Shh...Mine (This. Is. Not. Over.) Page 2

  “And what do I smell like?”

  “Orient kings.” I laugh.

  “O..kay…” I see her smile from the corner of my eye.

  “Push your hat down further.” I do it. She’s not ready.

  “So what’s the topic of discussion tonight?”

  “Describe your life to me after all of this.” She raises her arms and holds them up to the stars.

  “I thought you already did that for me.”

  “I’d like to hear your version now.”

  “Well, I’ll be married.”

  “Of course. Every good politician is married.”

  “Who said I wanted to be a politician?”

  “Your enrollment here.”

  “So what does that say about you?”

  “I asked you first.” I see her shiver so I take my jacket off and put it around her shoulders. She turns her head away so that she can’t see my face.

  “I’ll be married. I’ll have a condo in Boston where my wife and I can hide away from the kids.”

  “How many kids will you have?”

  “At least two. Gotta have an even pair.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I’d live in a colonial home in the middle of Boston.”

  “Colonial…you’re nostalgic.”

  “I am.”

  “So no house in the ‘burbs?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Really?”

  “Nah…”

  “Hmm…interesting. What else?”

  “I’d have an office in the city with a huge picture window so that I can see the Boston skyline at night.”

  “You plan on working late?”

  “Ah, you sound like my wife already.” She lets out a light laugh. I decide right then and there that I love the sound of her laugh. What’s wrong with me? I sit up straighter on the swing and clench my jaw so that my mouth won’t open. Because what I really want to say now is: all I want is to come home and make you laugh all day. Whatever it is that I have to do to make you laugh, I’ll do it Red. I don’t know why I feel like this, but I do. Sounds crazy as hell, right?

  “What else?”

  “Dinner with friends, drinks at our favorite sushi bar, Smashing Pumpkin concerts with the wife and our friends, Hilton Head with the kids…” I drift off into my own thoughts. Yeah, that sounds perfect. I was born to be a family man, I hate to admit it, but I was. I never had dreams of dozens of women and three day hangovers. All I need is one woman and enough adventure and success to keep my head spinning. All I need is to come home to a badass and make her smile, put the kids to bed and make her moan.

  “Sounds perfect.” And there it goes again. Red is the only one I know who can make perfect sound bad.

  “I hear a but coming on.”

  “No but.” She stops moving her swing.

  “And you?”

  She looks like the type that wants to go traveling the world with a book bag on her back and a book in her hand. She’d be a journalist for MSNBC who crosses into enemy territory over in a communist nation in order to show America what’s really going on. She’d be married to a drifter, one of those liberal smart asses that are just too damn brilliant for their own good. He’d speak crazy shit like Iroquoian and he’d have eaten rattlesnakes with the pygmies. Red would be happy that he’s a free thinker that keeps a full beard; clean shaven men are sellouts. He’d be a doctor in some bullshit liberal arts major, probably anthropology. She’d be both free thinking and conservative but opposites attract. She’ll be drawn to his experiences and the fact that he’s against the standard norms of America’s good ole boys. No Catholic Church for him, he’s Buddhist. No Range Rover, he rides in an open air jeep. Just thinking about that tree hugger pisses me off. Wait…he’s not real.

  “My life would be like yours.” Huh?

  “Like mine?”

  “Yeah.” She begins moving her swing. “The life you described, that’s the life I want.” And before I have a chance to respond or even wrap my head around what she just said, she stands up. “And I’d have Cherry Blossom trees outside of my house. That way I can both see their beauty and smash their blooms after they fall.” I turn around and stand but she’s already walking away.

  Five days later, I have Cherry Blossom petals rushed to Boston. I mail them to Red so that she could stump all over them.

  May

  “I can smell you.” She says without turning around.

  “I’m still wondering if that’s a good thing or not.”

  “Orient kings.” I smile.

  “I remember.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “I saw you walk in.”

  It’s been four months since Red and I last spoke. Four whole months. I just graduated from St. Bernadette’s yesterday and I’m only here until tomorrow. I told my family that there was no need to rush out the same day as graduation, even though the drive to my parent’s home in Boston is only thirty minutes. The truth is that I hadn’t seen Red and I want to say goodbye…or hello…I don’t know. I just want to see her. It wasn’t hard to spot her red hair, twisted and pinned up as she was headed to the theatre here on campus. They’re showing a midnight movie as they do every Friday and normally it’s packed but tonight it’s completely empty. Except for Red and me. Scarlett is heading through the streets of Atlanta now with her green dress on and Red is eating popcorn she must have popped in her room.

  “Are you a senior?” She asks.

  “Yeah.” I sit back in the seat behind her. I’ll be heading to Princeton come fall but that’s after I spend a holiday in Europe, a gift from my family. There’s no telling when I’ll see Red again. “I wanted to say goodbye.” She nods but says nothing. Why won’t she turn around? This could be an easy goodbye for us. She’ll see who I am and I’ll give her every number and address I have. I’ll come back to see her after Europe, invite her up to Princeton for homecoming and fly her in to see some of my basketball games. I’d dine her, charm her…love her. Shit, did I just think that?

  “Good luck.” She says before eating more popcorn. Okay, Red, no times for games now. I’m leaving; I want you to see me. I may bullshit around a lot but not about this. I’m leaving and I won’t see you in the halls again. Turn around.

  “Turn around.” Say yes. She stops eating, she’s thinking about it. Turn around Red. You said you wanted the same life that I did, let’s see if we can do it. Let’s try. We’re young but life starts from somewhere, right? You just never know…I’ve never had a first love, you probably haven’t either. Everyone needs a first love. Or even a mistake. We could be good mistakes, the kind that never get over each other. The kind that marries other people and still smile about each other from time to time. You know the type…

  “I found your ID in your jacket pocket. It fell out.”

  “Did you look at it?”

  “No. I heard it fall and then closed my eyes.” I can see she’s smiling. “Jasmine told me what it was but I wouldn’t let her tell me who you were. I kept my eyes closed.”

  “Open them.” Come on Red. She’s quiet for a moment as she watches Scarlett wheel and deal and I’m contemplating just stepping over these fucking seats, sitting right next to her, turning her face to mine and making her see me. See me gotdammit! For once, actually see somebody!

  “I’ll look for you on The Hill.” But she’s not ready. My stomach sinks but I expected as much. Well…I guess there’s nothing left to say. If she wants to know who I am, she can turn over that ID and look me up. I’ll be there when she does. I stand up to leave.

  “Hey.” She turns her head a little, but not enough to see me.

  “Yeah.” Disappointment. I shove my hands in my pockets.

  “Thank you for my petals. “

  “Did you stomp on them?” She smiles to herself and pops more popcorn in her mouth.

  “No. Not yet.” Hope? That’s all I need to hear.

  “Get ready, Red.” And then I leave. This. Is. Not. O
ver.

  Danielle

  Six Years Later … New Orleans

  September

  He runs his tongue down the spine of my back as I lay on my stomach giggling. Does it feel good? Eh. I guess, but the giggle wasn’t for the feeling. It’s for his ego. He works his way back up to my shoulders and bites my left one. Ouch. Too hard. Ugh. I smile. He moves my hair to the side and then runs his fingers through it. Men with hair fetishes are such a fucking turnoff. That shit is so sexist. I roll my eyes and moan like I’m enjoying this. What the hell is his problem? Let’s just cut to the chase! He never does foreplay, it’s not his thing. He just assumes being big and beefy is good enough. Add the fact that he’s a starter on the basketball team and I guess he assumes he’s golden. And for any other girl, he would be.

  “Who would send you flower petals?” He asks. Shit, I look at my desk and see a few of them sitting next to the black box they came in. I thought I put those away. I breathe in deeply just as a breeze drifts into my open window, filling my dorm room with the smell of cherry blossoms. Cherry blossoms…him. “How does that feel?” He asks as he slides down my spine again with his tongue. His attention span is almost childlike.

  “Good.” I purr. All the sexy girls purr. Oh god… I. Hate. This. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t get into sex. I’m just not the sex type and the only reason I let Jon break my virginity was because I was hoping for a husband. College is almost over, soon I’ll be moving back to Boston to go to Harvard’s grad school. Chances are there will be a shortage of Black men in Boston, as there always have been. I came to college, specifically to find a husband. A black husband. White men don’t marry black women. They fuck them, they dine them…they don’t marry them. Jon is my best bet. He’s a die-hard family guy since he feels his father failed him as a child. He’s also hard-working and that’s really all a girl could ask for. Oh and he’s not that bad on the eyes. If he were shorter I wouldn’t have given him the time of day but since he’s six, five he gets a pass. The weird thing about him is that he’s from L.A. which means that he’s borderline black hippie. Think Farrakhan meets Ghandi. He believes the individual pursuits of a human should not be defined by the government. How dare the government tell him that he has a right to be happy! Fuck that, he’s going to be miserable. He drinks his calories in spinach shakes and peanut butter smoothies, he attends hot yoga to rid himself of impurities, he won’t eat swine (by the way, I hate when people call pork, swine) and he believes that all body hair must be shaved off because of the contaminations produced by hair…yet he has a beard. He’s a fucking dumbass. But he’s tall, hardworking and Black. He’ll do.

  “This reminds me of our freshman year.” He whispers as he bites my behind. I let out a deep breath of great annoyance. He mistakes it for a sigh of pleasure.

  “Why?” I try to sound as sensual as I can but I’m a terrible actor. This just isn’t fun. Maybe I’m gay.

  “When you stole me from Marla, we’d sneak into my dorm and I’d do this.” He bites me on my bottom again. He loves to say ‘when you stole me from Marla’ when talking about the past. It gives him such great pride to know that he was oh so wanted by two women at one time. You’re a fucking idiot!

  And then there’s Marla. She’s an idiot too. She was two years older that Jon and me, who were both freshman at the time. Marla, you’re two years older, beat it. Pick on someone your own age. The freshman dumbasses are mine. One study date and a shoulder massage was all it took to get Jon. And that’s how it’s been ever since. For four years straight, I pretend to want him, I let him nibble on my behind, I wear his basketball t-shirts, I look pretty for him around campus, I smile with his friend’s girlfriends and there you have it. I’ve turned into the monsters I’ve always despised. But at least I have security and lucky for me he’s not going anywhere.

  Four Years Later … Houston

  December 1st

  “I want a divorce.” I drop my fork on my plate. What the hell did he just say?

  “Excuse me?” Did he just tell me that he wanted a divorce on our second wedding anniversary? Did he just tell me over Malbec and bass that he wanted a divorce?

  He lets out a deep breath, slides his napkin off his leg and onto the table and then leans back in his chair. Our eyes are locked now. I made you buddy! What the hell do you mean you want a divorce?

  “We’re not happy Danielle.” He lets out a deep breath and leans his head back.

  “We’ve been married for two years, Jon. Marriage is an adjustment.” I cross my arms at my chest.

  “It shouldn’t be this hard.” He throws his hands behind his head and locks his fingers together. “It should be effortless.”

  “Here we go.” I finish off the rest of my Malbec.

  “What?”

  “Here you go with this hippy shit again. You know what; you are a pain in the ass.”

  “I’m a pain in the ass?” He points to himself.

  “What the fuck is your problem?” I hiss at him as I lean forward into the table. “I moved all the way to Houston for you and now you tell me you want a divorce?”

  “You moved to Houston because your parents moved.” He waves me off. True, but still. Quiet! I’m trying to make a point.

  “No, I moved to Houston because you took a job here and as your wife, I’m obligated to live with you, which is a big fucking joke because you travel five days a week.” Is he serious? I own my own literary agency in Boston that I now have to work remotely from. Instead of flying into Boson twice a month, I could be back in Beacon Hill looking over my agents’ shoulders, making sure they’re doing their fucking jobs, all day…every day.

  “Danielle, we moved here because your parents bought us that house.”

  “You’re damn right they did. A house off of Kirby Drive…in Houston. All paid for! A house that will be mine and mines alone if we divorce. It’s still in my parent’s name only.” I sit back and smirk. Your move asshole.

  “You know what Danielle,” He backs away from the table, “Keep the fucking house.” He stands to get up. Wait, he’s not supposed to leave, he’s supposed to sit here and realize the error of his ways and then make amends. Sit your ass down! Oh wait, I know what to say…

  “Sure, I’ll keep the house and our son.” He looks at me. We’re in a stare off. He lowers himself down in his chair. Thought so.

  Jon was dragging his feet during my last semester at Harvard. He kept saying that we should be just fine in a ‘union of the heart’, no marriage needed. Bullshit. I wasn’t about to pull an Oprah for the rest of my life. So I helped him out. I became pregnant a month before I graduated with my master’s in history and two months later, we were married in Boston. See…easy as pie. But now this asshole is saying he wants a divorce. No. Not happening.

  “What the hell am I supposed to tell everyone Jon? Do you know how embarrassing a divorce is?”

  “Why do you always care about what people think?” He says the words clipped.

  “Oh and you’re just so fucking above it all right? Bravo.” I clap. He closes his eyes and then adjusts the knot on his tie. He hates these types of restaurants. You know, the ones that give you cloth napkins instead of paper ones. The ones that actually give you service with a smile. I feel like a puppet here, he always says. I roll my eyes at the thought. You’re out of the streets of L.A. now! You’re a college educated software analyst! Learn how to be comfortable in a fucking tie. Jeez…this is the reason you haven’t been invited to any business dinners. You act like a damn monkey in a zoo. Leave the goddamn tie alone!

  Does he think that I’m happy here? Marriage isn’t a choice, it’s a requirement. He didn’t have the right to think that he didn’t have to marry me. He is human, he wants to procreate and he needs to give the woman he does that with some stability. Simple as that. I’ll let him think it all over. We sit in silence now; I’m staring at him and he’s gazing off. He’s miserable, that much is obvious. He works constantly, he’s married, he doesn’t want to
be and he’s afraid to leave because of his son. But I don’t give a damn. Let him get a mistress for all I care. We are not divorcing. Do I love him? No! Do I want him to touch me? No! He may be tall and big but sexy he is not. He’s a damn hippy for goodness sake. One week he’s given up red meat, the other week it’s chicken, this week it was fish but as you can see we’re sitting here eating bass. He doesn’t know what he wants! It’s the reason I have to tell him!

  “No divorce.” I say as I push back from the table and throw my napkin on it.

  “Where are you going?” He sounds defeated. Good, you can’t win and to be honest, you never had a chance.

  I ignore him. My parents have Nicky for four days and I hate Nicky’s father so I’m going to my place of refuge. I grab my clutch off of the table, walk to his side and snatch the car keys from in front of him. I reach into my clutch and throw a hundred dollar bill on the table. I have a fucking trust fund buddy, I don’t need you.

  “Call a cab.” I say before I walk out of the restaurant. I’m on my way to New Orleans.

  Ninety miles per hour and four hours later, I’m on Bourbon street slab-dab in the middle of a Christmas jazz fest. Ah…back in New Orleans. Damn, I love it here. My eyes are closed, my head is back, my hair, which is normally pulled up in a high bun is now in a low bun. I still have to wear a bun; it makes me feel put together. I can hear the band singing their rendition of ZZ Top’s Blue Jeans Blues as I drink a scotch and coke. I sway to the slow drawl of the music and I can hear a woman giggling next to me. But who cares about her intrusion because right now? With the smell of bourbon and cigar smoke in the air and the electric guitar rifting over the wind, I’m alone and happy. No husband. No son. No mother. No father. Just me. I miss this. But wait, did I ever have a moment when it was just me? In college I had my friends which included Jon and his basketball friends that I had to endure. In Boston I had my childhood best-friend Jasmine. Then there was Rena, we went to college together. Then I was married. Then there was baby. No I’ve never been alone. I inhale deeply then exhale slowly. I just caught a whiff of cologne, it’s a deep smell. Deep, musk. It’s a man’s smell…a man’s on my right. Fuck off. I’m not even opening my eyes. My wedding ring may be in the glove compartment of my Range but that doesn’t mean I’m in the mood for another man’s bullshit. Just let me have Blue Jeans Blues. While. I’m. All. Alone…