A Good Thing

by Stacey Evans Morgan

  “Where are you going?” he asked as he grabbed my hand. “Let go of me, please,” I sharply told him. I didn’t know if it was the finality of the moment, the last three years crashing down, complete disbelief or what, but for whatever reason, Jonathan could not let go of my hand.

  I grabbed my glass and tossed that deep red wine in his face as the waiter approached and the other patrons reacted. “I said, please,” I told him as I brushed past the waiter and rushed out of the restaurant.

  I could not believe what was happening to me. I wanted to wake up from this awful dream but it was real. As I stood outside waiting for the doorman to hail a cab for me, the chilly air dried my tears before they could stream down my face.

  Jonathan came running out of the restaurant, wine stains visible on his powder blue French cuffed shirt and golden print tie. He spotted me, then yelled out my name. All I could do was try to keep it together and just focus on hopping into the next taxi, where I would be able to freely let the waterfall of tears come rushing out.

  As a cab pulled up, Jonathan intervened, gesturing for an older couple, also waiting, to take the cab. As the green and white

  D.C. cab drove off with the couple, I turned and yelled at him, “What are you doing? Get away from me you liar!”

  The doorman stood at the distance, but his posture changed as if he was ready to come to my rescue if necessary. My hands fumbled with my phone as I tried pulling up the Uber app.

  Jonathan stopped my trembling hand before I could reserve a ride while trying to defend himself, “I’m not a liar, Pilar. I will always love you, but you deserve someone who is truly in love with you, and I deserve the same.”

  Had we become so secure and comfortable in our flow that the levels of love we both took away from the relationship were that different? We were in sync intellectually, culturally, socially, politically, occasionally we would attend church together and from day one the physical attraction was undeniable. He wasn’t my first, but damn near. I was a late bloomer in college, inexperienced in love with the exception of Michael, a sophomore who welcomed this brand-new freshman to my college dormitory and soon we began to hang out. Eventually I felt he was worthy to explore me in ways no man had ever had the chance to. He changed after pledging a fraternity and although we gave our relationship the old college try, we agreed to go our separate ways.

  Since Sunny had been nearby attending Howard University, I would often hang with her and her newfound HBCU college crew at parties and the occasional football game, which was never about the game but rather the band and half-time show and the sport of socializing. Although I flirted a little with a guy named Scott who was tight with Sunny’s boyfriend Todd, our flirtation fizzled before anything serious developed and soon my school load kept me from straying too far from my campus.

  Years later strolling across the yard, I locked eyes with an all-star football player, political science major named Jonathan Bradshaw and although I wasn’t into athletes and was not about to cater to the ego of the star quarterback as so many other women had done, there was something different about him. I think he liked the fact that I wasn’t the least bit impressed with his celebrity status on campus. He always complimented my hair, outfits, and even took note of what books he would spot me reading in the student union. Soon this casual acquaintance became my first real love, mind, body and soul. Jonathan became the love of my life. And now, the love of my life was standing before me breaking my heart talking about, of all things, love.

  “Screw you, Jonathan! You don’t even know what love is. What’s worse? You’re not even willing to truly discover what it is with me,” I said leaving him as another cab pulled up.

  All he could say was, “The heart doesn’t lie.”

  At that point, I removed my engagement ring, placed it in the pocket over his heart, looked him in the eyes and told him, “No, but you do.” Before he could say another word, I hopped into the cab and left him standing on the curb.

  Showers of autumn leaves fell as I glanced back to see Jonathan standing there watching me ride away. The driver snapped me out of my fog when he asked, “Where you headed this evening?”

  “Nine forty Calvert Street, North West,” I managed to blurt out before breaking down crying.

  The poor driver was so nervous as he asked, “Are you okay, Miss?”

  “No!” I cried out as my boohooing continued.

  As we drove down windy Columbia Road, my wailing became contagious and soon the cabbie was crying as well.

  In a comforting, fatherly tone, he said as he sniffed “Oh please, Miss. Don’t cry. Everything’s gonna be alright.” He turned up the radio hoping to soothe my emotion but ironically, Nat King Cole’s ‘Autumn Leaves’ was playing and I began to cry even louder. It was as if the music was orchestrated in sync with the red, orange, yellow and brown leaves that scattered over the cab and streets as I headed home to deal with the painful reality of how my life, like the season, had officially changed.

  I loved living in Adams Morgan, a gentrified area which at one time was considered one of D.C.’s hippest neighborhoods. With a diverse mix of culture, cool restaurants, bars, boutiques, festivals and blocks and blocks of row houses, my neighborhood was a nice mix of artisans and young urban professionals. As the taxi arrived in front of my building, I paid the driver and exited the cab. I tried to hold it together until I could get safely inside my apartment on the fourth floor, where I was finally able to cry inconsolable tears without interruption.

  CHAPTER SIX

  There was a time when I would’ve turned my nose up at the thought of drinking my sorrows away, especially over a man. The days after my break up with Jonathan, several bottles of Stella Rosa wine and my sad song marathon put that notion to rest. I’d always enjoyed a good glass of wine, but my pity party session did not require me breaking out my favorite long stemmed Camille goblets from Crate & Barrel. Olivia Pope made drinking wine from those fishbowl glasses, while throwing back popcorn, a work of art. For this party, drinking my wine straight from the bottle was all I needed. Wearing my raggedy, faded navy blue sweat pants with an old tattered T-Shirt from The Black Dog in Martha’s Vineyard, hair pulled up into an unattractive messy bun, it was evident, I had zero plans of leaving home. I looked like a homeless wino squatting in my own apartment and I gave not one damn as I sang along with my old soul records. It was soothing to hear the crackle of real vinyl records while I lay in the middle of my living room floor singing loud and proud along with Phyllis Hyman as she belted out “Somewhere in My Lifetime”, then switching gears to Angela Bofill’s “I Try.” The lyrics to that song expressed every ache in my heart… “I try to do, the best I can for you... Jonathan Bradshaw!”

  My flare for the dramatics continued later as I picked up a framed photo of Jonathan and swayed like a depressed blues singer, crooning the lament of Billie Holliday’s “Fine and Mellow” … “My man don’t love me, treats me awfully mean. He’s the lowest man, that I ever seen.” Lady Day meant that shit and so did I!

  The next day’s activities included sipping and cutting Jonathan out of every single picture I had of us and tossing his image into the fireplace. In between snips, my phone rang and Jonathan’s name appeared on the screen. I had no desire to hear his voice, instead I turned the music up louder and continued to sing and cut.

  After a long weekend, two sick days from work, cancelling the wedding vendors and contacting guests to deliver the unfortunate news, I was all cried out. The first call made was delivering the sad announcement to my parents and I was so emotional they both offered to hop on the next flight smoking from L.A., mom to comfort her daughter, my dad to kill Jonathan for breaking his baby girl’s heart. I assured them I would be okay and convinced them to stay in L.A. The constant rain shower that afternoon continued the waterworks for me and as I sat in my shabby chic arm chair near the large sliding glass window watching the rain, my Pandora radio station had Eric Roberson’s “Couldn’t Hear Me” on full blast.

/>   By now, my neighbors must’ve been thinking, “Jump already, damn!”

  I didn’t care. Eric and I were an unlikely duet singing, “Show must go on, unfortunately. I’m all alone, but for my dreams” and at that moment my phone rang. The screen read “Karma” and I immediately pressed the auto response text message: Sorry, I can’t talk right now and kept right on singing.

  The Skype chime from my computer started ringing and I finally gave in.

  “What’s up, Karma?”The sight of me startled my friend. I had avoided mirrors for days and seeing myself on screen for the first time in a while was a frightening sight.

  “Hey Mama. Just checking in on you.” “I’m okay, girl.”

  Karma took a long pause before responding, “Yeah, you look and sound fabulous.”

  “All right, maybe not okay. But I’m going to be,” I said as I tried to tuck my disheveled hair away from my face.

  “Look P, I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think you’re going to look back and realize that the wedding cancellation was perhaps a blessing in disguise. Better now, then down the line.”

  I was silent.

  Karma called out my name a few times before I let out a long sigh. “I’m here, girl. My heart is still crushed but maybe there’s some truth to that. After my initial devastation, I had to take a good look at my situation. On the surface, we were perfect for each other, comfortable with each other, looked good together. I loved Jonathan the first time I saw him. He was my soul mate. But clearly, I wasn’t his.”

  Karma had a theory on soul mates: “He wasn’t the only mate your soul will encounter. I believe we all have several soul mates, but not all are meant to be in a romantic relationship capacity, you feel me? Seriously, we can have soul mates in business, love, creative endeavors. We limit the possibilities when we automatically link a soul mate experience with a romantic notion. Think about it.”

  As earthy as she sounded, I knew there was truth to what she said and I explained that it was so hard to think about getting back out there dating, and hoping to find the man that I can spend the rest of my life with, start a family with, and most of all truly love with my heart and soul. “I had the whole thing planned out and now this throws me way off schedule.”

  In a calming tone, Karma offered, “So, stop thinking about it and just live your life in the now. Pilar, you have always been a meticulous planner, but not every plan is going to work in your favor.”

  I agreed quoting one of my mom’s favorite sayings “You want to make God laugh? Tell Him your plans for your life.”

  “That’s the truth. Girl, you’re the one who’s always preaching, ‘he that finds a wife, finds a good thing’ so now, stop looking. Let him find you.”

  Karma was delivering a sermon my soul needed to hear. “I guess I need to practice what I preach, huh?” I asked.

  She responded with her typical, “I’m just saying.” She took another good look at me and shook her head. “And you need to get out and about, look cute, be somewhere where you can be found, or at least seen. He ain’t gonna find you while you’re sitting at home alone at your pity party.”

  It was the first time in a week that I allowed a smile to appear on my face as we laughed.

  The Skype chime rang again. I connected Sunny into the conversation and she wasted no time going in on me.

  “Dang, you’re alive. I was hoping to get my hands on those cute, black Lou Bou’s you bought recently!”

  I told her she could have them and a serious tone took over. “Really? You know I was just joking, but I’ll take ‘em.”

  “Although I don’t look like it, I was joking too, girl.”

  Sunny’s sarcasm shifted to genuine concern. “How’s my friend doing?”

  “I’m okay” I told her.

  “Okay is better than going straight to voice mail. It’s good to see you, but it’s not good to see that hair looking like that. Your flat iron on strike?”

  “I’m on strike.”

  Karma chimed in, “Hey, Sunny.” “‘Sup Mama. So, did you tell her?” I asked, “Tell me what?”

  Karma explained to Sunny that she was about to before the interruption.

  “Oh, well that’s perfect. We can both tell her.”

  “Tell me what?” I asked suspecting that these two were up to something.

  In unison they yelled out, “We’re going to Canada! We’re going to Canada!”

  “That’s cool. Good for you. What’s going on in Canada?” I asked.

  “The National Black Ski Summit in beautiful Whistler. And you’re going with us.” Sunny explained.

  “Uh, no I’m not. After all the money I dropped on a wedding that’s not even going to happen, I am on financial lock down.”

  Karma leaned in close to the screen.“Yeah, we kind of figured you’d say that. Now you know, we’re… well, I’m ballin’ on a budget, but we couldn’t leave our girl out.”

  Sunny joined in. “Yep. We’ve got you. All you have to do is show up at the airport with your skis and cute outfits and bring a little spending money.”

  “And if you play your cards right, hopefully you won’t have to spend a dime. Ballers will be in the house and all over the slopes,” Karma added.

  Skiing, let alone a girlfriend getaway was the last thing on my mind. “That’s so sweet, and I know I need to get out, but I am not trying to be around a bunch of party people right now.”

  “Pilar, how long are you going to be in mourning? You are not the first or the last almost bride-to-be and it’s time for you to get out of that stuffy apartment and get some healing for your broken heart,” Sunny lectured.

  Before I could respond, Karma added, “What she’s really trying to say is, we’ve already paid for your nonrefundable tickets, so, you’re going homie.”

  Of course they’d done that. That’s what my girls did, they never took no for an answer.

  “Ahhhhh! Okay. Only because you two sneaky divas spent your money already.”

  “You know you want to go. When is the last time you’ve been skiing?” Sunny began to hum the Jeopardy show theme song while I took a moment to think about it.

  “It’s been about two years.” “Two years, too long, chica.”

  I agreed. “I love you guys,” I gushed.

  “Love you more. Now, the trip is in two weeks, Karma and I will meet you in Vancouver and roll to Whistler together. So, get those skis waxed, your lip and bikini line waxed, get your outfits together...”

  Sunny cut her off, “And get that hair done because right now, it’s raggedy and wrong!”

  “Whatever, Sunny,” I said as I took a closer glance at myself on the screen. “Damn, I do look a hot mess. I need an appointment with Desiree pronto.”

  “Desiree, David Copperfield, whoever can work some magic pronto, ‘cause those edges are crunchy!” Sunny joked.

  “Whatever, Weavie Wonder.”

  Sunny shot me a look and quick clap back. “Sweetie, you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  What was I thinking with that weak attempt to throw shade? To know Sunny is to know that she is our resident queen of all things hair related and will go from Brazilian, Malaysian to the kinky curly Heat Free Hair brand in a heartbeat and do it flawlessly. When a curious older white woman seated near her in Starbucks recently asked her if the long Senegalese twists flowing past her bra strap were her real hair, she swung them around her shoulder and smoothly responded, “They’re on my real head, so they are my real hair, my dear.”

  Note to self: SHADE IS FOR THOSE WHO CAN THROW IT. Duly noted.

  Winter...

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A flurry of snowflakes flittered past the large bay window of the impeccably decorated Canadian townhouse my girls and I would call home for the next four days.

  When Karma, Sunny and I entered the condo, it was like a scene from a reality competition show where lucky contestants run to claim their bedroom of a fully furnished upscale house where drama would soon ensue. T
his two-story, three-bedroom home with modern décor was warm, spacious, and just plain spectacular. While Karma and Sunny headed upstairs for the larger bedrooms, I opted for the smaller, first floor room that had a cozy queen sized bed and a window seat perfect for curling up with a good book. Since this was my first trip as a newly un-engaged woman, I figured the space between me and my girls would be a good idea especially since I was still prone to sudden middle of the night crying spells. I missed Jonathan and couldn’t help but reminisce about the many trips we took together. In addition to the two second floor bedrooms, there was a spacious loft living area with a fireplace, a leather sectional sofa with plush pillows, and matching ottoman perfect for getting cozy especially with that special someone. From the loft, we could look down on the open spaced kitchen that was newly renovated with contemporary stainless steel appliances and dark granite counters. The large bay window in the living room provided an amazing, unobstructed view of the Whistler/Blackcomb mountains and the stunning peace and serenity I was looking forward to.