Ever After, page 12
Having been signed in, they were all ushered into a classroom complete with overhead projector, chalkboard, and thick black binders for their instruction manuals. The instructor was a nice but bland officer in the credit division. His sole purpose was to teach these seminars, with a few weeks in between new classes of rookies to stay grounded in what he was teaching by working in the credit division himself. Otherwise, he was an old pro at this. By telling the occasional joke at the exact time to bring them back from the precipice of boredom, the instructor would mix in enough factual information to make the whole thing worthwhile. Nick was informed that they were trapped with him for the first month, until they changed the guard with someone new in the second month.
At lunchtime, the rookies escaped the seminar room and scattered all four directions to the wind. Nick flirted with the secretary enough for her to allow him to use her phone real quick, while the phone designated for the rookies was being occupied. There was only one person he was calling.
“Hey, you,” Nick greeted warmly.
“Hi,” Jasmine oozed gently. “Whatcha doin’ calling me?”
“Even us vultures at the bank gotta eat.” Nick smiled. “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” Jasmine lied innocently. She had been talking to Jacque every night since he had called Sunday. That man was persistent and she was weak. She put on her best face for Nick. “I didn’t even think you remembered the number here. I was surprised to hear from you.”
“I miss you,” Nick confessed quietly. Still, he was audible enough to attract the bemused glance of the secretary.
He missed her! Jasmine became one pretty little cream sauce. “Aww. How sweet. You’re too sweet.”
“It’s easy when you’re around so much sugar. Listen . . . What are you doing tonight?”
“Nick, it’s a school night,” she chided. Jasmine did not go out on weeknights. No way would she have the energy to make it through work the next day.
“I don’t want to go out. I want to see you. I’m coming over,” Nick asserted.
“Oh are you?” That’s news to me.
“Yes, I am,” decided Nick, emboldened by his own confidence. “And you’re going to let me in, show me your place, have me cook for you, and then curl up on the couch and talk for a while until you decide to seduce me with your alluring feminine wiles.”
“Boo, you’re a trip.” Jasmine was all smiles.
“Just trying to brighten up your day,” Nick perked. “And light up my night.”
“Is that right?” she responded with a sly smile. “Alright, Negro. It’s your birthday. I’m feeling generous today. You can come over at seven. What’re you cooking?”
“What do you like?”
“What can you cook?” Probably some Top Ramen with Spam, she laughed inwardly.
“I’ll make you some macaroni and cheese, rosemary chicken, and steamed broccoli,” Nick envisioned grandly. “You do like broccoli, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she hummed weakly.
“Okay. Give me directions, please.”
Jasmine shook her head in disbelief. She was about to let this Negro into her home.
Jasmine tittered out of her seat en route to the sink. Their dirty plates were in her hands. Breathing hurt, her stomach was so full. “Damn, boo. Where did you learn to cook like that?”
“Ma Dukes. It’s always just been me and her. She’s always in the kitchen and mess, cooking like it was a pastime instead of survival. I never cooked much back in high school, but I learned a lot just by watching.” Nick chuckled. “I talked to her yesterday. She thinks I’m going to starve now that I don’t have her or the school cafeteria to lean on.”
“Not cooking like that, boo,” Jasmine complimented. She rested her behind against the edge of the sink, her long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles in her black stretch leggings. Her arms were folded just under her chest, the bob still looking perfect. “You’ve got skills.”
“Do I?” Nick rose from behind the dining room table and approached her. Plastered on his face was a sexy smirk. Exuding confidence, he invaded her personal space, his lips perilously close to hers.
“Any woman in her right mind would love a man who cooks,” she teased.
“That I can.” Those lips were calling him. He leaned in and took a taste.
The arms were now unfolded and actively drawing expressive circles on his back. Voluntarily, her lips reciprocated. Tongues became reacquainted with each other. Nick moaned appreciatively.
Just when things were about to start getting good, the doorbell rang. Reluctantly, Nick broke away from the kiss. It was nine o’clock at night. “You expecting company?”
“Only if it’s Mia to come by and try and player hate.” Jasmine grinned. As she headed toward the door, she tossed over her shoulder, “Don’t let those lips go nowhere, boo.”
Upon opening the door, Jasmine did not see anyone. Curious. Underneath her gaze sat a bouquet of flowers. Expensive ones. Closing her eyes, her whole body language slumped. Fucking Jacque. He had sent her flowers yesterday and the day before that, hot on the heels of their little convo on Sunday. But when she had arrived home at six that night not to see a bouquet waiting, she was grateful not to have to fill up her trash with any more of his love tokens. What perfect timing.
Positioning her body to cover the opening of the door from Nick’s interior view, Jasmine bent over to pick up the bouquet. With one hand on the arrangement, she readied her aim to toss the damned things into the nearby apartment complex shrubbery. That was when a hand reached out and grasped her wrist.
“Boo!” The surprise kind, not the affectionate kind.
“Jesus!” Jasmine exclaimed, reclaiming her hand sharply.
It was Jacque, who had been lurking by the side of her apartment door. “Hey, Pretty.”
“What are you doing here?” she hissed under her breath. Jasmine dared not look back into the room. Unfortunately, Jacque was considerably taller than she was and would most likely be visible to Nick over her head.
“I came to see you,” Jacque said, inviting himself in. He acted so quickly, Jasmine did not have a chance to stop him. Looking around the living room, he asked, “Where’s the rest of my flowers?”
“Jasmine.” Nick’s voice was very controlled, steady, and calm to the point of murderous. He had already decided to take the high road in this confrontation. “Who’s your friend?”
Jacque noticed Nick for the first time now. All three were standing in Jasmine’s elegant living room, Nick and Jacque separated by fifteen feet of carpet and tension, Jasmine bisecting the distance at a diagonal to both of them. They formed the perfect proverbial “love triangle.”
Evenly, Jacque retorted, “Yes, Jasmine. Who’s your friend?”
Not risking looking at either of them, she muttered, “Jacque, Nick. Nick, Jacque.”
Ignoring Nick, Jacque turned his attention to Jasmine. “I know I didn’t interrupt anything, did I, Pretty?”
Pretty? Who does this nigga think he is, busting up my dinner party, calling the woman I’m with “Pretty”? Set him straight, Jazzy. Nick simply stared at her, challenging her to answer honestly.
Her gaze remained lowered. “Kind of.”
Kind of?! Nick went ballistic, internally. “Who is this dude, Jazzy?” He tacked on the nickname to gain instant credibility of their relationship with the stranger.
Jazzy. How original, Jacque sneered inside. “I am her boyfriend.”
“Ex,” she stressed quickly.
“That’s not what you were saying last night.” An evil smirk planted itself on Jacque’s visage.
Looking at Jasmine as if she had the Ebola virus, Nick beckoned with “And just what did you say last night?” He had gotten off the phone with her around eleven. That a conversation with this Jacque character had taken place after theirs disturbed him to no end.
Jasmine glared at Jacque with as much indignation as she could muster despite her precarious position. What she had spoken to Jacque last night should have been kept between the two of them, not to be used in some sort of immature pissing contest to determine whom she loved more. “It doesn’t matter, Nick. I’m with you now.”
“Are you?” challenged Jacque. “You still love me, Jasmine.”
“Quit telling me what I feel!” she burst.
Suddenly, Nick felt like the biggest chump in that room, if not the world. His face slackened as he fought the prevailing sense of dread that overtook him. Only the presence of another male kept him from being on the verge of tears. “Is that true? Do you still love him?”
“Nick—”
“Jasmine,” he cut her off. “Just tell me. Do you still love him?”
“Nick . . . please don’t make me do this . . .,” she pleaded, helplessly seeking salvation in his eyes. That smug bastard Jacque grinned uncontrollably from his vantage point.
Nick closed his eyes. He could feel a tear coming on. No way. “Do you still love him?”
“I want you, Nick.”
“That’s not my question,” Nick admonished curtly. His eyes were now open, piercing through her eyes with the cold clarity of emotion and truth. “Do—you—still—love him?”
Sadly, Jasmine nodded slowly. “But I want you, Nick.”
“What?” objected Jacque. “You love me but you want . . . him?”
Still looking at Nick: “I love him but I want you. I want you, Nick. I want you.”
“Jasmine, what are you talking about? You know you want me!” Jacque was flabbergasted. “Pretty, what kind of sh—”
“Shut up!” she erupted, with so much rage and energy out of nowhere that Nick was inclined to believe her. “I loved you with all my heart before, but I don’t anymore. I still have feelings for you—that is real. Emotions aren’t like a faucet. You can’t just turn them off and on. I may still love you, but I don’t want you.”
“But, Pretty—”
She stopped him with a teary glare. “I don’t want you. Can you process that through that cloud around your head they call an ego?” Jasmine turned and focused exclusively on Nick. Sincerely, she said, “I want you.”
With that, Jasmine crossed the distance over to Nick and buried herself in his arms. In a sudden rush of exhalation, Nick’s body accepted her crumpled form. He leaned over and kissed the crown of her head, gratefully. His heart rate would not slow down. Intense. When he looked up, Jacque stood rooted to his same spot, absolutely beyond incredulous. Flashing a look somewhere between conceit and menace, Nick visually encouraged Jacque to leave. Now. Speechless, he did.
Nick stood there huddled with Jasmine for a few minutes, soothing her over her sobs. He hushed her over her repeated apologies. He understood. He loved her.
“What?” Her tears ceased like the tail end of a flash flood.
Earnestly, Nick stared at her intently. “I love you.”
She shook her head dismally. “But I don’t love you.”
“It doesn’t matter. Not now, anyways. You chose me. Now I’m choosing you.”
“You can’t love me. You haven’t even known me for two weeks yet!”
“Look at me. Look at me,” he implored. Eye contact was vital for him to summon up the courage for what he was about to confess. “I have never been in love in my life. Sure, I’ve said ‘I love you’ to people as a response, a reaction, but I never meant it, I never knew what it really meant to love someone. All those things I talked about at the park on Sunday? I see all those things in you. And I’ve never felt that way about anyone. Anyone. It could have been only two days and I know I would feel the same way. I love you.”
Jasmine cried uncontrollably, head again a resident of his chest. Were those tears of joy? Nick was confused. He steered them over to her couch and sat down. As she continued to sob into his chest, Nick looked vainly around the tastefully decorated apartment for some answers. He had just spilled his guts out to her and she bawled like he had just smacked her. Nick was scared. What could this mean? Was feeling scared a function of love?
Gingerly, he stroked her head, gently prying her head away from his damp chest. With both hands, he cupped her face tenderly, as if she were the last Fabergé egg. Within her eyes, he sought redemption, bravery. He found it. “Will you be my lady?”
Her eyes softened dramatically. Brown became the prettiest color in the rainbow at that moment in time.
To back up his request, Nick added sincerely, “I love you.”
Tears starting up again, cascading one at a time out the corners of her half-closed eyes, Jasmine nodded. “Yes.”
Nick embraced her. For the next two hours, he held her right there on that couch.
“I’d have busted his ass,” fantasized Malloy. “Plugged him one right in the grille.”
“Yeah, you would have. And you also would have lost the girl,” Nick accused. “Instead of acting a fool, I retained my composure, dimissed a triflin’ Negro, and gained a girlfriend.”
“Maybe,” Mal said doubtfully. “Maybe. That chick’s got issues.”
“Don’t we all, Mal?” Nick jumped on him.
“True, but she comes with baggage. Her laundry’s still dirty.”
“Well, we can clean it together,” Nick vowed. He had told Malloy everything about last night, except for the fact that he loved her. Nick was in no mood to withstand any self-righteous anti-amour assault today. Besides, Mal had enough to play with about Nick’s nonviolent confrontation with the “other man.”
Mal shook his head in disgrace. “She’s gonna be more trouble than she’s worth. And I thought I had schooled you, young Jedi.”
“No,” said Nick, switching on the PlayStation, “but I’m about to school you with these here Sonics. Yoda.”
“You need a nickname.”
“Huh?” Nick had not heard her right. It was late. This was another latenight conversation, which had become a staple of theirs in the last week. Ever since the Jacque affair, Nick and Jasmine consumed each other nightly over the phone. A day would not seem complete without a call to or from Jasmine. As much as she had initially resisted, Jasmine was beginning to fall for him.
“A nickname, boo,” she insisted. “You need a nickname.”
“A nickname?” Nick pointed out. “I’ve heard that one before. Besides, that’s what ‘Nick’ is.”
“Well I think you need another one,” she deemed decisively.
“Alright, Jazzy. What do you propose?”
“Don’t call me that,” she advised. “Everyone calls me that. That or Jaz. It’s not the most original nickname for me in the world. Think of something else.”
Nick shifted onto his side in the bed. He was already tucked in beneath the sheets, all the lights turned off, and SportsCenter on the TV already having been put on mute. Concentrating solely on her, Nick said, “Alright. Baby J.”
Baby J. Hmm. It had a ring to it. After a moment of thought, she said, “I like it.”
“And the fans go wild!” Nick mock-cheered. “Now what about me?”
“I can’t think of anything now, boo. It’ll come to me.”
“Well, for starters, you can retire that ‘boo,’ ” Nick suggested.
“Why?” Jasmine was hurt. “Boo” was a genuine term of affection from her.
“It’s tired, sweetheart,” he declared. “That’s all. Everybody calls each other ‘boo.’ I want my woman, my lady, to call me something that no one else has called me before.”
“I’ll think about it,” was her final word on the matter.
“So when am I gonna meet the fam?” Nick inquired. “Do they really exist?”
Jasmine laughed. “Of course they do. I just didn’t want to rush you into anything you’re not prepared for.”
“You underestimate me, Obi-Wan.”
“Who?”
“Obi-Wan Kenobi. Star Wars. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. One of the top-grossing films of all time.” Nick’s tone flirted with condescension.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it, nigga,” she retorted evenly.
“But you haven’t seen it?” Nick questioned, unbelieving.
“I’m not into that stuff.”
“What stuff?” he asked defensively. Great modern-day classics? he dared not say.
“Science fiction. Can’t stand that stuff.”
“Get out!” Nick screeched. “Why not?”
“It’s not my sorta thing. I mean, really. Most of those guys into those movies are herbs of the highest order. Trekkies with no lives and mess. Besides, most of those movies don’t have black actors in significant roles, if they have them at all. We’re always the first one to die or some craziness. It’s like there are no black people in space. It’s disturbing.”
All Nick could say was, “Wow. I thought everyone had seen Star Wars.”
“But am I just anyone, b—” She caught herself. “Sweetheart?”
“Don’t be jackin’ my words, girl. Mess with me and you’ll get stole on!” he threatened.
“Nigga, please!” Jasmine laughed. “My cardboard pinup board is harder than you!”
“Can I ask you a question, baby?”
“Shoot.”
“You’re a real trip. I mean, one minute you’re this articulate, prim, proper lady. And then the next minute, you’ve got this mean-ass ghetto streak in you,” Nick observed. “Whassup?”
Jasmine was silent for a few seconds. The question had been a little too brutally honest. But this was what relationships were supposed to be about, right? “Remember how I told you that I’m a Canadian? Well, back in Toronto, I grew up in an upper-middle-class neighborhood around a bunch of white kids. I was always the only black kid at a lot of things—school dances, parties, basketball games . . . the whole nine. So I tried to fit in the best way I could. I talked like them, acted like them, tried to be them.”
“Yet you did not date any of them?” Nick questioned dubiously.
“Remember, I left Toronto at fourteen. I didn’t have my first date until I was fifteen, here in New York. And he was black. May I continue?”
