Falling Again (A BWWM Interracial Novel)

by Tina Martin

  “I will.”

  “And call me when you get there.”

  “Okay.”

  After I watch her get in her car, I close the door and head straight for bed. Since I’m leaving early tomorrow, I want to be well-rested for my journey.

  CHAPTER 7

  I arrived in Winston-Salem around noon. I checked into the Brookstown Inn, pulled my suitcase to my room then laid on the bed, hoping that this meeting today wouldn’t be as painful as some will readings are. I smile when I think of the how these sort of things are portrayed in movies. In the movie, Meet the Browns, when Pop’s last will and testament was being read, the entire family was on edge, waiting and listening intently at what their father was leaving them. While I won’t have the problem of bickering with a slew of family members, I did have Wyatt to deal with.

  It’s strange, but even after ten years apart, my nerves are tearing my stomach to shreds at the thought of seeing him face-to-face again. I’m not sure if I’m ready to see him, especially being that I thought I would never have to again.

  When his mother approached me in the mall that day, I wanted to tell her to shove it, to let her son live his own life but then the woman started crying, practically begging me to let Wyatt be. Now that I think about it, I should not have listened to her. Wyatt and I were young, but we were adults. We could’ve ran away together, lived happily in another city away from his parents. But ultimately, that’s not what I wanted. It wouldn’t be fair to make him choose between me and his family so I did what I thought was best. And I never wanted him to know what his mother did to me.

  * * *

  After a short nap, I wake up refreshed, ready to do this. I take a quick shower, apply some foundation and berry blush that compliments my milk-chocolate skin and then I slide into a pair of black, size ten slacks that fit perfectly and a white blouse. I always considered a black and white outfit to look distinguished and I wanted to look professional and classy today. A pair of size eight black booties completes my outfit and on the way out of the door, I grab a black jacket, although, it’s so warm today, I may not even need it. I pull the ponytail holder from my hair, fluff my strands, raking my hair neatly in place using my fingers. Now I’m ready.

  In the car, I pull up the navigator application on my phone and key in the address to Mr. Price’s office. It’s four miles away from my hotel. I take a deep breath, put the car in gear and begin my drive.

  * * *

  I pull up to the address that Mr. Price gave me and park in front of the building. It’s a brick building, looks new with huge, white colonial-style columns out front. Black shutters decorate the windows on the ground floor of the two-floor building.

  “Here goes,” I say in an uneasy breath, while getting out of the car and walking straight for the entrance. I take the elevator to the second floor and once I’m there, I’m immediately greeted by a receptionist who tells me to come on back. That Mr. Price is waiting for me. I follow her down a long hallway, then she opens the door to a conference room that houses a table that’s bigger than a king-size bed. There are black chairs all around it.

  “Mr. Price, Mrs. Knight has arrived.”

  “Good,” he says, standing, extending his hand to shake mine.

  I take his hand within my grasp and shake while smiling at him, telling him it was good to see him again. He says the same to me, and then we sit down.

  “How were your travels?” he asks, with the same distinguished voice I recognize from speaking with him on the phone a couple of days ago. He looks, and sounds like Joe Morton, the actor who plays Olivia Pope’s father on the TV show Scandal.

  “It was a nice drive after I made it through rush hour traffic.”

  “Good. And again, Mrs. Knight—”

  “Please call me Geneva. I mean, after all, you’re not a complete stranger to me.”

  “Okay, Geneva. I just wanted to, once again, extend my condolences to you for the loss of your father.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him, then glance around his office.

  “So we’re waiting for Mr. McDowell to get here and we can get started.”

  “Okay.” I wanted to probe further into why Wyatt had to be here, but decided not to broach the subject. I would find out soon enough. Instead, I look at the newspaper write-up of my father’s obituary that, I’m assuming, my father had asked Mr. Price to do as well.

  Alfred ‘Freddie’ Knight passed away peacefully at his home on September 7, 2014. He owned and operated Knight Ranch, where he bred and boarded horses.

  Survivors include his daughter, Geneva Knight...

  ***~~~***

  The commotion at the door takes me away from reading the obituary. I hear the receptionist there. She’s talkative and giggly and then I hear a deep, masculine voice that sounds as intimidating as a rumble of thunder. It sends a shiver through my spine and down to my toes, but nothing could prepare me for what happened next.

  “Good afternoon,” Wyatt says, stepping in the room, looking directly at Mr. Price.

  While they shake hands, I feel my heart hammering in my chest. There’s no use in trying to compose myself, I know, because once I’m able to get my heart rate under control, I would lose my senses all over again. The man I once loved was here. And he’s irresistibly handsome and GQish from his hot, surfer-dude haircut to his chest that I can see the print of in his shirt like I’d been suddenly given the gift of having X-ray vision. He was good-looking ten years ago but now, he could be a model.

  He must’ve hit a growth spurt after I moved away because he’s taller than I remember – looks to be a few inches over six feet. And he’s thick – not like fat-thick, but more like muscle mass, thick. Athletic...like a football player. He’s wearing a starched-white business shirt that accentuates his broad shoulders and black slacks that hangs on his tight backside, fitting him just right.

  Gorgeous…

  He’s simply a beautiful, male specimen and perhaps one of the most handsome men I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  My heart hammers on...

  No man should be so fine that he makes a woman lose all of her senses. But that’s what Wyatt is unknowingly doing to me. I’m amazed that I can still breathe.

  Trying to get my mind off of his appeal, and off of the fact that he has yet to speak to me, I silently think about how we’ve worn the same colors. The thought escapes me when he sits down directly across from me. He looks at me with something akin to hatred in his majestic blue eyes and does not offer me the same jovial greeting he presented Mr. Price with. I only get a silent, hard, icy glare from him. And since he doesn’t bother to speak, neither do I.

  “Okay, now that all parties are here, we can get started,” Mr. Price says, opening a folder.

  Meanwhile, I’m sitting here sweating. I can feel the chill of Wyatt’s eyes freezing over me and while he stares, I’m wondering why he didn’t speak. Like he has some underlying animosity towards me. Repressed anger. Or maybe he was waiting for me to speak to him first. Whatever the case, it’s uncomfortable. The knots in my stomach will not let up. The hammering of my heart just won’t stop. It feels like I’m constantly being sucker punched over and over, wondering when it’s going to end. I shouldn’t feel like this in the company of him and I’m confused about why my body is reacting to him this way.

  I glance up at him when I don’t think he would be looking and our eyes truly connect for the first time in ten years. And his eyes...they are dark blue, the color of a raging sea. The color they are when he’s angry or upset about something. His normal eye color is a medium, crystal blue.

  Minutes go by. He doesn’t smile, wave...he doesn’t give me a hint as to his mood or state of mind, well, other than his darkening blue eyes. He just stares. Then he runs his fingers through his brown hair and clears his voice, which has me now looking at the thin mustache over his freshly-licked lips.

  I nervously twirl my locket, something I find myself doing often when I’m nervous or bored, then Mr. Price says, “Ge
neva, your father’s worth, including the land he owns in Winston-Salem is estimated at eight million dollars.”

  That’s it? The thought enters my mind, not because I’m being greedy, but simply because I thought my father was worth more than eight million. So I asked him, “Are you sure? He does own an egg farm.”

  “No. He sold the egg farm five years ago.”

  “Oh.”

  Continuing on, Mr. Price adds, “Now, the reason I asked Mr. McDowell here is because it seems that the two of you are legally married.”

  The frown in my forehead can’t be hidden. It’s dominant. It’s intentional. And it hurts because of the memory of the words Wyatt’s mother spoke to me.

  “I think there’s been some mistake,” I say, completely befuddled.

  “There’s no mistake, Geneva,” Wyatt says, his words conclusive.

  I look up at him, meeting his blue-marble eyes, surprised that he actually said something that was directed towards me.

  “We are married, remember?” he continues. “We married a week after our high school graduation.”

  I frown again. Of course I remember. But I could’ve sworn his mother told me that she, took care of it. Said the marriage was a sham. That I could never have her son. What’s going on here?

  “Well, that’s neither here nor there,” Mr. Price says, quickly glancing up at the both of us. “The marriage can easily be dissolved.”

  I watch as Wyatt clenches his jaw. He rubs his large hands together and interlocks his fingers.

  I feel my heart rate quicken by the motion of his hands. I remember those hands on me, touching me when we were together. Holding me. Protecting me.

  “Geneva,” Mr. Price says to get my attention. When I look at him, he proceeds by saying, “Your father left some very strict guidelines to be followed before you two can get your hands on this money.”

  “I don’t want the money,” Wyatt blurts out, then stands, towering over the table. “Give it all to her. Are we done here?”

  “Not quite, Mr. McDowell. Mr. Knight has made a specific request of yourself and Geneva.”

  Wyatt sits again and sighs heavily.

  “And what is this request?” I ask.

  “In order to receive your inheritance, you will have to live in his home, your father’s home, for three months.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Three months?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do I have to live in his house?”

  “That’s what your father requested.”

  “Well, I can’t do that. I have a life.”

  Wyatt snarls. He sounds like he’s irritated. Like I’m annoying him.

  Ignoring him, I tell Mr. Price, “I have a business to run. A fiancé...”

  Mr. Price throws his hands up in the air and says, “This is your father’s last will and testament, Geneva.”

  I roll my eyes. This is just like my father to do something like this. He has always been controlling. Even at his death, he found a way to control me. To make me do something I don’t want to do. Go figure.

  “Again, why am I here?” Wyatt asks.

  “Because Mr. Knight has requested that you join Geneva.”

  With raised eyebrows, I ask, “Join me where?”

  “In your father’s home for three months.”

  I laugh to disguise my frustration. “Are you sure you’re reading this correctly, Mr. Price? This makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.”

  He leans over next to me and shows me what he just read on the legal document. I glance up at Wyatt and he’s still staring. Brooding. He was anxious to leave before, but now, he’s sitting there, watching me even more intensely. I’m waiting for him to say something against this request of my father – that this is absurd and he has a life, too, and that he can’t put his life on hold to live in my father’s house with me and play this little game. Something along those lines…

  Instead, he says, “I think we should do it, Geneva.” He has a slight smirk on his face. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “Are you serious right now?” I ask, glaring at him. “What do you mean, what’s the worst that could happen? How about nightmares? Remembering the way my father treated me! I never wanted to step a foot back into that house again!”

  “Geneva, please settle down,” Mr. Price instructs. “Now listen...this is a legal matter. I’m sure you do not want to forfeit this amount of money so why don’t you take a day, think about it and then we’ll reconvene tomorrow afternoon.”

  I’m too disgusted to answer him. I grab my purse and leave out of there as quickly as I can.

  CHAPTER 8

  When I get back to the hotel, I’m beyond frustrated. I’m livid. I replay this foolish meeting in my head, thinking that this must be some mistake. That I’m in the middle of a bad dream. Why would my father come up with such an asinine, out-of-left-field request? I take my phone from the bed to call Stacey but before I can dial her number, my phone begins to ring. It’s Darnell.

  “Hello,” I answer.

  “Hey, babe. How’s it going? You get your hands on that dough yet?”

  “No, Darnell.”

  “What you mean, no?”

  “Exactly what I said. No.”

  “So why’d you go there if you ain’t getting no money. You mean to tell me that man didn’t leave you anything?”

  “He did, but...” I stop talking to take a breath. “My father wants me to stay in his Winston-Salem home for three months before I can get the money, and in addition to that, I have to live with an old friend of mine from high school.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “It does sound bad. Are you crazy?”

  “Look, how much money are we talking about here?” he asks.

  “Eight million dollars.”

  “For eight million dollars, I’ll live in his house.”

  “Sure you would because you didn’t have to suffer the way I suffered in that house and now I have to go back there,” I say, tears welling up in my eyes.

  “Listen, babe...you gotta do what you gotta do to get your hands on that bread. I know it’ll be hard for you, but we can’t let that money go, sweetie. This is our lives we’re talking about.”

  I dab my eyes and ask, “So you don’t care that I have to live with another guy for three months.”

  “A guy? You said an old high-school friend.”

  “Yes. An old high-school guy friend.”

  “I’m not worried about that at all. I trust you.”

  “And you’ll come visit me?”

  “Huh?”

  “If I do it...live in my father’s house for three months...you’ll come to visit?”

  “Oh, ah...yeah. Yeah, I’ll see if I can swing by. Listen, I gotta go. Luv you, boo. Get that money, baby.”

  The phone goes silent. I make a face and shake my head. My fiancé doesn’t care that I’m going to be spending three months with another guy. I expected him to say: Come home, baby. Forget the money. We’ll be okay as long as we have each other. I don’t want you to have to relive your terrible childhood. Instead, he’s pushing me to do this. To get the money.

  He didn’t inquire about who I would be living with, nor did he give me an opportunity to tell him that I was legally married. I wasn’t sure if I should tell him in the first place, especially about the marriage, but he made it all the more easy when he hung up the phone so quickly.

  Now, I’m sitting here on the bed. My head is pounding harder than my heart was earlier and I feel an ache at my temples. So take a bottle of Tylenol from my purse, shake out two pills and toss them to the back of my mouth, drinking water to swallow them down. Then I silence my phone, pull the covers back on the bed and lie there. I wanted to instantly go to sleep while the pills worked to ease my headache, but lying here, I can only think of Wyatt. Not Darnell, but Wyatt. I recall the one, and only time we made love:

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this, Wyatt?” I said, staring up at him as he h
overed over me. We were in a hotel that Wyatt had reserved for our mini-honeymoon. He said that when he could afford it, he’d whisk me away to a romantic island for a real honeymoon. He didn’t know that this was all I needed. Just being here with him was perfect.

  “You said the same thing at the courthouse a few hours ago,” he said.

  I smiled. “Because I can’t believe you chose me.”

  “You chose me too.”

  I nodded then felt him lowering his face to mine. Our lips touch and we kiss. I’m nervous. Too nervous. This is my first time and I have no idea what to do or what to expect. I heard some of the girls in school say that it would hurt.

  “You’re scared,” Wyatt said, staring down at me.

  “I’m not,” I said.

  “You are. I feel your hands trembling on my back.”

  We’re both naked. Completely naked and under the covers.

  “Okay,” I finally admitted. “I am a little nervous.”

  “You know we don’t have to do this, Geneva.”

  “I know, but I want to. I love you, Wyatt.”

  “I love you too.”

  Then I felt it happening, felt our souls joining into one. He asked me to look at him. Said he never wanted to forget this feeling. So, as he requested, I stared up into his mesmerizing blue eyes until I lose myself in them. It feels strange – so strange that I can’t describe it. All I know is that I love him. That we’re married. That he loves me, and we’re making love.

  Two days later, I run into his mother at the mall...

  * * *

  It’s around 6:00 p.m. when I wake up from my nap. I take my phone from the nightstand and check for missed calls. I see two from Stacey. I know she’s worried, so I immediately dial her back as I walk to the bathroom.

  “Hello,” she answers.

  “Hey, Stacey. Sorry I missed your calls earlier. Girl I had a headache out of this world, so I had taken some Tylenol and laid down.”