Let the Lover Be

by Sheree L. Greer

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  About the Author

  Books Available From Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  Functional alcoholic Kiana Lewis is looking for a way out. Running away from the memories of her mother's horrific death and her own dead-end existence, she decides to crash her ex-lover's New Orleans wedding and put a stop to the whole thing. She arrives in the Big Easy to reclaim her old love, and hopefully, reclaim her own life.

  Her plans are disrupted when she meets Genevieve Durand, a seductive and spiritual New Orleans native who challenges Kiana's skewed sense of resolve and control. Spending time with Genevieve, just like drinking, offers Kiana moments of escape. But unlike the numbing effect of alcohol, the intoxicating Genevieve makes Kiana feel and think about things she'd rather not, like the death of her mother and the destructive ways she uses to cope.

  On the brink of losing it all, Kiana must decide if she will reach for the next drink or if she'll reach beyond herself to finally slay the demons driving her since childhood.

  Let the Lover Be

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Let the Lover Be

  © 2014 By Sheree L. Greer. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-120-8

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: August 2014

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Sheri (GraphicArtist2020@hotmail.com)

  Acknowledgments

  This novel was a journey in so many ways. Special gratitude to everyone who encouraged, inspired, and cared for me along the way. Thank you Mama, Pops, Tiffany, and Peaches, my award-winning family. Thank you Adella, Amtul, and Don for challenging me to be my best and cheering me on when I didn’t think I could make it. Thank you Fiona, Jasmine, and Khaulah for reading my countless drafts, enduring unfounded doubts, and pushing me ever forward to the finish line. I couldn’t have done this without any of you. Thank you Iyalorisha Ifatola Adesanya Kerr for helping me light my path. I have so many more people I could name here, people who’ve nurtured my writing, my heart, and my life, but I’ll just say this: may every kindness and gesture of support you grant the world, return to you in abundance! I thank you all. I love you all.

  Dedication

  To Jama and Granny: You are not gone.

  Chapter One

  Friday

  Stay awake this time. Stay awake this time. Stay awake this time. Kiana said it to herself like a mantra. Her head swam with snippets of songs, clips of conversation, and a low buzzing noise that was either imagined or real; she didn’t know which. Drunk would be an understatement. Kiana had left her friend’s party over an hour ago, stumbling to the Blue Line, practically crawling up the stairs to the platform, and finally folding herself into a seat.

  The nearly empty train lurched forward. Kiana leaned her head against the window, and though she tried her best to stay awake, she succumbed to a warm, tingling sleep that resulted in her riding the Blue Line “L” Train from the Damen stop to Forest Park and back again. Not exactly back again, but farther back from where she’d even come, no memory of switching to the train on the other side of the tracks. She woke up at O’Hare. Forced to get off the train, she tried to gain her composure before heading back south. She managed to board the train back to the city, chose a seat near the door to stay alert, but dozed off again, drunk and drooling, to Forest Park and back again. The transfers blurred twirls of night air and grimy concrete from one side of the platform to the other, back and forth, to O’Hare as if running line drills.

  Stay awake this time. Stay awake this time. Stay awake this time. She repeated it. Even saying it aloud. Like Beetlejuice. Three times makes it real. At her third ride to O’Hare, someone caught her arm.

  “Are you okay, lady?” the man asked. He wore a gray jumpsuit with his name stitched across his chest. Kiana’s blurred vision couldn’t make it out, and in her drunkenness, she always called everybody “Buddy,” so the kind stranger’s name was of no consequence anyway.

  “Thanks, buddy,” Kiana said, her tongue thick and dry in her mouth. “But I’m good. Just going home.” She patted his shoulder. He looked at her skeptically.

  Kiana stumbled. The man walked her to a bench. She sat down hard. Her body felt heavy. Like her jeans and coat were lined with that sand they use in ankle weights. She thought about that and wondered if it had a special name.

  “It’s probably just called sand,” she said with a chuckle. She opened her eyes wide, trying to focus, trying to make sense of the bright subway lights and the blurs of blue and yellow and silver that spun around her.

  “What did you say?” the man asked, frowning. “Are you sure you’re gonna be all right?” He leaned over her.

  “I’m good, buddy. I’m good.” She waved him off. He walked away, looking over his shoulder at her every now and again as he made his way to the escalator.

  When the train boarded to head back to the city, Kiana climbed on, swung her body on the post near the sliding doors, and flung herself into the seat. The car, empty save a petite white woman with a rolling valise twice her size, smelled of burnt cheese. The smell, otherwise putrid and unwelcome on the train car, made Kiana hungry. She looked at her reflection in the dark windows of the train. She ran two hands over her afro, an unruly tangle of coils and kinks jutting up into an inch-thick crown around her head, and stared into her own dark brown eyes.

  Stay awake this time.

  She did.

  When the train pulled into the Jackson stop, downtown Chicago, Kiana finally made it off the car and down the stairs, walking in a determined daze through the white-tiled tunnel to the Red Line for her transfer. The musty, dingy halls that lead to the Red Line train held a special kind of quiet. She walked alone, no one singing or clanking cans for change. A couple walking fast and leaning into each other for support, whispered and giggled quietly as they passed her. She made it to the platform just before the doors slid closed. She exhaled loudly then sat in an aisle-facing seat.

  A woman with a messy ponytail of tangled fake hair sat across from her, popping her gum and listening to Jodeci on a Discman. “Come and Talk
to Me” blared beyond her headphones. Kiana smiled; the woman rolled her eyes. A tall, skinny man in a stretched out Chicago Bulls hoodie pushed through the doors that connected the cars. “Looosies. Loosies. And DVDs,’” he called as he walked up the aisle and through the nearly empty car. A sleeping woman with a cart stuffed with worn Moo & Oink bags sat toward the middle of the car. A woman with two children, both of them wide-awake with runny noses, filled the seats to her left. The woman’s head bobbed in exhaustion, her eyes snapping open each time her chin dipped.

  Kiana suddenly felt sad. Drunk and sad. She’d been here before. Alone, late at night, on the train, feeling like no one cared about her. Like no one gave a damn. This was the fucked up part about getting loaded. Sure, while drinking and partying, everything is fine. Good times to last you until your last days. That feeling wore off over an hour ago. She had lost the feeling of euphoria somewhere during that last, embarrassing, and ridiculous ride to O’Hare and back.

  She closed her eyes. She imagined her friends in bed, the ones she’d just left. They spooned and slept peaceful and warm in the comfort of their North Side flats, all the lights out except for the one over the stainless steel sink of their modern kitchen with marble countertops and breakfast bar. She sighed. She dug in the pocket of her jacket and pulled out her phone. She had a single bar of battery left. She pressed the buttons to get to her recent history. A list of missed calls. None of them from the friends she’d just left. All of them from her sister, Karyn. She’d been calling all day. Kiana called her. She braced herself for her older sister’s hard, judgmental voice.

  “Kiana?” Karyn asked, her voice hoarse. She cleared her throat. “You know what time it is?”

  “No,” Kiana said. “What time is it?”

  Karyn sighed into the phone. “You’re drunk.”

  “Why you always say that when I call you?”

  “I don’t know, Kiana,” she said. “Why are you always drunk when you call me?”

  Kiana shook her head and looked over at the woman with the children, as if she could help her. The train rumbled to a stop at Sox 35th. A man dressed in a faded, stained jogging suit and dress shoes entered the car and sat down. The doors closed and the train pushed on.

  “What time is it?” Kiana asked.

  “It’s after two,” Karyn said. She yawned. Kiana didn’t know if she was being dramatic or if the yawn was legit. Suspicion and paranoia. Side effects of her lingering drunkenness.

  “The Seventy-One still running?” Kiana asked.

  “Seriously, Kiana?” Karyn said. “Where are you? Where are you coming from? You on the train?”

  Too many questions at once. Kiana was coming down, but she was still drunk. The train stopped. The doors didn’t move and there was no overhead announcement. A beep. Another. The train sat unmoving and quiet.

  “What?” Kiana said. She shot a confused look to the woman across from her. She nodded to the jam, singing the words under her breath.

  “Where are you?” Karyn said, interrupting.

  “On the Red Line,” Kiana answered. Karyn lit into her. She rambled on about late nights, drinking, transportation, partying on the North Side without a ride home, hanging with white people who don’t even really care about you, and drinking too much. Again. It always came back to that.

  “What?” Kiana said.

  “I said, get off at Sixthy-Ninth and I’ll come get you.”

  Kiana nodded. She closed her eyes.

  “Okay?” Karyn said, already shuffling about, getting dressed.

  “What?” Kiana said.

  “I’ll meet you at the stop,” Karyn said, ending the call.

  Kiana pulled the phone from her ear. She looked at it then slid it back in her pocket. The train began moving again. No announcement, just clicked into gear and continued on. An uneventful stop at 47th, a stop at Garfield that nearly cleared the train, and then 63rd. The woman listening to Jodeci rushed off the train, leaving Kiana all alone. Finally, 69th.

  Kiana pushed herself to her feet and made her way off the car and up to the street. She stood at the 71 bus stop. A huddled group of young men in hoodies and oversized jeans stood in the bus shelter passing a single cigarette back and forth. She nodded at them and went to the corner. She looked over at the McDonald’s, remembering the smell of burnt cheese on the train. She frowned, but her mouth watered. She stuffed her hands deep in the pockets of her jacket and began walking toward the corner. The restaurant’s dark windows didn’t register, the muted light of the drive-thru window didn’t catch Kiana’s eye. She stopped at the corner, the cold wind and blaring streetlights making her eyes water. The glowing arches of the restaurant fought against the shadows of the dim lobby. Kiana couldn’t decide if the place was open or closed. She stared at the empty restaurant, licking her lips and trying to remember the last time she had a Big Mac. A car honked short and loud. Kiana jumped and looked over her shoulder.

  “Get in the damn car,” Karyn said through a crack in the passenger side window.

  Kiana stepped toward the rumbling Oldsmobile that nearly ran up on the curb. She leaned over and peered into the passenger window. She cut her eyes. Looking into Karyn’s face, she saw herself—the same dark eyes, same pointed chin. She’d come to save herself. A simple smile crept across her lips, a mix of satisfaction and amusement. Karyn honked the horn again, and Kiana jumped.

  “Get in the fucking car, Kiana!” Karyn said.

  Kiana adjusted her eyes. She recognized Karyn’s face, the frown lines around her mouth and deep crinkles at the corner of her eyes. Kiana burst into laughter and looked down at her body as if the absurdity of Karyn coming to rescue her only suddenly became clear. She reached for the door handle and pulled at it. Locked. Her fingers slipped off the handle and she stumbled backward. She laughed and clapped at her thighs.

  “How you gonna yell at me to get in and the shit’s locked!” She laughed. Holding her stomach and stomping her feet, she looked over at the men in the shelter as if they cared. She reached out for the handle again. Two hollow clicks. Nothing happened. Karyn reached across the passenger seat to flip the lock manually. Kiana, chuckling, finally yanked the door open. She climbed into the car.

  “Hey,” she said.

  Karyn didn’t respond. She yanked the gearshift into drive and pulled away from the curb with a screech. She drove in judgmental silence, trying her best to look straight ahead.

  Kiana felt Karyn’s eyes on her, sidelong glances burning the side of her face and punctuated by irritated sighs. She couldn’t face her. Relief and shame wrestled for space in her chest, which burned and bubbled with whiskey and bitters. She gagged and swallowed. Karyn sighed and shook her head. Always the responsible one, the one to take care of things, especially when they were kids, Karyn made Kiana feel safe. But they were adults now. It was time for Kiana to take care of herself. It had been time. Shame took the upper hand.

  Drunk and tired, Kiana wiped at the tears burning against her eyelids as Karyn drove down 71st street, the darkened storefronts and vacant lots going by in a blur. Kiana nestled into the passenger seat. The vents blew warm air at Kiana’s feet and face. The car smelled of coconut and gasoline. The familiar smell comforted her, and she closed her eyes and nodded out instantly.

  *

  Kiana woke up on her couch. She glanced around the small, neat apartment; shadows clung to the small table near the door, the oak shelf filled with books and magazines, and the sagging floor plant. She looked at her sister, who sat crossed in the black leather chair adjacent the couch. She was crossed in every way, crossed as in mad, but also crossed physically, her legs, one bouncing atop the other, and her arms, firm and tight against her small breasts. Kiana had seen the look before, was quite familiar with it, actually.

  Without having to guess, Kiana knew she must have been stranded somewhere and needed Karyn to collect her. She closed her eyes to remember, flashes of memory fluttered behind her eyelids: whiskey sloshing and trains clacking, dark tunnels
and golden arches. Loosies. Jodeci.

  “You’re pathetic, you know that, Kiana?” Karyn said. “One of these days, I’m not going to be there to pick you up.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kiana said. She always seemed to be apologizing. She sat up slowly. Her head pounded. She pressed her hands against her temples then smashed her palms into her eyes. Everything was too bright. The lamp next to the chair where Karyn sat, the light coming from the kitchen, the neon green numbers flashing twelve on her stereo. She squinted at Karyn and cleared her throat. “I’m sorry.”

  Karyn just shook her head. “Whatever.” She stood. “This has got to stop,” she said.

  “I know,” Kiana said. She scratched at her scalp through the matted side of her afro. “I said I’m sorry. I just…”

  “You just nothing,” Karyn said with a shrug. “Look, I saw the invitation.”

  Kiana winced. She didn’t need to look into the other room to see it, the lavender wedding invitation sitting like a strong, elegant tent in the center of her wooden kitchen table. Without seeing it, she could smell it, the vanilla musk whispering from the fold; she could feel it, the heavy cardstock soft against her fingertips as she traced the gold script. She struggled to her feet, the memory of Michelle, of being in love, weighing her down. Though Michelle had been gone just over six months, Kiana ached as if she had just left, as if she just realized that her love was gone for good. “Fuck that invitation,” she said, pulling up on her baggy jeans. She walked over to Karyn, who stood in the middle of the spacious living room.

  Kiana looked around her apartment, trying desperately not to meet Karyn’s eyes. The living room area, exceptionally roomy with the sparse furniture Kiana owned, had often set the stage for private, late night dance parties and indoor picnics for two. Kiana stared at the carpet. Her eyes stopped on the bare space in front of the stereo. A small black cigarette burn marked the carpet. The memory came back instantly, sharp and clear, happening right before her eyes.