“On the road. Headed to my mom’s house.”
“How is she?”
“Good.”
“She must have been thrilled to hear I was no longer around,” Zora said.
“Nah. She just … I don’t think she understood you, that’s all.”
“Well, nothing new there. My own parents don’t understand me either, so I guess that’s fair.”
“I did,” Deuce said. “Took me a minute, but I understood you pretty well. I think I still do. Except for …”
Except for why she broke up with him.
She knew that was what he wanted to say. And what she wanted to say was that part of her didn’t understand that either. Because it wasn’t as though she didn’t love him. She loved him as much now as she had on the day they parted. And on some days more than she ever had.
“Deuce, I think we …”
“Hey. Could you FaceTime me?”
“What?” she asked, thrown by the unexpected turn of the conversation.
“FaceTime. You still have an iPhone, right?”
“Yeah …” She let the word drag.
“So, I want to see you while I talk to you.”
“That’s not safe. You’re driving,” she said.
But she was already considering it, inventorying herself. The headscarf, the puffy eyes, the ratty old tank top stretched-out and hanging low at the neck and armholes. But he had seen her at her worst, and at her best. It wouldn’t matter to him whether she was in full makeup or had none on at all; whether she was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, or had sleep-swollen, puffy eyes.
“It’s on a holder thing, on the dashboard. I’ll be hands-free.”
“But you’ll be looking away from the road,” she protested.
Still, it excited her a little, and pleased her more than a little that he wanted to see her. For the first few weeks when she was in California, if she called, he would decline the calls, and FaceTime her instead.
You’re so pushy, she’d complained half-heartedly. What if I was sitting on the toilet or something?
I’ve seen you sitting on the toilet, he’d answered, matter-of-factly. Many times.
“I promise I’ll only glance away from the road,” he said now. “I feel like I understand what you mean better when I can see your face.”
“Fine,” Zora said sighing. “I’ll call you back in a minute.”
She took her breakfast sandwich with her out to the living room and arranged her phone, propping it against some of her textbooks. Sitting opposite it, she tested the camera to make sure that when she was seated, it didn’t train itself up the leg of her shorts.
Grabbing her sandwich and taking the first bite, she initiated the video-call. Deuce picked up right away, and there he was. Wearing a white t-shirt, his face was a little scruffy, like he hadn’t cleaned up the edges of his goatee. He looked sexy as hell, like he had just rolled out of bed.
Glancing away from the road for a moment, he flashed her a grin and Zora smiled back, unable to help herself.
“Still got that same old scarf, huh?” he said.
“It’s been broken-in,” she said, laughing. “It’s irreplaceable. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand,” he said, shaking his head. “That scarf is like an old friend of mine.”
“More like an old nemesis,” she said remembering how he always tugged it off her head before they had sex.
“So, before I asked you to FaceTime, what were you about to say?”
“I can’t remember,” she lied.
“I think I know,” he said.
“Then tell me. What was I about to say?”
“You were about to dump me again. You were about to say that you don’t think it’s a good idea that we talk. That I shouldn’t call you.”
He glanced at the camera, and Zora looked down, because he was right. It was an impulse, understandable as far as she was concerned, to distance herself as far as possible from a source of pain. And if Deuce had a girlfriend, that was what staying in touch with him would be. Possibly more painful than not being in touch over the past several months had been.
Instead of responding, she reached for her breakfast sandwich and took another bite, chewing slowly to buy herself time.
“That’s it, right? I was about to get cut?”
Zora kept chewing. Even through a camera lens it was difficult to look directly at him.
“You don’t think that might be …”
“A good idea? No,” he said before she was finished.
He looked at her for what felt like a few moments too long, and Zora almost had to tell him to keep his eye on the road.
“How ‘bout we just talk about … law school?” he suggested.
“You want to hear about law school?” she said, skeptically.
“Yeah. If you can listen to me talk about music, I can listen to you talk about law school. You made the Dean’s List, didn’t you?”
“Actually, I didn’t,” she said.
Deuce glanced at the camera. He looked surprised.
“How come?”
Zora shrugged. “Distracted, I guess. I made good enough grades to transfer, so … that was the most important thing.”
“Why were you distracted? And why didn’t you tell me when you decided to transfer?”
“A lot was going on.”
“Like you breakin’ up with me? A lot like that?”
“Deuce.”
“Okay,” he said. “I promise I won’t talk about that. Just so long as you promise me something …”
“What’s that?” she asked, cautious.
“That you won’t cut me off again. That no matter what happens, we’ll keep talkin’. No matter what.”
Zora felt her eyes grow hot, and a piece of toast lodged itself in her throat.
She nodded and looked away so that he wouldn’t see that she had gotten misty-eyed.
~~~
They talked until he was pulling into his mother’s driveway, and then for a few minutes more while he sat there, still in his SUV. When they finally hung up, it was because Zora told him she should probably take a shower and get started on her weekend errands. And once the call ended, she wasn’t sure she even knew what those errands were supposed to be.
At Penn State her life was full to the brim. Between being the BLM co-chair (then chair on her own once her ex-boyfriend, Rashad left), her friends, her classes and being with Deuce, she had almost no free time. And then her first year at law school had been, well, the first year at law school. It left almost no room for anything else. That, and dealing with her relationship coming apart at the seams had given her almost no time to make a new circle of friends.
Now, here in New York, she was starting over again. Some of her high school friends lived in the city, and there were the Penn State alums from the mixer, and of course, Asif. But other than that, she was alone. The high school friends were just that; she had little in common with them any longer. And the folks from Penn State were acquaintances, and not much more.
When she transferred, she imagined Deuce single. She imagined that she would show up—just show up—and he would welcome her with wide-open arms. She hadn’t imagined that his arms would be otherwise occupied.
After her shower, she went online and did a search for pictures of him and added the name ‘Regan’ to the search terms. None of the pictures seemed to fit. None of the captions for the pictures of Deuce out and about included one of anyone named Regan. So maybe that meant the relationship was new. But among the others, there was that one picture, though—the one that had helped drive her temporarily insane all those months ago.
It was of Deuce in a nightclub, his eyes bleary, unfocused, and almost bloodshot. He was sitting on a sofa, slumped almost, with his arms spread wide. He wore a dark-grey shirt that clung to him, so his pecs were apparent, his biceps. The shirt had come loose of his pants a little so there was even a little peek of his rippled, toned abs.
And there was a woman on
his lap. She was tan, with long, curly dark hair, and wore eyelash extensions, red lipstick and a dress so short, that seated in that position, it was almost possible to see all the way up to her crotch. One of her arms was draped possessively around Deuce’s neck, and he looked comfortable with it there.
Zora shut her laptop, just as the apartment door opened and Asif came walking in, wearing the same clothes he had gone out in the evening before. He paused and looked at her, shaking his head.
“Isn’t this exactly where I left you last night?” he asked.
Zora rolled her eyes.
“I’ma take a shower, and once I’m done and dressed, be ready to go out with me,” he said.
“Where to?”
“Doesn’t matter. Whatever I gotta do today, you may as well roll with me. ‘Cause this is just … sad.”
As he walked by, Zora gave him the double-bird behind his back. But she knew he was right. She had to get out there and do things and meet people. Deuce was otherwise occupied so it was time she found an occupation of her own.
CHAPTER FIVE
The house was quiet and a little dark, even though it was past ten in the morning. Deuce had let himself in, expecting to find his mother in the kitchen, making herself breakfast, or sipping coffee, sitting out back. Instead, the place looked deserted.
Making his way upstairs, he looked in on his old childhood room, where his mother still hadn’t changed anything, and shook his head. This was the only sign he had that his mother might, deep down, be a little sentimental. She hadn’t changed a single thing about his bedroom, even when it might have made more sense to convert it into another guest suite.
Since he never slept here anymore, Deuce felt almost guilty seeing it. It was as though his mother was waiting for him, when he knew he would never return. But that was silly. She knew and approved of him living in Manhattan. Had even come look at the place before he signed the papers.
You should buy it, she’d said, when she walked through the expansive rooms, and saw the large windows, the views, the balcony. This is a nice spot.
I can’t afford to buy it, Ma, he’d protested, even though he knew she was referring to his option to simply ask his father for the money.
Oh, okay, Christopher, she said, shaking her head, and rolling her eyes. She only ever called him his given name when she was being sardonic, was very angry, or exasperated with him.
If she wasn’t alluding to the option to ask his father, she was referring to his trust fund. Something he never talked about, because it was embarrassing. When he’d turned twenty-one, he had come into a lot of money from his father. And when he turned twenty-five, there would be much more, and even more when he turned thirty-years old.
Just the passage of time would ensure that he was a multi-millionaire even if he never put in a single day’s honest work. But Deuce hardly ever touched any of it, and tried to live on his salary, which was more than decent, considering. The accumulation of wealth, for nothing more than being who he was had always felt dishonest to him.
“Ma! Where you at?” he called out now.
Walking down the hallway toward the master suite, he figured she was still in there, but wanted to give her an early warning he was on his way. The double-doors to her room were pulled almost shut, and inside he saw only gloom.
“Ma?” Deuce lowered his voice a little, realizing she might have gone back to sleep after he called.
She was on the bed. Not in it, so much as on it. Like she may have taken a shower and dressed, but then lay across it and just not bothered to get back up. Positioned horizontally, her legs were only three-quarters of the way on the bed and hung over the edge at her calves.
Deuce stood still for a moment, assessing until he heard her give a soft snorting sound. His shoulders relaxed.
“Ma,” he said again, his voice gentler.
Her eyes opened, and her head turned toward him. She looked confused for a moment, and older than her age. Her face was thin, and even her hair, usually long and lustrous, looked duller, and thinner.
“Deuce,” she said. She sounded relieved. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”
She shoved herself to a sitting position, with some effort, and then extended her arms to him. He went to her and hugged her. In her silk robe, she felt like skin-and-bones.
Shocked, because she didn’t even feel like herself, Deuce turned on her bedside lamp.
“Deuce!” She put an arm up, shielding her eyes.
“What’s the matter?” he asked her. “Are you like … hungover or something?”
“Boy.” She shook her head. “Ain’t nobody hungover. How long you been here?”
“Just a few minutes. You okay?”
“You eat already?” she asked.
He could smell her breath from a couple feet away. It was strange, sour and metallic.
“Nah,” he said, still watching her closely. “Just coffee. I wanted to get up here early.”
“Okay, gimme a few minutes. Let’s go to Ellen’s.”
Ellen’s was a brunch spot in town where the portion sizes were of the only-in-America variation—enormous and bordering on gluttonous. It was where Deuce and his friends used to go after a night of underage drinking at the home of whichever of them happened to have a parent out of town that weekend.
“Okay, I’ll be downstairs,” Deuce told her.
As he backed out of the room, he noticed how her shoulders lifted and fell, with something like effort, just before his mother stood and went into her en suite bathroom, shutting the door behind her.
~~~
Sitting in Ellen’s, now dressed and made up, she didn’t look as bad. She had filled in her eyebrows, put on eyeliner and lipstick and was wearing one of her pastel shift-dresses, and sandals. As usual, her manicure and pedicure were both perfect.
Years ago, she had stopped going to spas to get them done and started having people come out to the house to do all that for her, his Aunt Stacey, and his grandmother once a month. The service came with champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries and women who worked dressed in all-black, their hair pulled into sleek ponytails at their nape.
Deuce never knew how much it cost, but it seemed like a luxury to him. He’d tried to talk her out of it, recalling how once when his father tried to convince his stepmother Robyn to have a stylist come in to cut her hair instead of wasting time on Saturdays at the salon, she’d looked at him incredulously.
Who am I? Beyoncé?
His mother never had those qualms, even though Deuce was never sure how much of the perks she could afford, and how much was financial recklessness. So, on her birthday, he’d paid for a year’s worth of the in-home beauty service, knowing that once he turned twenty-five, he would be much wealthier than she was now, or ever would be.
“I’ll just have a jasmine tea and the brioche with berries plate,” his mother said when their server asked for their orders.
“Chicken and waffles for me, please,” Deuce said. “A side order of eggs scrambled soft, and a double espresso, with warm cream on the side.”
When the server left them alone, he saw that his mother was watching him closely.
“What?” he laughed. “I’m hungry.”
She nodded. “I know. That’s not why I was looking at you.”
“Then what?”
“You look like your daddy. And … like my Daddy. Both at the same time.”
Deuce had never known his maternal grandfather. Only that he died when his mother wasn’t yet a teenager. No one talked about him much. And both his father’s parents were dead as well. His mother’s mother was his only grandparent by blood, though Robyn’s parents both had adopted him in a way.
Usually, when his mother mentioned his father, he tried not to engage the subject, because the conversation never went well. When he mentioned his father’s new life, his new family, she grew tense and angry. She knew that with the strong family unit he now had, Chris Scaife, Sr. was untouchable and unfazable in his
happiness.
So, she tried to extract in material things what she couldn’t extract from him in emotion. As far as she was concerned, there would probably never be another dime, so she tried to get Deuce to ask for things she claimed he needed.
“He was close to your age when I met him,” she continued. “Your father, I mean. Younger, maybe.”
Deuce wanted to ask what he was like then but was afraid of where that might lead. It didn’t take much for a mention of his father to spin out into a screed, even though his father’s precise transgressions were never entirely clear.
“I know,” Deuce said, looking idly around the restaurant at the other patrons.
“We had a lot of fun,” she said matter-of-factly. “At first, anyway,” she added, with a laugh.
Still, Deuce didn’t engage. He wanted to know more, but it had always been the case that his desire, his need to be close to his father was threatening to his mother. He’d learned to mute that need around her, and to close his expression off so it became one of bland detachment. Now that he was older, he knew it wasn’t healthy, but old habits die hard.
“I knew he was gon’ be even bigger than he was then. He just had that …” She scrunched up her nose as if reaching for the correct word. “That … umph.”
Deuce grinned, despite himself. “Oh. Okay.”
“You have it, too,” his mother said nodding, her eyes fixed on him. “You just don’t know that you do. You have what he has, but without the arrogance.”
At that, Deuce all-out laughed. “Well, thanks, I guess.”
“And the funny thing about him?” she continued. “Is that he had no reason to be arrogant. Not really. Not in the beginning. Because he was just another dude tryna make it in the music business …” She made air-quotes. “At a time when every young Black man was tryna make it in the music business.” More air-quotes.
“But he did it, though,” Deuce said, unable to stop himself from defending his father.
“He did.” His mother nodded. “But damned if I know what he had to be arrogant about before then. And you … you’re a good-looking kid, rich …”
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