Before I Let Go, page 6
He’s already gone.
Chapter Four
Josiah
I’m awakened by a warm tongue stroking across my skin like velvet.
I pry one eye open, dragging myself up from the pillows and thread count that dreams are made of to glare at the edge of the bed. Otis, of course, has pulled back the sheet with his teeth and is licking my foot like he does every morning.
“Dude, seriously?” I glance out the window, where the sky is still lavender tinged with pink, barely kissing dawn. “Can’t we sleep in a few more minutes?”
The pitiful whimper at the foot of the bed becomes a whine. I know this drill. If that bladder gets any fuller, he will escalate to a full-on howl.
“Shit.” I sit up, slide my feet into the leather slippers Deja and Kassim gave me last year for Christmas. I know Yasmen probably chose them because they bear the mark of the practical luxury she’s good for, but they’re still from my kids.
“Replacing the ones you mangled,” I remind Otis, who doesn’t look repentant in the least. I tap his head on my way out of the bedroom, and he follows me down the stairs and out the front door. Any hope I had of ever shaking this dog died long ago. He demonstrated his tenacity the first night I slept in this house.
The divorce wasn’t quite final, but I needed a place to live. Instead of finding another tenant for Aunt Byrd’s house, I moved in here. Of course, we all assumed Otis would stay with the kids. They walked him, fed him, played with him. I provided a roof over his head and the occasional acknowledgment of his existence.
I was considering the huge TV mounted on one of four blank walls, not even bothering to turn it on because who cares about Netflix when your life has been incinerated and everyone you love lives two streets over now…when my phone rang. It was jarring in that new all by myself quiet I hadn’t experienced since before I married.
Yasmen’s name and face flashed up on my screen. And for one wild moment, my heart banged in my chest. Had she changed her mind? Realized our divorce was a horrible mistake? As irrational as I knew that line of thinking was, I answered the phone with a pulse that refused to stop leaping.
“Yas, hey. Everything okay?”
You need me? You want me? Should I come home?
“I think Otis wants you.”
It was the most disorienting thing she could have said to me at two o’clock in the morning.
I cleared my throat. “Sorry. What?”
“O-tis.” Yasmen broke it down into small bites I could digest. “He won’t stop howling. He’s standing at your side of the bed resting his head on your actual pillow.”
“What the hell? Why?”
“Gee, Si, let me find my human-to-Otis dictionary and ask him. I don’t know why, but no one is sleeping tonight until you come home.”
Not exactly the way I envisioned her invitation to come home.
“I’ll be right there.”
He couldn’t want me. Because why? But sure enough, soon as I entered the kitchen through the garage, Otis stopped howling, stood on his hind legs, and licked my face.
“Dammit, Otis,” I spat. “I have told you I am not that dude. Don’t be licking my face.”
He panted at my throat, huge paws pressing so hard into my chest I could barely stand under his substantial weight.
Yasmen leaned one shoulder against the kitchen doorjamb, lines of fatigue sketched around those pretty lips. A silk robe strained across her breasts, the tight belt emphasizing the fullness of her shape. My dick had swelled at the sight, and just as I was thanking God my T-shirt covered my erection, Otis nudged my shirt aside like some dick-detecting narc canine scenting cocaine.
“Otis,” I snapped, pulling the shirt back into place. “Stop.”
“I think at least tonight,” Yasmen said, exhaustion patent in her voice, “maybe he sleeps at your place and we figure it out tomorrow.”
“At my place?” What the hell was I supposed to do with a two-hundred-pound dog by myself? “Maybe we’re misunderstanding what Otis wants. Maybe he—”
At that moment, Otis confirmed what I had always suspected. That he descended from some supernatural breed of wolf dog, because he calmly walked through the mudroom and out the door to wait quietly, patiently, at the passenger side of my truck.
“Is this some new trick you taught him?” I ground out. “Is this a prank the kids are pulling on us?”
“No, Otis wants to be with you. The kids will still see him all the time. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal, huh?” I retort, snapping back to the present at the butt crack of dawn, blinking blearily as Otis does his business in a patch of grass. “She’s not the one following you around with this,” I say accusingly, shaking the pooper-scooper Deja gave Otis for Christmas with its bedazzled handle. He looks at me in the way that seems to say, Bruh, I’m the one stuck with you.
And I would not put it past Aunt Byrd to have had a little talk with Otis and made him promise to take care of me when she was gone.
“She got us both. Told you to take care of me. Me to take care of you. She was a trickster.”
Byrd was a lot of things. She was the strongest woman I ever met. She was indiscreet, conducting affairs and not giving a damn what anyone thought about it. She had shit taste in men, as proven by the four assholes she married. She was the first to laugh, the first to cry. She was selfless and generous and could cook her way into anyone’s heart.
I don’t think I’ll ever get over losing her. Losing the woman who raised me. When both your parents are dead by the time you turn eight, you’re absolutely certain that nothing is forever. No one is forever. My closest living relative was my whole world for a long time, and growing up I walked around waiting for the last shoe to drop. Waiting to lose her too.
And then one day I did.
“Damn, we’re morbid this morning,” I tell Otis as we enter the house through the front door.
He angles a long-suffering look at me that says we?
“Okay, me.” I walk through to the kitchen. “You hungry?”
He assumes the position at the raised stainless steel dog feeder Kassim found. Once my son understood that Great Danes have some of the shortest life spans, he did what young geniuses do. Researched every single thing that might extend Otis’s life, including a bowl raised off the floor so Otis won’t have to gulp his food and water. According to Kassim, dogs as tall as Otis end up swallowing air with their food when they have to bend down to eat and it gets trapped in their digestive tract. Since bloat is the number one killer of Danes, Kassim is trying to outwit Otis’s digestive system. Including putting him on a raw food diet.
“And guess what we’ve got for breakfast?” I pull out meat wrapped in white paper from the refrigerator, and Otis’s ears perk, his tail beating a happy rhythm into the floor. “Yup. Vashti set aside chicken thighs for you.”
Otis whines and lies down, sniffing the air like an exiled prince.
“Okay, every time I mention Vashti, you act all new.” I give him a knowing look. “You think I don’t see that? Give her a chance.”
I pull a container of pureed vegetables from the refrigerator. He rests his head on his paws and stares at me unwaveringly, as if waiting to be convinced. I toss the pureed veggies into a bowl with the raw meat Vashti sent home, crack an egg over it, and then top it with a little yogurt. At the sight of the bowl loaded with what Kassim assures me is a breakfast of champions, Otis perks up. Pulling his supplements from the cupboard, I add them to the goulash and set it in the standing dish holder. Otis rouses himself to dive in.
“I’mma leave you to it,” I tell him over my shoulder. “I need to shower. We’re taking the kids to the river.”
A happy “woof” is his only response. I turn to point one finger at him. “I know you love the river. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
I take the stairs and yell back, “But how could you ever say that when I do literally everything for you?”
I envision an air bubble over Otis’s head that might read Dude, get over yourself.
“Yup,” I say, of course to myself as I strip and turn on the shower. “You’ve lived alone too long.”
The drive from Byrd’s three-bedroom craftsman cottage to the dream house Yasmen and I designed together is less than two minutes, but may as well be separated by a millennium. I loved the chaos of young kids and their friends all over the place all the time. The partnership of managing their lives, of raising them under the same roof. Even though Deja and Kassim bounce between our houses, they spend most of their time at Yasmen’s. Living alone without my kids was one of the biggest adjustments after the divorce. Both only children, Yasmen and I always planned to have at least four kids. By our first anniversary, Yasmen was pregnant with Deja. We waited a little while before Kassim. A few years later, we were excited to do it again. A pain so sharp I draw in a quick breath slices over my heart like a scalpel. I should be used to it by now, the pain, but it always catches me off guard, the freshness of it. After nearly three years, it still hasn’t been dulled by time.
I consider that one more thing to never get over as I pull into Yasmen’s driveway.
“Morning, Josiah!”
The greeting comes from the man standing on the front porch of the house next door, a modern blue-and-gray three-story contrasting with our more traditional white limestone. I get out of the truck and open the back door for Otis, who bounds up the steps of the house where we used to live. He settles in the corner by the swing, his favorite spot.
“Morning, Clint,” I reply to the neighbor who moved in shortly after we did.
Clint’s pale complexion and strawberry blond hair could make him look washed out, but his eyes are vivid blue and color climbs his cheeks. “Saw you last night at Food Truck Friday, but didn’t get a chance to speak.”
Before I can reply, Clint’s husband, Brock, wheels a stroller through their front door and onto the porch, followed by their chocolate Lab, Hershey.
“Josiah,” Brock says, his smile white against his dark skin. “Great event last night. Thank you guys for planning it.”
“That was all Yas, but yeah, it was great.” I nod to the stroller. “Is that Skyland’s newest heartbreaker you got there?”
Both their faces light up and Brock turns the stroller to face me.
“That’s right,” Clint says. “Come meet our Lilian.”
I climb their front steps and peer down into the stroller. Dark eyes set in a perfectly round face with smooth brown cheeks stare back at me. She has a patch of dark, curly hair, looks like she might have gas, and is just about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I stretch my finger out, and she grabs it, squealing and kicking.
“She likes you!” Clint says. “She never greets anyone like that. You charmed her.”
I smile, but that sharp pain pinches in my chest again.
“Wanna hold her?” Brock asks, his voice eager.
I don’t want to hold her. Not because Lilian isn’t adorable. She absolutely is. I just avoid babies whenever possible. And of course, it’s not always possible, but holding one…I’m about to refuse, but the happiness and anticipation sketched on both their faces has me stretching my arms out to take her. This was their third time trying to adopt. These guys often keep an eye on Kassim and Deja for us. They’re over for dinner and have our family over all the time. They’re good friends and I can’t dim their light because I have shit I’ve never dealt with—at this rate, probably won’t ever deal with—that makes it hard for me to hold a baby.
So I take her.
On instinct, I tuck the swaddling blanket around her tighter when it loosens. She fits perfectly into the crook of my arm, the same way Kassim and Deja did. The memory of when I last held a baby comes rushing up at me like the ground when you trip and fall. There’s nothing warm or sweet about that memory, and I tense my jaw against the emotions it stirs in me, the ones I spent the last three years shoving away.
The front door to our house opens, and Yasmen walks out wearing her yoga pants and a fitted top that crops just above her waist, revealing a narrow strip of smooth skin that rich shade of Kelly Rowland brown. She stops short, her gold-flecked eyes dropping from my face to Lilian cradled in my arms. Something arcs between us in the small space separating the two porches, a tension that requires no explanation. I know it’s because of the little girl cradled in my arms.
“Yasmen,” Clint greets her. “Morning. We were just telling Josiah what a great job you did with Food Truck Friday. Everyone on the association is glad to have you back.”
Brock is one of Atlanta’s most prominent architects, but Clint owns Fancy, a pet grooming shop on Sky Square, and is an active member of the Skyland Association.
“Thank you.” Her smile is stiff when she shifts the yoga mat slung over one shoulder by its strap.
“I guess the association’s next big event is Screen on the Green?” Brock asks.
“Yup, next week,” she says.
“Uh, here you go.” I carefully hand the baby back to Brock. “She’s gorgeous. Congratulations again.”
“Thanks, man.” Brock takes the baby and holds her against his shoulder, patting her little back. “We’re taking her and Hershey for a walk down at the dog park. You and Otis wanna come with?”
“Maybe another time,” I tell him. “I’m taking the kids to the Old Mill.”
Hershey yelps and tugs at the leash, straining toward the steps.
“Looks like someone is eager to get out of here,” Clint says. He carries the stroller down the steps, Brock trailing behind with Lilian in his arms. “Good seeing you, Josiah. I know you’re around all the time, but we’ve been busy. Our anniversary is next week, and we want to make it in for some of Vashti’s famous shrimp and grits.”
“We still need to find a sitter,” Brock reminds him.
“I can watch Lilian,” Yasmen offers.
All the air is sucked out of the silence that follows her offer, and it’s like we’re standing in a vacuum, frozen.
“Yeah,” Clint says, uncertainty dragging out the word. “If you want…if you’re sure?”
Brock and Clint know how everything fell apart. They saw firsthand how it affected Yasmen.
“I can watch her,” Yasmen says, splitting a level stare between the two men. “Really. I’ll be fine.”
Her last words, an acknowledgment that there was a time when she wouldn’t have been fine watching a baby, seem to lift the net of anxiety that fell over the two porches.
“That’s awesome, Yas. Thanks,” Clint replies with a smile. “We better get on, but we’ll talk deets.”
“For sure.” Yasmen meets my eyes for half a second before looking away.
I walk next door and up the steps to the front porch, where she stands. I want to ask if she’s sure about babysitting, but her shoulders tense as if braced for a blow because she knows me well enough to assume that’s the question I would ask.
Instead I stroll over to the swing and sit. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know Yasmen so well. We both have these tells, secret passageways to our thoughts that took us years to find. No one knows her better than I do, and she knows me better than anyone else. So when she sinks her teeth into the pillowy flesh of her bottom lip, like she’s doing now, it means she’s working up to a subject she’s reluctant to discuss.
“Kids ready?” I ask, giving her the chance to say what she needs to say. Otis puts his head in my lap, and I indulge him with a stroke at the sleek fur of his neck.
“Uh, yeah.” Yasmen slides the yoga mat off her shoulder and leans against the porch rail. “But there’s something I want to talk to you about first.”
“What’s up?”
“We need to get things under control with Deja. She skipped English yesterday.”
“You sure?” I ask, frowning. “That doesn’t sound like Day.”
“She’s been less and less concerned about her grades. It’s the first month of school and I’m already worried. She was an honor student before.”
“She’s been through a lot, Yas. We all have.”
“I don’t need you telling me what we’ve been through. What Deja’s been through.”
I stiffen, my hand stilling in Otis’s fur. “I wasn’t trying to tell you anything. I’m just saying maybe we cut her some slack because things haven’t been easy.”
“There’s cutting her some slack, and then there’s being irresponsible as a parent.”
My left eyebrow inches up, and I wonder if she remembers that’s my tell that she’s provoking me. “You saying I’m an irresponsible father?”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that.” Yasmen drops the yoga mat and links her hands at the nape of her neck. “I’m just saying we can’t ignore her skipping class because we’ve had a hard time.”
“You’re sure she skipped?”
“Yeah, she said she was watching a broadcast of some natural hair event.”
“The hell?”
“Like I said, you should talk to her.”
“What’d she say when you talked to her?”
“Just that I overreacted and that she won’t do it again.”
“Well, if she skipped, there should be consequences. Maybe no posting to social media for a week?”
“That sounds good. We have access to everything. We can shut it down.”
“I can tell her today.”
“You sure we don’t need to do it together? United front kinda thing?”
“Considering how strained things have been between you two, it might go better coming from me.”
There’s a brief flash of relief on her face, and then she grimaces. “I’m not exactly her favorite person right now.”
“Maybe you’re being too sensitive.”
