Three
“You do realize you could’ve started a fire, right? – Cheating Bastard.”
“You do realize I wouldn’t have given a damn, right?”
I typed that response, but then deleted it before I hit send, choosing instead to drop the phone on the bed, leaving it buried under the covers as I climbed out. I wasn’t – and didn’t plan to ever be – in the mood for dealing with Darius.
There was something about finding out that you narrowly escaped legally binding yourself to a lying cheater that drastically lowered your bullshit threshold.
Following my mother’s advice – because she’d rarely, if ever, led me wrong – I’d allowed him back into our shared home, but only because I wasn’t there. I’d removed everything that mattered to me already, and those boxes were in my parent’s garage. It had been just over a week since the news story broke, but there was nothing for me to wait around for. If it was at all possible, I wanted to expedite the process of moving on.
Hurt and betrayal sucked, and I wasn’t trying to linger.
Instead of showering, I pushed in the stopper on the deep, garden-style tub in the bathroom and turned the water on. After a quick rustle underneath the cabinet, I grabbed a plastic canister labeled “Epsom salt” and poured half of it into the tub. My muscles were screaming from the workout session with Ramsey the day before.
Small price to pay for the mind-clearing effect. It was incredibly hard to be wrapped up in your emotional problems when you were legitimately concerned you were going to puke up your lungs.
I sank into the tub and closed my eyes.
Maybe I should have saved yesterday’s session for today.
At this very moment, a week ago, I should have been waking up filled with the best kind of nervous butterflies. Should’ve been mentally preparing to marry the man I loved. My thoughts should’ve been consumed with last minute details, concerns about if my hair looked okay, if everybody would be able to find the venue, if my father would really contain himself at the reception and not do the butterfly in the middle of the dance floor.
I should’ve been fucking happy.
Instead… I was broken.
I was still broken, and I really, really could’ve used the distraction of yesterday’s workout. I knew better than to call – Ramsey would chew me out about not letting my body rest. And besides that… I didn’t have the energy for another one of his workouts anyway.
From my place in the bathtub, I could hear the buzz of my vibrating phone. I’d intended to silence it, because I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not the liar, not my friends, not my cousin, not my parents. But they were the only ones I couldn’t temporarily ignore, not while I was staying in the same apartment I’d used in college. Their apartment, connected to their home.
I planned to rectify my living situation into something more suitable for an adult woman, but in the meantime, I grudgingly pulled myself out of the tub. I cursed the whole way, and cursed some more when I got to the phone and saw that none of the missed calls were from my parents, who, now that I thought about it, could have just come and knocked on the door if they were trying to reach me and I wasn’t answering my phone.
Several were from Darius, whose number I was sorely tempted to block. It started ringing again while it was in my hand – him again – and instead of ignoring it like I knew I should… I answered.
“What the hell do you want?” I snapped. The beginning of a headache was already starting, and he hadn’t even said anything yet.
“To talk to you, if that’s not too much to ask,” he responded, his tone tinged with an urgency that only served to turn my smoldering anger into a blaze. He had no right to be urgent with me.
“If it’s not too much to ask? If it’s not – Darius, you couldn’t even do something so simple as keeping your genitals to yourself and you have the nerve to ask me if talking is too much to ask? Anything is too much to ask, you lying, cheating, sonofabitch.”
“Eight years, Wil,” he said, calm and collected as ever. “We’re going to flush eight years down the drain without even talking?”
I scoffed. “Don’t you dare put this in my lap Darius! I’m not flushing anything – you did when you screwed someone else and then lied to me over and over and over. You didn’t respect me enough after eight years to not lie to my damn face, and put me in a position to be humiliated. So don’t you dare bring up “eight years” as a reason for me to hear anything you have to say. Fuck those eight years, and fuck you.”
I snatched the phone down from my ear and ended the call, cursing the fact that our house hadn’t actually burned down. At least that would have been a little bit of catharsis – the remaining symbol of our love destroyed in flames. Just the mental image felt so, so good.
He called back because of course he did, because he was never one for being denied something he wanted. I had very little issue being the person to deliver his petulant ass a firm no. He wanted me back. He wanted me to bend to his will, to forget that this had happened, to take his hand and move forward. On the one-week anniversary of the day we didn’t get married because he - gleefully, repeatedly, and several other adverbs – stuck his dick in someone who was not me, his fiancé.
I was about to rock his world with disappointment.
I blocked his number and then went back to my bath, groaning when I stuck my fingers into lukewarm water. I drained the tub and took a shower instead, dressing in yoga pants and a tee-shirt, and pulling my hair into a ponytail.
I knew exactly where I could go for some encouragement.
&
“You can’t turn me away. I brought ice cream,” I said as soon as my cousin opened her door. I held up the bag of pints from a local shop, and a smile spread over Naima’s face as she stepped back to let me in.
“I wouldn’t have turned you away anyway, but that Dreamery bag in your hand damn sure doesn’t hurt.” Naima pulled me into a lingering hug, rubbing a few soothing circles into my back before she let go. “I called you earlier. Are you okay?”
I knew I didn’t have to lie to Naima, so I shrugged. “I just want to eat this ice cream and talk about anything except Darius.”
Naima nodded, and squeezed my hand. “Okay honey. Come on.”
We stopped in her massive gourmet kitchen for her to grab a stack of bowls and spoons, and then she led me outside to the pool, where several other women were gathered. One of them was her girlfriend, Ashley, and the other two I’d never met, but recognized because of their notoriety in sports world.
Margo, an agent with an impressive roster of the kind of superstar athletes other agents salivated over, and Nicole Richardson. Daughter of Eli Richardson who owned the Connecticut Kings, and girlfriend of Jordan Johnson, star wide-receiver for the Connecticut Kings. And most importantly, in my opinion – well-respected member of the Kings’ front-office staff.
Naima’s girlfriend, Ashley, was a physical therapist on the Kings’ staff, and Naima herself had just accepted a position as team chef. With Jordan Johnson being a key member of Margo’s professional roster, I was the only person who wasn’t connected to the Kings some way. It had me feeling something I didn’t feel often – nervous, like the odd person out.
“I should’ve called first,” I whispered to Naima. “I didn’t realize you had company. I don’t want to impose.”
She sucked her teeth. “Oh please, Wil. You’re welcome to join us, we aren’t doing anything but kicking it. And besides – ice cream. These bitches aren’t about to turn you around. Hey ladies,” she yelled, and they all looked up from their conversation. “Wil is here!”
She announced me like I was already part of their group, even though I wasn’t. They all lived here in Connecticut, and though I talked to Naima often, I didn’t physically visit enough to be welcomed into their fold. My other homegirls lived all over, so we couldn’t congregate like I knew Naima and her girls did.
“Hey Wil!” Ashley waved, and I waved back as she stood to greet me. Cole and Margo followed suit, and Naima took the opportunity to make the introductions that hadn’t formally been made before.
I scolded myself for the way my hands were shaking a little as I stood face to face with Margo and Cole, women who had the kind of respect in the sports industry that I dreamed about. They both brushed off the hand I offered, pulling me into hugs that weren’t unlike the one I’d gotten from Naima. I didn’t have to dig deep to surmise that those hugs were only partially “nice to meet you”. The other part was “Damn, it was jacked up what that man did to you for the world to see.”
“I watch your show all the time,” Margo told me, making me blush.
“Seriously?” I asked, and she gave me one of those half-nod, half-frown expressions.
“Uh, yeah. Half the time it’s the only way I know what my clients are really up to.”
“Same here,” Cole chimed in, nodding. “God knows you’ve kept me informed on JJ enough times.”
“Jordan isn’t your client anymore, remember,” Naima teased. “That’s yo maaan now.”
The women erupted in laughter, and I watched, enthralled, as the Cole Richardson I was used to seeing as ultra-professional, almost stoic, erupted in laughter like a schoolgirl. I – and everyone else – had seen Kendra Fulton’s “Love on the Highlight Reel” special about their fairytale love story after their unfortunate SuperBowl loss at the beginning of the year, but Cole herself had never been interviewed about the relationship.
Hearing it from her perspective would be amazing, I thought. The struggle of the professional conflict, preserving her reputation, him maintaining his focus on the game. The ratings would be phenomenal!
Stop it, Wil, I scolded myself.
She was hanging out with her friends, relaxed, happy. It was so far from appropriate for me to be thinking about her “story” that it was a little shameful. I smiled along with the rest of them, and mentally put my “journalist” hat away.
“Speaking of,” Cole said, “Ashley, I really need you to get him before I kill him. He picked me up again yesterday, when he knows better. Can you impress upon him that if he wants to play next season, he has to heal first, and he’s not going to be ready to get through training camp if he’s not taking it easy. The man acts like a broken collarbone is a damn scratch.”
Ashley gave her a sympathetic smile. “I can try, but… I’m not his therapist, Rebecca is. Have you tried talking to her?”
Margo laughed. “No, are you trying to get your coworker killed? Cole hates her.”
“That’s not true,” Cole shook her head. “I don’t hate her, I just recognize her for what she is, so I don’t respect her.”
“And what is she, Cole?” Naima asked, clearly amused. “Drop knowledge.”
“She is exactly the kind of disrespectful, sorry excuse for a woman who thrives on getting dicked down by involved men. I don’t know why it’s so appealing to her, but she’s screwed half the team. If she wasn’t good at her job, we’d be rid of her ass, cause it’s not a good look.”
“Involved black men,” Ashley amended Cole’s description of the physical therapist in question as we gathered at the patio table to dish out the ice cream. “Only ever the black ones. It’s weird.”
Margo chuckled. “It’s not weird. Fetishization of Black sexuality goes back to the beginning of time. She’s chasing down her “Black Bull” porn stereotype. Let her be. They’ll learn.”
“Nobody is bothering that girl,” Cole argued, then took a seat with her bowl. “Like I said, as long as her job is done within the team quality standards, I have nothing to say about her employment. I just warn my players to be careful where they’re putting their dicks.”
“That’s the key,” Margo agreed. “Wrap it up with a condom you provided, make sure there’s no boyfriend involved, make sure you aren’t being set up, and the list goes on. I never have to give these warnings to the women or the gay men. The rest of these folks though…” she let out an exasperated sigh, then shoved a big spoonful of ice cream into her mouth.
There were a million ways this conversation could be labeled “problematic”, but they were clearly speaking the truth as they knew it, from their inside vantage point of this world. It may not have been politically correct or pretty, but… it was real.
So I stayed quiet and ate my ice cream, grateful that through my connection to Naima, I was privy to a conversation like this in the first place.
“So, Wil…,” Cole started, and I nearly jumped out of my seat. “A little birdy told me that From The Sidelines is angling for exclusive access to the Kings this season.”
I swallowed the ice cream in my mouth. “Oh, um… that’s really Ramsey’s thing, with his “Overtime” specials.”
“Mmmm,” Margo groaned. “Ramsey Bishop. That is one fine little man.”
“Little?!” Naima laughed. “That’s so shady, that man is not little. He’s average height for a running back, right Cole?”
She nodded. “He’s actually almost tall for a running back. He’s what, like five-nine?”
“Yeah,” I added. “We’re almost the same height. And Ramsey is like… solid muscle. Thick solid muscle.”
“See?” Naima teased, nudging Margo’s chair with her foot. “Always calling somebody little cause you’re a damn Amazon woman.”
Margo shook her head. “Ladies, let me clarify – I wasn’t complaining. Y’all can have these seven and eight foot tall men – that extra height usually comes directly from their dicks, and I don’t have the time.”
“Margo!” Cole shrieked, then broke into laughter that infected all of us. Margo wiped tears from her eyes before she spoke again.
“Tell me I’m lying!” she challenged. “I mean, sure, there are outliers, and the guys in the lower end of the six foot range are typically working with something. But hand over my heart, anything over six and a half feet… gain an inch of height, lose an inch of dick. Tell me I’m lying!”
I was laughing too hard to get any words out, partially because in my brief period of sexual exploration before I started dating Darius my sophomore year of college, my experience matched what she was saying. It must have been true for Cole too, because she was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes as well.
“Come on Naima,” Cole said, nearly wheezing with laughter. “I know you tried a few before you dove into the lady pond full time…”
With her hand over her mouth, Naima scowled at Cole and Margo for a few seconds before she couldn’t hold it anymore, and burst into laughter again. “I swear I can’t stand you Margo,” she screamed, still giggling as she fell back into Ashley’s lap on the oversized ottoman they were seated on.
“See?” Margo said, nodding as she pointed at each of us. “It’s true. And come on – going back to Ramsey, the man’s nickname is goddamn Sledgehammer! What does that tell you?”
“Oh my God,” Cole yelled. “He got that name because an opponent said getting tackled by him was like getting hit with a sledgehammer. It is not about his dick!”
“How do you know?” Margo challenged, barely keeping a straight face. “I’m just saying, I don’t think God would do him like that. A nickname like sledgehammer, with a small dick. That doesn’t even match. Wil!”
My eyes went wide at the sound of my name, and I looked up from my bowl to find all four women looking at me.
“Give us the scoop girl,” Margo said with a smirk. “Does the dick match the nickname?”
“I have no idea,” I stammered immediately, truthfully, and I’m sure my face was probably bright red. I’d definitely heard rumors, even before we worked together, that his nickname was definitely bedroom appropriate, but… Ramsey was my coworker, and my friend, and I had a man with enough dick. I wasn’t trying to think about Ramsey like that.
“So you really haven’t slept with him?” Margo continued, only to be scolded straightaway by Naima. The instant shift in Margo’s expression confirmed her sincerity when she told me, “Oh, shit, sorry! I’m so sorry, I got a little carried away. My bad.”
I closed my mouth from where it had dropped open in response to her question, and nodded. “Uh, no worries. But, to answer your question, no. Nothing has ever happened between us.”
“Why the hell not?” Ashley muttered, clearly louder than she intended from the way her eyes bugged out when everybody’s attention shifted to her. But, she shrugged. “Sorry, but I’m just saying. If I were you, I’d definitely be exercising my temporary hoe-pass.”
Cole’s head tipped to the side. “Do lesbians do post-breakup hoe-passes?”
“Yep,” Ashley and Naima said in unison and then Ashley added, “I was dancing on a bar at a go-go club when I met Naima. Hoe pass. But back to you,” she said, turning to me again. “How are you holding up?”
“She doesn’t want to talk about it,” Naima sang, but I shook my head.
“No, it’s fine.”
Naima and Ashley were family, and Cole and Margo were cool enough that it didn’t bother me to come right out and say, “I’m… not holding up. I’m pissed, and I’m lonely, and I’m hurt, and… right now, I’m just hoping that I don’t snap if I see him or her in public. He had the nerve to try to pull rank with me, I guess. Talking about some goddamn “are you really going to throw away eight years?” I cursed him out and hung up.”
“More than his ass deserves,” Margo replied, reaching out to squeeze my hand. “I’d still be somewhere under the bed right now, so I admire the fact that you’re even upright.”
“Only because of Ramsey.” I regretted those words as soon as they were out of my mouth, but the women didn’t seem moved to tease me about it, turning it into something it wasn’t. So I continued. “I mean, it was my own choice to go back to work, and my mother didn’t particularly like it, but I couldn’t sit around the house wallowing. So I’m trying to get back to life, as much as I can, which includes working out sometimes with Ramsey. The other day, he was like… you have to always be moving forward, working towards being okay even if it’s not immediate. So… I’m trying.”
“He sounds like a good friend,” Cole said, and the rest of them nodded. “That’s great advice.”
“Yeah.” I stirred the melted ice cream in my bowl for a few seconds. “He invited me to a wedding. The Bailey wedding.”
Cole reared back, and then shook her head. “Okay, nope. I take it back – not a good friend. Why the hell did he invite you to a wedding, so soon after…?”
“Because I want to go,” I countered. “I love weddings, and any other time, saying yes would be a no-brainer. Part of moving on has to be not avoiding things that I enjoy, things that make me happy, just because of this situation with Darius.”
Naima pushed out a sigh. “You don’t think it might be a little too soon for that though, Willy? Like… there’s no way it’s not going to be hard as hell to watch their special day when you didn’t get to have yours.”
“Maybe so,” I agreed. “But… it could also be pretty cathartic to watch it happen for someone, even though it didn’t happen for me. I gotta be honest - right now… I’m not feeling particularly optimistic about love, which isn’t like me. So maybe going could be the little jolt I need to… I don’t know. Put me back on track.”
“So you’re thinking about dating again?” Margo asked, and I shook my head.
“Hell no. No time soon. I was with Darius eight years. I spent the first few chasing and meeting my Olympic goals, and finishing college. Then, I spent time trying to nail down a career, and establish myself there. While being somebody’s girlfriend and fiancé. I’ve pretty much always had to consider him, instead of being able to just… focus on me. So that’s where I am on a personal level with that. I just don’t want to be cynical.”
Margo nodded. “I understand. You want to believe in love… just not ready to be in it.”
“I guess you could put it like that, but really… I’m still in it now. You can’t be with someone that long, and just turn the love off. That’s why it hurts so much, you know?”
“All too well,” Naima agreed. “But… like Ramsey told you: You gotta keep moving towards being okay. And, he probably knows, right?”
Right.
It hadn’t even been six months since Ramsey lost his mother, and he’d been handling it with a strength I wouldn’t be close to capable of. He’d been different since then – a little quieter, more… serious, sort of. I didn’t really know how to explain the change, and I wouldn’t call it negative at all. He was just… different. But somehow, still the same.
“Is this line of conversation blowing anyone else’s ice cream high, or just mine?” Margo asked, and I shook my head.
“No, you are absolutely not alone. I’d rather talk about literally anything else.”
Naima nodded. “We’ve got you boo. One thing these heifers aren’t ever short on is a line of conversation.”
“Damn right,” Margo added. “As a matter of fact, let me tell you what I heard about America’s lil’ favorite light-skinned basketball player.”
“This has to be a joke.”
“It’s not a joke.”
“Forty-five hundred American dollars a month?”
“Forty-five hundred American dollars a month.”
“For this?”
“For this.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve gotta be shitting me.”
I managed to clamp my mouth shut after that slipped, not letting out the longer stream of curses I wanted to – not in front of the realtor. My eyes slid over to Naima, whose expression mirrored mine. We were in agreement – this was some bullshit.
Maybe I’d been spoiled – okay, I’d definitely been spoiled. My parents had a thing about paying my expenses through college, and as my years at BSU came to a close, I started getting serious about my Olympic training. They paid for my expenses through that too. Their investment netted four Olympic gold medals flanking my high school and college diplomas on what they affectionately referred to as the “honor wall” in their home.
From there, I’d moved in with Darius, who I’d been dating more than four years at that point. It was his place, so he insisted on paying for it, and a year later, we bought a house together.
I had money, that wasn’t the issue. I’d just never had to spend it to live on my own. And now that it was imminent, I couldn’t help thinking – this is bullshit.
It wasn’t that anything was necessarily wrong with any of the apartments we’d seen. A studio in Harlem, a one bedroom in Park Slope, the one with the great hardwood floors in West Village. They were all perfectly fine. I just refused to pay so much for the spatial equivalent of a goddamn matchbox.
It was damn near as much as the mortgage on the house with Darius, which would be on the market as soon as I could help it. Yes, we were out in Kensington, and had to drive into the city, but at least we had room to breathe, a yard, privacy, and a kitchen that could hold more than a week’s worth of food.
I pushed out a sigh, shaking my head at the tiny, beautiful Chelsea apartment we were currently viewing. Maybe I was going to have to adjust my expectations to make this happen – and soon. I loved my parents, but I was too damned old to be getting my covers snatched away by my mother as she declared there was “No good reason for a grown woman to be in the bed past eight in the morning.”
As if I hadn’t gotten my heart yanked out of my chest barely two weeks ago.
“Maybe we’ve seen enough for today?” the realtor suggested, in a tone that vaguely suggested we’d wasted enough of her time. Luckily for her potential commission, I agreed. We’d looked at nine different apartments, none of which moved me, so regrouping was probably for the best.
In my hand, my phone started buzzing, and I excused myself when I saw Ramsey’s name on the screen. While Naima talked to the realtor about setting up another time to meet, I stepped into a “bedroom” that was barely bigger than my current closet to answer the phone.
“How is the apartment hunt going, Champ?” he asked, as soon as I said hello. “You got us a place to watch the game yet?”
I shook my head, as if he could actually see me. “No, unfortunately not. I swear it’s like this realtor is committed to showing me the least bang for my buck.”
“New York is just expensive as hell,” he laughed. “Glad I bought my spot when I was young and impulsive and a fan favorite. Signed jersey and a slice of pizza with the owner’s kid knocked a hundred thousand off the asking price.”
“Lucky you.”
“Could be lucky you. I’ll be a fair landlord, promise.”
My eyes went wide. “Wait… so you decided? You’re going for it?”
“Don’t get excited,” he warned, with a chuckle. “I’m still considering. Today I’m eighty-twenty. Tomorrow might be a forty-sixty day.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know why you keep going back and forth about this, Ram. It’s heavy on your mind for a reason. I think you should go for it.”
“If I do that, where does it leave you?”
“Don’t worry about me,” I countered. “We’re talking about your passion, dude. Doing the show is cool and all, sure, but we both know it’s in your blood.”
On the other end of the line, he sighed. “Okay, Ms. Motivational. I hear you, I do. But… you know I know your reasons for pushing this are selfish, right?”
I grinned. “Maybe you could look at it like that. Or you could see it as me being fine either way, so there’s no reason for my prospects to factor into your decision. This needs to be about you. Just you.”
I glanced up in response to Naima knocking on the door, and she mouthed that we had to go, so the realtor could lock up.
“Hey,” I told him. “I have to go. What are you eating tonight?”
“Whatever you’re treating me to.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay. I’ll call you back later to make plans.”
“Bet.”
After we hung up, I joined Naima, and we followed the realtor back down to the lobby, where we parted ways.
“You know that lady wanted to stab you, right?” Naima murmured to me as we headed for the front doors.
I snickered. “You know the feeling was mutual, right?”
We were still giggling as I put my hands out in front of me to push open the door. My skin had just connected with the cool metal when I heard my name, and looked up to see a familiar face standing just on the other side of the entryway.
Jessica Leigh.
My tongue felt like lead, feet cemented to the floor as she approached me with way less caution than a smarter woman would have. Her sun-streaked hair was in a disheveled topknot, red eyes only slightly obscured behind chunky eyeglasses. My eyes narrowed at her pink and gray Lululemon yoga outfit and pristine floral sneakers.
Perfectly put-together, but just the right amount of distraught for a woman who’d broken up an engagement in the most publicly possible manner.
“Wil,” she said again, when she was right in front of me. She reached for my hands, and I had just enough presence of mind to draw back. “Wil, please.”
“You really should just keep it moving, okay?” Naima told her, stepping between us. “She doesn’t have anything to say to you.”
Not true. I had plenty – plenty to say. I just valued my reputation too much to do it.
“Wil, I’m sorry,” Jessica insisted, following behind as Naima steered me back toward the door. “I swear, I didn’t mean to hurt you. You’ve never been anything but sweet to me, and I promise, I never meant for this to hurt—”
“You lying bitch!” I snapped, reeling back to face her, sidestepping Naima. My raised voice would surely attract unwanted attention, but in that moment, I didn’t care. “How dare you look me in my face and tell that lie, huh?”
“Wil, we need to go,” Naima demanded, stepping in front of me, but I shook my head.
“No, do you hear this shit?!” I asked, honestly baffled. “This trash, who smiled in my face and then fucked my man says she wasn’t trying to hurt me. Let me tell you something, Jessica,” I spat out her name like it was dirt on my tongue, because it basically was. “A woman who isn’t trying to hurt another one doesn’t knowingly fuck her man, how about that? Let’s say maybe she didn’t care at first, but now she wants to change her ways – you have my phone number, bitch. You didn’t have to put the shit on TV, did you? So miss me with the “I wasn’t trying to hurt you”, because that’s exactly what you were doing.”
Jessica crossed her arms, clearly miffed that I wasn’t buying her remorseful act. “Darius is the one you should be mad at. He’s the one who made the commitment, not me.”
“But we’re not talking about him right now, are we? We’re talking about you, and nothing you can say now makes you any less awful.”
She dropped her arms to prop her hands on her hips. “Darius didn’t think I was awful. I know you saw the videos.”
I advanced on her so quickly that Naima grabbed my arm. Standing right in Jessica’s face, I grinned. “See? There it is. Not sorry. You really thought you were doing something I bet, getting a black man to betray his black woman to fuck you. You really think you gained something, think you beat me, don’t you? But guess what? If his standards have dropped so low that a used up trash bag like you was where he chose to stray… I don’t even want him. Have fun with your “prize”, since you’re so proud of yourself.”
Jessica was still sputtering, presumably trying to figure out a response when I really did let Naima drag me out of there, and force me into the car that she’d called before we left the apartment upstairs, and had probably been waiting several minutes for us to come out.
“What the hell, Wil?” Naima snapped, once she’d given the driver directions and we pulled off. “Why would you even give her the satisfaction?! You know that’s probably spreading all over the internet as we speak, and you know what it’s going to get painted to look like!”
I sucked my teeth. “I don’t care what it looks like, I care what it was. She stepped out of place, and I put her ass right back in it. Never meant to hurt me my ass,” I muttered, crossing my arms as I turned away from her to scowl out the window instead.
“No, it’s going to look like an angry black woman cursing out a fragile white woman, and you know it. This is the way it goes – the way it always goes.”
I snapped my head back. “Nevermind that she was screwing my fiancé, never mind that she approached me, she gets to be the victim because I yelled at her?”
“And called her names. You were mean. And you know they’re going to say you’re racist.”
“Mean?! Racist?! Are you serious?!”
“As a heart attack, Wil,” Naima said, leaning toward me. “Look – you’re better than me, cause if that were reversed, I would’ve put Becky’s head through that front door, and you’d be figuring out my bail situation right now. But I’m not you. You’re goddamn… Wil Cunningham. Sweet as pie, always gracious, even-keeled. Cutting a bitch isn’t your thing!”
“Well maybe it is now!” I countered. “Maybe it should be. Maybe I wouldn’t be in this situation now if I wasn’t so fucking gracious! I don’t want to be amiable and polite, and tactful. I want to drag that bitch by her hair, and I want to nail his dick to a table, and I want to get on snapchat and tell the world I had to teach him how to wipe his ass back in college because I was tired of washing skid marked drawers! I don’t want to be nice, not right now!”
The end of my rant was punctuated by my phone ringing again. The first thing I saw, before I even looked at who was calling, was the steadily climbing number of social media notifications I had – even more than usual.
Shit.
Naima was right.
That lobby had been far from crowded, but it was silly to think that no one would whip out a camera and start recording in the age of smartphones. I should have learned that lesson from the video of me going in on Darius that night.
The phone stopped ringing and started again, and this time I actually looked at the name on the phone. I groaned when Sarita’s name flashed across my screen. I’d gotten a phone call after the Darius thing too. A surprisingly sympathetic reprimand, but a reprimand nonetheless.
I had a feeling this time wouldn’t be so kind.
Instead of answering, I silenced it, tossing it onto the seat beside me and closing my eyes as I pressed my head back into the headrest.
“Wil…,” Naima said gently, grabbing my hand. That was all it took for tears to well behind my clenched eyelids, as a wave of hurt broke through my anger. When I didn’t say anything, she squeezed. “Hey,” she insisted, and I opened my eyes.
“Yeah?” I used my free hand to brush away the stray tear that broke free when I opened my eyes, rotating my head to face her.
There was glint of mischief in her eyes as she propped a knee up on the seat, turning to me and leaning in. “So… bitch, did you really have to tell him about not washing his ass properly though?”
She was barely containing a laugh as she asked, and that little bit of humor was so infectious that I couldn’t help smiling too as I nodded. “Unfortunately.”
“If that’s what they mean when they say “loving a man’s dirty draws”… girl, good luck.”
I busted out laughing at that, covering my face with my hands as a few more tears slipped free. After several moments had passed, and we finally stopped laughing, I shook my head.
“I have to text the realtor,” I said, and Naima’s head tipped to the side.
“Why?”
I raised my hands in a “duh” gesture. “If she lives in Chelsea, guess where I won’t be living?”
“Will you stop laughing and open the damn door?”
I propped my hands on my hips as the door swung open and Ramsey entered my sight, laughing his ass off. “What the hell are you doing girl?”
“Being inconspicuous,” I told him, stepping past him into his condo, which I absolutely adored. Brushed oak floors, tons of windows, incredible view of Central Park during the day, and the lit skyline at night.
And space. Glorious, glorious space.
I wasn’t even trying to think about how much it had to cost.
I pulled the baseball cap off my head, and the oversized sunglasses from my face before I unzipped the floral bomber jacket I was wearing.
“You realize you still look like you, even with all that shit on, right?” Ramsey asked, passing me to get to his kitchen.
I sighed. “Perils of being a “public figure” I guess.” My empty stomach growled I followed him to the counter in the open kitchen, peeking around him to see what he was doing. “Did you cook?” I asked, getting my hand swatted away as I reached for the top to one of the dishes. “Is that why it smells so good in here?”
“I guess I had to, since somebody can’t show her face in public tonight,” he teased, turning to face me.
I crossed my arms. “Really bruh? That’s how you’re going to do me?”
“That’s how I’m going to do you.”
“I could have picked up a pizza. As a matter of fact, that’s what I was expecting when you offered for us to have dinner here instead of going out.”
“You know damn well you didn’t want to eat pizza.”
“Oh, but I do. A whole pizza, to myself. And a cake.”
“A whole cake?”
I nodded. “I’m in emotional hell right now, so… yeah.”
He blew out a sigh as he crossed his arms, mirroring my stance. “Damn. Well… my bad. I don’t have any pizza, but we can order one. I guess these baked wings, broccoli and rice casserole, nice little green salad… I can put all of that away. Save it for another day.”
“Oh my God, don’t play with me,” I said, bouncing toward him and trying again to peek into the dishes. “Where is my plate?”
“I thought you wanted pizza though?” he laughed, easily holding me off. “I’ve got some menus around here, I got you.”
“Stop plaaayyinng,” I whined, only making him laugh harder as he finally stepped aside, reaching into the cabinet to hand me a plate. He stood there teasing me as I loaded the plate with delicious smelling food from those dishes.
“Damn, Champ. You’re seriously about to eat all of that?” He was over my shoulder, peeking down at the pile of chicken wings I’d accumulated. “I don’t want to hear your mouth the next time we work out.”
I laughed. “No, asshole. I’m not about to eat all of this, but I know you will. You’re welcome,” I told him, as I handed him the plate I’d fixed, then reached into the cabinet for one for myself.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
I shrugged. “You did the cooking. What do you have to drink?”
“Water. Beer. More water.”
“Wow, a whole two different types of water?”
He frowned. “What? Only the best for my guests. Your choice of filtered – or filtered with ice.”
“Oooh, such a hard choice,” I giggled. “I think I’ll take the filtered with ice.”
“Good selection. That’s the house special tonight.”
We took our plates, drinking glasses, and a carafe of ice water to the table. The next hour was spent filling my belly and belly laughing, two things I hadn’t gotten nearly enough of in the last few weeks. Naima and my mother had both been on me about not taking care of myself, but honestly, just getting out of bed some mornings felt like work. Once I was alone with my thoughts, no matter how determined I was to not be destroyed by a breakup… it was hard.
“Hey, do you remember that show we started watching, months ago?”
Our plates were empty, and the sun was down. It was probably time for me to go, but even the thought of that was a reminder of my displaced situation. Home wasn’t home anymore, my mother’s house wasn’t my own, and I knew I could stay with Naima for a night, but she and Ashley tended to get… loud. The idea of going to a hotel just felt pathetic, but I knew I had to make a choice, at some point. I just didn’t want to make it now.
“The one with the woman with those titties, and the fro, trying to find the serial killer?”
I rolled my eyes. “Those titties?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. They deserve specificity. Those weren’t just any titties.”
“I really can’t stand you,” I laughed, following his lead as he stood to carry dishes back to the kitchen. “Those titties aside, did you ever watch anymore?”
“Nah.” He shook his head. “You know my TV stays on the sports networks or news. I don’t really watch other stuff unless somebody is here for me to bug about it. Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I just thought about it… you want to watch a few?”
“Fine with me,” he said, taking the plate from my hands. “But you really mean to tell me Mrs. Carla isn’t expecting you home before curfew?” I gave him a warning raise of my eyebrow, and he laughed. “I’ll handle this, you go set it up for us.”
I tried not to let my shoulders sink too deeply with relief, but I wondered if he knew the favor he was doing me by making it okay for me to stay. Even if it was just another hour or two.
Only because I knew it was fine with him, I curled up on one side of the couch with my feet under me and grabbed the remote to pull up the show.
There she was, Lynn Ryan, in all her afrocentric, boobalicious glory. She was an awful person, but a great character, the kind Black women on TV didn’t often get to be. She drank too much, cursed a lot, slept with men she probably shouldn’t. But she was a great… detective, or private investigator, or whatever the hell she was, and she was brown-skinned and kinky-haired and sexy as hell doing it.
“Here.”
I looked up to see Ramsey standing over me, with a glass of wine in his hand. Once I took it, he plopped down a few feet away from me on the couch, then raised a beer bottle to his lips.
“What is this for?” I asked, lifting the glass of wine to my nose and inhaling. “And where the hell did you find a bottle of wine?”
“That has been in my fridge since the last time my cousins were up here. Never got opened. And you kind of seem like you need it.”
I put the glass to my lips and tipped it back, moaning my approval when the sweet, peachy notes hit my tongue. “You, my friend, are correct.”
“Thought so. I saw the video.”
I drained half the glass before I shifted my gaze to his. “It looks that bad, huh?”
“To someone who wants it to look bad… yeah, probably so. The rest of us are amazed it didn’t end with you popping ol’ girl in the mouth.”
“God knows I wanted to. Hell, maybe I should have, since I ended up getting reprimanded by the network anyway. My second “official” strike, with the first being the video of my interaction with Darius. Holding what should have been private conversations against me. You know they’re talking about “we can’t have you making racially charged statements”?! Like, what the fuck was “racially charged” about what I said to her?”
Ramsey cringed. “I mean… you kinda implied that a white woman only wanted your black man to feel like she had one-up on you, a black woman.”
“But was I lying on her though?!” I asked, then poured the rest of my glass down my throat. “I mean, I could see if I said that was the case for every white woman who dates a black man, but I didn’t. It’s not even what I believe! Be with whoever the hell you want to be with. But for her? Oh yeah. That shit is definitely true.”
In place of a response, Ramsey stood, walking to the kitchen to grab the rest of the bottle of wine from the counter. Wordlessly, he filled my glass, then put the bottle down in front of the couch. When he was seated again, he looked at me and said one word – relax.
So… I did.
So I tried.
I stretched out with my glass of wine as the show started up, trying to get comfortable while I ignored my body’s urge to stretch out. When I finished my second glass of wine, I put the glass down beside the bottle, then attempted to pay attention to the TV. Inevitably though, I found myself watching Ramsey’s face for a reaction as I inched my feet closer and close to where he was.
“Wil, I hope you don’t think you’re slick. I see you easing those cold ass feet over here.” He said, not even looking away from the TV.
I scowled. “Joke’s on you, my feet aren’t even cold!”
The corner of his mouth turned up in clear skepticism. “Then why are you trying to sneak them over here?”
“No reason I guess,” I said, sliding them back. “I can keep my feet to myself.”
“No reason? Seriously?” He pulled his eyes from the TV to look at me. “You gonna absorb my life energy through your feet or something?”
“What?! No!”
“Then what the hell kinda reason for putting your feet on me can you not just say out loud?”
I sighed, leaning back into the pillow I’d propped on the arm of the couch to stare at the ceiling – and being careful to keep my feet on my side of the couch. “It’s weird.”
“Okay, so I’ll consider myself warned. What’s up?”
I swallowed hard. “I just… sometimes, to get comfortable, I just… I need…”
“Spit it out, Champ.”
“I need a physical connection,” I blurted out, under pressure. “Not that I need you to do anything but sit there. I just wanted to put my feet against you, but it’s okay, I promise.”
“Gimme your damn feet, girl.”
“No, seriously, it’s—”
Before I could get the “fine” out of my mouth, he’d hooked his arm around my ankles, and pulled my feet into his lap.
“You good now?” he asked, and even though I felt completely ridiculous, I nodded. “Good. Consider yourself lucky these things are cute,” he teased, peering down at my toes, which I reflexively wiggled under the scrutiny. They were only in such a state because my mother had insisted on taking me to the spa a few days before.
Thank God.
His attention returned to the TV, and after a few moments, mine did too, and I was able to do what he’d initially insisted – relax.
For the first episode, at least.
Somehow, his hand landed on one of my feet, with his thumb absently stroking back and forth. I closed my eyes as the pressure increased – purposeful now – and tried not to moan as sensation traveled to somewhere much more personal than my feet.
“You look like you’re enjoying this.”
When my eyes popped open, my gaze went straight to Ramsey, zeroing in on his smirk. He brought his other hand to my foot too, kneading a spot that made me glad I had my arm draped over my breasts, conveniently hiding the fact that my nipples were hard as rocks.
“Y-you don’t have to do that,” I breathed, then bit down on the inside of my lip.
“You want me to stop?” I shook my head, and he shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”
Oh, but it was.
My intimate touch levels had been sorely lacking, even before the wedding that never was. All of the coordinating and planning while trying to work had zapped my energy, and Darius had been shooting overtime for special episodes of his show. Between the two of us, we never seemed to have the energy for more than a quickie, and I wasn’t… a quickie kind of girl. So that was one-sided anyway.
All of that resulted in this moment, in my friend’s condo, with him rubbing my feet, in an attempt to help me relax. Only, instead of relaxing, I was trying not to notice the fact that my panties were suddenly wet, and fantasizing about him deciding my “cute” feet were “cute” enough to put my toes in his mouth.
Down girl. This ain’t that type of party.
Mercifully, he moved his hands to a spot that still felt good, but was much less… orgasmic. I could actually feel the tension and stress melting out of me, and closed my eyes, listening to the show instead of watching.
“Damnit.”
That was the first thing I heard after my eyes popped open, and I narrowed them, willing myself to adjust to unexpected darkness. The TV was off, and so where most of the lights. The one from the hall provided just enough illumination to see Ramsey kneeling in front of me.
“I was trying not to wake you,” he said in a low voice. “You were twisted though. I was trying to fix your neck before it turned into a problem.”
I tried to raise my hand to brush my hair out of my eyes, and realized then that I had a lightweight blanket draped over me, that hadn’t been on the couch before. I groaned as I pushed myself up. Now that my eyes were adjusting, I noticed that Ramsey was shirtless, and a little damp, like he’d just showered. All he was wearing was basketball shorts.
“What time is it?” I asked, keeping my eyes on his face.
“Uhhh.” He peeked around me, probably seeking out the glowing numbers on the stove. “One twenty-eight.”
“Shit.” I moved to get up, but Ramsey caught me by the arms, urging me back down.
“I know you’re not trying to get back to Connecticut by yourself, at this time of night?”
I frowned. “What else am I supposed to do? I need to get home.”
“What? Nah, man. Just crash here for the night, get a few hours of sleep. We have to be on set early tomorrow anyway. It’s too late to make that drive.”
Damn it.
He was right. I was barely keeping my eyes open now honestly, and Naima and my parents both lived in Stamford – at best, a forty minute drive away. And going to a hotel for just a few hours would be silly – especially when I was about to have to start paying exorbitant rent.
“Thank you,” I said, quietly. I was more than a little embarrassed at my level of imposition, even though Ramsey and I were friends.
But, in typical Ramsey fashion, he shook his head. “It’s not a problem. You need anything?”
“No, you’ve done enough,” I answered. “But… do you mind if I turn on the TV? I need the noise, to fall asleep.”
His eyebrow went up. “Really? You know that’s not really healthy for you, right?”
“I know,” I nodded. “And I never used to, but lately… I need it.”
His expression softened, and a moment later, he was pressing the remote into my hands. “Do what you have to do to be okay. I’m right down that hall, the door on the left,” he explained, pointing. “If you need anything… holler.”
“Thank you,” I said again, smiling at him as he stood. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to my temple before he walked off, leaving me alone in his living room. I waited until I heard his door close to switch the TV on.
I flipped through channels until I found Bernie Mac Show reruns, then snuggled in under the blanket again. Even though he was in the other room, just knowing Ramsey’s presence was close by made me feel… less alone.
I focused in on the TV so I wouldn’t have to review the events of earlier in the day, or the last few weeks, in my head. I didn’t want to give it space, didn’t want to give it power. Instead, I just wanted… to sleep.
So that’s what I did.