Before I Let Go, page 27
“Great,” I say, recognizing the significance of the Jamal seal of approval. “Well, let’s get that bush cut down so you can get home and do your homework.”
I reach across and tug the textured ’fro he’s growing.
“And decorate the tree!” Kassim answers with a wide smile.
There’s a small pinch in my chest. We used to make a big deal of choosing the tree together. Usually the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and then we’d head someplace like the Laughing Latte on the Square for hot chocolate with marshmallows. Things have been so fractured the last few years, and it’s one of the traditions we let slip through the cracks.
“You guys got the tree already?” I ask.
“Yeah, Mr. Lancaster brought it over.”
This poor steering wheel. I’m practically choking it when Kassim mentions that man’s name.
“Mark Lancaster?” I ask casually.
“Yeah, Mom’s new boyfriend.”
Boyfriend?
The hell he is. She wasn’t thinking about her boyfriend when I fucked her twice.
The thought rears up before I can whip it back. She made it seem like there was nothing serious between them. Are they more committed than she let on?
My imagination floods with visions of the blond politician leaving our bedroom wearing nothing but pajama bottoms, strolling down the stairs and making himself a cup of coffee in my kitchen with my kids after a night fucking my wife.
She’s not yours.
For one night she was. I haven’t talked to anyone the way we did in Charlotte since Byrd and Henry passed away. Or ever. Maybe therapy made it easier to talk about my shit when before it felt so damn hard. Holding Yasmen like that, being inside of her again, her heart pounding when she was pressed into me, breathing in the scent of vanilla and her unique essence. She was soft, her curves fitting like she was made for me. And me alone. We’ve both stuck to our bargain. It’s like that night never happened. If anything, things are better between us since we cleared the air.
I just have to keep pretending I don’t think about that night all the time, that my body doesn’t crave another and another.
“It’s a good tree?” I ask.
“It’s huge,” Kassim gushes.
Of course it is.
“He owns one of those Christmas tree farms. He asked Mom if we still needed one and brought it over.”
My steering wheel won’t survive any more talk about the wannabe congressman.
“So we keeping it simple today for this haircut?” I ask. “Or you want some of them lines and arrows?”
He laughs like I knew he would and describes a pattern he and Jamal agreed they’d try next time they went to the barber. When we pull up to Preach’s shop, The Cut, I’m proud of how well my friend has done. We both graduated with business degrees and knew what we wanted to do. Well, Byrd and Yasmen conceptualized Grits, but I knew I didn’t want to work for anybody else. Preach cut hair out of his dorm room and then his off-campus apartment all four years. He paid his dues working in other shops and doling out booth fees until he could afford to open The Cut in Castleberry Hill, which, last I checked, has one of the largest concentrations of Black-owned businesses in the country.
“’Sup, fam?” Preach smiles a greeting over the hair he’s cutting. “Look at all that hair, Seem. You been avoiding me, li’l man?”
Kassim grins and leads Otis over to the corner where he always curls up and behaves himself. I take the empty barber’s chair in the station beside Preach’s.
“You up, Seem,” Preach calls, brushing hair from the neck and shoulders of the customer he just finished.
Kassim settles into the seat and describes the pattern he and Jamal came up with. Preach sets the clippers in motion, his smile indulgent.
“Missed you at the gym yesterday,” Preach says.
“Sorry I didn’t call.” I stand to select a magazine from the stack on the counter in the station where I’m sitting. “I was out of town and been catching up ever since. Lot going on.”
“We won…again.” Preach smirks and glances up from Kassim’s hair. “Where’d you go?”
“Uh, we’re reconsidering that Charlotte expansion.” I flip through a few magazines on top, trying to keep my voice casual because this dude’s spidey senses be tingling. “So Yas and I went and scoped a spot.”
The questions and commentary practically pop up in bubbles above his head, but with Kassim in the chair, he settles for a speaking glance that demands details later.
He ain’t getting any.
I need to put what happened in Charlotte behind me, not explore it. I block out the questions in my head and tune in to the customers chopping it up. The conversation skids from the Falcons’ chances this season to the usual GOAT debate: MJ versus LeBron.
“Bruh, you gotta give it to ’Bron,” a customer getting his locs trimmed asserts. “All he do for the community.”
“What the hell that school he set up got to do with that rock?” Rick, the barber beside Preach, asks. “He ain’t got that killer instinct like Mike and Kobe.”
“I put Kobe over ’Bron,” the guy in the last chair on the row says.
“Shiiiiiit.” Preach shakes his head as he finishes shaping up Kassim. “Rest in peace to Mamba, and he in my top five, but not over ’Bron.”
“Who you got, Kassim?” Rick asks, smiling encouragingly.
“Um…” Kassim looks panicked, like he’s taking a pop quiz and is afraid he might give the wrong answer. “Jordan?”
I lean forward and fist-bump him, winking. “That’s my boy.”
Kassim beams and sits up taller in his chair. It’s crazy how he flourishes under the slightest praise I give him. His confidence is so easily bolstered. I guess that’s what a father’s unconditional love and acceptance should do for a boy. My father was a military man and a hard-ass, but I had his love and acceptance until I was eight years old. According to Dr. Musa, maybe I never got over losing it.
“Whatcha think?” Preach asks Kassim, giving him the hand mirror so he can check out the back of his hair.
“Wow!” Kassim grins. “I bet Jamal’s won’t look this good.”
I pay Preach and pat my leg. “Otis, come on.”
Otis lumbers to his feet, yawns and strolls over, passing me to wait at the door, like I’m the holdup. I roll my eyes and brush a few stray hairs from Kassim’s shirt.
“Hey, I need to ask you something before you go, Si,” Preach says.
“Aight. Seem, go wait with Otis. Do not go outside. Stay in here.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, heading for the door.
“And did you tell Preach thank you?” I ask.
Kassim turns back around. “Sorry. Thank you.”
I let him get a few steps away before turning to Preach, who steps closer.
“What’s really real, bruh?” he asks in a low whisper. “Last time we talked, Yasmen was up in your house with Vashti and we had sleepover drama. Now y’all going on overnights. What’s up?”
“Nothing.” I lie easily. “Vashti and I broke up. Me and Yas went on a business trip. Simple.”
“When you and Vash break up?”
“Thanksgiving. It just wasn’t working.”
“Hey, it was your first time out after the divorce. Better luck next time.” He searches my face. “Unless you don’t want a next time and realize you ain’t all the way over your ex.”
“Nah, bruh.”
I laugh like it’s ridiculous. Preach saw me completely undone the night Yasmen asked for a divorce. Even as close as we are, I don’t want to tell him I not only still want her, but gave into it for a night that I can’t forget.
“This is me.” Preach places his hand on my shoulder and looks directly in my eyes. “You and Yas had that once-in-a-lifetime shit.”
“Well, we don’t anymore,” I say, shaking his hand off. “How’d Erykah put it? Maybe next lifetime.”
“I wouldn’t be your friend if I didn’t make sure.”
“She wanted a divorce. She got it. It may not have worked with Vashti, but I’ve moved on. Stop digging into this old shit, Preach. Even if we could start something back up, how could I ever trust Yas not to push me away at the first sign of trouble?”
“You’re both in different places now than you were then. I mean, she in therapy. You in therapy. Who would’ve guessed that? You the most tight-assed, repressed nigga I know.”
Hands in pockets, I rock back on my heels and let out a chuckle. It’s funny because it’s true.
“We don’t all get second chances, Preach.”
“Well, make another chance, and this time don’t fumble the bag.”
“Fumble the bag? I didn’t…”
The taunting smirk on his face tells me he’s messing with me.
“Asshole. I ain’t got time for your shit. I’m out.”
“Think about what I said.” He daps me up. “And if you won’t talk to me, maybe at least talk to your doc now that you all in touch with your feelings.”
In touch with my feelings is one way to put it.
I feel hard every time I’m near my ex-wife.
I feel rage at the thought of Mark Wannabe bringing my family Christmas trees, nose all wide open for Yasmen.
I feel frustrated because the one night that was supposed to get her out of my system has backfired, and after tasting her again, having her again, holding her again, dammit, she’s embedded even deeper.
In touch with my feelings? My feelings are a hot stove I want to test, even knowing the last time how it burned.
Chapter Thirty-One
Yasmen
It’s my favorite night of the year.
Or at least it used to be. On New Year’s Eve, you stand at the juncture of before and after. I know a new year doesn’t actually deliver a clean slate. That past-due rent? Still past-due at the stroke of midnight. That dead-end job? Still not going anywhere. The ailing marriage doesn’t heal itself by the end of “Auld Lang Syne.” This I know firsthand.
But the feeling of newness, the sense of possibility, can spur you to transform your circumstances in significant ways. Other than the last two years, I’ve planned every New Year’s Eve party Grits has ever had. Last year Josiah and I were barely speaking, and I left the planning of the party to Bayli and a few of the staff. Tonight we’re on better terms, though a different kind of tension has crept up between us. We may not have discussed our two-fuck, one-night stand, but too often I wake up sweating and panting and wet between my legs because Josiah roams around naked in my dreams.
“Party’s hype,” Hendrix says beside me. “Good job as usual.”
“Thank you. The whole staff did their part.”
Surrounded by partygoers halfway to their New Year’s buzz, we’re seated on Grits’s second floor at a huge table on the landing that leads out to the roof and overlooks the main dining room. Deja, along with Soledad, her three girls, and—for once—her husband, Edward, round out our group.
“I love the decorations,” Soledad says, peering over the side and scanning the Christmas lights and holly still suspended from the ceiling and hanging on the walls. “Everything looks fantastic.”
“That special bunting you made is chef’s kiss.” I grin at her and sip my French 75. “You really need to consider turning these talents to dollars, girl.”
“What’s that mean?” Edward asks, eyes lifting from his phone maybe for the first time tonight. “Dollars? What’s she talking about, Sol?”
Soledad clears her throat and rerolls her silverware in its linen napkin on the table. “Yas and Hen think I could turn some of my ideas into a business.”
“No doubt about it,” Hendrix chimes in. “Joanna Gaines got nothing on Sol.”
“Except a billion-dollar empire,” Edward scoffs, knocking back his scotch.
“Only a matter of time.” Hendrix’s smile is tight and her eyes are sharp. “Given the opportunity to focus her energies on it.”
Edward laughs. “You’ve got good friends, honey.”
“I really do,” Soledad replies, deliberately taking his sarcasm at face value. “Maybe I should listen to their advice.”
The glass on its way to Edward’s mouth freezes midair. “You can’t be serious. We’ve got the girls.”
“Joanna Gaines has five kids,” Deja interjects from across the table, chewing on an appetizer of fried green tomatoes.
“Doesn’t seem to have slowed her down,” Lupe adds, blinking long lashes innocently at her father. “I don’t want to be the reason Mom doesn’t do all she’s capable of.”
I glance between the two confident, composed thirteen-year-olds making more sense than the only grown man at our table. The next generation is scarily fierce if these girls are any indication.
“You aren’t,” Soledad tells Lupe firmly, taking time to look all three girls in their eyes. “None of you are. Raising you is exactly what I want to do. It always has been.”
“What about when we’re gone? I’m starting high school next year, and these rug rats”—Lupe grins, gesturing to her sisters—“aren’t far behind.”
“Yeah, Mom,” Inez adds. “We aren’t babies anymore.”
“Running our home, raising our kids,” Edward says, a frown puckering his brows. “That’s always been your dream.”
“One of them,” Soledad says, her words soft, but laced with a bit of steel I’m not used to from her. “Things change, right?”
A long look passes between husband and wife, and they are definitely holding a silent conversation the rest of us aren’t privy to. Hendrix kicks me under the table. I grunt and shoot her a glare.
“You guys want refills or more of anything before I go?” I smile like all is sunshine and lollipops. “I need to go make sure we’re ready for the midnight toast.”
“I’m good, but thanks,” Edward answers, lifting his phone to resume staring down at the screen.
Soledad fixes a stony look on the phone in her husband’s hand, her mouth set into a flat line. After a second, she glances away from him and catches me staring. Her expression brightens, shifts to the usual sweetness. What is she hiding? What’s she holding? I recognize the strain of keeping things together in public. It only works for so long before you fall apart. I speak as someone who fell apart rather spectacularly and publicly the last few years. I take her hand under the table and squeeze. Even if she isn’t ready yet to share what’s going on, I hope she knows Hendrix and I will be here when she is.
“All right.” I push my chair away from the table and stand. “I’ll be back, but if I get caught up and don’t make it before midnight, toast without me.”
“Can I still sleep over at Lupe’s?” Deja asks. “Kassim’s staying at Jamal’s.”
“If it’s okay with you, Sol?” I raise my brows in query.
“Oh, fine with me,” Soledad says.
“I can take all the girls home with me right at midnight,” Edward offers. “If you want to stay behind and hang with Hendrix and Yasmen, Sol.”
That seems awfully magnanimous from the man who usually does the bare minimum to help out. The thought must also occur to Soledad because her eyes narrow with suspicion.
“Sure,” she says, the word sprinkled with saccharin. “How kind of you to offer, honey.”
“You work so hard,” he tells her. “I always want to make sure you have time for you.”
“Bullshit,” Hendrix coughs into her hand. “Sorry. Something went down the wrong way.”
Them lies he’s telling.
Hendrix and I both know. I just hope Soledad does too. I’ve never liked him. Something tells me we shouldn’t trust him either.
“Well, if it’s gonna be grown girls only,” Hendrix says, “let’s crash at my place. All this drinking I’m planning on doing, I didn’t even drive here. I walked, so we can hightail it together back to my spot and swing by the fountain on our way.”
“Oh, yeah. I haven’t done the New Year wishes in a long time,” Soledad says.
Every New Year’s Eve, people gather around the fountain to toss in their coins, hoping for a great return in the coming year.
“I got my coins ready,” I say. “Let me make sure everything’s okay, but we’ll hook up.”
I step carefully down the circular staircase to the bottom floor. The party is alive, the music pulsing like a heartbeat through the speakers, the crowd swelling as more people pass through the doors. We are wall-to-wall, and I make a note to check capacity. Last thing we need on the biggest night of the year is to get shut down. Knowing Josiah, he’s on top of that. I haven’t seen him tonight, but he’s probably in the kitchen more than usual. With all the preparations for the party, the long hours here with the holiday crowds, and moving forward on the Charlotte expansion, we’ve barely seen each other since he came over on Christmas Day. That morning lingers in my mind, though. The two of us eager, watching our kids tear into their gifts and squeal and scream their pleasure. Him at the stove with sweater sleeves pushed up over his forearms while he cooked Byrd’s famous sweet potato pie pancakes. We’d eaten our weight in breakfast, laughed and talked, Josiah at one end of the table, me at the other. It felt like old times. Even better in some ways. It felt right…until he went home and I slept in my cold bed alone.
When I reach the main floor, Cassie, wearing her chef’s uniform and a New Year’s party hat, stands at the bar chatting with the bartender.
“Happy New Year, Boss,” she greets with a warm smile.
“We got…” I glance at my watch. “Another thirty minutes before the year goes new. Don’t rush it now. How’s everything going?”
“Smooth.”
“Everyone seems to be eating up the specials. You and Vashti did a great job with the menu.”
“Glad they like ’em,” Cassie replies, nodding her satisfaction.
“Well, lemme go make sure we have enough champagne for the big toast. See you later.”
I thread my way through the thickening crowd, but I get stopped every few steps. The whole neighborhood seems to be happy I’m back this year. That careful look they used to give me when I first lost Henry—when I fell and couldn’t get back up, not just here with a loose floorboard, but during the long months that followed—that look is gone. I clear the dining room and stand at the threshold of the hall. I pause.
