Falling Again (A BWWM Interracial Novel)

by Tina Martin

  And I’m hot, even though it’s sixty-degrees and windy out today. I’ve still managed to sweat underneath this zipped-up, grey hoodie. So I unzip it and leave it on the ground next to me.

  Wyatt didn’t bother wearing a sweater. He has on a gray Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt.

  Once I’m situated, I look up at him and say, “Sorry ‘bout that. I got hot.”

  “You ready now?”

  “Yes. Let me have it,” I tease him.

  He launches a rocket and I can tell that if I don’t move back a little, the ball will soar right over my head. So I jog backwards as I’m looking up towards the sky, waiting for it. My hands are up. It seems like things are happening in slow motion – me running backwards, seeing the ball coming for me. Hearing Wyatt say, “You got it, angel.”

  I reach to catch the ball between my hands, but somehow, it slips through and the pointy edge of the football hits me in the nose. At the same time, I trip and topple over, backwards onto the ground.

  “Geneva!” Wyatt yells.

  Before I can look up at him, he’s already next to me, on his knees, in a panic.

  “I’m fine, Wyatt.”

  “No you’re not. Your nose is bleeding.”

  “It is?” I dab my nose with my hand and see red. My nose is bleeding. When I sit up to get off of the ground, my nose begins bleeding even more, oozing down to my lips and dropping onto my shirt.

  “Wait, Geneva. Keep your head tilted back.”

  “Okay.”

  Wyatt pulls his shirt over his head and tells me to hold it against my nose. Again, I do what he asks. I hold it there, with my head still tilted back and he lifts me from the ground in one effortless maneuver and carries me to the house.

  Once inside, he lowers me to the couch and says, “Keep the shirt there until I get back.”

  He runs to the kitchen and quickly comes back with wet paper towels. He drops to his knees beside the couch, takes the bloody shirt from my nose and gives me paper towels to hold there instead. “I’m sorry, Geneva. I didn’t mean to throw it that hard.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure? It doesn’t feel broken or anything?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I want to take you to the doctor anyway, just to make sure.”

  “Wyatt, I think I would know it if my nose was broken, okay. I’m fine.” I sit up straight and blot my nose with paper towels. The bleeding has stopped. I use the other paper towel to clean myself up. When I’m done, I jokingly say, “I’m just glad you finally got a chance to get your anger out.”

  “What?”

  “Your anger...I know you secretly hate me, Wyatt. I can tell by your sly remarks and the looks you give me.”

  Now, he looks at me like a man would look at his wife; like a man would look at a woman he’s in love with. “Have you completely forgotten who I am as a person, Geneva?”

  “No, but—”

  “You must have, because I would never do anything to hurt you. I don’t care how upset I am. I would never hurt you.”

  Our eyes lock and I feel a hard tug at my heart. As my breathing quickens, so does his. And when he moves closer to me and places his hands against my face, I close my eyes and feel a helpless surrender, the same way I used to feel when he would hold me back then, calm me with a simple embrace and tell me that everything would be okay.

  “Open your eyes, my sweet angel, and look at me.”

  With knots in my stomach, I open my eyes and stare into his warm, inviting ones.

  “I would never hurt you...you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Wyatt. I know,” I say, staring at his lips.

  I watch him lick them and before I can take my next breath, I feel our lips touching as the warmth of our mouths fuse together.

  We’d always been perfect together. What I feel for Wyatt far surpasses anything I’ve ever felt with Darnell.

  Speaking of Darnell...

  I pull away from Wyatt to end this kiss, one that should not have ever happened. “Wyatt—”

  “I know what you’re going to say,” he interrupts. “Just don’t say anything, Geneva. Don’t ruin this moment. It won’t happen again. Okay?”

  I nod, then watch him stand and disappear out of the front door.

  And I sit here with bloody tissues next to me on the couch and small drops of drying blood on my shirt feeling my heart thumping so hard, I’m afraid it’ll jump right out of my chest. And I know that this is real, that I’ve never felt anything akin to this feeling with no one but Wyatt. How do I explain that? How can I still feel this way for him, even after ten years of being apart?

  It baffles me. Confuses me. It opens my eyes and makes me see qualities in Wyatt that I should be seeing in my fiancé. However, Darnell doesn’t possess such loving care of me. He’s called me only once since I’ve been here. Usually, the only time we talk is when I call him and even then he’s trying to rush me off of the phone like he has better things to do with his time. One thing is certain – if he doesn’t make an effort to come here at the end of the month like he told me he would, it’ll definitely be a huge blow to our relationship, one in which I don’t think I could recover from.

  CHAPTER 16

  Two weeks fly by with the swiftness of a late fall breeze. Wyatt has been keeping his distance from me since the day we kissed. We haven’t talked much at all – only the cordial good morning and good night sums up all the communication we have with each other. It’s been pretty awkward around here.

  Yesterday morning, we were in the kitchen together. He was slathering some cream cheese on a bagel and I’d walked in to grab a glass of juice. If I would’ve known he was in the kitchen, I would’ve waited until he was done before I went in, but there he was, standing at the island facing the door. He glanced up when he saw me, then quickly mumbled a good morning before grabbing his breakfast and leaving the kitchen, probably heading upstairs to his bedroom. That’s where he’s been eating for the last two weeks – his bedroom. I chose to go out to eat because the tension between us is unprecedented. It’s the same uneasiness I felt when I first laid eyes on him in Mr. Price’s office.

  I will get a little relief from the silent treatment because Stacey is coming to visit me today and staying for the weekend. She’s been looking forward to seeing me and she’s even more excited to meet Wyatt. Since the house has extra bedrooms, she doesn’t have to stay at a hotel. She can slide right up in here with us.

  I’m sitting outside on the steps, wearing a pair of jeans, a blue and white striped shirt layered with a white cardigan opting to wear a pair of red Tom’s instead of boots. It’s cold this morning. As I hold a cup of coffee close to my mouth taking quick sips, I hear the front door open. Wyatt’s footsteps creep closer to me, then he walks by me without saying a word with keys in his hand, descending the front steps.

  Once he reaches the ground, he turns around and looks at me. He has on a pair of silver-rimmed, Ray-Ban sunglasses, a green sweater and a pair of khakis. He looks incredible. Simply incredible. He slides his hands in the pocket of his pants and says, “I heard you on the phone yesterday telling someone you couldn’t wait to see them. Are you expecting company?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who? Your boyfriend?” he asks with a hardened jaw.

  “No. My friend Stacey.”

  He nods, silently.

  I can sense that he’s relieved. I wonder if he even knows how well I can read him. How well I know him even still?

  “What time will she be here?”

  “Probably in an hour or so. She told me she was already on Highway 52.”

  “Well, I’m going to run out for a while. Do you need anything?”

  “No. Thanks for asking, though.”

  With that, he turns and walks away, cranks his Jeep Wrangler and speeds away.

  I release a heavy sigh, feeling guilty for the current state of our relationship, friendship, acquaintanceship...whatever you would call what we have going on. I don�
�t even know what you would call us. Friends? Are we friends? We don’t talk. I know he harbors resentment towards me and, at the same time, he looks at me like he wants to strip me bare and have his way with me.

  I don’t get it...

  I step back inside after twenty or so minutes to warm up and when I do, I hear honking in the driveway. I know it’s Stacey because only she would pull up in somebody’s driveway and honk the horn like she’s in the middle of a road-rage standoff.

  I quickly turn to go back outside and sure enough, it’s her. I run down the stairs and she runs from her car and we meet in the middle with an epic embrace.

  “I’m so glad you made it,” I tell her when we separate.

  “Girl, I’m glad to be here. Look at this place. Wow! I could live here. This is like a boojee, suburban, country paradise.”

  I laugh at her. “You’re a city girl, Stace. You couldn’t make it here for a week.”

  She chuckles. “Well, I’m glad to be here right now. Finally, I can learn about your roots.”

  I burst out in laughter. “My roots? All you need to know about my roots is that my mother died of cancer, my father went completely bonkers and now he’s dead. The end.”

  “Oh, stop it, Geneva. It’s not that cut and dry.”

  “In a way, it is.”

  She shakes her head and says, “Let me get my suitcase.”

  “No, no. You’re my guest. I’ll get your bag.”

  After she pressed the trunk button on her keychain remote, I lift her suitcase from the car. It’s so heavy, I’m afraid that I might throw my back out.

  “Good lawd, Stacey,” I say, dropping her suitcase to the ground. “You do realize that you’re only staying today and tomorrow, right?”

  She giggles. “I know. I always over pack.”

  I close the trunk and pull her bag to the house.

  When we step inside, she marvels at how lovely the place is. Says it looks ritzy, which would be right up her alley. Says my father had good taste.

  “So where’s the man of the house?” she asks.

  “Right there,” I say, pointing to the urn by the fireplace.

  “Geneva, stop it. I’m talking about Wyatt. Is he here?”

  “No. He left about thirty minutes before you showed up.”

  “Oh.”

  I wheel her suitcase to one of the downstairs guest bedrooms and when she’s settled, we go outside again because she wants to roam the place.

  “The air is so much fresher around here,” she comments.

  “Now that I can agree with you on,” I tell her.

  “And look at the pond. What are those tall thingies growing around there?”

  I chuckle. “What tall thingies?”

  “You see those tall things sticking up out of that grass...looks like a chocolate corn dog.”

  “Oh,” I say, laughing at her. “That’s a cattail. People plant those around wet areas because that’s where they grow the best. And they’re pretty.”

  “Looks nice around pond. And, girl, where are all the animals? There should be cows and lil’ Aflac ducks running all around here.”

  “There are no animals, Stacey. My father actually did have a few horses at one time. And, before he became a stumbling drunk, he ran a horse boarding business.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I used to feed the horses and brush them.”

  “That’s so cool.”

  “It wasn’t cool back then. He used to work me like hired help.”

  “You so crazy...and why did you call your father a stumbling drunk?”

  “Because that’s what he was, even though Wyatt told me that my dad was making an effort to change.”

  “How so?”

  I shrug. “Not sure. I didn’t ask for specific details and Wyatt and I aren’t really talking.”

  “Oh snap,” Stacey says and stops walking. “Y’all done got into a fight that quick?”

  “It wasn’t really a fight...”

  “So what happened?”

  “We kissed.”

  Her eyes nearly bulge out of her head. “You kissed!”

  “Stacey, don’t disturb the neighbors with all that screaming.”

  “You kissed?” she asks again.

  “Yes.”

  “And why would that make you two stop communicating?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Look around, babydoll,” she says. “We got all day.”

  I smile and say, “Well, we were tossing the football back and forth to each other, you know, like old times, and I tried to catch one of his throws and the ball hit me in the nose and my nose began bleeding. To make a long story short, I was joking with Wyatt and said something about how he finally got his revenge, you know for me leaving him and not saying goodbye, and he said that he’d never hurt me, even if he was angry at me. Then we kissed.”

  “Wait...he kissed you or you kissed him?”

  “We kissed each other. We met in the middle. He wanted to, I wanted to and it happened.”

  “Okay, so why are you not talking to him again?”

  “It’s more like he’s not talking to me. Wyatt has some pent-up anger and frustration towards me. I can tell from the way he looks at me...sly remarks he makes...”

  “So you didn’t tell him why you left?”

  “No. What’s the point? He’s not talking to me now anyway.”

  “Well, what’s the point of any of this? I mean, have you actually sat down and thought about why your father wanted you and Wyatt under the same roof?”

  “No. Not really. I just think this harebrained idea was something he regurgitated one day after having too much to drink.”

  “Come on now, Geneva. Your father wasn’t that bad.”

  “He was,” I say, walking again.

  “But even through all of that, you have to look for the good in situations.”

  “Yeah. I suppose you’re right.”

  After I show her the empty stables and the loft where I used to sleep whenever my father was in a rage, we circle the large pond. I relay to her the story that Wyatt told me – about how he found my father here on the ground, dead.

  She looks sad, throws her arm around me and says, “I’m sorry you have to relive this.”

  She doesn’t know I’m fine. Every time I tell someone I’m fine, they think I’m lying...like this is too much for me to handle. If only they grew up in this house with me...then they would know what I had to endure and how fine I really am.

  CHAPTER 17

  While Stacey goes to her room to get settled, I have time to think alone in my room. I brought the picture of my mother from the mantle and as I set on the bed, I stare at it. At her. I miss my mother. I don’t talk about her much because it hurts to do so. From what I can remember of her, she was one of those good-souled mothers – the kind that kissed my cuts and scrapes and was there to bandage me up even if she told me to stop doing what it was that I was doing to get hurt in the first place.

  I’m reminded of all the times she read to me. I used to think The Little Red Riding Hood was her favorite story because she loved reading it. And she would be animated when she read aloud, holding me close to her as we sat on the edge of the bed.

  I miss smelling her food. She was an excellent cook. I can still smell the aroma of her homemade chocolate chip cookies, the cinnamon in her sweet potato pies and recall how the scent made our house feel like a home – like a safe haven. She was the perfect mom.

  She died before I hit my teen years, but I imagined that once I crossed over to the know-it-all age of thirteen, my mom and I would’ve had problems just like the typical mother-teenager-daughter relationship, but since we never experienced that, I can truly say that my mother was perfect.

  Even her relationship with my father was flawless. I’ve never seen them fight in front of me. I can’t recall not one single incident when they erupted into an argument. Not one.

  My father really did love my mother. They were t
he kissy-kissy type of couple – the couple who tried to sneak kisses from each other when they thought I wasn’t looking.

  My mother...

  She cooked, cleaned, was always there for her family but when cancer decided to show its ugly head and take her away from us, we were no longer a family. We were broken and we never healed. And they say time heals all wounds...

  That’s a lie, because how could a person truly heal from losing someone in death? How could a pre-teen girl heal from losing her mother? How could a husband carry on and continue to live his life when his wife, the woman he chose to spend the rest of his life loving, had succumbed to such a horrendous disease? Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Time extends the life of wounds.

  I remember vividly one of our trip to mom’s grave. I remember it so well because I listened to my father cry in a way that a man dare not. Sometimes, I can still hear his whimpers and cries, his asking why, screaming it out into the open air. I remember him leaving roses on her grave on their anniversary, and I can recall the conversation I had with my father one day after we arrived home from the grave. I think I was around twelve, and this was one of the few times I was able to talk to him while he was sober:

  “Dad, why do you cry so much?”

  He sniffled, hid his face as he sat on the couch and said, “You wouldn’t understand, little girl.”

  “I’m not a little girl anymore. I understand some things.”

  “Well you can’t understand what you don’t know.”

  He sniffled again.

  “I know that you loved mom. And I don’t think mom would want you crying like this, daddy.”

  “I know, babygirl, but my heart is broken. And you know what, baby?” he asked, looking up at me with bloodshot eyes. “I hope you never feel this pain I feel. I hope you never have to go through this. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”

  CHAPTER 18

  It’s 6:00 p.m. and Wyatt still isn’t home. Stacey and I started cooking dinner at around 5:30 p.m. because we had nothing else to do. Plus, she’s been dying to make her homemade lasagna for me. While she’s checking on its progress in the oven, I’m slicing up cucumbers, tomatoes and lettuce, making a fresh salad.