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Let the Lover Be

Page 4

by Sheree L. Greer


  “You can use mine,” Genevieve said. She joined Kiana in the front room, walked over to the old desk in the corner of the room, and unplugged her phone from the charger. She handed it to Kiana. “I was wondering if you had someone to call.”

  Kiana stared down at the phone. She started to dial then stopped. “You know the number for a cab?”

  “A cab?”

  “Yes. A cab? A taxi? Taxicab? Whatever you call it down here.” She held the phone back out to Genevieve expectantly.

  “So you really are here all alone?”

  “Yes,” Kiana said. “So what? Women can’t travel alone? What year is it?”

  Genevieve held her hands up defensively and took the phone. “I just…it’s just strange that you’re down here by yourself. Most people come down with friends, with lovers.” She shrugged. “Being here alone, I would think you’d be more careful. When I found you, you were tore down.”

  “You didn’t ‘find’ me,” Kiana said. “You bumped into me. I would’ve made it to my hotel. It wasn’t far from where I was.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Look, can you just call me a cab so I can get out of here?” Kiana crossed her arms and tapped her foot. She didn’t appreciate Genevieve’s attitude. Being beautiful didn’t give her the right to be an asshole; plus, she could have really used a drink. Something to take the edge off. Her head still throbbed, though less intensely.

  “Where you staying? I asked you last night and tried to tell from your room key, but…”

  “At the Holiday Inn.”

  “On Royal?”

  Kiana scrunched her face. “Yeah, I guess. Near the Quarter.”

  Genevieve chuckled. “That’s not far from here,” she said. “I can give you a ride.” She slid her phone into the pocket of her jeans and walked back over to the desk. She grabbed a small leather messenger bag and slid her feet into the canvas sneakers next to the desk chair.

  “You’ve done enough,” Kiana said. “Really.”

  “It’s nothing,” Genevieve said. She opened the door and held it open for Kiana to walk through.

  Kiana squinted against the sunlight, the brightness of the day irritating her just as much as Genevieve’s attitude and mind reading. The irritation didn’t hold as she followed behind Genevieve through a small garden with a babbling fountain. The beauty of the flowers and foliage dulled the sharpness of her attitude. She slowed her steps and looked around.

  “It’s pretty out here,” she said quietly, more to herself than anything else. The garden burst with color, wide bushes with red blossoms, tall plants with yellow flowers, and moss hanging from dipping tree branches.

  “Thank you,” Genevieve said. “I do some of the gardening.” She stopped and surveyed the greenery before walking up a narrow cement path past the main house and onto the sidewalk and one-way street. “My landlord does most of it though. When she’s here.” She shrugged and walked up to a bike chained to a large tree. She stopped.

  Kiana looked around, waiting. A few cars and scooters lined the street. Kiana surveyed the vehicles, trying to guess which one belonged to Genevieve. When Genevieve stepped closer to the locked bicycle, reaching out to yank the chain away from the tree, Kiana shook her head.

  “You’re out your fucking mind,” Kiana said. She pointed at Genevieve’s bike. “You expect me to get on there?”

  “Yes,” Genevieve answered. She looked at Kiana without blinking. “What’s the matter?”

  “You don’t offer people a ride when all you got is a bike. You’re insane.”

  “It’s transportation,” Genevieve said.

  “Yeah, but it’s a bike.” Kiana scrunched her face then looked Genevieve up and down. “What I look like letting you pump me on your bike? I’m a grown woman. And you…you’re so…”

  “Baby, I’m as tough as they come,” Genevieve said. She put her hands on her narrow hips.

  Kiana’s throat clutched. She swallowed hard, her mind seeing Michelle’s face and remembering the last night they shared in Chicago. She hadn’t thought of her all morning.

  “Sure you are,” she said, finding her voice and shaking off the memory. “Me, too. Which is why I am not getting on that bike with you.”

  “Oh,” Genevieve said. She looked Kiana up and down then nodded. “I should have figured you were one of those.”

  “One of those?” Kiana held her arms out and looked down at her wrinkled dress shirt and slacks. “One of what?”

  Genevieve smirked. She poked out her chest and snarled. “One of those big bad studs who ain’t gon’ ride on a bike like a punk,” she said, lowering her voice and squaring her shoulders. She exhaled and smiled.

  Kiana laughed despite herself. The “stud” reference surprised her. She’d been called a stud before, but never resigned herself to the label. She was more surprised that Genevieve had used the term at all, the ease of reference told Kiana what she hadn’t thought to ask. She smiled, feeling a quick sense of welcome and belonging.

  Kiana cleared her throat. “That impression or whatever that was supposed to be was terrible. Look, I just don’t think…” She gripped the handlebars of the bicycle. Sunlight glinted on the bell of the horn attached near the left handle. Vintage and well-maintained, the bike’s frame, the striking, bright green of radioactive peas, revealed neither rust nor scratches. The bike was loved and it showed. “It’s just not what I expected, and I’m sure you’re very strong, but…” She frowned.

  “It’ll be easy. I guarantee.” Genevieve unlocked the bike and quickly wound the chain around the base of the seat.

  Kiana looked around the empty, quiet street. Genevieve had called her out, and she had never been one to back down from a challenge. She took a deep breath. “All right. Tell me what to do,” she said.

  Genevieve clapped her hands and got on the bike. She steadied it between her legs. She directed Kiana with her hands, moving her toward the front tire and telling her to straddle it. The large, rectangular reflector nudged her ass. Genevieve grabbed Kiana’s waist. Kiana stiffened.

  “Relax,” Genevieve said.

  “I’m trying to,” Kiana said. She leaned back, gripping the handlebars with trembling hands.

  “On three, hop up on the handlebars,” Genevieve said.

  “I don’t know about this,” Kiana said.

  “One, two, three!” Genevieve lifted as Kiana hopped back onto the handlebars with an awkward squeal. Before Kiana’s butt settled, Genevieve expertly shifted her hands to the rubber handlebar grips to steady the bike.

  Kiana’s chest heaved and she laughed, feeling silly. She looked over her shoulder. The bike wobbled as Genevieve walked it forward a few steps, getting used to Kiana’s weight on the front of the bike. Kiana snapped her head forward, letting out another little scream. She readjusted her grip on the warm metallic handlebars of the classic Schwinn.

  “Just sit still,” Genevieve said. “Don’t lean back or to the side. Just sit and let me and the bike guide the way.” She pushed the bike forward with her legs. “And most importantly, relax. We’ll stay on the banquette for a little bit then go into the street real easy.” She grunted softly and pressed the bike forward. Kiana instantly felt unsafe, insecure, teetering on disaster. Genevieve pedaled the bike up the sidewalk a ways and finally into the street. The bike moved smoothly, Genevieve keeping perfect control and balance as her legs found a rhythm.

  “You okay?” Genevieve asked, leaning forward slightly to talk over the wind and look around Kiana’s body and up the street.

  “Yes,” Kiana lied, her voice shaky. She gripped the handlebars beneath her buttocks and tried her best to relax like Genevieve said.

  It wasn’t working. If she were drunk, she wouldn’t be worried; she’d be smiling, laughing even, might have even raised her hands over her head and yelled “Wooooohoooo!” But she was sober, the last shadows of whiskey having been chased away by the late morning sun.

  Genevieve noticed the uneasiness in Kiana’s vo
ice and moved the bike opposite the parked cars that lined the tight, one-way street. She picked up a little speed, the faster the bike moved, the smoother the ride, the more balanced the bike. She leaned ever so slightly, looking around Kiana’s body to turn and steer up a side street.

  They passed a bustling café, the large windows offering a peek at the customers inside sipping hot drinks and eating pastries, laptops and newspapers set before them. There were boarded up storefronts, the wooden slats a patchwork of peeling stickers and colorful flyers. A man chaining his bike to a pole outside a corner bookstore waved at the two of them before standing and turning his attention to the tables of books and records spilling from the store’s open door to the street.

  The air smelled sweet; the aroma of fresh baked bread hit Kiana full on as the bike came up on a bakery. A man pushed a metal cart of covered bread toward a small white delivery truck. He nodded at Kiana and Genevieve as they passed. Kiana smiled; her body loosened. The delicious breeze, the smiling, welcoming faces, and Genevieve’s smooth, rhythmic pumping, the bike gliding, it all filled her. She relaxed, her hands tight on the handlebars but no longer aching in their effort. She smiled and closed her eyes. She wobbled through memory, searching for balance, something solid and good to match the moment. She tried to remember the last time she’d been on a bike.

  “Go faster,” Kiana whispered. The wind swallowed her voice. “Go faster,” she repeated.

  “What?” Genevieve said, hunching forward as she looked around Kiana’s arm.

  Kiana opened her eyes and carefully yelled over her shoulder, “GO FASTER!”

  Genevieve pedaled harder. “Here we go!”

  Kiana laughed, smiling and closing her eyes against the blur of street. Memory seized every part of her. Her heartbeat, her breath, her gripping fingers, every part of her became pulses of memory. No clarity or continuity, her memory existed in flashes, fragments of history: Her mother. The nape of her neck and the round of her shoulders. The curve of her back. The light catching her gold hoops and the copper coils of hair sneaking out from the scarf tied around her head. Kiana watched the slight movements of her shoulders, the watchful head turns as she rode them through the neighborhood. Kiana clapped her little four-year-old hands, still sticky from the Popsicle she’d slurped early into the ride. She smiled. She opened her eyes, the bike slowed to a stop.

  “Should probably get off and walk the rest of the way,” Genevieve said, slightly out of breath. She held the bike steady. Kiana slid off the handlebars slowly, wiping her eyes.

  “The wind,” she said. “Could have used goggles or something.”

  “Yeah, you right,” Genevieve said. “That wasn’t too bad though was it?” She nudged her chin up the street to signal the direction they needed to start walking. They were about two blocks from Kiana’s hotel. People walked the streets carrying shopping bags and stopping at windows and vendors that lined the street. Cars blaring music zoomed through yellow lights; a streetcar rambled to a stop.

  “Not at all,” Kiana said. She took a deep breath and shook herself from the memory of good times, forcing them deep inside lest they conjure up darker memories. “It wasn’t bad at all.”

  “Don’t worry,” Genevieve said. “I won’t tell anyone. Would hate for your stud card to be revoked.” She laughed and bumped Kiana’s shoulder.

  “Whatever,” Kiana said. “I’m not into all that. I’m just me.”

  Genevieve rolled her eyes. “Baby, you won’t survive down here with that ‘I’m just me’ talk.” She laughed.

  “Luckily, I don’t need to survive down here,” Kiana said. “I’ll be heading back to Chicago soon.”

  “Yeah, you right,” Genevieve said. She dropped her head then shrugged. “I suppose it don’t matter then.”

  “You can still keep that bike thing between you and me though.”

  Kiana and Genevieve looked at each and shared a laugh. They made their way to the hotel, Genevieve walking the bike between them. Kiana told Genevieve why she was in New Orleans. She didn’t mention her history with Michelle, saying only that she was in town for a wedding.

  “Oh,” Genevieve nodded. “How long are you here for? When’s the wedding?”

  “What’s today?” Kiana said, half-serious.

  “Sunday.”

  “The wedding is in exactly one week,” Kiana answered with a sigh. She shook her head, recalling the conversation she’d overheard at the cocktail party, Michelle gushing about the week’s activities leading up to the wedding: brunches and rehearsal dinners, spa days and bachelorette parties. She couldn’t afford to stay, but she couldn’t leave without talking to Michelle. Her mission came rushing at her, a wave of emotion that would knock her over where she stood if she wasn’t careful. She squared her jaw and made a quick decision to stay, credit card and savings be damned. She knew Karyn would call, worried and furious, but she hoped Karyn would understand. She bit her lip and looked at Genevieve.

  “There’s a bunch of planned activities and what not. It’s a big deal,” she said.

  “A week,” Genevieve said. They reached the hotel. “So I have you for a few days then?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “So you have a few days then?”

  “That’s not what you said,” Kiana said. She fought a smile.

  Genevieve fingered the curve of her bike’s handlebars. She looked down at the bike then up to meet Kiana’s eyes. “I’d like to see you again,” she said.

  “You don’t even know me,” Kiana said. “You might not like me much once you do.” She shifted, staring at her feet. She looked up the street and noticed a liquor store a few shops from the corner.

  “Let me be the judge of that.” Genevieve smiled. “Baby, I don’t believe in accidents or coincidences. I found you for a reason.”

  “You didn’t find me.”

  “Right.” Genevieve laughed. “I bumped into you for a reason.”

  “Fine,” Kiana said. She watched a man dip into the liquor store.

  “Tomorrow. I’ll meet you here. Noon.”

  Kiana smirked. “You’re different.”

  “Why you say that?”

  Kiana shrugged. She searched for the right thing to say. From the moment she woke up at Genevieve’s house, she’d been out of her comfort zone. Hell, since she’d arrived in New Orleans for that matter.

  “Just the way you are…so forward and…”

  Genevieve nodded. “I see. Big bad stud ain’t used to be being asked out on dates, huh? Yeah, you right. I am different.” She smiled and stared into Kiana’s eyes.

  Kiana looked away with a nervous laugh. The man came out of the store with a small bottle wrapped in a paper bag; he cinched it about the neck and slid it inside his jacket. He looked around and jogged up the street.

  “I told you it’s not that,” Kiana said. “I can’t really explain it.”

  “Meet me tomorrow at noon. Give yourself a chance to figure it out,” Genevieve said.

  “Okay,” Kiana said. “I’ll meet you in the lobby. Noon.”

  Genevieve grinned. Kiana thanked her again then turned to head inside the hotel. She stopped at the revolving glass door and watched Genevieve turn the bike around and hop on. She found a break between staggered groups of pedestrians and zipped into the street. Kiana waited until she cleared the corner before heading to the liquor store.

  Chapter Five

  Monday

  Kiana sipped her beer slowly. She glanced at the clock hanging above the cash register. The bartender looked in her direction and she smiled. He smiled back and went back to watching television. The hotel bar, empty save Kiana and an older woman sipping a glass of Zinfandel, was elegantly decorated in black and gray; a brilliant, eclectic blue made appearances as accents in the carpet, couches, and centerpieces in the dining area. Kiana’s phone vibrated against the surface of the bar, where it sat face down. She flipped the phone over but didn’t answer it. Karyn’s name and work number flashed on the screen. Kiana had ca
lled her earlier in the morning and left a short message about arriving in New Orleans safely and, of course, being sorry. She knew Karyn would be calling back, but she let the call go to voice mail. She took a long swallow of her lukewarm Heineken and glanced up at the clock. Her phone rang again. Karyn again, but from her cell phone. Kiana picked up her phone and answered it.

  “Kiana?” Karyn said, her voice frantic and high-pitched.

  “Yes,” Kiana said.

  “What’s going on? I got your messages. New Orleans? Are you serious? What the hell are you thinking? Come home. Today. You need to come home TODAY. I’ll get your ticket. And—”

  “I can’t do that,” Kiana said, interrupting Karyn’s string of desperate questions and urgent directives.

  Papers ruffled in the background, and Kiana heard phones ringing, keyboards clicking. Kiana could see Karyn clear as day, her hair pulled into a neat ponytail at the base of her neck, simple button-up blouse, and light colored skirt suit. Karyn’s job, account something or another—Kiana could never remember her title—meant decent money but monotony, stability but stagnation.

  Karyn lowered her voice. “Yes, you can,” she whispered into the phone.

  “No, I can’t,” Kiana said. She looked at the clock again. “I haven’t spoken to Michelle yet. Not for real.”

  “You don’t need to speak to her.”

  “But I do, Karyn,” she said. “I have to know if—”

  “All you need to know, you already know,” Karyn said, cutting Kiana off. She exhaled heavily into the receiver. “Come home, Kiana.”

  “Just give me a couple days. All I need is a couple days.”

  “Look, I have to go,” Karyn whispered. “I’m going to call you when I get off.” She cleared her throat against the sound of keystrokes. “Answer your phone when I do.”

  “I will,” Kiana said. She made eye contact with the bartender.

  “I mean it, Kiana. Answer your damn phone.”

  “I will,” she said. “I promise.”

 

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