Courtship: A 'Snowflake' Novel

by Nia Forrester

  And when Raj looked at him in amusement, he shrugged.

  “I know,” he said. “But it really messed me up, man.”

  “But … are you not having …”

  “No. What makes you think …?” Ibrahim broke off and shook his head.

  “Well, no offense, but I honestly didn’t think you’d be involved with a girl who isn’t having sex with you.”

  “That’s messed up,” Ibrahim said, offended. “Why? Because you think a big, Black dude …”

  “Oh please,” Raj scoffed. “It’s just … you. Not because you’re a ‘big, Black dude’. You exude a lot of highly-sexual energy.”

  Ibrahim gave him a look.

  Raj laughed. “I didn’t say I was attracted to you. Just that you seem to potentially attract that. And to give that off as well. So, I thought … Anyway. You’re not sleeping with the high-schooler. Interesting.”

  “What’s interesting about it?”

  “Are you … Do you want to sleep with her?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then why don’t you? Doesn’t she want to?”

  Ibrahim gave a wry laugh. “Yeah. She doesn’t exactly hide it.”

  “And that makes you uncomfortable. That she’s very sexual as well.” Raj looked even more amused.

  “It’s not that she’s sexual. It’s that she’s been sexual with someone else,” he admitted. “And the worst part is, I think I know who, too.”

  “You can’t put women in cages,” Raj said matter-of-factly. “They get to have sex too. And they even get to like it. If a woman is sexually-fulfilled, she’s more fulfilled in general.”

  “That’s real advanced of you,” Ibrahim said. “And real funny by the way, you tryna school me about women’s sexual fulfillment. A guy who’s letting his mother and an astrologer decide who he marries.”

  Raj smiled and shook off the jab.

  “Here’s the thing. Without going into unchivalrous details,” he said. “I can tell you I enjoy sex with Molly. Very much. But I can also tell you this, Ibrahim. Even though she was chosen by my mother and an astrologer, I can’t wait for the kind of sex I’ll have with Vidhya: a woman I am fully committed to, who I’ve pledged to take care of—mind, body and soul. I can’t imagine a deeper connection.”

  Ibrahim made a skeptical sound. “That’s just the yoga and Kama Sutra talkin’.”

  27

  Then

  Breonna was sitting on the stoop, legs extended, one crossed over the other. Her skin was pale and standing in stark relief was a purplish mark on her left calf, maybe a bruise, maybe a burn from a motorcycle tailpipe. He had been hearing around the way that she was with Kwame now.

  Kwame owned a noisy low-riding Harley that he inherited from his father, a Vietnam vet who blew his brains out a few summers ago. Ibrahim didn’t know him very well, but from his personal experience and limited contact with him, Kwame was a cool dude. To other dudes. To girls, he was rumored to be a little free with his fists.

  When Ibrahim heard that Bree was hanging out with dude, he briefly considered checking in with her, asking if she was alright. But she wasn’t his business, and he couldn’t keep creating expectations that he would make her his business.

  “Hey, Prophet.”

  She stood as he came through the gate, still sweating and trying to catch his breath from his run.

  He had the day off, and whenever he did, tried to start the morning with movement, fighting the urge to sleep long hours and do nothing more than watch television and play video games.

  Raj tried to convince him to try meditation, but he already knew he wasn’t a ‘stillness’ kind of guy. He needed to move, and strangely, when he did, he found that his mind was at rest. All his focus and concentration drifted away from worldly problems and toward the simple mechanics of the run. He was reduced to two things: breath and motion.

  “Ain’t seen you in a minute,” he said, giving her an awkward hug. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. Just thought I’d stop by.”

  Breonna hovered just behind him as he let himself into the house. It was still early. His father would have gone to work if he had a weekend shift, and his brothers were still likely asleep.

  “You didn’t knock?” he asked.

  “Nah. I was just …” Breonna broke off and Ibrahim looked over his shoulder as she followed him inside.

  “Just …”

  “Waiting to see if you were around,” she finished. “I been hearing that you run now, early in the morning, so I figured …”

  He looked her over properly now, realizing that she was in a black iridescent skirt, nice shoes, a light, airy top. Her hair was out and looked like it had been styled but later drooped a little.

  “You comin’ from the club or something?”

  She nodded. “I was out.”

  “I gotta shower,” he said. “You want something to eat?”

  Breonna gave a nod. “Yeah,” she said. Her voice was barely audible.

  “Okay. You can chill in my room if you want,” he said. “Till I’m done.”

  She nodded again and followed him into his bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed and sliding off her high-heeled shoes.

  Ibrahim undressed in front of her because it was stupid not to after all the times they had seen each other naked in the past. And something told him Breonna wasn’t here for anything like that.

  “Be back in a few,” he said as he headed for the sole bathroom in the house.

  He had known Bree since they were kids. And she had always been That Kid. Though almost everyone in their neighborhood had it tough on one level or another—absentee parent, father on dope, brothers in the life, raised by grandmothers who were declining in health—Breonna was the hardest of the hard luck stories. She was from one of those families that could never seem to get it together, and upon which fate visited almost every kind of calamity known to man.

  Illness, addiction, incarceration, violent death. You name it, Bree and her family had seen it.

  The first time Ibrahim remembered even being aware of who she was, it was in connection with the story of a kid who had been run over near one of the parks. Run over and dragged three blocks by a delivery van before they even realized they had hit him. The incident had been so horrific it made the evening news.

  The kid was Breonna’s younger brother. It took him a month to die in the hospital.

  She had other siblings. Two more brothers in prison, one of whom was a certifiable sociopath. The kind of dude who did crap like set fire to stray cats when he was bored or punched his pregnant girlfriend in the stomach when she pissed him off.

  Breonna, for whatever reason, had remained a quiet, meek and even gentle soul. Ibrahim cared for her but couldn’t see himself dealing with the stink of persistent misfortune that seemed to follow her and all her kin.

  When he came out of the shower, she was half-dozing on his bed, lying on her side, knees pulled up almost to her chest, one hand idly massaging the opposite elbow.

  He thought about Kwame and those free fists of his, but decided to leave it along, getting dressed in a pair of loose basketball shorts and slipping his feet into his Adidas slides.

  “C’mon help me cook,” he said.

  Breonna sat up and nodded. She sighed, yawned, then lowered her feet to the floor and followed him into the kitchen.

  Ibrahim felt her eyes on him as he moved around the kitchen, separated egg yolks from the whites and made omelets, and fresh coffee. When he finally put a plate in front of her, she looked at it for a few moments and smiled.

  “This looks like something you’d get in a restaurant,” she said.

  “Casa Carter,” he said nodding. “Where the food is always hot …”

  “And the men are always hotter,” Breonna finished, deadpan.

  Ibrahim grinned at her. “So how you been, Bree?”

  She shrugged, picking up her fork. “Got me a job,” she said.

  “Oh yeah? What you doin’?”


  “Cashier over there by the Foot Locker in the mall. Comes with a ten percent employee discount, so that’s cool.”

  “Cool,” Ibrahim agreed. “So you can hook a brother up.”

  “Yeah. Course I can. But you gotta come in.”

  Her eyes softened at that last part.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes, Ibrahim only getting up to fetch them creamer and sugar for their coffee and to refresh hers when she was done.

  “How ‘bout you?” Breonna asked. “I never see you no more. You got …”

  The sound of the squeak and creak of the metal gate out front got their attention and Ibrahim stood. By now, he knew that neither his brothers nor his father was home. If they had been, the sound of voices or the smell of cooking would have drawn them out of their bedrooms.

  Breonna held her coffee mug midair, frozen and seeming to hold her breath.

  “Someone comin’ to pick you up?” Ibrahim asked.

  She shook her head.

  Ibrahim went to the front door and opened it, expecting to see someone coming up the walkway. But they were already at the door.

  Standing at the threshold, wearing basketball shorts not unlike his, and a team jersey, was Jada.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Ibrahim stepped outside.

  “How’d you get here?” he asked, more surprised than displeased.

  “Chloe. She’s waiting in the car.”

  Jada indicated a blue Toyota idling at the curb. Someone inside lifted their hand in a wave and Ibrahim idly waved back.

  “So, you’re alive.” Jada folded her arms. Her long, thick braid was resting on her shoulder. She smelled like flowers.

  Ibrahim wanted to hold her by one of those stiff, tense arms and pull her against him. He forgot, even after an absence of a few days, how pretty she was. And it had been more than a few days. It was almost two weeks.

  “I thought for sure you were dead somewhere,” Jada said accusingly. “Or … I don’t know. In … trouble or something. Because you said, when you got your pager that if I paged you, you’d call me right back. And …” Her voice was trembling, and her eyes were beginning to fill.

  “Jada. Look …”

  “Look ‘what’?” she asked. “Are you … Is this your way of saying you don’t … that you …”

  “Prophet?”

  At the sound of the voice coming from behind him in the house, he shut his eyes, then let his head fall back.

  Shit.

  When he opened his eyes again, Jada was staring at him, betrayal and disbelief in her eyes. She leaned to the side and looked inside. He didn’t bother turning to see what she saw.

  Breonna in her shiny short skirt, barefoot, hair loose from a night out. And of course, there he was, shirtless.

  “Okay,” Jada said, finally, the tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks. “I see.”

  She turned to leave, and Ibrahim grabbed her arm.

  “No,” he said. “You don’t see. I promise, this is not …”

  “Let me go,” she said.

  Her voice was shaky, but certain. It was the tone a woman used just before she said something like, ‘if you don’t, I’ll scream.’

  Ibrahim let her go but followed her out to the curb as she turned and began walking away.

  “Jada, Breonna is …”

  She kept walking, like she didn’t even hear him, her back erect, her long, heavy ponytail swinging behind her. Just before she got into the blue Toyota, she gave him one last look. Her mouth twisted into a wry, sad smile.

  So, that’s that, her expression seemed to say. That’s that.

  The Toyota, only idling before, switched into gear and pulled away.

  Turning back toward the house, Ibrahim heaved a deep sigh. Breonna was still standing at the doorway. The expression on her face, in some ways mirrored Jada’s, and when he opened the door and stepped back inside, she pursed her lips and looked down.

  “Is that your … That’s your girl, huh?”

  Ibrahim nodded. “Yeah,” he said. Because he wouldn’t even consider that it might no longer be true.

  “Are you going to go after her?” Breonna asked slowly.

  Ibrahim shrugged. “Yeah. But not right now. I ain’ got a ride. And she wouldn’t hear me right now anyway.”

  “Sorry,” Breonna said, then, “I feel like I seen her before.”

  At that, Ibrahim turned to look at her. She had seen Jada before. The last time she had shown up uninvited. What were the chances that Breonna would be around both times? And in different places, too.

  “Maybe,” he said. “It would’ve been a long time ago though.”

  He went back into the kitchen, Breonna behind him, and resumed his place at the kitchen table, picking up his fork.

  Didn’t he tell her not to come over here? But she was stubborn as hell. And now, because of some crazy-ass timing, he was going to have to …

  “Were we ever going to be together?”

  Breonna’s voice broke through his thoughts.

  Ibrahim looked at her. Her eyes were like those of a woman more than twice her age, tired, sad, and having seen way more than she ever wanted to see in this life or the next.

  “I mean, for real together,” she continued. “Be honest. Was that ever even going to happen?”

  “Bree,” he began. “You’re one of the coolest chicks I know. And …”

  She picked up her coffee mug and took a long, loud slurp, pointedly shutting him up. Or at least, letting him know that however he intended to finish that thought, she wasn’t interested in hearing it.

  “Bree,” he tried again.

  “These eggs are good,” she said, speaking over him. Then she emptied her coffee mug and stood. “Mind if I use your phone? I’ma call somebody ‘n see if I can get a ride home.”

  28

  Then

  “He’s kidding. He has to be kidding, right?”

  Like Lisa and Chloe, Jada watched as Ibrahim walked into the study lounge toward her table. He didn’t walk with uncertainty, or like he had any fear of being rebuffed. He was striding purposefully, as confidently as he always did. Scanning the room for a few seconds when he first darkened the doorway, he saw her and immediately started in her direction.

  Jada wanted to feel exasperation or anger, but honestly, she felt neither. She felt relief.

  She was supposed to still be pissed at him. Now, four days after she’d gone to his house and seen that girl there. The same one she had seen him with more than a year ago.

  She was supposed to feel something like righteous indignation and a steely resolve to make him work his way back into her good graces. But what she felt was an instant surge of hopefulness that he was about to put her out of the misery that had been the past two weeks.

  If Chloe hadn’t been there to see her humiliation in person, Jada wasn’t even sure she would have told her friends what happened at Ibrahim’s house. Maybe she would have gone on waiting, quietly, desperately hoping that he would have the explanation that she had been too heartbroken in the moment to ask for.

  “Can we talk outside?”

  Ibrahim didn’t bother with the niceties of greeting her friends or her with a ‘hello.’ He just stood over their table and looked down at her—only at her—with complete focus. And unless she was mistaken, there was even a little resentment in his tone. Like he had a reason to be annoyed with her, and not the other way around.

  “I don’t know that there’s anything for us to talk about,” she tried. But her voice lacked conviction.

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Lisa chimed in.

  Ibrahim ignored her friend and stared at her as though she was the only one sitting at the table.

  “There is,” he said, unmoved. “There’s lots for us to talk about. Meet me outside?”

  Jada looked at him. Not nodding, but not shaking her head either.

  He turned and walked out of the room, not looking back.

  Lisa exhaled a sha
rp burst of breath.

  “He must be out of his …”

  Jada pushed back her chair and stood.

  “Jada!” Chloe hissed.

  “Are you serious?” Lisa added. “After what he …”

  “I’m just going to hear him out,” Jada said.

  She was already moving toward the exit, more frightened that Ibrahim might not wait too long than she was concerned that her friends might think her a fool.

  He was leaning against the railing just outside the front doors leading into the library.

  Jada sighed and went to stand directly opposite him, leaning on the railing across from his. Between them, patrons passed in and out of the wide, sliding doors.

  “Why you all the way over there?” he asked.

  Jada shrugged.

  “You shouldn’t have come by the house, Jada. I told you not to,” he said.

  “You’re going to make this about me?” she asked, incredulous. “And make it about what you asked me not to do? After you didn’t call me back for …”

  “I was working some things out. I needed …”

  “Could you have said that?” she demanded. “Could you have maybe called me and said, ‘Jada, I’m working some things out. I don’t want to talk right now, because I’m working some things out.’ Could you have done that?”

  He looked down at his bright-white sneakers. How did he even keep them looking like that? If she walked ten feet her sneakers got scuffed.

  “I could have,” he admitted. “I should’ve.”

  “And that girl. What’s her name again?”

  “Breonna.”

  “Breonna,” Jada repeated. “Is she …? Are you …?”

  He didn’t seem inclined to help her, or to assume the rest of her question.

  “Is she like, your … Are you like, messing around with that girl?”

  Ibrahim gave a brief laugh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No.”

  “Are you …? Then why is she always there? Whenever I come by unexpectedly, wherever you are, she’s there, Ibrahim.”

  “The first time, the place you came to? You came to a stash …” He lowered his voice. “You came to a stash house, Jada. Breonna’s from around the way. She knows how to handle herself in places like that. You don’t. She just happened to be there, and I didn’t want you anywhere near that shit. That’s why I took you home. And this time, this time, you came to my house, unexpectedly, just like Breonna came unexpectedly.”