At the sound of his Aunt Stacey’s voice, Deuce lifted his head and saw Zora in the doorway. He stared at her for a long while, as though he wasn’t sure she was real. And for a nanosecond, she saw his face crumple before he held it in.
“Deuce,” his aunt said. “Now that Zora’s here, g’on get something to eat. We’ll stay with your mother.”
He hesitated, and seemed poised to object but finally nodded and stood, releasing his mother’s hand and coming toward Zora.
He looked exhausted, though it wasn’t very late.
When Zora hugged him, he didn’t let her hold him for very long. In fact, he actively resisted it and when he pulled away, she saw why. He was barely holding it together, and was afraid that any tenderness, no matter how small, would cause him to fall to pieces.
There was a lot of food in the kitchen—casseroles and pies, rice and fried chicken, potato salad and crudités. When Zora looked at Deuce quizzically, he motioned toward the living room where the three women were still sitting, talking quietly among themselves.
“Women from my grandmother’s church,” he explained. “On death watch.”
Death watch. The words sounded stark and almost callous.
“Someone … activates them, and I guess they put on church dresses and bring food,” Deuce said, shrugging.
They helped themselves to chicken, rice and vegetables, and sat at the kitchen counter to eat it. Zora remembered sitting there with Sheryl, eating Jamaican food, both of them circling and trying to figure each other out, deciding whether they could ever be friends.
But it was too late for that now.
On the walk around the block the day before, Sheryl had been mostly quiet. There were no more clever quips and funny stories about her tumultuous time with the senior Christopher Scaife. Instead, she concentrated on her steps, pausing frequently to take deep breaths, and grabbing tightly of Zora’s arm, working her way through some major discomfort.
When finally, they made the loop back onto her block, Sheryl let out a puff of breath. By then she was moving so haltingly, Zora had begun to regret the walk entirely, even though it wasn’t her idea, and Deuce’s mother had insisted she wanted to try.
Well, Sheryl said heaving heavily when the house came into view. I’m glad this is as far as I’ll have to go.
~~~
She passed quietly at around six-fifty a.m. the next morning.
After eating with Zora, Deuce sat with her almost all evening. His grandmother persuaded him it was fine to get some sleep. But he and Zora didn’t go far. They sat on the carpeted floor directly across from Sheryl’s bed. Her sister lay next to her, her mother was sitting on the ottoman where earlier Deuce had sat.
When he drifted off, and listed to one side, leaning against Zora, she moved a little further away allowing him to rest his head in her lap. He was deeply asleep and even snoring when Zora, herself dozing on and off, was awakened by a loud gasp. It was a sharp intake of breath like someone about to sneeze explosively.
It was Deuce who had for no apparent reason, bolted upright. His grandmother, sitting by the bed, and his aunt, lying in the bed, were still fast asleep. But he was suddenly awake. The room was bathed in the soft, half-light of dawn. He stood and stumbled a little, disoriented from having been on the floor and lying on his side. He stared at the bed for a moment, then turned to look at Zora who was struggling to her feet.
“She’s gone,” Deuce said, his voice wooden. “She’s gone.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Sometimes Deuce woke in the middle of the night, angry at his mother for something she had done. Except, it wasn’t something she did in real life, because she had been gone for weeks now. It was something she did in a dream he could never recall. But he remembered that she’d made him angry.
And even that—the memory of what it was like to be angry with her—was a kind of welcome nostalgia. He would give almost anything for even one more day with her, even if it was a day when she made him mad.
Sometimes the dreams made him cry in his sleep. And that was welcome, too, because he had never cried while awake. He thought he would when he had to call the coroner’s office to come take her body. But he didn’t.
Or maybe, he thought, on the morning of her funeral, that he would cry at the church. But he didn’t.
His mother had written in her own hand, instructions for her burial.
I want my coffin to be white, the letter left in her bedside table read. I want it to be covered only in white roses. I don’t care who my pallbearers are, except that I want them to include my son, Christopher Scaife, Jr., my son’s father, Christopher Scaife, Sr. and my ex-husband, Andre. I don’t want a long service. And please, don’t tell any lies about how good a life I lived.
Deuce knew every word of her final instructions by heart now. And they didn’t make him cry, either. They made him smile.
When he cried, he only did it in his sleep. And often he woke up to find that it was still dark outside. Zora was always next to him, and though not awake, always seemed to sense his disquiet and held him just a little bit tighter.
~~~
Deuce didn’t think he was any more of a believer than he had been the first time he went to Jumu’ah. But it had become a time for quiet reflection. By mid-October, when Zora had gotten through the first few weeks of her semester, he had gone to the mosque with Asif and her father four or five times. And afterwards, he ate with the family, Zora and her mother bringing a meal to the table for the men to eat, and Zora shooting him clandestine ironic looks at the enactment of the gender roles she said she didn’t believe in.
But Deuce saw that there was part of her that loved to bring him his food, choosing for him from among the larger, and best pieces of meat on a platter; or heaping a second generous spoonful of rice on his plate when he looked like he might want more.
While in her family home, they had begun to seamlessly model their behavior to the custom of the household. And over time, it became no more objectionable a change than it was to not put feet up on your grandparents’ coffee table. He went to Jumu’ah though he was not Muslim and had no plans to be. And Zora served him at her parents’ table, though she was not subservient, nor would ever be.
They were still themselves.
But now, when Zora left with him in his SUV, her father’s lips did not tighten in unspoken disapproval, and her mother didn’t look away, no longer pretending not to see that there was another aspect to their relationship beyond just deep affection. And when they returned to Zora’s apartment in Harlem, or Deuce’s place in Midtown, their intimacy was layered and deepened by the knowledge that it was known to and accepted by the people closest to her.
~~~
The men were just loading the last of the boxes into the back of the truck with Deuce, Kal and Asif’s help when Zora pulled up in Deuce’s SUV. She had been there for some of the packing, then had driven Deuce’s grandmother back home, clutching in her lap, a small box of Sheryl’s personal items that she wanted as keepsakes. All other personal effects had been donated or claimed by Deuce’s aunt for herself or other people.
Now, after a full day’s labor, all that remained in the house was furniture, which was to be valued and tagged for an estate sale the following weekend. Zora spent much of the day watching Deuce as his childhood home was dismantled, but he had been stoic, not even reacting when one of the movers broke a piece of African wall art.
Toss it, he’d said. It’s worthless now.
And then he kept on moving.
His father stopped by mid-afternoon and asked if they needed his help, and Deuce had teased him, saying that he was an old man, and would only slow them down.
At that, his father smiled and balled up a fist, pretending he was about to throw a punch, to which Deuce laughed.
Nah, Deuce told him eventually. We got it.
You sure?
The question sounded loaded, and the look he gave Deuce made it clear he was asking about much more th
an the need for an extra pair of hands. But Deuce nodded, nevertheless.
I’m sure, he said.
“Food?” Kal was asking now, as the moving truck lumbered away. “We done, boss? Can we eat?”
“Yeah,” Deuce said. “But back in the city. I want to get out of here.”
No one argued with that, and they all piled into the Range Rover, Deuce having Zora slide over to the front passenger seat so he could drive.
For the entire ride back to Manhattan, Kal and Asif were talking loudly in the back, but Zora barely heard them. Every part of her was attuned to Deuce and trying to decipher his mood. He was quiet, but didn’t seem sad, more like … pensive. She reached over and placed a hand on his thigh, hot and still a little sweaty from all the exertion of the day, and he glanced at her and smiled.
When they crossed over into Manhattan, Deuce looked over his shoulder.
“Kal, you mind crashing uptown with Seef tonight?”
“Nah. ‘Course not,” Kal said without hesitation, his eyes flitting between Zora and Deuce.
He was married now, after all, Zora thought, still with a tiny tinge of amazement. He, of all people could understand the need to be alone with a partner.
When he heard the news of Sheryl’s death, he had flown out for the funeral, and promised to come back to help with anything else Deuce would need. Neither Zora nor Deuce had expected that he would, because Asha’s pregnancy was advancing to the homestretch, and it was only natural that he not want to be away from home for too long, or too often.
But true to his word, Kal had flown East again just to help with packing up the house, offering more than just his physical support to get the task done. He was leaving in two days, and Zora was already missing him, because he, like few other people, could pull Deuce out of an impending funk.
Once they dropped the guys off at Zora and Asif’s place in Harlem, something occurred to her.
“I think … Kal won’t have a change of clothes for tomorrow,” she pointed out as they pulled back into traffic.
“He can wash his drawers in the shower, borrow a t-shirt from Seef and wear the same jeans,” Deuce said right away. “Dudes aren’t as high-maintenance as y’all.”
“I’ve never been accused of being high-maintenance.”
“But you’re exceptional, baby.”
“I can’t tell if you’re making fun of me or not,” Zora said with narrowed eyes.
Glancing at her, Deuce shook his head. “I’m not,” he said simply.
~~~
at the apartment, Zora cooked a simple pasta dish while he showered, then went in to take one of her own. When she got back to the kitchen, Deuce was on the phone, and had already plated their meals, and with the phone in the crook of his neck, was about to carry them to the table.
Zora took them from him, and finished their place settings, then as an afterthought poured glasses of red wine. Deuce emerged from the kitchen, smiling, carrying the salad she’d made and setting it down with the rest of their food.
“Guess who that was,” he said.
“Who?”
“Strych-9.”
Zora squinted. “Who?”
“The African kid I took to the clubs that time, before …”
“Oh. Yeah. Whatever happened with …”
“He’s back in town next week. Wants to meet up at SE and talk about a Gollum offer.”
“Wow.” Zora sank into one of the dining chairs. “That was … easy.”
“He didn’t say he was signing. He said he’d meet, and hear me out, that’s all. But he called me. I didn’t call him. So, that’s good.”
“It is,” Zora nodded. She took a long sip of her wine.
“What’s wrong?” Deuce sat but hesitated before picking up his fork.
“I just … want to know that you’re okay first,” Zora said. “Before you jump back in.”
Deuce gave her a sad smile and shook his head.
“I’m not though,” he said shrugging. “I’m not okay. I miss my mother. I’m mad she’s gone. And the universe feels emptier to me without her in it. So … no, I’m not okay. But I’m okay with that … with not being okay. You understand?”
Tears rose to Zora’s eyes and she nodded.
“Don’t cry, baby,” Deuce said, shaking his head. “I don’t like to see that. ‘Cause I’m good, Zee. As good as I’m supposed to be in this moment.”
Who was this man? This … grown man, who she would follow wherever he led, who she would trust implicitly and without hesitation. Deuce was still who he was, and yet, so, so different. Maybe what they said was true, that there was nothing like losing a parent to make you suddenly very much an adult.
But this didn’t feel like just a side-effect of Sheryl being gone, it felt like the culmination of a process over time that had unfolded before her eyes.
Staring at him, Zora swallowed hard and nodded again.
“So, let’s eat,” Deuce said. “And then maybe I can play you some Strych-9.”
“Okay,” she said, smiling through her tears.
They ate and cleaned up, both quiet, and subdued. Deuce loaded the dishwasher, and Zora went in search of her law school textbook for a class where she was a little behind on the reading.
Just as she was about to get comfortably in place to read on the sofa, Deuce emerged from the kitchen and extended a hand to her. Feeling her heartbeat speed up, she took the hand, and followed him to the bedroom.
He stood in front of her and lifted her long t-shirt from the hem, tugging it over her head.
When she was standing there, in just her panties he looked her over, and a slow smile spread across his face.
“You’re so beautiful, Zee,” he said.
And she blushed.
It had been ages since Deuce made her blush, because he was so familiar, but now … there was something new and self-possessed about the man in front of her. Something powerful, and sexy.
Without waiting for him to do it for her, she peeled her underwear over her hips, wanting him to see everything. He pulled his lower lip in and moistened it, taking a step toward her, and holding her waist, lightly, before maneuvering her toward the bed.
When the backs of her legs touched it, she sat on the edge and Deuce stood above her, removing his shirt, then his shorts. When he was naked, she stared at his dick, hard and majestic, demanding her attention.
Leaning forward, she took it in her mouth, and he let her, but only for a few moments before he was shoving her backward, falling to his knees and burying his face in her core. Propping her heels up on his shoulders, Zora let him have at her, forcing herself to keep her thighs apart and feel every bit of pleasure he gave.
She came once, twice before he moved up and kissed her long and deep, sucking her tongue and letting her suck his while he thrust forward and upward. Zora gasped, clutching his hard glutes, pulling him in.
He felt different. But the same. This was Deuce, and yet someone new. He waited until she orgasmed yet again, then kissed her, moving in slow, gentle strokes, staring into her eyes.
When he came, she felt it, and though she didn’t know why, there were tears on her face.
They fell asleep almost immediately afterwards, but it was a shallow sleep, and Zora opened her eyes when she felt Deuce get off the bed. He turned off the bedside lamps, so the room plunged into darkness save for a column of light from the hallway. He turned away from her to go take care of that one as well and Zora watched him move with the awe-inspiring grace she had taken for granted for so long.
“I want to do it,” she said.
Deuce paused at the doorway, silhouetted by the light behind him.
“Do what?”
“Get a ring. Be engaged. Tell everyone that we’re getting married … The whole thing.”
Deuce turned but his face was obscured by darkness.
“You sure?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“Yes. I know it makes no sense. But it also makes all the sense in the world.
And we don’t have to do it right away …”
“But you want to marry me though. You want to be engaged and …”
“Yes.” Zora propped herself on her elbows, nodding.
“And we’ll talk to your father, and …”
“Yes. To all of that. It’s you and me till the …”
Deuce came back to the bed. He came close enough that she could see his face again. He was smiling. And for the first time since his mom’s death, looked truly, fully happy.
“Nah,” he said, before he kissed her. “These wheels ain’t comin’ off.”
Also by Nia Forrester
The ‘Commitment’ Novels
Commitment (The ‘Commitment’ Series Book 1)
Unsuitable Men (The ‘Commitment’ Series Book 2)
Maybe Never (A ‘Commitment’ Novella)
The Fall (A ‘Commitment’ Novel)
Four: Stories of Marriage (The ‘Commitment’ Series Finale)
The ‘Afterwards’ Novels
Afterwards (The Afterwards Series Book 1)
Afterburn (The Afterwards Series Book 2)
The Come Up (An Afterwards Novel)
The Takedown (An Afterwards Novel)
Young, Rich & Black (An Afterwards Novel)
Snowflake (An Afterwards Novel)
The Mistress Novels
Mistress (The ‘Mistress’ Trilogy Book 1)
Wife (The ‘Mistress’ Trilogy Book 2)
Mother (The ‘Mistress’ Trilogy Book 3)
The ‘Acostas’ Novels
The Seduction of Dylan Acosta (The Acostas Book 1)
The Education of Miri Acosta (The Acostas Book 2)
The ‘Secret’ Novels
Secret (The ‘Secret’ Series Book 1)
The Art of Endings (The ‘Secret’ Series Book 1)
Lifted (The ‘Secret’ Series Book 3)
The ‘Shorts’
Still—The ‘Shorts’ Book 1
The Coffee Date—The ‘Shorts’ Book 2
Just Lunch—The ‘Shorts’ Book 3
Table for Two—The ‘Shorts’ Book 4
Rhyme & Reason Page 38