by Briana Cole
Dorian chuckled as he bit into a wing. “Your coworkers not gon’ know what to do without you for a week.”
“I know, right.” She hesitated before she continued. “You never told me how the bachelor party was.” There it was. He had been waiting for it.
Dorian shrugged. “It was what is was. Nothing special.”
“I figured it was pretty fun. You got home kind of late.”
“I had to take your sister home.”
Shantae frowned, confusion on her face. “My sister? Reagan was at the club?”
It was an innocent inquiry, he knew. But he couldn’t help feeling nervous. Nothing had happened. Well, shit, almost nothing. “Yeah, she was there with some friends or something,” he explained.
A beat. “Oh.”
Shantae didn’t say anything else. Just kept eating. Dorian tried to watch her movements out of the side of his eye. He couldn’t tell if she was uncertain, suspicious, or still confused. She had simply ended with an oh like it was completely understandable. And why wouldn’t it be? It was her sister, after all. No reason to think it was anything more than what he had said. Even still, he felt compelled to give more of the story, if only to ease his own anxiety. “She was about to get into a fight because she was drunk, so she didn’t have anyone else to take her. I just thought it was safer, you know?”
Another pause. “Right, I get it. You didn’t have to explain.” She smiled. “That chick is always getting herself into trouble, I swear. Thank you for seeing about her and making sure she was okay.”
Dorian didn’t realize he was tense until he felt his muscles relax after her last comment. Glad that was over. Now they could address the elephant in the room. “You wanted to talk to me the other night,” he said. “And you’ve been pissed about something. What’s on your mind?”
Shantae sighed and sat back in her chair. “Do you ever think about the twins?”
Dorian winced. It was like a soft blow to his heart. Their miscarriage was still a sore subject for him. He definitely did think about it more often years ago when it first happened, especially considering he had to nurse Shantae through her depression. She took it much harder than he did.
After the miscarriage, Shantae had wanted to do a balloon release in their honor. She had written a note to each of them and placed them in two white balloons. They had driven to the park and set the balloons free, watching them dance in the wind until the streamers disappeared.
Sure, he had pacified himself with a bunch of “things happen for a reason” rationales and Dorian had held on to that as a lifeline to salvage some element of sanity while they grieved and healed. But that still didn’t ease the pain. Or the guilt. It was her stressing about his random indiscretions that caused the miscarriage in the first place. At least, that’s what she so often threw up in his face. For him, that pill would never get swallowed. Dorian had to admit he didn’t think about their babies quite as often anymore. It was so much easier not to.
“Sometimes,” he answered, his eyes narrowing in concern. “Why? What’s wrong?”
Shantae shook her head to dispel any worry. “No, nothing is wrong. I just know some things haven’t been the same between us since we lost them.”
“What do you mean, haven’t been the same?”
“Are you happy?” she asked, her gaze finally meeting his. “You know, with things how they are now?”
Dorian reached across the table to rest his hand on hers. “Yes,” he said, which was for the most part true. “Babe, what are you getting at? Just tell me.”
“You don’t think anything is missing?” She had this hopeful, expectant look on her face and Dorian sat back on a sigh.
“You want kids,” he murmured. It was more of a statement than a question as the realization slowly sank in. “You want kids,” he repeated, more to himself. “I mean, now, Shantae? Where is this coming from?”
She was fiddling with her fingers, a nervous habit, he knew. “It’s just been on my mind lately. I know we never talked about it, especially after . . . you know. But we’re not getting any younger . . .” She trailed off, her shoulders lifting in a shrug. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure where this is coming from. I guess I just wanted to know is that something you would want again.”
Dorian’s mind was blank. He opened his mouth and shut it again. “I guess maybe yeah, eventually,” he responded. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“But not now, huh?” Shantae pushed.
“Where is this coming from, Shantae? This just seems out the blue.”
“Maybe for you,” she said, biting the words with a twinge of anger. “But I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I’ll be thirty-one my next birthday. Women think about stuff like this because after a certain age, it can get harder and harder to get and stay pregnant.”
“I know, I just . . .” Dorian rubbed his temples to keep the brewing headache at bay. “I just started my own practice. Hell you were just talking about how stressful work is with the new merger. We’re about to go on vacation. Damn, Shantae, we’re just about to hit our one-year anniversary this week.”
“Well, whose fault is that?” Shantae snapped. “If it were up to me, we would’ve been married. I kept giving you dates and it was always, ‘well, hold up, let’s graduate first’ or ‘not now I’m in medical school’ or ‘I can’t plan a wedding while I’m in residency’ then ‘oh, sign this pre-nup first.’ ”
It was true. All completely true. But still . . . “All I’m saying,” Dorian said, much gentler this time, “is we have a lot going on right now. How is a baby going to fit into this?” Hell, they couldn’t even go a week without arguing.
It was clear she wanted to say something else. He could almost see the words resting on her parted lips. But she didn’t speak. Just nodded. “True,” she said. “Very true. I didn’t think about it like that.”
They resumed eating in silence, but Dorian had lost his appetite. The topic had left him uneasy. Yes, she’d agreed, but it was more than evident the conversation was far from over.
Chapter Five
He always dreaded coming back here.
Dorian navigated his black Range Rover through the gentrified streets of McDonough. It certainly had changed since his adolescence. His mom had moved him to the quiet suburbs in elementary school, and at the time, the country back roads and small-town aesthetic had threatened to smother the gritty city lifestyle he had grown accustomed to in College Park. But as he entered middle school, the trees had been cleared, replaced with restaurants, nightlife, and shopping plazas that began to rival other districts. Pretty soon, folks were flocking to the Atlanta outskirts for the best of both worlds: that small-town feel with big city conveniences. Dorian had eventually learned to like the town, but that hadn’t stopped him from running back to the metropolitan area before the band stopped playing at his high school graduation.
Speaking of which . . . Dorian braked at a red light, his eyes shifting to the brick building nestled in a thicket of trees and underbrush. A row of trailers flanked the school’s left side, and Dorian easily remembered treks in the scorching Georgia heat to sit through Geography, Algebra II, and World History. But seeing his alma mater now brought back a few rough memories, especially considering the pretenses of what brought them to Henry County in the first place.
Dorian’s father had been a cop when he’d been killed in the line of duty in a robbery. Or so Dorian had been told. It wasn’t until a few years after his death that Dorian found out his dad hadn’t been the humble, upstanding gentleman he had led everyone to believe. Apparently, the robbery was just a guise to mask the true reason why he had even been at the convenience store well outside of his jurisdiction in the first place. Though nowhere did the official record mention the prostitute that was in the car with him. The force made sure that the truth had been buried with Officer Lucas Graham, and Dorian and his mom had been financially taken care of because of it.
But Teresa Graham had never been quite the s
ame since, drowning her sorrows in enough liquor and nicotine that the substances had become a staple in their household. It was like she had fallen into some sordid state of delirium after his death, a string of nausea spells and panic attacks forcing her to disconnect from life.
He, on the other hand, had distracted himself with his own comforts: women and sex. Sure, his family now had the materialistic luxuries, but his dad’s absence had robbed them both of normalcy, leaving them numb and fractured. And there they were, years later, still trying to pick up the pieces.
He maneuvered his truck into Lake Spivey Estates, a gated community whose homes and amenities were an outward display of the upper echelon. Along both sides of the road were manicured lawns leading up to brick homes in various degrees of majestic. Expensive cars peppered winding driveways, and occasionally, Dorian would spot a neighbor jogging or walking a dog. The entire scene was picturesque, something out of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Which was why Dorian had always felt out of place from the time they moved there. They were the only brown-skinned people on this side of the lake. And when word traveled about his mother’s addiction, that made it much harder to cope with the changes.
The house looked the same. Every inch of the 4,000 square feet had been tended to with pride. Dorian made sure of that. Even now, Mr. Jimmy, a middle-aged guy who was the all-around lawn-care and maintenance man, stood hunched over a cluster of bushes bordering the three-car garage. He lifted the shears in greeting before returning to the task at hand.
Dorian parked behind a blue Ford Focus, proof that his mother’s aide Rochelle was inside. He hefted four bags of groceries to the door and let himself in with his key.
The house smelled of fresh Pine-Sol and vanilla. Glistening marble floors greeted him in the two-story foyer, a chandelier hanging low overhead. Somewhere, an R&B love song wafted through the speakers. Gerald Levert. His mom was a huge fan.
Dorian crossed into the huge gourmet kitchen to unpack the grocery bags before heading down the hallway to the master suite.
His mother was propped up in bed despite the bedside clock reading 2:30 in the afternoon. She had her eyes closed, a hint of a smile on her lips. She almost looked as if she were sleeping, sitting up. Cancer had taken its toll her. She looked frail, broken, her cheeks sunken. A multicolored bandanna added a little life to her otherwise pale complexion. Satin pajamas hung on her thinning frame and she looked too small for the king-sized sleigh bed dominating the bedroom. But even still, it was obvious she was just as stunning as she had always been.
Dorian sighed and stepped through the French doors. “Mama—”
Teresa lifted her finger to shush him. Dorian had to chuckle as he realized she was trying to hear the rest of the song. She didn’t play about Gerald.
The music gave way into an ad, and only then did she open her eyes and turn in her son’s direction. “Boy, you know better, interrupting my concert.”
Dorian relaxed, pleased to hear the lace of humor. Today was a good day. “Sorry,” he said, crossing to her. “But it’s not like you haven’t heard that song hundreds of times, Ma.”
“Still. Gerald is singing for me, son. I raised you better than that.” She lifted her cheek for a kiss. Her skin felt a little colder than usual and paper thin.
“You cold, Ma?” He readjusted her comforter a little tighter around her body.
“I’m fine.”
“How you feeling? You look good.” He was glad her disease hadn’t put a huge damper on her spirits this afternoon.
“I told her that.” Rochelle, a heavy-set, middle-aged woman, came from the adjoining bathroom, a pill box in hand. “Ms. Graham said I was lying to her face.”
“You both are,” Teresa said with a light roll of her eyes. “You lucky I love you, otherwise both of y’all would have to get the hell out.”
Dorian couldn’t help but laugh as Rochelle eased a hip on the side of the bed, holding out a few pills.
“You would miss me too much,” Rochelle teased.
Dorian waited patiently while his mom took her medicine before he spoke again. “Rochelle, I stocked the kitchen.”
“Oh good. I’ll get dinner started.” She turned to Teresa, placing a gentle hand on her leg. “You gon’ be okay for a bit?”
Teresa shooed her hand to dismiss the question. “This is my son. Of course I’ll be okay. What is he going to do? Kidnap me?”
“If he did, he would bring you right back, I promise you,” Rochelle said with a laugh that earned her a swat on the shoulder. Satisfied, she rose and glanced to Dorian. “Can you come see me before you go?” She had lowered her voice.
Dorian nodded. He didn’t like the sound of that.
When they were left alone, he took a seat on the bed beside his mom. The suite was the size of three bedrooms, so sitting anywhere else in the room would put him too far away.
“Where’s that wife of yours?”
The question was thick with disgust, and Dorian could only shake his head. He never understood why his mom didn’t care for Shantae. But then, had she really cared for any of the women he dated?
“She’s out running some errands,” he answered. “It’s our anniversary, so she’s putting together a little surprise for us.”
The response was met with a grunt. “Anniversary?” She tossed out the word like it was foreign.
“Yes. You know an anniversary, is when two people—”
“Boy don’t play with me,” she snapped, slapping him upside his head. “I guess she’s still hanging around, huh?”
“She is my wife, Ma.”
“That don’t mean shit these days.” Teresa rolled her eyes. “So, I guess your wife is too good to come visit your mama too?”
“Ma, stop. You know it’s not like that.”
“I’m dying, son, not stupid.” Her words pierced his heart, but rather than dwell on her truth, he ignored the comment.
“I’ll bring her next time, how about that?” Another grunt of disdain, this time accompanying an eye roll. As the only child, especially being the man of the house after his father was killed, Dorian completely understood his mother’s disposition. Especially because it mirrored the no-bullshit qualities he also saw in himself.
“You know you’re always my number one lady,” he added, satisfied when her face cracked with a smirk.
“You damn right, I better be. Now, what’s wrong with you, son?”
“What are you talking about?” Dorian was honestly surprised, though he knew he shouldn’t have been. It wasn’t like he was that obvious. His mother just knew him that well.
He sighed when she just stared at him: The questioning glare had her eyebrow lifted so high it disappeared under the rim of the scarf wrapped around her head. The conversation with Shantae was still fresh on his mind. It felt like he was being blindsided. And maybe he was being a little bit . . . What was the word she had used for him so many times in the past? Selfish? Did that really make him selfish if he didn’t want children with his wife? He never told her, or anyone this for that matter, but he wasn’t even sure the twins were his. They were constantly breaking up to make up and break up again.
But part of him had to admit that his doubts stemmed from his own infidelity and his repressed feelings against having kids more so than actual suspicion. So, when the miscarriage happened, part of him was upset. The other part, the one that weighed heavier, was actually relieved. Now here they were again, doing the same dance to different music.
“Ooh.” His mother’s calm voice snapped him out of the temporary trance. “Whatever it is has you really upset.” She rubbed his cheek with a small smile. “You look just like Cop when you get mad.”
The mention of his father extinguished the little bit of rage he had simmering. His sigh was heavy this time. “I don’t want to worry you, Ma,” he said instead, which was still just as much the truth. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Don’t let no one stress you out, ya hear me?” Teresa brought her eyes level
with Dorian’s, and even in her weakened state, they were filled with intensity. “You be strong. You got your father’s blood. But greed was his downfall. Had to have his cake and eat it too.”
Dorian didn’t know why the comment made him uneasy. He was anything but his father in that sense. Sure, he had his fun in the past, but from the moment he’d said “I do,” he hadn’t dared sleep with another woman. Of course, he looked, touched, appreciated, and at the most had a stripper or two give him some head since a few dollars went a long way, but that was it. He knew his limits.
Dorian lightened the mood with a smile and leaned forward to place a kiss on her forehead. “I got it under control, Ma.”
They changed the subject to his upcoming vacation, to which Dorian emphasized she needed to call if anything was wrong, day or night. Teresa mumbled through half-assed consent before she started dozing off. Whether the cancer, the meds, or a combination of both, he caught her head lolling a few times throughout his short visit.
He tucked her in and watched and waited until he heard her faint snore. Then, as customary, he pulled ten $100 bills from his pocket and placed them on the dresser, underneath his parents’ wedding picture. He hesitated for the briefest of moments, a wistful smile touching his lips as he stared at his father. It was eerie, looking at a little older version of himself. He had been young, but he remembered the man vividly. A few scattered memories threatened to invade his subconscious, and he quickly pushed those to the side and crept out to the kitchen, leaving his mother to rest.
Rochelle was standing at the stove, an apron tied around her waist. She had water running in the sink and a large stainless-steel pot heating on the open gas flame. She stooped down to open the oven door, and immediately, the smell of cornbread filled the room.
“You got it smelling good in here,” Dorian said, leaning a hip on the granite countertop. “What’s in the pot?”
“Water.” Rochelle chuckled. “But I’m about to make some collard greens to go with this cornbread.”
