Let the Lover Be

by Sheree L. Greer

  The bartender slid the drink to her and nodded toward Michelle. “And you?” he asked.

  “Nothing for me.” She waved her hand to decline. “I’ve had too much champagne already,” she whispered to Kiana.

  Kiana rolled her eyes. “You always were a lightweight.” She took the drink the bartender poured, raised it in salute, and knocked it back, almost draining it. She stared down at the sip of brown liquid left in the glass, instantly wanting a refill. She licked her lips and took a deep breath.

  “Rather that than a lush,” Michelle said. They stared at each other. The bartender noticed the tension and backed away slowly, turning his attention to a woman sipping from a nearly empty wine glass.

  “A lush?” Kiana nodded. “You know—”

  “I didn’t think you would come,” Michelle interrupted. “Actually, I was pretty sure you wouldn’t.”

  “Is that why you invited me? Because you thought I wouldn’t come?” Kiana twirled her glass slowly. It seemed just the nonsensical type of thing Michelle would do, compiling her list of wedding guests, thinking of Kiana then jotting her name down with a shrug. That’s the way she had been with their relationship, doing things, saying things just because, an attitude of carelessness and daring with no thought of the consequences. In the beginning, it was attractive, exciting even, but it quickly incensed Kiana as she pressed Michelle to make decisions about their relationship, about their future.

  “No.” Michelle shifted. “I invited you because…because I miss you. I miss our friendship.”

  “Friendship?” Kiana lifted her glass and drank the last of the whiskey. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  “Really. I thought that inviting you would be like, I don’t know, burying the hatchet. Starting over. We didn’t end things on the best of terms.” Michelle put her hand on Kiana’s thigh. She looked at her and smiled. “We should…”

  “We should what?” Kiana said. She glanced down at Michelle’s hand in disgust, the shining engagement ring screaming up at her. Michelle moved her hand. Kiana looked over her shoulder at the party, reminded of the occasion by the blaring ring and smiling guests.

  “I didn’t end things at all,” she said. “So there’s no ‘we,’ Michelle. There’s only you. Only what YOU did,” Kiana said raising her voice.

  “Let’s not place blame,” Michelle said in a hushed voice meant to calm Kiana down. “You came, right? That means something.”

  The conversation wasn’t going the way Kiana had planned. Then again, she hadn’t had a plan. Only an impulse, a need to quell the pain, the ache. An ache that not only didn’t go away when Michelle never returned to Chicago, but worsened, from dull aching to relentless throbbing the second she received the lavender envelope with her name scrawled in elegant script. She hated the way she felt. She hated Michelle. And she loved her.

  “Fuck you, Michelle,” she said.

  “Come on, Kiana. Don’t be like this. It’s obvious you’ve been drinking and—”

  “And what? What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

  “You know how you get when—”

  “No. I don’t know how I get. Tell me how I get.” Kiana slammed her empty glass on the bar. “I want to know. How the fuck do I get?”

  The bartender made a move toward them. Michelle lifted her hand to wave him off and smiled at him. She looked around at the party then cut her eyes at Kiana. “You’re making a scene.”

  “A scene? Fuck—”

  “There you are!” a man called out. He walked over to Michelle and Kiana with a grin. Tall and thin, he moved gracefully toward them. His eyes, warm and sweet as brownies, flashed at Kiana then settled on Michelle. He grabbed her up in a one-armed hug about the waist, pulling her protectively into his lean, athletic body. He held Michelle with confidence, and his complexion, the dark, commanding brown of Colombian Roast, made his bright, wide smile all the more disarming.

  Kiana bit at the inside of her jaw. The man, who Kiana assumed had to be the fiancé, kissed Michelle’s forehead. Michelle smiled up at him.

  “The second I walked in,” he said, “I was instantly bombarded with all sorts of questions and congratulations. It was insane! All I wanted when I got off that call was to see your face. Turns out, you ditched all the schmoozing for the bar. Who’s your friend?” He nudged his chin toward Kiana.

  “Michael, this is—” Michelle began.

  “Nobody,” Kiana said. She quickly dug into the pocket of her slacks and took out a small billfold. She thought, in a split second, how nice it would be to punch them both in the face. “I’m nobody,” she said before Michelle could speak. She couldn’t bear to hear her voice any longer. She peeled a five-dollar bill from her fold of cash and laid it on the bar. She tapped it, shook her head at the couple, and turned away to leave.

  “It’s an open bar, you know,” Michael said.

  Kiana stopped and looked over her shoulder. Michael smiled, his arm wrapped around Michelle’s waist, the gesture casual but complete in its ownership and propriety. Michelle leaned into her man, her eyes betraying nothing, her face stoic. Kiana bit at the inside of her cheek and shook her head, a helpless gesture that seemed the only fitting response, and made her way to the elevator.

  She pressed the button and the doors slid open instantly. She stepped inside and slumped against the back of the wall of the elevator. Michelle and Michael had already left the bar and disappeared into the congratulatory smiles and open arms of their guests.

  Another drink. Kiana needed another drink. Many more drinks, actually. She thought briefly of the open bar she’d left, and the ease and immediacy with which the bartender supplied her with whiskey. A quick pour. No other expectations and no judgment. She shouldn’t have left, but she had no idea what to say to Michelle and most certainly didn’t know how to face “her Michael.” The sight of them together made her sick. Her face burned, and her stomach tightened into a hard ball of muscle. It hurt.

  She unbuttoned the third button of her dress shirt, suddenly flushed and tingling with frustration. She spotted a puddle in the corner of the elevator. Kiana hoped it was water and not piss. It was clear, and it didn’t smell. Definitely, probably water. Or a cocktail. A spilled vodka tonic or vodka press. The inside of Kiana’s jaws moistened. The elevator door opened on the fourth floor, and an old white man in an expensive suit entered, his cheeks flushed red with intoxication and his hands clutching a Collins glass of amber liquid. Kiana cut her eyes at him for no other reason than he had a drink and seemed happy, a simple smile on his face as he glanced over at her. He stepped to the corner of the elevator and stood in the vodka-tonic-maybe-water-possibly-piss. Kiana grinned.

  When the elevator dinged and the doors opened, the cool air of the lobby filled the small space instantly. The white man held his hand out for Kiana to exit. She returned the gesture; the white man chuckled and stumbled out. Kiana followed.

  The lobby was bright and bustling with late night activity. Drunken cliques of blond white girls walked across the lobby bumping each other’s shoulders, laughing and yanking down on their too tight, too short spandex dresses. A few of them carried their strappy stilettos, the sling-backs hanging from the hooks of their index fingers, others braved the walk across the carpeted floor on trembling legs. There were groups of men, ties loosened and suit coats askew, polo shirts damp with sweat and plastic drink cups in their hands. Everyone drunk. Kiana looked at her watch. It wasn’t even ten p.m. Kiana stopped staring and joined in the fray.

  She made her way out into the street and a few doors down to another hotel with a lobby just as busy. She walked over to the bar and ordered a Maker’s neat. She drank it quickly, the burn just what she needed to right herself. She ordered another. Looking around as she sipped the second drink, she tried to get a handle on the night. What she was even doing there. What she was going to do next. She motioned for the bartender.

  “You ready for another one already?” he asked. “You better pace your
self, baby. The night is young and full of life. You are young and full of life. Too many, too fast will mess with both of dem, yes?” His accent was Bayou thick.

  “I have a question,” Kiana said, drinking her whiskey down. “I’m not from here.”

  “I figured that,” he said. He flashed a toothy grin and leaned on the bar.

  “Well, I’m looking to have a good time,” she said. She tapped her empty glass. “One more while we talk.”

  The bartender shook his head and spun around to grab the Maker’s. He poured Kiana another drink.

  “A good time?” the bartender said, sliding the half-filled glass toward Kiana. “You’re in N’Awlin’s, and good times is our specialty. Big Easy as they say!” He winked. “Now, a smooth character like yourself,” he began, considering her with a sidelong glance, “should be out among the beautiful people.”

  Kiana smirked and adjusted the collar of her shirt. “Oh, you think so?” she said. She rolled up her sleeves. She felt comfortable in a way she wasn’t used to when in a new city. She looked around. The collection of people, elegant and plain, men and women, straight and gay, struck her for the first time. Two women in evening gowns and tuxedo jackets walked gracefully to the elevator. A small group of men, outfitted in stylish suits and fedoras cackled and slapped at each other’s arms in laughter. A young couple in matching khaki shorts, polo shirts, and name tags sat at the bar whispering and giggling in a dark corner. A tall man with a feather headdress and sequined halter top leaned against the bar and fished through his pocketbook, finally pulling out a half-smoked cigar and Zippo lighter. The Big Easy indeed. Everyone seemed so at ease in their skin, so contented in their identities that Kiana wanted to buy the lot of them a round of drinks.

  “Who you here with?” the bartender asked.

  Kiana took a slow swallow of her whiskey. She pressed her lips against teeth. “Just me, myself, and I, buddy.”

  “No,” the bartender said with exaggerated shock. “That ain’t right!”

  “Whether it’s right or not, it’s the truth.” Kiana shrugged and sipped her drink. “I’m all I got, buddy. I’m all I got.”

  The next few drinks went by in a flash, and when Kiana hit the street, the Maker’s she slammed at the bar came down upon her, heavy and soft as a velvet curtain.

  The Quarter was a blur of bodies and sounds. She couldn’t make out faces, but she could see the music. Waves of magenta flowing from unseen trumpets, goldenrod bursting from invisible saxophones, and cerulean blue overflowing from phantom pianos. The music glowed in the darkness of the night. She walked in what she hoped was the general direction of her hotel. She bumped her way through small groups of people, partiers headed to the next bar, lovers headed to their rooms. She pushed her way to a corner and stood. Just stood. Staring. The streets were alive with eyes and teeth, music lighting the way. Lost and woozy, she took a step off the curb. A hand caught her about the elbow.

  “Watch yourself,” a woman’s voice said.

  Kiana yanked her arm from the woman’s grip. “I’ve got it!” she said over her shoulder. She stumbled, swaying on her feet. A sheet in the wind.

  The woman frowned and took Kiana gently about the shoulders. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” Kiana said. “I’m fine, buddy.” She slumped in the woman’s arms.

  Chapter Four

  Sunday

  Kiana woke up cold. She held herself and shivered awake. She opened one eye and looked around the small, sparsely decorated room. A tall, mahogany bureau stood against the wall, and small tables, both covered with a red cloth etched with gold eddies, flanked the bed. She squinted toward the single window, sunlight muted against the sheer, off-white curtains. She sat up, holding the side of her head. A dull ache pounded against her right temple. Still intoxicated, she licked her lips and then her teeth, where a bitter film met her tongue. She grimaced and forced herself to swallow. She looked down at herself.

  Kiana still wore her clothes from the night before, pants and tank top intact, her button-up shirt lay at the foot of the bed. Good. She looked around the room. She had no idea where she was. Bad. She cleared her throat and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her bare feet against the cool hardwood sent a quick chill through her bones, yet the solid cold of the floor stabilized her. Made her feel alert. A bucket sat next to the bed. Empty, but ready. Kiana chuckled. She hadn’t thrown up from drinking in ages. She licked her teeth and smacked her lips. Stale whiskey. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the night before. The door opened behind her, and she turned.

  “You’re awake,” a woman’s voice rang out from the doorway. The woman, about Kiana’s height but thinner and more toned, leaned against the doorjamb. She wore fitted jeans and a white v-neck T-shirt that hugged her small, braless breasts. She held a glass of orange juice in one hand and ran the other through her short, curly black hair. She smiled. Her skin was pale as uncooked plantain and her eyes were too light to be called brown, but too dark to be considered hazel. “I’m Genevieve. But most people call me V.” She sipped her juice.

  “Good morning, Genevieve. I’m Kiana.” She smiled back.

  Genevieve raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m not most people,” Kiana said. She pushed herself up from the bed with a slight grunt, her body aching with hangover dehydration. She turned to completely face her Good Samaritan, who smiled at her with the most genuine gesture Kiana had witnessed in a long while. Genevieve was gorgeous but seemed unaware of it. As if her face was just her face, not stunning or remarkable, just an arrangement of eyes, nose, and mouth.

  “Obviously,” Genevieve said.

  “How so?”

  Genevieve drank from her juice then licked her lips. “You’re calm and at ease. Not panicked. You used to waking up in strange places?”

  Kiana narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “Shit happens.” She shrugged and pushed her hand through the thick, matted coils of her afro. “Besides, I’ve got a guardian angel.” She smiled and smoothed her pants and grabbed her shirt from the foot of the bed. She put it on and started buttoning it up. “I do thank you though. I’ll be out of your way in a second.” When she finished adjusting her shirt, she patted her pockets for her phone.

  “It’s in the front room,” Genevieve said. She spun off the doorjamb and walked down the short hall. Kiana followed, using her fingers to pick out her hair at the back and the sides. The front room, warm and bright with sunlight, was neat, but a bit cluttered with paintings on every wall, huge clay pots and figures lining walls and squatting in corners, and varieties of house plants. Kiana squinted against the sunlight, a dull ache spreading across her forehead.

  Genevieve nodded toward the cocktail table, a wooden table covered with the same red cloth from the bedroom tables. Atop the table sat Kiana’s cell phone, a small fold of twenties, and her room key. She walked over to the table and swiped up her belongings. She looked at Genevieve, who stood in the kitchen, a small area separated from the rest of the living space by nothing but a small breakfast bar with two stools.

  “By the door,” Genevieve said. She gestured past Kiana.

  Kiana turned. Her black leather loafers, neatly situated side-by-side, sat next to a clay umbrella holder shaped like a woman’s torso. Two umbrellas, one purple and one black, and a crooked walking stick jutted out from the slopes of the woman’s shoulders and chest where her head should have been. She looked at the shoes then back over her shoulder at Genevieve. She raised her eyebrow. It was as if Genevieve were reading her mind, anticipating her questions. Her head still swam a bit, and Genevieve’s calming sense of control made her uncomfortable.

  “Thank you,” Kiana said. Her voice cracked, her throat sore and dry from too many shots. She walked over to her shoes, slipped her feet into them, and turned to face Genevieve. She coughed into her hand and cleared her throat. Her stomach churned and her head throbbed.

  “Want some juice?” Genevieve asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. She went i
nto the refrigerator and took out a clear pitcher a quarter full of orange juice. “I squeezed it myself.”

  Kiana walked across the living room and stood between the two stools. “Thank you,” she said. She took the glass of juice Genevieve slid toward her. She sipped it slowly. Cold, sweet, and thick, the juice coated her throat, soothing it where the whiskey had burned it raw.

  “It’s good.” Kiana drank more. “Wouldn’t happen to have any vodka, would you? Hair of the dog?” She sipped and raised her eyebrows, smiling.

  Genevieve shook her head. “Sorry. Can’t help you.” She poured herself more juice.

  Kiana sighed. She looked around the kitchen. Her eyes caught a chain of wishbones and dried chili peppers hanging beside the small window over the sink. “You’re one to talk, you know,” she said.

  “What?” Genevieve paused, her glass of juice hovering at her full lips.

  “You’re calm. At ease.” She tilted her head and cocked an eyebrow. “You used to bringing strange women home?”

  Genevieve laughed. She placed her glass on the breakfast bar without taking a sip. “Shit happens,” she said, leaning on the counter. “And,” she continued with a smile, “I got a guardian angel, too.” She chuckled softly.

  Kiana drank the last of her juice. Under different circumstances, she might have liked Genevieve. She smiled at her. “Yeah, I bet.” She adjusted her shirt, started to tuck it in, then stopped with a shrug. Fidgety and suddenly irritated, she clenched her fists at her side and took a deep breath. “I’m gonna go. You’ve been very nice, and I appreciate you taking me in last night. I’m sure I was a mess. I’m sorry if I did anything or said anything…” She paused, giving Genevieve a chance to tell her a little about the night.

  “Blackouts,” Genevieve said, not taking the bait. She whistled and shook her head. She looked up at Kiana then sipped her juice.

  Kiana sighed and turned away from Genevieve. She walked toward the door, pulling her phone out of her pants pocket. She stopped.