Alexander!” Emmy said triumphantly as if she had thought of it all on her own. “You’re kidding me, right? When did that happen? I thought he lived down south somewhere.”
“Who is Grant?” Donya asked again, a little louder.
Before I could explain, Tabitha and Emmy took turns doing it for me.
“He’s her ex-boyfriend,” Tabby said excitedly. “They dated for a few years when Mayson was younger. You weren’t really around then; you were so deep into your career by then.”
“He fell in love with her even though she was a heroin addict and he didn’t do drugs,” Emmy added dreamily. “He used to call her his little butterfly, which sounds sappy and stupid, but it really wasn’t. One time I asked him why he called her that.”
Tabitha and Emmy had not been on speaking terms back then, but somehow Tabby knew how Grant had responded. It made me wonder how much information the two cousins had traded about me.
“He said that Mayson was a butterfly. He said that even though drugs were doing ugly things to her, that she was beautiful and didn’t know it yet. He said that she was in her ugly caterpillar stage, but when she was ready, she would begin to transition and emerge from her chrysalis a beautiful and brilliant butterfly.”
“And then I said that most butterflies die after a few weeks, which is a total waste,” I said loudly, putting an end to their fairytale crap. “It’s just lunch. There are no butterflies. Just lunch.”
“We should let you go,” Emmy said, and I could hear the grin she wore. “You need to get all sexy for your sexy man.”
“He’s not my man.”
“What does he look like?” Donya asked curiously.
“Hmm,” Tabitha sounded thoughtful.
“A hot, hot cup of chocolate,” Emmy purred.
“He looks like that British actor,” Tabitha said, and I could hear her snapping her fingers. “I don’t remember his name.”
“Black guy?” Donya questioned.
“Yeah,” Tabby said. “You know the one, right?”
“Ohhhh,” Donya said breathlessly. “Yeah, I do. I forget his name, but Mayson, if this Grant looks anything like that guy…wow…”
“It doesn’t matter what he looks like,” I snapped. “Because we’re just having lunch! It’s just lunch!”
“For now,” Emmy said slyly.
It was the beginning of the summer, about nine or ten months after I’d first met Sharice. I’d snuck out of the house early that morning, the moment my mother left to run errands.
She’d become stricter than ever, but it only pushed me that much more into rebellion. That day, however, my dad would be coming home for a few weeks. I’d wanted to get back home soon so that I could go with my mom to the airport to pick him up.
While Sharice got dressed, I sat at the kitchen table interrogating her brother.
“Yeah,” Grant had said as he moved about the kitchen preparing breakfast. “Who are you? Are you one of the kids Shar babysits?”
I’d straightened my shoulders and raised my chin. “I’m twelve years old. I don’t need a babysitter. Shari is my best friend.”
His mouth pulled up on one side in a small amused smile, but he’d made no comment.
“Why don’t you have an accent?” I’d asked.
“Not everyone in Texas has a southern accent,” he’d said in a way that made me think he had said it a million times before. “Besides, I have only been living there for four years.”
“My Aunt Sam has been living up here for twenty years, and she still sounds like she’s just stepped out of the swamps of Louisiana.”
He’d laughed and gazed at me with wonder.
“You’re a strange kid.”
“I have been homeschooled my whole life and haven’t learned proper socialization.”
“I’ve known a few homeschooled kids, and none of them act like you.”
“Well, they don’t have my mother. How old are you?”
“Seventeen. You want some breakfast?” He’d gestured at the pan of eggs he had just taken off the stove.
I’d declined with a quick shake of my head and continued with my interrogation.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
He’d given me another funny look. “Not at the moment, no.”
“Are you a virgin?”
The question had taken him so off guard that he’d began to choke on the orange juice he had just sipped. It had taken him almost a full minute to stop coughing.
“That’s a very personal question, and you’re twelve. You’re not even considered a teenager yet.”
“Twelve-year-olds have sex,” I’d said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Twelve-year-olds have babies.”
“Well, that’s disturbing,” he’d muttered before taking a forkful of eggs. While he chewed, he’d studied me studiously. “Why is a twelve-year-old hanging out with a fifteen-year-old?”
“I think the better question would be, why is a fifteen-year-old hanging out with a twelve-year-old? It’s obvious why I am hanging out with Sharice. She’s older and more experienced and it would make me look totally cool and amazing to my other friends—if I had other friends.”
“Why don’t you have friends?”
“Hello! I just told you a few minutes ago that I was homeschooled and have no social skills. My whole life is dance, piano, and beauty pageants. My other ‘friends’ are my enemies. Any one of those stuck up bitches would sabotage me while smiling in my face. When my ‘friends’ say break a leg”—I leaned forward and lowered my voice—“they really mean it.”
He’d stared at me as he’d absently ate his rubbery-looking eggs and sipped his orange juice. I’d stared back, unabashed.
After another minute, he’d tilted his head to one side, and asked, “Are you sure you’re only twelve?”
I’d sighed with resignation. “I am only twelve.”
After a moment, he’d shrugged and grinned at me. “No wonder Sharice hangs out with you. You have to be the coolest twelve-year-old kid ever.”
Jokingly, I’d sat back in my chair and batted my eyes dramatically. “You’re so going to fall in love with me, Grant Alexander.”
He’d snorted. “Don’t count on it, short stuff. I am way too old for you.”
“You’re way too old for me now, but when I’m eighteen, you’ll only be twenty-three.”
He’d eyed me warily as if he expected me to leap over the table at any moment and attack him with kisses and words of love.
I’d dismissively waved a hand. “Don’t worry. I don’t have a crush on you or anything. I’m just telling you how it will be.”
He’d looked relieved at that and laughed. Sharice had entered the room just then, smelling a little bit like cigarettes.
“Mayson, I have to babysit today,” she’d said apologetically.
“It’s fine.” I stood up and pushed my chair in. “My dad is coming home today. I just wanted to get out of the house for a little bit.”
“I’ll walk you home on the way.” She’d picked up her keys off the counter. “See you later, boy,” Shari said to her brother with a teasing smile.
“See you later, girl,” he’d said back. “And Baby Girl,” he’d added with a wink at me.
I had been thankful to follow Shari out the door so that her brother wouldn’t have seen the color that had flooded into my cheeks.
Chapter Eight
As I stood before the mirror in my apartment, I ran my fingers over the top I had on. It was yellow and complimented my sun-bronzed skin, but I began to have second thoughts about it. I glanced at the mountainous pile of clothes on my bed. The yellow shirt was only one in a long line of second thoughts.
Exasperated, I pulled the top up over my head and tossed it onto the heap of discarded clothes. I’d never felt insecure about putting on clothes before. Before I went into recovery, I only cared that I was putting on clean underwear every day. Once I was clean, I had begun to take better care of my appearance. I fell in love with clothes, shoes, bags, and accessories. Grant didn’t know that version of me.
“Why does it even matter?” I asked Dusky, who was lounging on the floor at the foot of the bed. “It’s just lunch with Grant, and Grant has seen me at my absolute worst.” I pointed for effect. “In addition to seeing me under the influence of alcohol and various drugs and when I was having major mental breakdowns, the man saw me dead.” I raised an eyebrow at the dog. “You know what happens when a person dies, right?”
Dusky sighed and wagged his tail against the carpet.
I sighed. “Sometimes, you’re very hard to talk to.”
I turned back to the mirror. At least I was sure about my pants, a pair of medium wash, slim-fitting boyfriend jeans rolled half way up my calves. I had to choose a shirt once and for all because it was almost twelve-thirty. I plucked an orange one out of the closet, but before putting it on I took a good look at my body in the mirror.
Thirteen years ago my body had been wasting away from drug use and an eating disorder—an unfortunate result from a cruel boyfriend I’d had when I was younger. After getting treatment for both the drugs and the eating disorder, I began to put on a healthy dose of weight again, but once I started to really eat and enjoy food again, I couldn’t stop.
I love food. I love how flavors lay on my tongue and excite my taste buds. I love the way chocolate and ice-cream melt in my mouth, but have different tastes and textures and evoke different happy feelings. I love a juicy, tender, and well-marbled steak. I even love fresh vegetables, like corn on the cob when it’s in season, or fresh kale sautéed with garlic. Like I said, I love food, and it clearly showed in my waistline, thighs, and butt.
I’m not a cow, and I am very comfortable with my body, but I’m well aware that I am by no means thin. Grant didn’t seem to really mind, but those meetings had been so stressful and quick. What would he think after he got a really good look at me?
“It doesn’t really matter what he thinks of me,” I said to Dusky. “Because it’s just lunch and I’m not trying to impress him.”
If the dog were capable of rolling his eyes, he probably would have done it.
Of course, my intention was to impress Grant, and not in the way that pathetic wom
en try to impress men so that they could win them over. I wanted him to see the person I had become. After all, he’d only ever known me as an unhealthy addict. I still had many faults and in some ways I was still that heroin addict I was back then, but I wanted him to see and to know that I hadn’t needed him. I had pulled my life together in spite of the fact that he had abandoned me.
“Then I can tell him that his leaving me was the best thing he’d ever done and tell him to go to hell,” I told Dusky.
I was positive he did roll his doggy eyes that time.
I finished getting dressed and put on a pair of wedged sandals. I had just adorned my wrists with a few silver bangle bracelets when the buzzer went off in the other room. Dusky was up like a bolt, racing toward the front door and almost knocked me over in the process. He barked up at the intercom as if to invite Grant up. That hadn’t been my plan, but it was going to be hard to get out the door with Dusky trying to get out with me. The poor big black lab was probably starved for another human contact after being stuck with his gloomy, crazy master.
I pushed the button on the wall.
“Hello?” I called over Dusky’s barking.
“I’m on time.”
I tapped another button that would unlock the downstairs door. Although Grant knew where I lived, I wasn’t sure if he knew which apartment was mine. I grabbed Dusky around the collar and opened my door, just in case.
“Is he going to lick me or eat me?” he asked as he walked down the hallway.
“He’ll probably lick you first, then eat you. At least, I hope that he will eat you.”
Fearless, he knelt in front of my dog, put his hands under his jowls, and vigorously and affectionately rubbed him.
“Hey, pup,” he said soothingly as Dusky tried to pull away from me to lick his face.
I was barely holding the dog back, but when Grant said, “You’re all bark and no bite, just like your mom,” I released the lab.
I watched with some satisfaction as Dusky leaped on him and knocked him on his ass.
“When you’re finished making out with my dog, I’ll be waiting inside,” I said and turned away.
