Before I Let Go, page 22
Her lashes drop, covering whatever is in her eyes, and she takes a long gulp of wine, setting the glass down carefully.
“Yasmen?” she asks.
At her question, so stark and straightforward, I want to be the same, but it’s more complicated than that.
“Yes,” I reply. “And no.”
At her lifted brow, I press on.
“Yes, I have some unresolved issues from my marriage. No, nothing’s going on between Yasmen and me. I don’t plan for there to be.”
“Then why can’t we just—”
“Because it’s not fair. You don’t want a guy who’s thinking about someone else when they’re with you.”
“Oh.” She blinks rapidly and bites her bottom lip. “So she’s been in your head this whole time?”
“It’s not like that.”
“But you think about her and you feel about her.” Vashti seems to be holding her breath waiting for my response, tension across her shoulders and in the fingers gripping the fragile stem of her wineglass.
“If I waited until I don’t have feelings for Yasmen before I moved on,” I tell Vashti as gently as I can, “I never would.”
The truth of my words sinks in for both of us. There it is. As much as I don’t want it to be the case, getting over Yasmen is not a thing I may ever be able to do. That doesn’t mean I can trust her or even be with her again. I’m not sure I can do either of those things, but I can’t root these emotions out of my heart. They’re woven into the fiber of who I am. It’s an emotional impasse I need to resolve for myself, and until I have, I can’t involve anyone else.
“I know you care about me,” Vashti says, tears glittering in her eyes. “I can give you time. We can keep trying to make this work.”
That sounds exhausting. Fighting what I feel for Yasmen has become a full-time job. Moonlighting to make sure I’m giving Vashti what she needs is not fair to her, to me, not even to Yasmen.
“You deserve everything from the man in your life, Vash,” I say, reaching over to hold her hand. “I hoped that could be me. I really did, but I don’t want you to settle for less.”
A tear slides down her cheek and plops onto the back of my hand, and I feel like an asshole. I wanted so desperately to move on, to eradicate Yasmen from my system, that I entangled someone else in our quagmire. Guilt gnaws at my insides, and I want nothing more than to bring this to the kindest close possible, so I sit in the uncomfortable silence, giving her space to process it.
“We never said this was love, right?” she murmurs with a choked little laugh.
I’ve never told her I loved her. I’ve always known that wasn’t true. I’ve given those words and my heart to exactly one woman ever, and that backfired on me in a shit bomb of pain and regret. The next time I say those words, it will be because I’ve somehow managed to tear Yasmen out and, by some miracle, let someone else in. But that time is not now.
I clear my throat. “At work we—”
“I’ll be fine,” she cuts in, eyes going harder and chin set to a defiant angle. “I’ve worked too hard for too long to let a relationship derail my career. Grits is one of the hottest spots in the city. I’m not giving it up.”
“Good. Then we agree.”
“I think we just tell people if they ask. Don’t make it a big deal.” She huffs out a tiny breath of a laugh. “I mean, it wasn’t a big deal.”
“Hey.” I wait for her to look up. “I wasn’t toying with you. I legitimately wanted to move on. I hoped I was ready for something with someone I cared about. That’s what this was. I hope you believe that, and that I never wanted to lead you to think it was something else.”
“You never did, no.” She offers a teary smile. “But you’re right. I deserve a man who is as wild about me as you are about her.”
“I’m not…” I cut off my words at the disbelieving look she aims at me. “I hope you get everything you deserve.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Yasmen
Yasmen!” Mama yells from downstairs. “The driver’s outside to take you to the airport.”
“I’ll be down in a few minutes,” I shout back.
I inventory the room. A few minutes seems pretty ambitious since my clothes are scattered on the bed, beside the suitcase instead of in it. I’ve showered, but am in my robe, a scarf still tied over my braids.
“Of all mornings to oversleep,” I mutter, trying to organize my thoughts and figure out what to do first.
I tiptoe over to the window and peer through the curtains. A black Suburban idles in my driveway. Maybe I could send the driver to get Josiah if he hasn’t picked him up yet, and then come back for me. There’s a firm tap at the door before I have time to execute this excellent plan.
“Come on in, Mama.” I toss my robe onto the bed. “I could actually use some help.”
“I figured, since we’ve been waiting outside for ten minutes,” Josiah says, his tone curt, irritation sketched into his features. “We’re gonna miss this flight if you don’t hurry up. What do you need me to do?”
When his eyes meet mine, we both freeze. Me, standing stock-still wearing only my bra and panties.
“What I need,” I grit out, grabbing the robe again and shoving my arms through the sleeves, “is for you to get out of here.”
Josiah doesn’t budge, but fixes his stare somewhere over my shoulder. “Carole said she was busy and couldn’t help right now, but sent me to check on you.”
First Mama sent him into the kitchen for a dish Vashti did not leave behind. Now this.
I see you, Mama.
Matchmaking your daughter and her divorced husband should be a punishable offense.
Matricide?
“She should have known better than to send you up to my bedroom when I’m still getting dressed,” I tell him, gripping the collar of the robe at my neck.
“Maybe she realized it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” His tone is deliberately casual, but there was nothing casual about the way he scoured my body before he looked away. “I think I can be in the same room as you without losing control.”
What about my control?
“We need to get out of here,” he says. “What do you need help with?”
I sigh grudgingly and nod to the clothes scattered on the bed. “I’ve showered, so just toss those into a suitcase.”
“All this for an overnight stay?” He cocks a brow and starts folding.
“A girl has to be prepared for anything.” With a forced grin, I leave the room to enter my closet and dress, only to realize I left my clothes on the bed. When I step back into the room, a lacy black thong dangles from Josiah’s index finger.
“Gimme that.” I snatch the underwear and stuff it into the suitcase. “You know what? I got this. It’s not much. Go to the car and I’ll be right down.”
“I’m just trying to help your slow ass.” He chuckles, shaking his head.
“I can be ready in no time if you just leave me be.”
I roll my eyes and push his arm, urging him toward the door. Without being tight, a navy blue sweater molds the sculpted muscles of his arms and torso. I’m hyperaware of the tiny sliver of space between his chest and mine. Conscious of the fact that my breasts feel fuller pressed against the robe. My bra, a silken cage brushing my sensitive nipples. My heart, a wild beast, pounding to get out. I’m barefoot. Broad and tall, he towers over me in a way that used to make me feel safe when we stood together. I don’t feel safe right now, though. Every stunted breath, every second of this silence throbbing between us feels perilous. I’m threatened, but the enemy is within. The danger is in my own traitorous responses to a man who used to be mine. He looks down at me, dark eyes hooded, watching me closely, and makes no move to leave. My fingers clench around his arm, and finger by finger, I release my hold.
“Give me ten minutes,” I say, my voice smoked over and husky. I’m desperate to get him out of this room and out of my vicinity.
“Make it five.” He tosses the terse words over his shoulder as he walks out the door.
It takes seven. Zipping around the room like the hounds of hell are nipping at my heels, which isn’t far from the truth, I toss the clothes and toiletries into my roll-on and stuff my makeup bag into an oversized purse. I dress and tap at Deja’s bedroom door, waiting for her invitation to open. When I enter, she draws back the sheer curtains encircling her bed. Poking her head out and blinking at me sleepily. A leopard-print silk bonnet covers her hair and she’s wearing Marvel pajamas. Storm’s chalk-white eyes watch me almost as intently as my daughter’s do. Like this, she looks young and vulnerable, with no time to raise her guard.
“Hey.” I smile, leaning against the doorjamb.
“Hey.” She stretches and yawns. “What time is it?”
“Early. You can go back to sleep, but we’re leaving for the airport. You guys behave for your grandmother.”
She falls back into her pillows and pulls the cover over her neck and shoulders. “Deuces, Mom,” she mumbles from the depths of her bedclothes. “We’ll be fine.”
“We’ll call when we land. Grandma is here, but look after your brother.”
“Always do.” Her voice drowses into oblivion, the last syllables trailing off as she drifts back to sleep.
I close her door and crack open Kassim’s. He’s still sleeping peacefully, covers kicked off and arms folded beneath his pillow. I don’t wake him, but drop a quick kiss to his hair before tiptoeing out and down the stairs.
The smell of coffee and bacon greets me in the foyer. Leaving my bag at the door, I walk to the kitchen. Mama glances up from the dough she’s shaping into biscuits.
“You leaving?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I walk over to her and lean a hip against the island. “I know what you’re doing, and you need to stop.”
She stretches her eyes into wide innocence. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“Thanksgiving night, you sent Josiah to me in the kitchen for the dish Vashti did not leave behind. This morning you send him upstairs to my bedroom to ‘help.’”
“I was busy.” She waves flour-covered hands at the expanse of dough. “These biscuits won’t make themselves.”
“Mama, we’re divorced. Not taking a break. Not separated. It’s over and Josiah’s with someone else.”
“And I really like Vashti,” Mama says. “Such a sweet girl.”
“She is.”
“Much too sweet to be caught in the middle of two people who obviously belong together.”
I stare at her unblinkingly, frustration twisting inside of me.
“Mama, don’t—”
“You think other people can’t see it? That you still want him, and he still wants you?”
“He doesn’t want me,” I answer flatly.
“I see you didn’t deny that you still want him.” The triumph on Mama’s face is galling.
“Will you just stop?”
The words come out louder and more forcefully than I intended, powered by all my frustration and irritation and anger. All focused on myself, but directed at her. Mama doesn’t even flinch at the sharp edge of my voice, but holds my gaze.
“Do you want him back?” she asks, not giving me the chance to respond. “Because if you do, you have a rare opportunity here. A weekend alone with no distractions. Just the two of you. Maybe you can really talk and figure out how two people who loved—excuse me, love—each other as much as the two of you do end up not together, because I’ll be darned if I know.”
Her question pings off the walls in my head.
Do you want him back?
Even if I did, he’s taken now. Found himself a woman who doesn’t make him feel like he’s living in the spin cycle.
An obnoxious honk sounds from the front yard, cutting her diatribe blessedly short. I know Josiah put the driver up to that honk.
“I gotta go.” I kiss her cheek. “You have our numbers, of course. Call if you or the kids need anything. We’ll be back tomorrow night.”
“I got this, but you need to think about what I said, Yasmen. It’s not too late yet, but what if he marries her?”
I freeze at the word “marry,” my fingers clawing around the handle of my suitcase. My heart is beating in my shoes because it dropped to my feet at her question. Of course I’ve always known Josiah could remarry, but the possibility never had a specific face and body and person attached to it. Now it does. And she’s a beautiful, talented, confident woman who would probably never lose her hold on life so badly that getting out of bed felt like an Olympic sport.
“Bye, Mama,” I say, rolling my bag out of the kitchen and toward the foyer. “I gotta go.”
Josiah is leaning against the passenger side of the Suburban when I step onto the porch. Pushing away from the truck, he takes a few steps forward and grabs my suitcase to load in the trunk.
Traffic is light and the ride is uneventful while I do my makeup and Josiah responds to emails on his phone.
“Kids were still sleeping when I looked in on them,” he says.
“Yeah.” Small mirror balanced in my lap, I dot concealer under my eyes and on a few uneven spots. “I talked to Deja briefly, but Seem didn’t even stir.”
“We’ll check on them when we land.”
“How was Vashti this morning?” I ask, cursing myself as soon as the question leaves my lips, but managing to keep my hand steady as I sponge-blend my foundation.
Josiah turns his head to look at me. “We haven’t talked today, but I assume she’s fine. She and Anthony will hold the restaurant down until we get back if that’s what you’re wondering.”
It’s not.
After seeing her at his house that morning, I guess I assumed she spends the night all the time. My curiosity about their relationship is endless. They are, admittedly, very discreet at work, and they aren’t a PDA couple. I’ve seen them hold hands occasionally, but they’re never all over each other. Not how Josiah and I were when things were good. Though more reserved than I am, Josiah was always unabashedly affectionate and readily demonstrative. Does he hold back with Vashti when I’m around to spare me discomfort? Or are they always that restrained? How are they when they’re alone?
How are they in bed?
My hand slips. A line of dark brown pencil streaks beneath the bottom row of lashes.
“Dammit.” I lick my finger and carefully wipe away the offending mark.
“You okay?” Josiah asks, eyes not leaving his Apple watch.
“Yeah. Just a bump in the road.”
I go back to my smoky eye. With eyeshadow done, I apply a little Trophy Wife highlighter to my cheeks and chin. If Rihanna never records another song, I’m fine as long as Fenty keeps on giving. It’s a fair trade.
Our phones ding simultaneously with an incoming text message. I’m midstroke filling in my brows, so I leave it for Josiah to check.
“Harvey,” he says, reading the message from his watch. “Asking if his assistant sent us the hotel itinerary.”
“I got it.” I spare him a sideways glance. “The Hardway, right? That boutique hotel not too far from the restaurant?”
“Yeah, it looked really nice online.”
Pulling his phone from his pocket, he types out a response.
By the time we pull up to Hartsfield-Jackson departures, my makeup is done and I’ve removed the scarf from my braids so they hang down my back. Josiah grabs both our bags and rolls them toward the airport entrance.
Over the next few hours, I wish a dozen times that Harvey were traveling with us so he could act as a buffer. When it’s just the two of us, we seem to err on the side of saying too much, or not enough. The wrong thing instead of the right. I can’t wait to get to Charlotte, check into my room, and interact with Josiah only when absolutely necessary. Seeming to have the same idea, he puts in his earbuds as soon as we take our seats. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep the entire flight.
Once we land, Harvey has arranged another car for pickup, which takes us to the Hardway. Lack of sleep and the early morning are catching up to me, and all I can think about is the possibility of resting in my room for an hour before we meet the couple who’s selling the restaurant. The parking lot and lobby are a hive of activity. We wait for a few minutes in the line of guests checking in. By the time we reach the front desk, my feet ache and I’m longing for my more comfortable shoes. I’m so fixated on the pain in my pinky toe, the front desk manager’s words barely penetrate my haze.
“What the hell do you mean, there isn’t another room?” Josiah snaps, a line forming between his brows. “I have the reservation right here.”
He shows her the confirmation number from the email Harvey’s assistant sent.
“Yes, sir,” Amanda, according to her name tag, says with exaggerated patience. “I’ve given you the key for room 428.”
“Yes, but you also just gave me a key for her,” he says, tilting his head toward me. “For room 428.”
“Yes, your reservation is a king-sized bed,” she says, consulting her screen. “Two occupants. Josiah Wade and Yasmen Wade.”
“We’re supposed to have separate rooms,” I nearly screech.
“This is obviously a misunderstanding,” Josiah tells me. “They’ll give us another room.”
“I’m so sorry, but like I said, there are no other rooms.” Amanda divides her apologetic look between the two of us. “There’s a huge women’s conference in town. A church thing, and all the rooms around here are booked. Room 428 is all we have.”
“I’m calling Harvey. He’ll get this sorted out,” I say, a note of desperation in my voice as I fumble for the phone in my purse. There’s no way I’m spending the night with Josiah and a bed.
“There’s a pullout in the living room,” Amanda offers, not helping. “Maybe you can—”
“No,” I cut in, my heartbeat ticking up with every ring of Harvey’s phone.
“Yasmen,” Harvey says, finally answering. “You guys here? How’s the hotel?”
“The hotel,” I say, “has us booked in one room.”
I let that sink in so he can absorb how disastrous this situation is.
