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Let the Lover Be

Page 2

by Sheree L. Greer


  Drunk off sambuca and exhausted from dancing nonstop to Gnarls Barkley, Kiana had collapsed on the floor next to Michelle, who lay on her back, smoking a Kool she had bummed from a crinkled, white-haired Jamaican man at the bar an hour before. They had watched the smoke from the cigarette catch the orange glow of the stereo display, curling and twisting, rolling and dancing in the muted light.

  “Your energy is astounding,” Michelle said, taking a long pull off her cigarette.

  “I can’t feel my legs,” Kiana said. Out of breath and more than a little drunk, she turned on her side. “But I can feel yours,” she said, running up Michelle’s leg, her fingers sliding up her thighs, finding their way between them.

  Michelle turned on her side. With her dancing brown eyes and full lips moist and inviting, her face looked serious, beautiful and serious. She took another drag from her Kool and blew the smoke over Kiana’s head. “You can feel a lot more if you want to,” she said.

  “Oh yeah?” Kiana said. Her hands continued to roam, curving around Michelle’s hips and finding her supple ass.

  Michelle smiled. “I want you to feel me for real, Key,” she said. “The way I feel you.” She reached forward, the small piece of cigarette still burning, and placed her hand between Kiana’s breasts. “I want you to really, really feel me. Here.”

  Kiana’s heart seemed to pulse against Michelle’s hand. She had leaned in, and they kissed. Kiana lost herself in Michelle’s lips, like she always did, feeling light-headed, feeling good, so good. The kiss grew, took over them, and in moments, they were both lost. The cigarette forgotten, the glowing butt abandoned in the mix of searching hands, hungry mouths, and aching thighs.

  Karen grabbed Kiana’s shoulders, shaking her to attention. “Throw it out, Kiana. Don’t even think about it.” She slid her hands to the sides of Karyn’s face. Kiana met Karyn’s eyes, and it was like looking into a mirror. She imagined what their mother looked like since Karyn always said they looked like her. Dark brown, doe-like eyes set in a heart-shaped face with full lips and striking cheekbones. Kiana had her father’s honey complexion, but any resemblance to the “nameless donor,” as Karyn called him, stopped there. Karyn told Kiana that people used to remark how fitting his absence was as it seemed Renee, their young, free-spirited mother, made the girls all by herself.

  “Forget about Michelle. Forget about the wedding. Throw the invitation away and focus on you.” She looked into Kiana’s eyes. She smiled.

  Kiana grabbed her wrists and tried to pull her hands down. Karyn resisted.

  “I’m serious. Forget about it.” Karyn frowned. “You’re not as tough as you think you are, you know. I can tell you’re hurting.”

  Kiana tugged at Karyn’s wrists. “Don’t let this pretty face fool you,” she said.

  Karyn dropped her hands and crossed her arms.

  “I’m as tough as they come,” Kiana said. She hardened her jaw against the memory. Michelle had said the same thing before she left, and Kiana had answered the same. Tucking a wavy lock of hair behind her ear, Michelle had looked at Kiana and smiled, whispering in the sweet voice she always used during their pillow talk, “You’re not as tough as you think you are.” Kiana had smiled through the statement, kissing Michelle rather than challenging what she meant. In retrospect, her leaving the next day had felt like a test. What was supposed to be a summer visit with a group of girlfriends in New Orleans had turned, without warning, into relocation. Michelle hadn’t even finished her marketing degree at Roosevelt. Kiana wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do, hadn’t known what Michelle wanted from her. So as the daily calls turned to weekly check-ins, which gave way to sporadic texts, she tried to steel herself against needing her. She didn’t want to seem weak.

  Kiana shrugged and adjusted her T-shirt on her shoulders. She spun on her heels, almost losing her balance. “Fuck Michelle.”

  Karyn shook her head. “Let’s get you to bed.” She took Kiana’s hand and led her to her bedroom.

  Kiana undressed, tossing her clothes into an empty laundry basket next to a small pile of sneakers. She slid into her bed. Karyn pulled the comforter over her and up to her chin.

  “I’ll call you in the morning,” Karyn whispered. “I have—” she started then stopped.

  “Tell me,” Kiana said. She clutched the comforter under her chin. She blinked slowly, the bed spinning beneath her, Karyn’s voice soft and soothing.

  “I have this place I want us to check out,” Karyn said. She sat on the bed. The mattress sagged under her weight. “It’s not a rehab, but…”

  “But what?” Kiana asked in whisper, her voice and attention fading. Although she didn’t feel drunk, the multiple Manhattans she drank earlier that night still lingered just beneath the surface of her subconscious. They danced almost. She felt calm, relaxed. One foot in and one foot out of the moment. She thought of elementary school gym class. Dancing the hokey pokey. She smiled.

  “Don’t do that,” Karyn snapped.

  “Don’t do what?” Kiana opened her eyes.

  “Smile like that. I know what you’re thinking. It’s not a rehab, I promise. It’s just…It’s just someone you can talk to. Someone we can talk to.” Karyn sighed.

  Kiana sighed and covered her face with her hands.

  “While I was in the kitchen, I saw the wedding invitation, then”—Karyn rubbed Kiana’s leg—“I saw all the empty bottles. You should really—”

  “Take out my trash more often?” Kiana mumbled.

  “No. You should really cut down, and maybe talk to someone. With the way mama—”

  “I don’t want to talk about that shit now,” Kiana said with a groan. She turned on her side to face the single window in her room. The orange glow of the streetlights squeezed through the blinds, stripes of light pressing into the room.

  “I know, but we can talk about it together. Say you’ll give it a chance. Tomorrow. I’m coming to get you tomorrow. We’ll go together.”

  “Fine,” Kiana said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Kiana turned to Karyn and smiled. “Tomorrow. I’ll go wherever you want. I’ll talk to whoever you want.”

  Karyn smiled back. She stood then leaned over to kiss her on her forehead. Kiana closed her eyes against the kiss and wouldn’t open them again until morning.

  Chapter Two

  Saturday

  Hair of the dog. Kiana chuckled, toasting to the sentiment, alone in her kitchen. She slammed a shot of Maker’s Mark and chased it with orange juice. She winced at the bitterness of the juice after the whiskey. She sat at her kitchen table, the just-risen sun blasting through the bay window blinds and her laptop in front of her. A wine-flavored Black and Mild smoked in a makeshift ashtray beside the computer. She picked up the small cigar, rolled the ash against the pickle jar top, then took a long pull. She blew smoke over her shoulder and clicked through her search results. Same day flights to New Orleans. She poured herself another shot of Maker’s and sipped it. She took the last swallow from the shot glass and clicked on a flight from O’Hare to New Orleans that left that very afternoon.

  She clicked the link for the details of the ticket. She glanced at the invitation. The ticket cost more than she could responsibly afford. She barely made ends meet with her job at New Horizons, a small nonprofit specializing in afterschool programs for kids. She wrote their monthly newsletter and did Web design, or glorified Web updates as she called them, for a few dollars over minimum wage. A few credits short of a bachelor’s degree in graphic design from Columbia College, she knew she could do better but always had trouble staying focused, staying committed. Meeting Michelle had changed that, made her look forward to a future that could expunge her past.

  “You did all these?” Michelle had asked, looking through her portfolio. “These are amazing! The color, the design.” She flipped through the wide pages, logos and websites, mastheads, and billboards full of clean lines, vibrant blocks of color, images that popped off the page.

&nb
sp; Kiana had blushed, a response she wasn’t used to and rarely succumbed to, and slid the leather portfolio from Michelle’s lap. “Thank you,” she had said. On her knees in front of Michelle, who sat on the couch, she escaped the moment of embarrassment by doing what she did best. She unbuttoned Michelle’s jeans, gripped the sides, and tugged at them.

  Michelle had grabbed her wrists, hard. “Seriously, Key, your work is amazing.” She searched Kiana’s eyes. “You’re amazing.”

  Something about the way Michelle said “amazing” had filled Kiana with a mixture of pride and hope that she hadn’t felt in a while. The following week, she set up an advising appointment with her old advisor at Columbia College. She went. She made plans for returning. She got excited by the thought of it all, but when Michelle left, she took all the excitement with her, threw Kiana’s hope in her luggage alongside her lace panties and thrift store T-shirts, and never came back.

  Kiana reviewed the ticket price and tightened her jaw. Fuck it.

  She bought the ticket using the emergency credit card she and Karyn shared, the one she promised she wouldn’t use without calling Karyn first. Kiana closed the laptop and poured another shot. She situated the Black and Mild in her mouth, clenching it in her teeth and picking up the wedding invitation that sat next to the bottle of whiskey. The invitation was beautiful. Iridescent paper lined with pale pink lace and gold lettering. The playful, sweet scent of vanilla rose from the crease of the invitation and transported Kiana to memories she wished she could forget, moments and experiences she wished she could soak in whiskey and set ablaze, burn into oblivion.

  She read the words etched in an elegant font, pressed in gold with delicate strokes and curled ends. “We cordially request your presence for the union of Michelle Denise Matthews and Michael Anthony Freeman…”

  Michelle and Michael. Corny and ridiculous. Kiana took a shot of whiskey. Her phone rang. Karyn. She pressed ignore and rose from the table. She poured one last shot of whiskey and got busy packing.

  Three hours later, her face flushed and body warm and tingling, she jostled along as the Blue Line traveled the all too familiar route to O’Hare. Boarding the plane to New Orleans, she returned Karyn’s call. She didn’t answer, so Kiana left a message:

  “I’m sorry, Karyn. I gotta go though. You know. I mean, it’s Michelle. MICHELLE. Michelle, you know. I fuckin’…I fuckin’ loved her, you know. I love her. I gotta go, you know. I mean. It’s Michelle. Yeah. So, I think…I think we were supposed to do something or talk to somebody. Shit, I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’ll just…I’ll call you when I get back. Oh, I’m going to New Orleans. I have to, you know. So, I’ll be there. I’m boarding now. The plane and shit, you know. So, yeah. I’m sorry. She’s getting fuckin’ married. Tomorrow. Can you believe that shit? Crazy, right? Fuck. Can you go to my place and water my plants? They’re gonna need water. I bought this ticket, and I’m not even sure…wait, this lady’s asking me for stuff. Wait. Oh no, this is carry-on. Yeah, it fits. Ain’t shit hardly in here anyway! Fuck that. Look at that dude’s bag. It’s bigger than mine. What? Yes. Okay. Thank you. Yeah. What? No. What? Yes. Oh. This is my ticket right here. Ha ha! Yeah. Okay, buddy, whatever. Thank you. Karyn? Sorry. I was…never mind. So, yeah. Water my plants? You always…Oh, shit. Thank you. You know I love you, right? I mean, you…just thank you. Wait. Hold on. Hey, buddy, this is me. 28A. Yeah, over by the window, buddy. Yeah. Karyn. I’m sorry.”

  Chapter Three

  The elevator door opened directly into the penthouse suite. The scene blew Kiana away. Tall, slender men in white waistcoats and black tuxedo pants walked around with silver trays of colorful, oddly-shaped treats and bubbling glasses of champagne. No one looked in Kiana’s direction. The party, in full swing, buzzed with conversation; bursts of laughter rumbled from every corner of the room. The slow whine of a trumpet and hungry grunts of a tuba accented the light, fast-paced groove set by a drummer and pianist in the far corner of the suite. Kiana stood, just outside the elevator doors, which had yet to close behind her.

  She searched the small crowds of people, the guests a mixed collection of strangers in fancy strapless gowns and tailored dinner jackets. She took a step forward, and an older white couple, with the most stunning silver hair, looked at her, their sharp blue eyes calculating, evaluating, then dismissing her. Kiana looked down at herself. She adjusted her gray dress shirt on her shoulders. She slid one hand into her black slacks and grabbed a full champagne flute from a tray passing on her right.

  Kiana knew Michelle was marrying into money, but she wasn’t expecting the embroidered silk sofas and marble statues, the crystal chandeliers, and mahogany bar lined with white leather stools. She remembered a different Michelle, a Michelle who put her last two dollars in the raggedy jukebox at Tom’s to play “Stir it Up” five times in a row, a Michelle who, drunk off Malibu and pineapple juice, bought loosie Kools two at a time and always gave one away. Kiana drained the champagne and, before she brought the empty glass from her lips, an attentive server appeared at her side to offer her another. She replaced her empty glass with a new one, nodding her thank you. She sipped this one, letting the tart bubbles dance on her tongue. She wandered through the grand space, looking around, smiling a tiny smile at the few people who looked at her for more than a second.

  Kiana circled the entire party and found her way back to the bar. She placed her empty champagne glass on the shiny mahogany surface. The bartender, a redheaded man with a ruddy face and aquamarine eyes, wiped the inside of a glass and winked at her. She leaned forward to order a drink when she heard it:

  Michelle’s laugh.

  Michelle’s laugh, energetic and bright, exploded in the air, and floated down like confetti. Kiana turned. Michelle stood a short distance away, ten feet at the most, one hand on her hip and the other resting on the shoulder of a short, balding white man with a bushy moustache, who obviously said something absolutely hilarious. He gestured with his hands and Michelle laughed again, just as loud and carefree and beautiful as before. Kiana’s mouth went dry. Michelle was stunning.

  An emerald green dress caressed every slope and curve of her body. The bodice, corset-like and fashioned with black lace, held her cinnamon brown breasts up and out. Her hair, which she used to wear wild and curly, was straightened and swept up into an elegant bun, from her neck to her shoulders, every line of her body a graceful and intentional invitation to admire God’s most beautiful creation. Michelle laughed again. Quieter this time, but no less intoxicating. The bartender cleared his throat, and Kiana turned to him, panicked. Suddenly terrified and anxious, she took a deep breath and licked her lips.

  “Can I get you something?” he asked, smiling.

  Kiana couldn’t find her voice, but she heard Michelle’s. She glanced over her shoulder as Michelle, her voice clear and bright as ever, introduced herself to the couple with the silver hair. The woman asked to see the ring. Michelle held out her hand. The woman took her hand and nudged her husband, who shielded his eyes with his hands, exaggerating only slightly. Even from where Kiana stood, the shine of the large diamond was impressive. The three of them continued to chat about the wedding plans for the week.

  “The week?” Kiana whispered to herself.

  “What’s that, lovey?” the bartender said.

  “I thought the wedding was tomorrow,” she said.

  “No, ma’am. A week from today,” he said. “I’m working the reception,” he added with a proud smile.

  Kiana sighed and shook her head. Her mind reached back to the invitation, trying to remember the dates. All she could recall was Michelle and Michael. Union. Sunday. She frowned and continued watching Michelle entertain the distinguished looking couple. When the man inquired about the whereabouts of her fiancé, Michelle smiled graciously and said, “Oh, my Michael will be here soon. He had an unexpected business call.”

  My Michael. Kiana swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her ears.

  “Miss? Can I get you something? It�
��s an open bar. Name your poison,” the bartender said behind her.

  Kiana needed a drink, but she couldn’t take her eyes of Michelle. It was good to see her, and she hated every second of it. As much as she wanted to go over to her, shove the silver-haired couple out of the way, and stand directly in front of her, to ask her questions and demand answers, Kiana also wanted to disappear. In direct contrast to Michelle’s firework laughter that exploded overhead in bright, vibrant light, she wanted to implode into darkness, into nothing.

  The couple brought Michelle into a hug, and when she turned her head to offer her cheek to the silver-haired gentleman, she saw her. She finally saw her. Michelle met Kiana’s eyes, and Kiana, as if suddenly aware that flying down to New Orleans to confront her ex-lover meant actually confronting her ex-lover, turned around in a panic, trying to steady herself. Deep breathing didn’t work. She squeezed her fists at her side.

  “What will it be?” the bartender asked again, forcing a smile through his obvious irritation.

  “Maker’s. Neat,” Michelle said over Kiana’s shoulder. She slid next to her, smiling.

  “You remember,” Kiana said, nearly choking on her breath and startled at how quickly Michelle had made her way over to the bar. “You actually remember,” she said again. She steeled her lips before a smile could form. She didn’t want to smile at her, for her. She was sure Michelle could remember lots of things about her, but what did it matter if she could walk away and so easily?

  “How could I forget?” She smiled, her shapely lips framing even white teeth, eyes brown and playful.

  Kiana wanted to say something, wanted to let Michelle know how the sting of her leaving and the ache of six months without her returned anew each day. She began to speak then stopped.

 

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