Our Muted Recklessness (Muted Hopelessness Book 2)

by Love Belvin

  “Yeah.” I lifted my heavy head. The wine had the best of me; I was vomiting my emotions that were fucking ridiculous. “She’s another—a bigger—one. You have to extrapolate her words against her delivery…draw inferences created in her mind to coexist with her. I have to decipher her moods. But her heart seems so clear, so glaringly patent…to me. And I think…” I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  “No. Go ahead.” She rubbed my hand encouragingly.

  “No. It’s just that I don’t know shit about how she was raised but can tell something fucked up happened. She’s not been taught how to express her feelings. Hasn’t been taught how to groom herself, how to honor and polish her femininity. Shit, she barely knows how to communicate gratitude or anything other than telling someone to fuck off.”

  “And goes oh, so against your toplofty, polished nature.” NormaJean surmised. “Is that the reason you haven’t fucked her yet?”

  My eyes shot up at her, lungs hiccupped. “It could be.” I sat back in my seat. “Could also be that I don’t want to.”

  She snorted into her flute. “Don’t want to? Since when don’t you—is there something going on?”

  “No.” My eyes closed as I laughed. “I would love to. It’s just that I can’t because I feel that whatever it is that keeps her from being a…normal girl would destroy her if I were to fuck her, and I told her that.”

  “Look at you, looking out for the weak.”

  “Nope.” I shook my head, eyes cast somewhere on the table. “Tori ain’t weak.” That was more of a reminder to myself.

  “Oh!” She trilled. “The Tori girl whose name sounds like a guy.”

  I nodded, lips pursed. “The one and only.” I murmured, “Her.”

  “Now, I’m concerned.” My face folded at that. “You arranging dinner for her in your apartment, struggling with cheating on princess Aivery.” NormaJean propped her chin on her fist, lips pouted as she pretended to think. “Maybe I have some competition.”

  “Oh, knock it the hell off!” I groaned. We both laughed at that. “Try sounding convincing next time.”

  NormaJean’s laughter was melodious and breathy. My attention was taken when my phone sounded. I nearly dropped it on the floor, so quick and anxious in action when pulling it from the pocket of my sweatpants.

  I shook my head and scoffed, “I wish my little cousin never taught this woman how to use a Blackberry.”

  “Is that Wanda, looking for the prince?”

  “That it is. She telling me the greens won’t get done by her alone tonight.”

  “She’s hosting?” I nodded. “So you won’t be with the Spencers tomorrow?”

  “Nah. Wanda wouldn’t have it. I called my grandmother and told her my mother wants everyone there tomorrow after Brick’s passing. She felt like we were all so in grief during his funeral, she missed everyone.”

  “Did Lady Spencer understand?” NormaJean giggled, shaking her head.

  “So she said, but when I told her my flight’s leaving the next morning, she was salty as fuck.”

  She lifted her flute. “That’s the Lady Spencer I know.”

  My eyes swept the table. “Come on.” I stood. “Let me help you clean this up.”

  NormaJean downed the rest of her champagne, swallowing it all. “Don’t worry about it. It’s going to be a long night for me anyway. I need to do a few loads of laundry and pack again.”

  “Where are you going now?”

  “To visit home, but just for a day.”

  “You’ll be home with family for Thanksgiving?”

  NormaJean McNeill was from a small town in Kansas. She hadn’t lived at home since eighteen years old. The day after she graduated high school, she packed a small suitcase, took the wad of cash she’d saved up in a jar from her job at an ice cream parlor, and trekked it to Los Angeles. Her parents weren’t happy about it at all, but also powerless to her decision. NormaJean worked, waiting tables in L.A. for a couple of years, not knowing what she wanted to do other than escape Kansas. It was at a restaurant that she encountered a film director who made her birth name a household one. NormaJean lived on the West Coast for years, eventually moving to Las Vegas where she purchased a home. She made millions and was oddly smart with her money and her celebrity.

  It so happened she was on a long stay in New York City about five years ago, shooting with a new production company when she encountered me at sixteen years old. We were at a launch party for a new liquor line a friend of my father’s was invited to. I went along with him, of course not looking less than twenty years old. NormaJean sensed my youth, but still chatted with me in a corner over whiskey and jokes until the end of the event. She may have been content with just leaving our evident chemistry there in that lounge, but there was no fucking way I was leaving without shooting my shot at the NormaJean. I knew her work and wanted a taste. I’d gotten more than what I bargained for. The woman blew my mind…for years. We traveled around the country and outside of it, fucking and exploring—with her fluid girlfriends sometimes—until we were found out.

  NormaJean shook her head. “I don’t think I’ll be good holiday company. But my mother knows I’ll be there on Friday. I’ll spend a few hours with her before meeting my cousins at a restaurant. After that, a red-eye back home to Vegas for me.” She waved her hand. “Come let me walk you out before I change my mind and make you stay with me. That’ll send Wanda to the crazy house.”

  I downed my wine, well past inebriated, and grabbed my phone before following her out. Something dawned on me. “You cooked for just me. Aren’t you sweet.”

  “Well, I had to check in here after the renovations. And if I wanted anything resembling a Thanksgiving meal with family, I had to snatch your handsome ass up and”—she shrugged—“cook for you.”

  As we traveled the lush house, I sent a message to Louis, telling him I was coming out. Then I wondered out loud, “How long are you going to keep this place?”

  Her ass jiggled when she sauntered, even under the silk duster.

  “Huhn?” She turned to me in the foyer.

  “You bought this house five years ago and haven’t stayed here much since I left for school. How long are you going to keep it?”

  NormaJean’s mouth turned up and long lashes met as she thought about it. “I thought of selling it, but figured I’ll wait, at least, to see where you’ll get drafted to make that call. What if the Giants, Bills, Jets, Eagles, or your dream, the Kings, pick you up?”

  That reminded me of why she bought the place. NormaJean wanted to be closer to me before I nixed Princeton for BSU, because my mother wanted me to have an HBCU experience. It was nice to be a factor when considering where she lived. But it was also a stark reminder of her disregard for my plans with Aivery after college. I wouldn’t bring it up now. It was late and I’d had a really good evening with NormaJean, seeing her newly renovated home and enjoying a delicious meal with her.

  I pulled her into me for a hug, something she returned effortlessly. She hugged me tight and with a natural rhythm, she gazed up at me as I peered down on her. Then unusually, our mouths met and we deepened our embrace with a warm peck. It was intimate, but clean. My relationship with NormaJean was a hybrid of family and sensual companion. We no longer fucked—or kissed on the mouth—but she was a confidant and constant in my world I didn’t want to do without. She was a complication I wouldn’t undo until I had to.

  “Stay,” she murmured. “I’ve got some good purple haze. And you can watch me get my life together while I tell you about the new guy I met in Paris.” Her gorgeous eyes blossomed wild with a new thought. “Or you can help me plan my thirty-fifth birthday!”

  I found that funny. “As much as I would enjoy the laughs, I’ve got to check in with Ms. Wanda. Thanksgiving’s falling on her birthday this year. That’s a battle I can’t take on right now. I actually need to make sure her gift is in place.”

  She pouted. “Okay.” Her berry lips met my upper cheek, above the beard. “
Go! Enjoy the holiday with your family.” She released me.

  “Hit me when you touch down. We can make plans to chill before Christmas break.” It would be her birthday season.

  “Okay.” She ran her hand down my arm, then moved for the closet to grab my coat.

  I could see the headlights from the car pulling up. NormaJean opened the door for me as I straightened my coat over my shoulders. She squeezed my hand as I walked out.

  Ten minutes into the ride, I’d typed up a message to Tori, reminding her how rude it is to not check in after someone arranged for her transportation. I included a few coarse words and was about to hit send when her BBM came through. She said she had just made it home and tipped the driver twenty bucks. Then another message from her came through where she simply said, thanks.

  My head fell back into the headrest as I exhaled a silent stressor away.

  I slipped my Blackberry into my coat pocket and began my trek into the trailer park. The light posts lit the paths of the walkways, although I didn’t need them to find my way around here. I was all too familiar with this “campus.”

  When we got off the Turnpike, I called my cousin, Renata, and told her I’d be in town soon. It wasn’t until the very moment that I began to get excited about being “home” and seeing them. My mother’s trailer was toward the back of the park, something I always hated when I moved there. It was too far from all my friends and family in the park, but I guessed that worked for her and Paul.

  Even after dark, children were out playing. A group of guys had their lawn chairs bunched together as they drank beer and talked shit. The white people in this trailer park got loud and violent when they drank. The Hispanics were loud sober and when drinking; their music, too. The Blacks only got loud when talking sports and religion. A few spoke, but not many. It didn’t matter that they all knew me; some of the adults had all my life. I was comfortably invisible amongst these humans. Only a few of my Margaret’s friends who were still around really said hello.

  My feet slowed as I approached my grandmother’s old trailer. The outside of it looked the same, but it felt different. There was no Margaret food wafting outside the windows in the front. And I’d bet the smell of bleach from deep, weekly cleaning couldn’t be detected from the back. The small flower beds she planted and grew around the entrance were gone, and so was the manmade swing hanging from the tree toward the back of the trailer. My Margaret would sit in her bed and watch her stories or game shows from the television near the window, where she could keep an eye on me as well.

  The second my eyes burned from the memory, I tossed the duffle over my shoulder and continued toward the back of the park. Three minutes, or so, later, I was nearing my mother’s trailer. The lights were off and I didn’t have a key. I tried calling her on the way down from the airport, too, but she didn’t answer. The dreary sight of the house made me question if I should have spent the holiday in North Jersey. Cut wasn’t an option and was likely with one of his girlfriends anyway. But Pastor McKinnon never minded me staying over or feeding me. Maybe I should have endured her preaching.

  As I stared at the dark trailer, in the backdrop, Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” played from a neighbor’s cracked kitchen window. They weren’t home and when the house was empty, they’d turn-on the radio to ward off robbers. I took in a deep breath and let it go. When I exhaled, I closed my eyes, confirming to myself I was back home in nowhere Millville.

  My phone rang in my pocket.

  “Hello…”

  “Where you at, Tori?”

  I glanced around, hearing screeches from a vehicle.

  “I’m on Danville,” I murmured, attention still on the sound.

  “Oh! So you here?” she yelled into the phone. Then she announced to someone else, “She on Danville. Make a left right here.” I could hear a baby whining in the background.

  Seconds later, a sedan came careening around the corner. I rolled my eyes and disconnected the call. My cousins had arrived. Renata was behind the wheel and had pulled up next to me. Treesha, her daughter, NeNe, and their friend, Toya, were in the car, too.

  “Aunt Dot ain’t home,” Renata shared, arm resting in the window frame.

  “You ain’t mention that when I called.”

  “I ain’t think about it. I was running around the house after them kids.”

  In the backseat, Treesha leaned toward the front. “Aye, we ain’t having dinner tomorrow.”

  “Huhn?” My nose lifted in the air.

  Toya chuckled and Renata rolled her eyes. “Them sisters at it again.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “My momma said she cooked last year and bought all the food,” Renata began explaining. “She swear Aunt Dot said she was gonna do it this year.”

  “Yeah, and when we asked Aunt Dot about it, she said she ain’t got no money,” Treesha added. “And she said she just got her new job at B-Way Burger in Bridgeton, and don’t get paid until next week. So…” She waved her palms around.

  I took a deep breath, rolling my eyes. We should have been used to this by now. Those sisters; my mother and aunt, Sonya, never got along. They were so hot and cold with each other, rarely able to spend time in each other’s presence amicably unless they had alcohol in their systems, loosening them up. And seeing that neither were heavy drinkers, those times were few.

  My aunt, Sonya, was my mother’s younger sister from their father. Aunt Sonya grew up in the town next door, Bridgeton, while my mother grew up here in Millville. When Aunt Sonya got pregnant with her second child at seventeen, her mother put her out. When my Margaret got word of it, she arranged for Aunt Sonya to get a trailer in the park. My Margaret helped get her settled with a job and childcare, too. Their father had died when Aunt Sonya and my mother were kids, and Aunt Sonya had no other family to turn to.

  My cousins and I believed my mother didn’t like all the attention my Margaret showered Aunt Sonya and her kids with. We thought she was jealous and never fully embraced her younger sister. My mother had always done her own thing, and mostly spent time with Aunt Sonya on the holidays. My Margaret would cook all the meals and the sisters would come over. Now that my Margaret was gone, my cousins and I would be lucky if we got a holiday meal. And it was clear, this year we wouldn’t.

  Now, I wondered if I should have stayed behind at Blakewood. I didn’t think this thing through. When bossy Ashton said he paid for my flight, I didn’t consider the trip.

  “Well,” I poked my lips. “I see what kind of Thanksgiving this gone be.”

  “Girl.” Renata, Aunt Sonya’s third child, rolled her eyes. “Come on. We going to the new diner. I’m hungry like a muthafucka.”

  I thought for a quick moment, remembering the money bossy human Ashton slipped me, then smiled. I grabbed my bag and went for the backseat.

  An old school tune flooded the kitchen of my mother’s apartment. She was at the stove, stirring the greens with one hand and a raised glass of red wine in the other as she sang along. The song was depressing, and I was tired as shit. Wanda Lee was entertaining on an ordinary day, cussing someone out or setting them straight. But a tipsy and happy Wanda Lee was a vibe. Even in my cranky, sleepy state, my mother’s stable and protective energy emanated, making me feel at home. Thanksgiving was her favorite holiday. I always believed it was because the holiday was on or near her birthday. Either way, she shared it with family and friends, opening the doors to her home—no matter how small this two-bedroom luxury apartment was—to feed them.

  Cutting the last of the yams, I took a deep breath and sat back in the leather kitchen table chair. I craved a warm body and my bed—any three of my beds. Tonight, I would have to settle for just my bed at my mother’s. The wine glass she insisted on serving me once I was settled and ready to start cutting up food was gone. That was cool. I was ready to shower and fall the fuck out.

  My mother sang about her lover being someone’s husband so passionately. If I hadn’t heard the song so many times in my l
ife, I would have thought it was her story. Wanda Lee could sing, but her forceful nature won out the possibility to pursue music and she went to college to study African American History. She eventually became a college professor in Women’s Studies. Maybe her not pursuing her vocal talent was best for me. The woman drove me crazy every day she made sacrifices to help guide me through this chaotic journey.

  Tickled by her performance, I chuckled, shaking my head. Then I scraped the last of the yams into the large bowl she gave me and stood to deliver them. After placing the bowl on the counter, I washed my hands.

  “Let me tell you something, Ashton,” she delivered with her head tilted back, speaking toward the ceiling. “Cheating is wrong, and will never be right. But the biggest conflict comes into play when you fall in love with someone who ain’t yours or who belongs to someone else. People fall in and out of love every day—most of it is bullshit and more about passion and temporary emotions.”

  I keened my eyes and ears to her message. “But when you know the person you’re cheating with is worthy of a commitment and sacrifice…when you’re prepared in your heart and mind to walk through the fire of the mess—the backlash of leaving the relationship and committing to the other person right after the big announcement—it might be something real after all.”

  Shit…

  How did she know I’d been fucked up about this even while cutting up food at her table?

  My mother sang a few more lyrics then continued her tipsy lecture. “You see, even after the backlash of ending the marriage or relationship, you still have to deal with that faceless, timeless bitch name karma. And she’s a damn doozy. But if what you have with the one you cheated with is truly real, you two can survive karma—because you can’t beat her ass.” She shook her head, lips balled tight as she cast her eyes below. “Then maybe…maybe the love was real. Pure. You know?”

  My eyes lobbed left and right as I tried to decrypt her lesson plan. Then I gave up, remembering the near-empty wine glass in her hand.