Organic Leaves
By Samantha MC Luck
Copyright 2009 Samantha MC Luck
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover Design by Tyler Luck
I dedicate this book to those who have lost themselves and need to find their way back. This book is for every woman who went off to college only to find herself in an abusive relationship. This book is for the dreamers—it’s never too late to accomplish your goals.
I also dedicate this book to my nephews Bilal, Deuce, and my niece Autumn. Whatever you want to do, just do it. You have twenty-four hours in a day. How will you spend yours?
Acknowledgements
I’d like to first acknowledge God who gave me writing as a talent and outlet. This story could not have been written if I didn’t live through certain things and observe others. As I read this story over and over again, and wonder how I did this, I’m reminded that this is God’s work.
My favorite lady, my mom, Deborah Thompson deserves more thanks than I could ever verbalize. Her encouragement, love, and care helped make this possible. She is my inspiration.
My dad, Thomas Luck, for always reminding me that I could be successful and prosperous as an entrepreneur.
I’d like to thank my siblings, Michel, David, and Tyler for listening to my dreams, my stories and standing beside me during trials and triumphs.
I have to send a huge “I appreciate ya” to my besties Kendra and Ashley. When I was up or down, they were always there. I love you, ladies.
I also appreciate the support and cheerleading from my DC homegirls. Y’all are hilarious.
Badru Umi, AKA My Umi Says, I have to thank you. You predicted this the first night we met and 7 years later, I’m in awe of your psychic ability. *smiles*
I have amazing gratitude for the assistance of my college professor who helped me to get the finish line. Professor Stephens, you are the best.
I have to thank Linda Cashdan, of The Word Process, for her superior book doctoring, and Aunt Jackie for a beautiful Web site.
Thank you to my loving, supportive family. I love you all so very much.
Shout out to my teachers, all teachers.
Thanks to my JukeBoxDC family for the camaraderie, goal planning, and implementation. You guys are awesome.
To my mentors, and I have many, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking the time to connect me to the right people, to respond to my many emails, to listen and advise. I really appreciate it and am actively paying it forward.
To the lady who laughed at me when I said I’d be an author one day. It wasn’t a malicious laugh, but an “Oh, Samantha, you’re so silly. Yeah right.” ;-) Bless your heart. I thank you because that was amazing encouragement.
I have to thank my ex-boyfriends and any other guy that has broken my heart. Seriously, my best writing has come from heartache and pain. Times weren’t all bad, but when they were, I’d record those moments and those feelings and look what it created. I sincerely thank you for showing me that people are simply human, capable of healing and hurting each other intentionally or unintentionally.
Gracias to Grandma and Granny Baby for passing down that sassiness. It’s all over this book. Thank you to both my Granddaddies for loving me the way you did. Gone but not forgotten.
Marcus D. Smith, thank you for being such a good boyfriend. May you continue to rest in peace.
I thank you, dear reader, for taking the time to read my writings. I appreciate you more than you know.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Back Down Memory Lane
Chapter 7: On to the Next, Kinda
Chapter 14: Calling All Rescue Units
Chapter 16: The Bride is Coming
I had lost my virginity to a fool. And for that, I considered myself a fool too. But I thought I was doing something right when I promised Mom I’d at least wait until I graduated high school. After all, she had…well, in the ‘60s. I figured it may be harder for me, but I could do it too. I could wait.
There were definite pros to waiting. I was elusive, a challenge, a great catch that could never be caught. This added to my mystique and appeal.
It even made me feel great when Dad met my prom date, a previous fool, and I could assure him that I was not giving it up, contrary to Dad’s absolute belief.
As Dad drove me home from his stuffy job awards banquet one evening, he said, “I’m glad I got a chance to meet the young man you’re going to prom with the other day. But to be honest with you, Melanie, he’s too aggressive. I don’t like him. I don’t know what you’re doing with that boy,” he continued, “but you need to leave him alone.”
It was true. Frankie was aggressive. Though he showed his “infatuation” for me in front of my parents during our pre-prom meeting, I was not going to give in to him, despite what Dad believed. So maybe Frankie hugged me a few too many times and had to sit damn near on me while we were discussing the logistics of the prom night with our parents. And I know Dad noticed Frankie run his hand down my hips and around my waist as we discussed what my dress would look like. I suppose Frankie wanted the dress to accentuate my good points, though it was ultimately up to me what the hell the dress was going to do. Anyway, it was obvious that Frankie always had to be near me or touch me in some way and didn’t know the meaning of personal space, so Dad turned that into cause for him to believe that Frankie and I were getting busy. I can understand his concern, but Frankie and I hadn’t done anything but a little kissing and naughty touching a few times before. That was the most that boy was getting from me: hugs, touching, and kissing. There was no way I was having sex with his thirsty ass.
“Dad, I’m still a virgin. What are you talking about?”
That felt great to say. But Dad didn’t hear me. He wasn’t listening to a word I was saying. That’s always been him though. Never listening, never really caring enough to pay attention and hear me out. He was the first man who ever made me feel as though what I had to say would never be important. That does a lot to a girl’s self-esteem.
“Listen to me, young lady. Look at your mother, look at your sister, your cousins. All of them had children out of wedlock. You’re gonna end up just like them if you don’t break the chain,” he scolded.
“But Dad, I’m a virgin. I plan to be a virgin until marriage,” I said adamantly.
“Break the chain, I said!”
He clenched his jaws, gripped the steering wheel tighter and continued to look at the road, not at me. I wondered if we weren’t in this car, and we were sitting face to face, eye to eye, if he’d be saying all of this to me. Doubt it, considering he had always had an indirect approach in raising me. It was Mom who did all the heavy lifting, the dirty work, the confrontations, and disciplining; what I call the real loving and rearing.
To be quite honest, I didn’t feel he really cared anyway. I got the impression he just didn’t want to have to report any “bad news” about his sweet little girl to his team members, his new, younger-than-my-mother fiancée, and her family.
I was deeply hurt by his public service announcement to me and his referencing of my family. It’s funny that he had so much to say about these women having children outside of marriage when it took men to make them. He was dead wrong for condemning them, especially Mom.
When he met Mom, she was taking excellent care of my older brother B.J. B.J.’s father and my mother were never married. He skipped out just after B.J. was born. By the time B.J. was 2, Mom and Dad met, dated, and a year later, married.
Now, Mom was always a consistent provider. She’d go without so that B.J., my sister, Niecy, and I had, but Dad, not so much. I can still remember the arguments I heard as a little girl. Mom would complain about her whole check going to the house leaving nothing extra for activities, food, and clothing for us kids. She told him that the sporadic contributions he gave when he recruited a new team member or when he finally made a sale wasn’t cutting it.
“Our family is barely making it. We need more support from you,” she would cry.
He always responded the same way. No remorse, no passion, just, “When I get it, you will have it.”
And he would walk away like the conversation was over and silently, he’d force Mom to just wait and wonder why we were subject to his business experiments.
He wasn’t always like that. Dad had been a fantastic photographer who taught photography in D.C. public schools for 20 years, which was something he loved and was proud to do. Unfortunately, there came a time when math and science aptitude test scores far outweighed the value and importance of arts in schools, and he was cut. Dad was devastated, depressed, unmotivated, and let go of art altogether, even though he was such a phenomenal photographer and could’ve continued to pursue it elsewhere.
Though photography was his passion and his lifelong dream, he let it all go and spent his down days, which were most days, golfing.
One day at the golf course, Dad saw an old buddy of his pull into the parking lot with a shiny black Bentley and learned that Mr. Carter earned that car by being the top salesman for QBM Telecommunications, Inc. In that moment, the idea of the car and the lifestyle Dad believed came with it became the legs that he stood on, his avenue out of depression. He drooled with lust over that car; that Bentley became the carrot, and Dad, the horse. From that day on, he’s been hooked on selling as much electronic and Internet equipment as he possibly can. He needs his Bentley; he needs to build his team; he needs to sell, sell, sell.
“Your kids can’t eat a Bentley. I could give a crap about what the Carters are doing and what they’re driving. I don’t give a shit,” Mom yelled. “Oh, so you don’t have nothing to say?” she asked. “Well, I got plenty. Fuck this, fuck a Bentley, and fuck you. I can raise these kids by my goddamn self. I ain’t taking care of no grown ass man who thinks pyramid schemes are the way to take care of a family. I can’t believe I married such a fool. That’s okay, cuz I’m outta here.”
Mom packed us up and moved us out.
I have to say that she, more so than my father, taught me how to be strong and responsible, and not deal with bull shit.
So at the end of my senior year of high school with my inherent no B.S. attitude, I got rid of Frankie’s pushy behind right after prom, but only to be scooped up by a fine Howard University sophomore nicknamed Pretty Pete at the graduation cookout of a mutual friend. Pete got my virginity easily. He didn’t “steal” it as people say, I handed it to him on a platinum platter. I had graduated pure like I promised Mom and despite what I told Dad, I didn’t want to go to college a virgin so I was hot to trot for a whole summer. Pete, with his fine, tall, charming self, put out the burning flames that he ignited within me, and I just knew I was in love…until the day I lost my mind. Until the day I caught his lying, cheating, dirty ass with some chick having sex in his apartment bedroom.
His roommate just let me in the front door, and as I walked down the hallway, the noises grew louder the closer I got to his bedroom. My mind couldn’t believe what my ears were hearing. I could feel and hear my heart beating out of my chest. Before I touched his bedroom door, I walked backwards to the kitchen, grabbed a steak knife, unbeknownst to his roommate who was engulfed in his video game, charged forward and kicked down the door screaming, “I’ma kill this bitch!!!”
When I woke up in my own bed with a damp, warm towel on my head, and Niecy by my side, I wasn’t sure what I had done or if anyone had been hurt. In my regained sanity, I hoped not. Niecy told me I blacked out after I tried to kill Pete and his “friend,” and she thought my actions were justifiable considering that he was cheating on me and without a condom.
Not only was I heartbroken by the situation and shocked at my knife-yielding crazy alter ego, but I was scared to death too. Pete and I had an agreement not to have sex with other people. He promised he was true to me, especially after we had a couple of condom breakages during our wild and crazy nights together. I really trusted him to keep me safe. I learned then that trust in boys was just plain dumb.
Just a couple of months after giving my innocence away, I was ready to leave D.C. and dirty dog Pete, and head to Georgia to attend college at Atlanta A&M University and pursue my dream of becoming a professional journalist. When I should have been mainly thinking about the next chapter in my young life, I was worrying about my health. My anxiety kept me up at night, and when I finally did sleep, my dreams turned to STD nightmares, as I was terrified of having contracted anything and everything from that loser. But I had to conceal my fear with excitement and happiness, and focus on the dream my mother and I had for myself. By any means, I had to further my education.
It was the end of the summer and I headed to school. Mom escorted me there herself and made sure I had settled in.
Preparing to board her plane back to D.C., she hugged me tight. “You know I love you,” she said.
“I know, Ma.” I smiled.
“You be good and mind your professors.”
“I will.”
“Don’t let these knucklehead niggas turn you around. You have the opportunity of a lifetime. Keep your eyes on the prize, follow your heart, pray hard, make new friends, stay healthy… and make us proud, baby girl.” She held my face in her soft, warm hands and kissed me on my cheek.
“Yes, Mom.”
She looked into my eyes, and it appeared as if she wanted to cry, but I knew she wouldn’t shed a tear. She’d cry on the plane the way I’d cry in my dorm.
I held it together during the cab ride en route to my dorm. Thank goodness my roomy hadn’t moved in yet, because once I entered the empty room, I started bawling hard. Snot and tears poured from my face. I tried my best to muffle my cries with my pillow and calm myself down, but I couldn’t. I was scared out of my mind. I was in a strange place with no family, no friends, and with expectations on me so heavy I didn’t know if I had the strength to carry them. I mustered up enough courage to stop the tears after a while, and I started to pray. I prayed for strength to withstand whatever tests that were inevitably coming my way and guidance so that I would make wiser choices. I prayed that everything would just be okay, but I didn’t feel right at the moment. All of a sudden pain in my lower abdomen forced me to cut the prayer short. I held my stomach tight and rushed to the bathroom. I knew I was sad and lonely, but I didn’t think I’d get sick to my stomach, too. I closed the door to the stall, Lysol sprayed and then covered the seat with toilet paper before attempting to undress and sit. As I pulled my pants and underwear down, I discovered the most shocking and frightening thing. I gasped loudly thinking that this could not be happening to me. It was impossible. But I knew exactly what it was the moment I saw the small glop of bloody grayish matter in my panties.
With the irregular periods I always had, it hadn’t ever crossed my mind that I could’ve been pregnant. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I didn’t know until that moment that I, a recent non-virgin, was actually expecting a baby, Pete’s baby, before my own body rejected it.
I dropped the chunky gray matter in the toilet and flushed. I thought I was supposed to be crying at that point, but the shock of it all made me confused and unemotional. I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel. Relief, maybe? After all, with no baby, no attachment to Pete, no attachment to that time, I could move on. So right there in that stall, courageously I prayed again thanking God for the break He gave me, and I did just that, I moved on.
Weeks later after taking a brave trip to the school clinic, my STD results came back negative. Thankfully I was new, unscathed, but I would never forget what could have been. So I took it all as lessons learned, and my freshman year became my time for a fresh start.
Though the chain Dad lectured me about was not an issue at the moment, there were other chains to break. Thank God I prayed for strength and guidance. Lord knows throughout those college years and beyond, I’d need every bit of both.
Chapter 1: Back Down Memory Lane
I met my first college sweetheart at one of the crazy parties my girlfriends and I used to throw my freshman year. Back then, they were always at my bestie Nikki’s house, a large 4-bedroom home her grandparents had bought her just outside of Atlanta in Marietta. Nikki was their pride and joy, and only grandchild. They knew she’d be more comfortable in a house than living in a dorm. She rented a room to our friend Shelly, who was quick to leave the dorm life, and cafeteria food. Toni, the last but not least of our foursome, was just like me, a frequent visitor. Who needed the dorm when you had friends with an actual home?
The parties were wild and surprisingly we never got shut down. We would dress scantily clad and get the drinks flowing. Oh goodness, we invited everybody, including the best non-licensed bartenders we knew. They made the best drinks that put you on your butt by the end of the night. After one of Nikki’s parties and all that alcohol, somebody was bound to come up pregnant. Someone other than me.
This one night I wasn’t in the mood for partying. I was studying for an Intro to Psych test and didn’t want to be bothered. But Shelly called me and told me that I was totally missing out because every good looking man on campus was in the building. Well, that was all I needed to hear. I was there in about an hour with my hair done, silky smooth, flat-ironed straight, and a fly black V-neck short dress that highlighted my toned legs and boobs. That dress fit every curve, but wasn’t at all skanky. It was tasteful and sexy. It was the very dress I wore when I laid eyes on the most handsome man I had ever seen. Well, one of them.
After making my entrance, Shelly and Toni busied themselves drinking in the kitchen, and Nikki was entertaining. I was the only one close enough to the door to answer it, so I got stuck with door duty.
“Hi, I’m Mel,” I remember saying over and over again with smiles and handshakes.
I was getting tired of standing by the stupid door and I told myself that after the next guest, somebody else was gonna have to pull door duty, or I was going to leave it unlocked, because I wanted to party. I didn’t come out in my sexy dress with my hair and makeup done to be getting somebody’s door.
The doorbell rang for the 50th time. I swung the door open with an attitude, as if this guest was annoying me already. My attitude quickly changed after I got a good look at the newcomer. I had never seen him before on campus.
“Hi…” I smiled hard! “I’m Mel, and you are?”
He just stared at me.
“I’m…I’m…” he said.
“Yeah?”
“I’m Dame, I mean Damien. Damn,” he said frustrated.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Dame Damien Damn. That’s an interesting name. Nice to meet you.” I shook his hand. He had a firm grip, just like I like it.
“Excuse me. I didn’t mean to curse. I just can’t believe what happened,” he said. “Did I just forget my name?” he asked laughing at himself.
“Yes. You did. Have you been drinking already?”
“Not at all. That’s sad, right?”
“No, it’s okay.” I didn’t want to make him feel bad. “Everybody’s in the kitchen drinking and in the basement dancing.”
I guided him with my hand motions and did a quick once over. Shoes…check. Nice jeans and graphic T-shirt under a casual blazer…check, check, check. Nice hair cut…check. Sexy smile and eyes…check and check.
He passed the test with flying colors. My hope was that he wouldn’t ruin it as the night went on. Guys that I’m physically attracted to (tall, brown, and handsome) are like students in a class. They all start out with A’s. It is totally up to them whether they keep the good grade or not. If he started messing up, I would fairly and freely take off points.
I watched him walk away, and everything was A-okay.
Nikki walked up on me and drunkenly wrapped her arm around my shoulder as I stared at him.
“Girl, what the hell are you doing? The party is either in the kitchen or in the basement, not in the entranceway. Oh yeah, and in the extra bedroom, but that’s G-14 classified so you might want to stay down here.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Look, Mel. I know you’re a virgin. It’s okay. Embrace it,” she said with every bit of seriousness.
“Oh really? So what, I just look like a virgin?”
“Yep. As a matter of fact, you do.”
“Even in this dress?” I stepped back so she could see all of me.
“Yep. Nothing’s changed. It’s all in your eyes.” She laughed.
“A lady never tells, so whatever. If I’m virgin, then you’re a tramp.”
“Well, you got me there,” she said giving me a high five.
I looked at her as if she was crazy, but I high fived her back. I knew she wasn’t a tramp. She was just wild and that doesn’t always mean a long list of sex partners.
“Don’t ever take me that seriously, Mel. I will admit that I’m a woman of experience, but I’m certainly not a tramp.”
Come to find out, years later, Nikki was far from experienced. She had lost her virginity right before coming to college with her boyfriend from a summer camp she worked at. So we were equal. We were summer-virginity losers, but back then I had plans of starting all over and reclaiming my innocence. I couldn’t say the same for Nikki.
Nikki and I walked toward the crowd in the kitchen. Toni passed me her drink.
“Here, girl. I cannot finish this,” she said.
“You all right?” I asked, concerned for my other drunk friend.
“I am schwasted!!” Toni put her face close to mine and spoke as low as she could. “Let me tell you something…you see all these fine ass men in here?”
“Yeah.”
“You better stop acting all stiff and snag you one, cuz these bitches in here ain’t got nothin’ on us. Believe that!”
“I believe it,” I laughed.
“You think I’m playing. I’m telling you these girls are ruthless. You see how on campus, we outnumber these dudes by 7 to 1. 7 to 1? What the hell? It’s a fight to the death for one of these fine, successful black men. Mel, don’t fuckin’ sleep. My mother will tell you in a minute, while you down here getting your education, you best be pickin’ out a husband.”
“Really?”
“Yep! Pick one, and I’ll hook it up,” she smiled widely.
“Are you serious, Toni?” I was uncertain of her matchmaking skills, but I thought, at the time, what have I got to lose?
“I got you, boo! Promise.”
What she said made sense. It was the beginning of the school year and I had the opportunity before some other chicks came through to stake my claim. I drank that cup of 99 Bananas mixed with punch down and looked around the room.
“Well let me take inventory,” I told her.
I don’t know why I said that. I knew exactly which one I would get Toni to hook me up with. His name was Dame Damien Damn.
Ahhhh, Damien. I loved that man with all of my being until our split after two years. I’ll get to that later, but he was my everything until we broke and I opened my heart to another.
My second college sweetheart and I met in an art class. To me, everyone faded into the background, even the teacher in that class. It was the summer after my junior year of college, and I had begun my internship with Atlanta’s daily newspaper, The Atlanta Times. It was a tough job filled with deadlines, interviews, increasing stress, and extra long days. In between work, I had to take another 3-credit course, so I chose art and figured I’d get an easy A.
The class turned out to be a bit challenging, and I began to come to the art studio after hours to finish projects, particularly the black and white painting project. I actually liked being in the studio by myself–nobody looking over my shoulder, no teacher telling me I was doing something wrong, no editors barking orders at me. It was my oasis, a kind of freedom that I took total advantage of.
One night I decided to escape from my lonely apartment and the thoughts of my busy day and go to the studio to finish up the painting. As I walked closer to the studio door, I could hear jazz music playing.
I opened the door and much to my surprise, I found a T-shirt-and-jeans-wearing young guy sitting on a stool in front of huge canvas of black and white paint. I couldn’t tell who he was by looking at the back of his head and the lights were kinda low anyway. When he heard the squeaking of the door as I opened it, he turned around slightly startled and on alert. But then he smiled.
I smiled too.
“Hello,” I said softly as this was an environment of peace. I would have messed up the ambience with a loud “whassup” or a “what the hell are you doing in my studio at 10 at night?” I’ve got issues with possession as you’ll soon find out.
“Hey, how are you?” he asked.
His voice was deep and caught me off guard. But I spoke back and told him I was well. I made my way to my painting that was on display and placed my stool directly in front of it in preparation to let off some steam through art. The art studio intruder and I weren’t near each other even though it was a small studio. We were more like back to back and a good 12 feet apart. If I looked over my shoulder I could see him, and I’m pretty sure he stretched his neck looking my way at some point.
His painting so far looked good. It was of a woman’s and boy’s faces. By the detail, I would assume the woman was middle-aged and the boy had to be in the toddler phase. I wanted to know who they were, but I didn’t even know him, so I didn’t ask.
“Let me know if the music is too loud. I can turn it down,” he said while not turning around to look at me.
I glanced over my shoulder and then turned back to my painting.
“Thanks, but it’s fine. I like Coltrane.”
That got his attention.
“What you know about that, girl?!” He smiled fully alert.
I knew that would get him aroused. Not that I was trying to arouse him, but...whatever.
“What do you mean? I love jazz. And I’m Melanie, by the way.” I smiled and turned around to meet his eyes. I could see him better and was immediately intrigued first by his smile. He looked really happy to hear that I was a jazz fan.
“I’m Derrick,” he replied. “Wow, I’m kinda relieved you like my music. This is the only place I’ve been able to play it so had you said that you wanted it off, it would’ve broken my heart.”
He said that with the sincerest look I’d ever seen on a man’s face. Not only did he have a beautiful big smile and chubby cheeks, but his eyes captured me too. They were old, wise eyes, almond-shaped, melancholy or maybe just relaxed.
I tried to divert my attention away from his physical attributes.
“I don’t get it. Why can’t you play it at your house?”
“Because my house is not my own. I live with my girl, and I never expected to end up with a black girl who doesn’t like jazz.”
“Damn shame.”
“I know, but that’s enough information from me. I’ll let you get back to your artwork.”
He turned back around and started painting away.
I got quite a bit of work done that night. As our project due date for art class got closer and closer, I began to see Derrick more often in the evenings at the studio. It was the same scene every time. Mellow lighting, a little Coltrane, sometimes some Miles, canvas and paint, me, and Derrick talking with our backs to each other. We talked about everything from politics to music to family to relationships and love. Some nights we’d stay in the studio for hours just talking about it all. He became a stress-reliever I never knew I needed. I realized I was his.
“Let me ask you a question,” is how he would start our ongoing conversations of the night. “Say you had a boyfriend,” he began one night. “…And he had female friends that he would call every once in a while to make sure they were doing okay. They liked to call to check on him or ask for advice from a man’s perspective. How would you feel about that?”
“If you’re asking if I would have a problem with it or be jealous, the answer is no. I’m confident in myself and my relationship with my man, so if he keeps in touch with friends who happen to be female, who am I to say that I’m the only female he should have conversations with? I’m not about confining anyone, because I would hate for a man to do that to me.”
“Hmmm...”
I could tell he was nodding his head in agreement. I turned around to face him, but his back was still to me.
“So what are you really trying to tell me? You can’t be yourself with this chick. You don’t listen to your favorite kind of music in your own house, you can’t talk to your friends, and you seem like the type who needs his friends, and there is probably plenty else that you are missing because of your situation. You’re not happy. Am I right?”
He turned around and smiled. Not a happy smile, though.
“You’re onto something,” he said trying to not give me full credit for figuring him out.
“I know,” I said smiling at him.
“Well since you are so smart, Mel, why don’t you help me with the shadowing in my painting? You seem to be doing a better job than me.”
I walked over to Derrick for the first time. I had crossed the threshold that divided us and kept us in our respective areas. It had been 7 weeks of this class, and this was the first time we were this close. He grabbed my hand and pulled me closer. Firm yet gentle. It got me a little excited.
“Where’s your brush?” I was hoping he couldn’t hear the nervousness in my voice so I said it as firmly as I could.
“Right here.” He put it in the palm of my hand.
“Grey paint.”
“Here you go,” he laughed.
I asked what the heck he was laughing at.
“You’re a painter, not a surgeon. So paint something and stop playing,” he said, but I could tell by the softness of his eyes that he was only joking with me. I liked the way he talked to me, so masculine, so comforting, so playful.
“Look man, I’m trying to help you out here, so you just have to be patient. Now, your painting so far looks good. It’s just missing my personal, artistic touch.”
“Work your magic then!”
“I will as soon as you tell me what I’ve been wondering this whole semester.”
I got even closer to the painting, and Derrick got up from the stool and stood directly behind me. I could feel his breath on my neck and the back of my shoulders as he uttered a question for me.
“What exactly have you been wondering?”
I couldn’t think anymore. For five seconds, I had totally forgotten what we were talking about.
“Mel?”
“Oh, yeah. Just curious. Who are these people in your painting? I assumed it was your mother and your little brother, but I’m not sure.”
“Well, you’re halfway right. This is my beautiful mother, but this isn’t my brother.”
“Who is he then?”
“This li’l man is my son, Sean.”
Whooooaaaa!! And the plot thickens. Cool daddy is a daddy daddy. Interesting. That turned me on, but I tried to play it cool though.
“How old is he? Where is he? Is his mommy the girl you’re staying with?” Those were just a few of the many questions that I had for him.
“Are you interviewing me right now?” He had a smart mouth.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry, but I was just curious. I mean we’re here every week, and we don’t know too much about each other. So get to talking.”
He conceded.
“Okay. Umm, he’s 4. He lives in Baltimore, Maryland with his mom. Yes, I am responsible for him. I take care of him. I’m not a deadbeat, and I answered your third question with my second answer. No, my current girlfriend is not his mother,” he said letting out a deep exhale.
“Are you relieved?” I asked.
“That she’s not the mom? Yeah. I can’t see her being able to handle the responsibility of raising a child just yet. I know for a fact she couldn’t handle it.”
I really wanted to know what the heck he was doing with this woman in the first place. She seemed like the wrong fit, but he was a grown man and could make his own decisions. Lucky for me at the time, his decisions in love led him straight to the studio, and so did mine.
“Enough about me. What is the deal with you? Why don’t you have a man? What happened to ole boy?”
“Hand me the black, please,” I demanded.
“Here you go. Now start talking,” he said still behind me supposedly paying attention to the painting and my shadowing techniques.
“I am single, because the men I know can’t deal with my need for independence. The men I know are focused on themselves and don’t give a crap about my dreams, my thoughts or my feelings. The men I know sleep with tons of women and then want to come up in my face like I don’t know what they’re about. I have a brother, cousins, and male friends. They’re great guys, but they’re men too. I don’t put it past any of them.”
“What happened with your ex, though? Why’d you two break up?”
“You must know Damien.” To mention his name made me nauseated.
“I don’t know him like that. But I met him when he worked on my car at the shop. The boy’s good, but he wasn’t for you, I can tell you that.”
“Wait, back it up! How do you know about me and Damien? We just met this semester and Damien and I broke up just before summer break. You’re not telling me something.”
“You’re right.”
“What does that mean, Derrick?” I paused on the painting and turned around to face him. I pushed him back, because we were too close for comfort. He took a seat on the stool again.
“There’s this spot I want to take you to. It’s called the Cove. A lot of people don’t know about it. It’s kinda low-key. Musicians come in there and will play a set. There are poets, rappers, painters, wine… We should finish this conversation there,” he said.
Two nights later, Derrick called me around 7 to make sure I was still coming out with him to the Cove lounge, the jazz spot he’d invited me to. I was hesitant. I still had some background research to do for my internship, I hadn’t cleaned my apartment, and I really needed to wash my hair. But he convinced me via text message, so I drove to the jazz club ready to unwind with my new friend.
I met him at the door, and couldn’t stop smiling. I had never seen him dressed up like that before. He had a crisp black button down shirt, dark jeans, and a fresh hair cut. He looked so good. I had no idea judging from the T-shirt and jeans he wore in the studio that he could dress on that level. As corny as it sounds, we were actually matching. I decided to wear my black collared wrap shirt, some skinny jeans, and black and silver pumps. I was forced to pull my hair back off my face. I put a thin black headband on and let my hair fall to my shoulders. My makeup was light with a little mascara and sheer champagne-colored lip gloss.
I have to admit, I was a little nervous. I was really starting to feel this was more like a date than two classmates just hanging out. I wondered how he’d presented this to his girlfriend.
“Hey cutie,” he smiled and opened his arms to give me a big bear hug.
“Hey li’l homie,” I laughed and returned his embrace.
“It’s nice to see you out of the studio and actually dressed up. You clean up real well,” he said, looking me up and down.
I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to take that until he smiled playfully.
“Shall we?” he asked as he opened the door for me.
“We shall.”
We entered another world. The club was tiny and old looking, but it was the perfect atmosphere for some real jazz. It was a tad too smoky, though. Normally when cigarette smoke filled the air of a club like a thick cloud, I would refuse to stay, but the live soulful sounds coming from the stage made me want to continue on with this non-date.
The crowd was mixed with people of different races and nationalities, and even the ages varied a bit. Jazz lovers from cute co-eds to the very mature with grey hair and glasses and all those in between filled the room. Some sat at tables with lit candles letting off a warm, vanilla-scented glow, while others were on the very small dance floor working it out or at the bar doing what I call stool dancing. Because of the chill energy I felt from the other patrons, I was suddenly very glad I came.
“What are you drinking?” Derrick asked as he escorted me to our table.
“Oh, I’ll have a glass of Pellegrino. Thanks.” I smiled politely and sat down.
“You have got to be kidding me. Sparkling water? You don’t have to front for me. I know you’re a drinker. I’m buying so what’s it gonna be, li’l faker?”
I gave him the evil eye. He caught me. I was faking, but I knew how I got when I drank. I got all horny and stuff, especially in a jazz club with low lights and flickering candles, where vibrations from the trumpets and the drums give off innuendos. I could feel a heat flash coming on at that moment just by being in that kind of environment, especially since I hadn’t had sex in months and was dry as the Sahara desert. What was this boy trying to do to me?
“Fine. I’ll take a glass of Riesling.”
Okay, so I caved. Like you ain’t never backed down on your “I’m not going to drink” pact that you made with yourself before you left the house for a club? Well, maybe that’s just me. I changed my mind. One drink. That was all. No harm done.
“So you’re a white wine lover. That was safe, but I bet you can go harder.”
I looked at Derrick crazy again ‘cause he just didn’t know. He put his hands in front of himself in surrender.
“All right. I’m done messing with you,” he joked.
“One glass of wine will do. Thank you.” I smiled.
“You’re quite welcome, Ms. Bridges. I’ll be right back.”
The swing band that was on had just finished and a saxophonist began his solo. The mood shifted from fast and exciting to slow and sensual. I was not ready for that type of scene with Derrick, but what was I supposed to do, leave until another set came on? Yeah, right. I came to enjoy the show, and to see where this thing with Derrick would take me, and also to get some information on Damien.
“Here you go.” Derrick handed me my glass as he sat down at the table.
“Thank you.”
“So when did you become a jazz head? I didn’t see it in you,” he asked.
“What do you mean you didn’t see it in me?”
“I mean, the first time I saw you on campus, I was blown away. I really was. I saw you walking across the yard like you weren’t an average freshman, wearing your little velour track suit and some bag that I know you paid a grip for, and I said to myself, ‘She’s totally mainstream,’” he said shaking his head disapprovingly.
“Looks can be deceiving. I don’t even remember which suit that was. That was such a long time ago.”
“It was white. You must have a bunch.”
“I had a couple,” I said as I remembered Damien throwing them in the trash in retaliation during a stupid argument.
“Then you show up in my class years later and you’re still in the latest trends, wearing whatever kind of bag that is. You just didn’t seem like the type to like anything to do with art, jazz, literature…”
I couldn’t believe what he was saying to me. What was I supposed to do? Wear a dashiki and have my hair in some afro puffs so I could look I was keeping it real?
“You can stop looking at me like that, Mel. I didn’t mean to offend you. I mean, you just surprised me, that’s all, because most girls our age lack culture. They don’t know what real music sounds like, what real poetry sounds like, or what good culture feels like.”
“I’m going to give you three seconds to take your foot out of your mouth, because what you just said is absolutely ridiculous. Despite my outfit and bag—both were gifts by the way—I am very cultured and very much exposed to the arts, including but not limited to music and poetry. I really have to thank my parents for that exposure. My mom was an avid reader, so poetry and literature filled our bookshelves at home and my dad was a photographer. Both loved music, especially jazz. I bet I know more about the arts than you.”
I was relieved to get that out. The shock of Derrick’s face was priceless. If I didn’t want him to understand that I was serious, I would’ve laughed at him. But I kept a straight face so he knew that he was out of line and needed to be checked.
Derrick reminded me of my father a little. They both had huge smiles and were handsome and extremely outspoken to the point of lacking tact and understanding. They saw what they wanted to see and heard what they wanted to hear.
“But seriously, you can’t always judge a book by its cover. Maybe you should think before you say things like that. You never know who you’re talking to. Just like I didn’t know until this conversation that you were so close-minded.”
“Close-minded? Wow. I resent that. But I guess I gave you cause to believe that. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Let’s start over.”
“Fine,” I said, giving him a second chance.
“What do you want know about me since we’re getting to know each other?” he asked.
“You are supposed to tell me how you know my ex besides his working on your car that one time.”
“Oh, right. Are you still hung up on this dude?”
“No. Why would you say that?” I asked with a little bit of an attitude.
“Because I really had no intention of talking about him tonight. That was just a ploy to get you out with me. I’m sorry, for the second time.”
“What? So you have nothing to tell me?” I knew he was lying.
“Nope, I’m just glad you are here with me, and we’re not forced to have a conversation in a room full of paint fumes. And to be quite honest, I didn’t think you’d go out with me if I just asked. I had to find a hook. You know what your problem is, Mel?”
“What’s that?” I wanted to slap him.
“You’re nosy. Nosiness got you on a date with me.”
“I’m a journalist, you ass. I’m supposed to nosy. By the way, this is not a date, and I’m ready to go.” I scooted my chair back to get up from the table and grabbed my clutch.
Just then the band began to play my favorite song, “In a Sentimental Mood.”
“Wait,” he grabbed my hand from across the table. “One dance, please?”
“Dude, are you kidding me?”
“One dance is all I’m asking. And then you can leave me forever, promise.”
“Don’t play with me, Derrick. You said you would finish what you were already telling me here at the club, so why are you even acting like this?”
“You mean to tell me the only reason you came here with me was to hear about how I know your ex-boyfriend—the man that you are supposedly over?”
“Yes!”
“Melanie I-don’t-know-your-middle-name Bridges, you are the biggest bull-shitter in the world!” he laughed.
“I’m going to whoop your ass. I’m serious, Derrick whatever-your-middle-name-is Mason. And who’s the bull-shitter, for real? Answer me this.”
“What’s up?”
“Does your girl know you’re here tonight?”
“Yep.”
“With me?”
“Let’s talk about something else,” he smiled like he had just been caught.
“See, that’s what I’m talking about. You have a girl, yet you invite me on a date. Let’s call it what you would like it to be, and you can’t even be straight up with her.”
“Mel, there is so much you don’t know about my relationship with her. So don’t be quick to judge me or assume anything, because you have no idea what it’s like to be with her.”
“I don’t get it. Why are you with her if she’s not the woman for you?”
“I’m not with her. I would love to explain it to you later. As a matter of fact, how about we talk about the both of them at a later date and enjoy this dance?”
He had the cutest smile. And those eyes, those melancholy eyes. Ughhhhh.
“Whatever, Derrick. One dance and I’m gone. Better be glad this is my song.”
He pulled me to the floor, and he actually turned out to be a smooth dancer for an asshole. He whispered in my ear that he apologized for the third time. He said I make him nervous and that makes him say whatever.
“Even when it’s unpopular, I speak my mind. At least you know I’ll always be honest,” he laughed, all by himself.
Back then I actually listened to that logic. So young, so naïve. Then he told me that he and his supposed girlfriend decided to separate and that she had moved out a week before. He said they agreed on seeing other people, and I was the only girl he wanted to date. I was flattered. Just ate it right up. I had an inkling that he was playing games, though, especially with the whole trick to get me out in the first place. But the music continued to play, the harmonies of the instruments swept me up and made me relax, our warm bodies swayed together like yin and yang, and all of my intelligence went into the air and rested above our heads along with the cloud of cigarette smoke.
He changed the subject of the conversation as the band transitioned into another song. And I was actually relieved. I hoped that our horrible start was somewhat of a misunderstanding. I wanted to believe that he wasn’t the jerk he had portrayed himself to be.
“So did your dad teach you to shoot?” he asked as he held me close and moved with me rhythmically.
I laughed remembering my dad trying his hardest to teach me the art of photography. I was decent at it, and because of the art, we were two peas in a pod, inseparable. But I became a very independent teen who had other interests, and my dad was laid off and depressed. Photography could no longer hold us together.
“Yes, he did,” I responded in his ear. “But I found magazines, books, and the spoken word to be more fun as I grew older. I wrote a series of short stories as a kid. My dad couldn’t understand it and always wished he had a little photographer to pass the torch to, but it wasn’t my thing.”
“I always wanted to be a painter,” Derrick told me. “But my mom was not feeling it at all. She told me that I wouldn’t make any money and was afraid I’d be a starving artist, so I went to school for business, instead. But I’d give it up if I could and take up painting full time.”
“Why won’t you?” I asked.
“Well, my mom would be heartbroken. She thinks that most artists end up poor and on drugs,” he said.
“What does your dad think?”
“Oh no. He’s big on following the Mason legacy and going into the family business. My uncle was a rebel and pursued art rather than going into business like everyone else. But he made no money and now he’s struggling to make ends meet, and there were rumors of drugs, but we don’t know for sure. It makes the pursuit of my art less and less desirable every day. But I can’t deny the pull that it has on my soul. I need it.”
“That’s how I feel about writing. I need it like birds need wings to fly.”
“Nice use of a simile,” he laughed.
I laughed too, feeling like a cornball. He looked at me deeply, almost as though he was really seeing me for the first time. I finally felt we were connecting. It was in that moment, I felt that Derrick was a part of my world. He knew what it felt like to need to be something and do something. He craved art like I craved writing. I was pulled in closer to him in this type of environment—my type of environment. With the jazz horns and keys in the background, the buzz the alcohol created in my head, and the beauty of the golden glow that filled the room, I was in heaven. We danced for about three more songs before Derrick and I sat back down to talk about everything from football to politics to love and sex. It was just like our usual art studio convo. Of course, the latter was the best part of the conversation, because Derrick made me extremely curious about his level of skill, which in comparison to Damien’s sounded superior. Note that I said “sounded.” I’m very familiar with guys gassing themselves up. But because of my strong curiosity, I wanted to know if he was telling the truth. Then again, I didn’t have the energy to give myself to another man who could very well turn out to be a demon in disguise like Damien.
It was getting late, and I didn’t want to be out all night, though Derrick was becoming great company. I asked him to escort me to my car and he obliged.
“I would never not walk you to your car. If that makes sense,” he laughed.
“I get what you’re saying,” I said.
“Did you have a good time?” he asked.
I had to be honest with him.
“At first, I really did want to walk out on you, but you redeemed yourself later on. I had a good time, even though I didn’t get the answers I came for. You lured me here under false pretences, but you know as well as I know, you’ll make up for that later.” I smiled.
I truly didn’t mean to say that so flirtatiously. I wanted him to talk about how he knew Damien. Anything else was secondary, although I couldn’t deny a physical chemistry between the two of us. Business first, pleasure later.
“Well, I had a great time with you, Mel. I’ll tell you everything you need to know soon, I promise,” he said as he wrapped his arms around me and squeezed me tightly.
I believed him and let my guard down to receive his embrace. I wanted to feel sincerity and care. It felt good. I hadn’t realized that it had been so long since I’d felt that kind of affection from a man. I squeezed him too and enjoyed exhaling in his arms until the vibration of my cell phone alarmed me.
“Hold up. Are you getting booty calls, Mel? Do you know what time it is?” Derrick asked.
“Yes, it’s late, but that could be one of the girls. Stay out of grown folks’ business.”
“Liar.” He shook his head at me.
“Go home to your woman, I mean the girl you’re separated from, and mind your business,” I laughed. He didn’t respond to that.
“All right, Lady. You take care and drive safely,” he said.
“You, too. I’ll see you in class.”
I pulled out of the parking lot only to find Derrick trailing behind me down the street. It was my assumption that he was making sure I was okay to drive after my one glass of wine. He seemed so caring and concerned, which sadly was something that I was not used to from my most recent ex.
As I got closer to my apartment, my phone vibrated again. I had forgotten to check it the first time, but when I looked at the caller I.D., I really didn’t want to pick it up.
I did anyway. I watched in my side mirror as Derrick turned off and then disappeared into the night.
“Hello.”
“Hey baby. Why aren’t you home?” Damien asked.
“How do you know I’m not home?”
“Because I’m walking in right now, and it’s obvious you haven’t been here in a while.”
Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Why won’t he leave me alone? He moved out. He left me. The least he could do was stay the hell away.
I pulled into my parking space and sure enough, Damien was standing inside the apartment at the door waiting.