by Tia Sirrah
I choked my cosmo.
Fatima continued, unaffected by my coughing, not even sparing a glance from her phone. "He was a total fuckboy," she stated, matter of factly. She then looked up from her phone, and we both burst out laughing as I threw my napkin at her.
"Did you..." I trailed off, not wanting to finish my question.
"Naw, girl. He was fine as shit, but not my type." My shoulders slightly relaxed. "I heard he was a good fuck, though. One of the best." Fatima tapped her fingernail against her painted red lips. "He would have been perfect for you last night. He could have put an end to your drought. You need to get your groove back."
"Umm, I'll pass. Besides, you make it sound like he was interested." He was. Wasn’t he? I still had a hard time believing that. He had a lot of options at that wedding.
"Look in the mirror," she deadpanned. "Trust me, he was checkin'.
"I mean…I'm okay, I guess. But I'm not gorgeous like you or Amy."
Fatima shook her head. "If only you knew the effect you have on men. I swear, Keisha did a number on you," she murmured sympathetically.
Sarah appeared with our food. "This looks delicious! Thank you, Sarah." I busied myself under Fatima's stare, biting into my taco.
"Thanks, hun," Fatima said to Sarah, while still looking at me. I had no doubt that her eyes were narrowed underneath her sunglasses.
"You're acting weird. What aren't you telling me?" Fatima asked as Sarah excused herself. "Did Conner say something to you?" She raised her Corona to her lips and took a swig, waiting for my reply.
"It wasn't that deep." I took a sip of my cosmo before filling her in on our brief interaction.
She leaned in, listening attentively. "And…"
"And nothing. I drove off."
She sat back in her chair. "Well, that's disappointing. How long has it been? Two years? It'll grow over soon." She scrunched up her nose, the dimples in her cheeks piercing through.
"Okay, eww." I rolled my eyes, exasperated. "I can take care of myself, thank-you-very-much. I don't need a man for that."
We both laughed at my suggestive comment. Once the laughing simmered down, Fatima took off her sunglasses and looked at me. She looked tired. Her eyes were red-rimmed.
"You okay, cousin?"
"Girl, yeah. Allergies. Don't you think it's time to start dating again? Nothing serious, but just casually?"
She didn't know about my casual hookups with Marcus, which happened sporadically over the last two years but had ended for good six months ago. "I'm finally at a place in my life where I'm not pining over Andre and stewing over the betrayal. He is out of my system. They're out of my system… and it feels…amazing." I felt good. Saying it and meaning every word. My lips spread involuntarily into a smile.
She reached for my hand and gently squeezed. "Andre had everyone fooled with his good guy, squeaky clean image. No one thought that he would step out on you. Are you sure he didn't know who Keisha was?"
I shrugged. Did it really matter? Andre had me fooled up until the very end. Until I came home early and found him in bed…with her. She was bouncing up and down on him like he was a pogo stick. Most mothers, decent mothers, wouldn't put themselves in this situation. The situation where they're sexing down their daughter's fiancé. But for the few ratchet mothers who are found in this compromising situation, you’d think that the real shame of it all, would cause them to apologize profusely and beg their child for forgiveness. Not Keisha.
Andre pushed her off him, and I lunged at Keisha. We fought like the girls you see on those reality t.v. reunion shows. I had a full-on fist with my mother. There were no tears from her. Only profanity, calling me everything but a child of God. A stunned Andre, who swore that he didn't know that Keisha was my mother, realized at that moment, he had been a pawn in Keisha's sick game. I hovered over her, punching her repeatedly. Through gritted teeth, she spat out, "How does it feel bitch! You fucked my man, so I fucked yours!"
Stunned by her words, my balled fists halted for a moment allowing her to get the upper hand in our fight. We rolled around the floor, and she repositioned herself on top of me. My shoulders shook from my cries. Keisha gripped my hair in her hands and banged my head back onto the carpeted floor. She truly hated me. My "mother" didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. "I should have aborted you when I had the chance like your father wanted me to."
In her sick and twisted mind, she blamed me for everything. For my father leaving her. For what she walked in on all those years ago when I was a mere eleven years old.
As Andre pulled Keisha off me and pried her fingers from my hair, I cried even harder. This was the ultimate betrayal from the man I loved. The final straw in my relationship with Keisha. I only ever wanted her love. At that moment, I knew that I was done. Her presence in my life had always caused me inexplicable pain.
"Back to Conner," Fatima said, interrupting me from my thoughts.
"Look, I admit," I said. "He is sexy, in a Fifty Shades kind of way. But I heard that he's a total prick and you've confirmed that he's a total manwhore."
I Googled him last night before going to bed. He was single. Not that I was explicitly checking for his relationship status. He was twenty-seven years old. His ethnicity was half Irish and half Italian. His great grandfather was the founder of Brathwaite Hotels, which had locations across the country. His father was the successor CEO, with Conner serving as the President and number two in charge. Conner was now branching the Brathwaite company into luxury homebuilding, quickly solidifying Brathwaite Industries as one of the most successful home builders in the country.
"Just for kicks, let's Google him," Fatima said conspiratorially, rubbing her hands together. "The first hotel opened in New York City. Blah, blah, blah. Oh, it says here that his mother is a famous supermodel from Italy. I bet she's a gorgeous bitch," Fatima said, between bites of her taco. "Wow," she said. "She is. Total milf status." She turned her phone towards me to reveal a picture of a stunning woman dressed in a form fitting Badgley Mischka dress. She looked to be in her late forties or early fifties. Her dark brown hair fell in big waves down her back. Her sapphire blue eyes contrasted with her olive complexion.
"She’s beautiful," I commented.
"They are worth billions, you know. That is just too much money for one damn family. They probably have ties to the Irish Mafia."
"Fatima, that's racist!" I lightly admonished.
I got an eye roll from her before she continued scrolling through her phone. "I can't be racist because I'm black. Duh." Taking a swig of her beer, she continued. "Conner graduated from Brown, just like Quentin. Can you imagine all the pussy those two guys got in college? Anyway. I digress. Looks like Conner opted out of grad school and moved to New York after college to work on a few projects for Brathwaite Industries. Blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda, yadda. Brathwaite Industries is one of the largest luxury hotel chains in the country. But we already knew that. Looks like Conner has done quite well for himself." She singsonged, "Go head, Conner." She placed her phone on the table. "The man is loaded. And from what the girls said back in high school, he's loaded in other areas too." She pressed her flattened palms together, before separating them many, many inches apart.
"Sounds like he has community peen. I'm not interested," I deadpanned. Fatima cackled loudly, her infectious laughter causing me to burst out laughing, as well.
"Look at this." She slid her phone over to me.
I reluctantly took her phone and was confronted with a plethora of images of Conner with various supermodels, socialites, an even one A-list actress. All the women looked alike, tall, with blond hair, and big boobs. The total opposite of me. "What's up with all the blonds?"
"Seems to be his type," she shrugged.
"Exactly," I said, gesturing to my face and hair.
"Don't give me that," she chided. "You have a type. Tall, chocolatey black guys. Everyone has a type until they don't. Until someone they don't expect knocks them off their ass. Conner's not yo
ur type, but you know you wanna do him." She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.
I glanced at the photos again. In all the images, the women were draped against him in some fashion, while he stood confidently, his demeanor aloof. He looked jaded. The familiar scowl, which I now assumed was his permanent expression, was intact.
Men like Conner Brathwaite were dangerous. Untouchable, privileged, spoiled, and womanizing. I slid Fatima back her phone. "Not my type," I singsonged.
Fatima chuckled. "Yeah, okay," she said, seemingly unconvinced. I had never been attracted to the corporate suit wearing type. Athletes, yes. Unfortunately. Brainy types like Marcus, yes. Big mistake. Fatima was the one who had a thing for Suits. Powerful men who ruled the world behind their mahogany desks. A fact that she would never admit to. But I saw the way her eyes would linger on those wall street types, in their Brooks Brothers suits, with their tan skin.
"Sarah, hey boo," Fatima said, as she waved her over. "I'm going to need something stronger. Surprise me. Something with vodka." She signaled to my empty glass. "Give her another cosmo or some other foo-foo drink."
"Cosmo is fine for me, Sarah. Thank you."
"I'm glad you live close by. Cause we about to get fucked up tonight," Fatima said, as we clicked our empty glasses.
∞∞∞
I HAD A SLIGHT BUZZ after our dinner. Fatima, on the other hand, was clearly intoxicated. She stumbled to my apartment. I held her elbow, leading the way. Upon entering my place, she collapsed onto my upholstered sofa. After kicking off my shoes, I padded across the cool wood floor and opened the long-puddled drapes in my living room. The refreshing outdoor air breezed through my living room as soon as I opened my windows. The soft sounds of traffic, crowds of people, and music filtered in from below. I sat on my cushioned windowsill and looked out at the bustling streets of downtown.
"About my birthday dinner next Friday. Don't invite Amy." There was a slight slur to her words. I had made reservations at a new posh restaurant in downtown Houston for Fatima's 27th birthday.
"I didn’t invite Amy. I know you guys only play nice around me." I people-watched those below me, as they strolled in and out of the local eateries and designer retail stores. "She and Quentin leave for Lake Como on Saturday, anyway."
"I hope their honeymoon sucks," Fatima said on a yawn, before rolling over on her side and falling asleep.
∞∞∞
THE NEXT FEW DAYS passed in a blur without incident. My days consisted of classroom lectures, clinical lab work, and study groups. I spent my evenings working at the boutique. Although I had successfully completed my first year of dental school and seemed to be progressing through my second year without incident, I lacked the same passion for dentistry as my father had. Sure, I was an honor roll student and was considered a natural in clinical lab, but it was mind-numbingly dull. So, by the time Friday evening came around, I was hyped up for some much-needed girl time.
Fatima and I had a 7 o’clock reservation, and we planned to meet each other at the restaurant by car service. Chad, my driver, pulled up in front of the restaurant at a quarter to 7. He rounded the car while I touched up my lip gloss. "Thank you, Chad," I said as he opened my car door.
"Have a fantastic night, Novalee," he said, tucking some of his hair behind his ear that had escaped from his blond man bun.
"You too," I said over my shoulder.
"If you ever need me, please don't hesitate to call. I'll be at your service." He leaned against his car as his eyes raked me from head to toe.
"Umm…yeah, sure." I fidgeted with my ocean blue mini off-the-shoulder tunic dress and fluffed out my hair a bit before entering the restaurant. The wedges I wore tapped against the gleaming light oak wood floors.
I walked up to the maître d standing at the front podium. "Hello, Miss." He smiled warmly at me, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling.
"Hi. I have a 7 o’clock reservation under Novalee Dumont."
"Yes, very well," he said, after perusing the small tablet in front of him. "We can take you to your table and escort your guest to you once they arrive." He signaled a nearby hostess with a curt nod and the slight wave of his hand.
"Great. Thank you," I acknowledged.
A petite Latina woman with brown skin and a cute pixie haircut appeared with menus in her hand. "Hello, Miss. My name is Maria. I'll show you to your table."
"Thank you, Maria." I returned her smile as I walked a few steps behind her.
"Is this your first time here?" she asked.
"Yes, it is. Reservations have been hard to come by. I've heard great things about this place." I surveyed the room as we headed to my table. There wasn't an empty seat in the house, every patron elegantly dressed. Muted recessed lighting, candlelit centerpieces, and white table clothes created a refined and tranquil ambiance. My table faced a magnificent view of Houston’s twinkling skyscrapers.
"Your server will be here shortly to take your order. Can I get you started on something to drink while you wait for your guest?"
"Yes. A bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, please." I handed her my identification before she asked for it. I still got carded everywhere I went. My freckles and my petite frame made me look terribly young.
"Thank you," she said as she briefly scanned over my i.d. "I'll get that out to you shortly." Maria lowered her head in a slight bow and walked away.
I answered my vibrating phone as I looked over the menu. "Hey, Fatima. I'm here. Where are you?"
"Okay, don't be mad. I'm not going to be able to make it. My 6 o’clock was late, and I'm just now getting her under the dryer."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. On an exhale, I said, "Seriously?"
"I know. I’m so sorry, cousin. You stay. Enjoy your meal."
Maria brought out the wine. With a slight nod from me, she uncorked the wine and poured some into my glass. "I could order our food to go and bring it to the salon?"
"Naw, that's okay. The food will be cold by the time you get here." A deep voice reverberated in the background. "I better get back to my client. I’ll call you later," she said in a rush.
"Is that your client?"
"Umm, yeah. She has a deep voice. She's a smoker," she whispered. "I'll call you tomorrow."
"Okay. Talk to you soon." If she ditched me to hang out with a guy… I disconnected the call as my waiter approached. He introduced himself as Gregorio. Gregorio was a handsome Italian man with big hazel eyes framed by long lashes. I was a bit caught off guard by his handsomeness. He had short wavy hair and thick eyebrows. After informing him that I would be dining alone, I order the filet mignon, mushroom risotto, and roasted Brussel sprouts.
∞∞∞
FATIMA MISSED ONE HECK of a meal. I took a sip of wine before signaling Gregorio over to my table with the wave of my hand. He had been extremely attentive all evening, almost too much so.
"I think I'm going to call it a night, Gregorio."
"Was everything to your liking?" He smiled at me, revealing bleached-white teeth.
"Yes, actually. Thank you."
"Such a shame that a lovely young woman like yourself had to dine all alone." He stalled before continuing. "I know this is forward, but would you like to go out –"
The words ceased on his tongue. I glanced over my shoulder, to follow where his eyes had focused. "Conner." My breathy voice betrayed me for a moment. Let’s try this again. "Conner. What a surprise." My face flushed with heat.
"Bourbon, neat," he dryly said to Gregorio, before sitting down across from me. Conner wore an expertly tailored Armani charcoal gray suit paired with a stark white dress shirt. His sage green tie matched the color of his eyes.
"Anything else for the beautiful lady?" Gregorio asked, with a hint of challenge in his voice.
Conner's jaw ticked at Gregorio’s compliment, as his piercing green eyes focused on me. I dragged my eyes away from Conner and smiled at Gregorio. "No, thank you." I politely smiled.
"She'll have a coffee and the Crème brûlée,"
Conner demanded, his voice smooth and authoritative.
My eyebrows rose in surprise. I found Conner’s heavy-handedness quite annoying.
"Just the check, Gregorio. Thank you."
Conner arched an eyebrow, and a subtle smirk twitched the corner of his lips. "Give us a minute," he barked at Gregorio, his intense eyes still on me.
"Yes, sir," Gregorio answered, before taking my empty plate and scurrying away.
"Sure, Conner. Have a seat," I deadpanned.
Amusement filled his eyes. "You're something else, Miss Dumont."
Miss Dumont. I tapped my lip with my manicured finger. "I don’t recall telling you my last name."
"You didn't." His eyes briefly skirted to my lips.
I took a sip of my wine, trying desperately to steady my hand. Why was I so frazzled? "So, what brings you here, Conner? A hot date?" I regretted those words as soon as they came out of my mouth.
"No date, Novalee," he said, with a slight shake of his head. "I just wrapped up a business dinner. What brings you here?"
Gregorio reappeared with Conner's bourbon… and my coffee and Crème brûlée. "Anything else I can get you two, Mr. Brathwaite?" Gregorio kept his eyes on Conner and refused to look at or acknowledge me. Conner appeared to be irritated by the interruption. "We're fine." He lazily shooed Gregorio away with his hand.
"That was very rude. There’s no need to act like an elitist prick." Hot or not, his behavior was disappointing, but not surprising.
"He's the help," he said, as if stating the obvious. "And he's been flirting with you all evening."
"Wow, really? Did you just call him the help?" I narrowed my eyes and shook my head in disbelief and disgust. "And so what, if he was flirting with me. What’s it to you?"