Courtship: A 'Snowflake' Novel

by Nia Forrester

  “And I started the engine and you paged me again. And now I’m getting pissed. Because you always did that, paged me like three times in a row like you didn’t believe I was going to call you back or something. And on the last page, just as I was pulling off, you added 911.”

  “I remember that now,” Jada says, her mouth falling open a little. “It was the day you came over when I was home, and you were acting all weird, and just wanted to lie down for a minute you said … And then you left abruptly, and I was worried, so I paged like it was an emergency. Just to make sure.”

  Ibrahim nods.

  “So, I got out of my car and went to call you back real quick. I was going to tell you I was busy, but that I’d hit you up later. But when you answered the phone, you said …”

  “I said, ‘Baby, are you okay?’”

  Ibrahim nods. “You said, ‘Baby, are you okay?’ You never called me ‘baby’. I always called you that, but you never did. I heard your voice, saying that, in the way you said it. And I knew I couldn’t go.”

  He looks at Jada and she is shaking her head.

  “I’m glad you didn’t. Do you honestly wish you had?”

  “They arrested Kwame a couple days later. But …yeah, sometimes I … You should have seen her face, Jada. She was only eighteen. He beat her so bad …” His voice breaks. “She just wanted me to love her, and …”

  “And you did. Didn’t you? You loved her. She was your friend. I remember you saying she was a complicated, you-wouldn’t-even-understand kind of homegirl, or something like that. I was angry because I’d seen her at your house and you could have denied her, or said she was no one, but you didn’t. You loved her, Ibrahim. And I bet she knew you did.”

  He looks at her, wanting it to be true.

  “Back then, you were so kind, so gentle. That’s what I think I loved about you. You were like … It was like you were surrounded by all this … ugliness, but it didn’t touch you. You had a stillness, a calm and a gentleness that I could see in your eyes, and that’s what I fell in love with.

  “I can’t imagine you were anything other than kind, and gentle with Breonna either. So, of course she loved you. Of course she wanted you to love her. And I believe you did.”

  Jada puts a hand at the side of his face, and she is looking at him like she truly sees him. And maybe for the very first time, Ibrahim feels truly seen.

  45

  Now

  Ibrahim opens his eyes around four a.m. as is his habit. He sits up, and next to him, Jada mumbles in her sleep, turning onto her side, facing him once again. She moves closer and he puts his arms around her, studying the planes of her face.

  There are tiny laugh lines bracketing her mouth, but none around her eyes. In a decade or so, those will appear. Her still smooth neck, and stomach and legs will begin to show signs of aging. The same will happen to him. And in another decade from then, they may both slow down a little. Their grandson—and the other children Kaleem and Asha will certainly have—will be adults, or almost adults.

  But for now, he and Jada are young enough to do the things they want to do and have the freedom to do it.

  If you want to start a business, or work in one of mine, we can make that happen, Raj told him before he left. But I think you should consider something else first.

  Like what?

  Don’t make my mistake. Don’t build a livelihood while your marriage crumbles. I can give you also a gift of time. Time off to spend with your wife. A little bit in resources so that it isn’t irresponsible.

  It pays to have rich friends, Ibrahim had joked, not sure he could accept the gift.

  Think about it, Ibrahim, Raj said seriously. Talk to her about it.

  He hasn’t talked to Jada about it yet, but he will.

  Last night was about something else entirely. It was a confessional for them both, a purging of the old things, to hopefully make way for something new.

  Sitting up carefully, Ibrahim goes in to take a shower and just as he is about to dress for his customary walk to Free Range, another thought comes to him. He puts on his running gear, pulling out the expensive trainers Kaleem gave him and sliding them onto his feet.

  Before leaving the house, he writes Jada a short note letting her know where he is gone, and then he slips out.

  He runs the first mile listening to his breath the way he taught his son to do. He gauges the pace of his heart the old-fashioned way, not using any of those fancy gadgets that he knows are on his cellphone.

  His cellphone.

  He left it again. Force of habit.

  But he doesn’t turn back because he has left that note and if he makes good time, he will be back long before Jada wakes up to get ready for her shift at eleven, early enough to make her breakfast.

  Raj’s offer is attractive because if he gets his friend’s help, she can take a leave of absence. With his felony conviction, getting a visa to go overseas might be tricky, but they could see the United States at a minimum. Get out of Oakland and explore some of those places they talked about when they were kids.

  I want to see the summer turn to fall, and then to winter, Jada told him. I have this picture in my head. Of me playing in the snow like a little kid.

  Ibrahim smiles.

  That was a modest wish, but one he has never fulfilled. Nor had she the time and money while he was gone to fulfill it for herself. He can do that for her now, if he takes Raj’s offer.

  It still doesn’t feel good, having to consider taking something of that magnitude from a friend. But if he is honest, he will admit that it hasn’t been the first time. His life so far, his journey, as hard as it sometimes seemed, had been eased by the help of friends.

  The letters from a pretty girl he barely knew, named Jada Green helped him not grow hard while he did his first bid. Her softness, transmitted to him through her words, and on the perfumed pages, kept him focused on the possibilities of life on the outside, and not the cycle of despair and drama on the inside.

  And then there was Nasim who though he was taking one path, saw that Ibrahim was better suited for another. Who loaned him his car so he could get out of the smallness and strictures of their neighborhood, and found him a shitty job that would turn into something that for a long time helped him support his family.

  Raj, who had introduced him to a world of new ideas and listened to him in a way he hadn’t been listened to since his mother died. Who looked past his menial work, and his apparently limited future and said, ‘In you I see something else. Something just around the corner. Something much different than you are now.’

  And finally, Klara, who once when he—a scared and stressed-out new father—showed up at her door having run seven miles to get there, invited him in for a Polish pastry and strong coffee. Who listened to his litany of worries like a mother might and when he was done offered him thirty-thousand dollars from her savings.

  We buy out Samuel, she said. You and me as partners. Samuel is not as smart as you. You will make his business big success.

  But what’s in it for you? he’d asked, floored by her generosity.

  You pay me, she said. My same salary as when I used to work, and little more on top. Till loan is paid.

  And that was how Ibrahim had become a business-owner, with a stable and annually increasing income, and even plans to expand until …

  Now, he was running past the corner. That corner. The one where he rounded the store with his son and saw a crowd gathering, where he heard the shouts and screams. And beneath it, the muffled grunts of someone being struck. Two men fighting, he thought.

  Until a break in the crowd revealed something much worse.

  A man—familiar to him as a small-time dope dealer—was holding the muzzle of a gun and using the handle to beat a woman. A girl, really. She looked like she was no more than twenty. She was on her knees, just outside the open door of a luxury car. With each blow, her head whipped forward. She was dazed and trying to crawl away when the man grabbed her by the hair.<
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  Kaleem, he said, turning to his son.

  He looked him in the eyes, the kind of look he always gave him when he wanted him to know that there could be no hesitation or argument. He had to do as he was told.

  Go home. Now.

  The beating had probably begun while the girl was inside the car, and the man stopped and dragged her out, so he could really let her have it. There was no ambivalence in his posture as he rained blows on her. He wanted to hurt her, badly.

  In that moment, Ibrahim thought of his friend by then long gone, who had suffered much the same fate. Who had been beaten so badly that when she found a safe place to lay her head, and nurse her wounds, she had closed her eyes and never opened them again.

  He had seen evidence of her pain back then and done nothing about it. Though he was never present for her beatings, he and so many others suspected they were happening and did nothing.

  Looking over his shoulder to make sure his son was gone, Ibrahim moved closer.

  Yo! he’d yelled, stepping into the fray, just feet away from the man and the girl.

  Everyone turned to look at him. The man holding the gun looked up. He paused, his weapon still poised above his head.

  On the ground, the girl looked up through blackened and already swollen eyes. She was heaving, audibly, like someone who had run a long hard race, blood and drool dripped from the corner of her busted lips. Her eyes weren’t relieved, or even pleading when she looked at Ibrahim. They were resigned. She had been through this before. Ibrahim smelled something acrid, but familiar. She had wet herself.

  The fuck you want, nigga? the man said to Ibrahim.

  Ibrahim knew from the smirk on the man’s face that he was sure Ibrahim would back down. He was so high on the power he had over the girl on the ground, so confident, that he didn’t realize how vulnerable he was holding the gun the way he did—muzzle pointed at himself and handle out.

  Ibrahim took it before he had a chance to even react. After a moment of surprise, the man lunged toward him. Ibrahim didn’t think, and he didn’t hesitate. He pulled the trigger.

  There were probably screams. Ibrahim didn’t hear them. He heard only the deafening roar of the gun. And he saw people scatter, some of them stumbling as they tried to get away, others, standing stunned, with mouths open and hands on heads. Riveted, fascinated by the sight of the man, now lying on the pavement, his face and half of his head blown off.

  ~~~

  The house looks remarkably the same. It is a little more ramshackle and in need of a fresh coat of paint, a few shingles on the roof are in disrepair, and the front gate is slightly rusty. But it is mostly the same.

  While he stands there surveying it, Ibrahim can almost picture Manny come spilling out of the front door, laughing and clowning.

  What you talkin’ ‘bout, young ‘un? he says.

  He grins so widely his eyes almost disappear. He is handsome, young, and feels immortal.

  Swallowing the tightness in his throat, Ibrahim takes a breath and goes up to the metal gate pulling it open and then walking up the path to the front door.

  He stands there for a moment, then clangs on the security door. After the third time, inside, someone mutters a curse. It is barely becoming light out, after all.

  The door opens, and Isaac is standing there. He is older now, of course. And he looks it. His lips are dark, almost black from smoking too much. His face is grizzled with a graying beard, somewhat unkempt, and his body is soft and loose in his stained undershirt and faded tartan boxers.

  It takes him a moment to realize who he is looking at.

  “Goddamn,” he says.

  His teeth are tar-stained, a far cry from the bright-whites the Carter boys were known for. Isaac is no longer handsome. He looks like a man who has seen hard, hard times.

  “Prophet. That you?” Zac fumbles with the security gate, unlocking and then opening it, pulling Ibrahim, sweaty as he is, into a tight embrace.

  Ibrahim embraces him back and waits patiently until Zac is ready to let go.

  “Come in, come in.” Zac steps aside.

  “I can’t,” Ibrahim says, shaking his head.

  He doesn’t feel ready quite yet.

  “A’ight.” Zac looks hurt, but he nods. He swallows hard. “I understand. How’s … Everything a’ight with the family?”

  “Yeah, yeah. But ahm … I just … I wanted …”

  He can’t get over how Zac looks. And behind him, he sees that inside the house doesn’t look much better. He wonders where their father is. Whether he still works for BART. Or is he too old now?

  Maybe he still rents properties to dope boys. Ibrahim doesn’t know. Isn’t sure he wants to know.

  “You wanted … what, Prophet?”

  Zac just sounds sad now. Sad, and accepting of whatever is to come, with no expectation that it will be anything good.

  “To say thank you.”

  Zac’s mouth opens slightly and his eyes narrow.

  “What for?” he asks finally.

  “For offering comfort to my wife. When I went in. All those years ago. She told me you were there for her. So … I just wanted to thank you.”

  Zac gives a wry smile. He shakes his head.

  “That was a long … Well … Yeah,” he says. “You welcome.”

  Ibrahim turns to go back down the path but Zac calls to him and he turns.

  “I hope you … I hope you come back sometime, Prophet.” His voice is thick. “Come back and so we can pour one out. For Manny.”

  Ibrahim nods.

  He may come back. Maybe. As he goes through the gate, offering one last acknowledgment in the lift of his chin to Zac, it no longer seems improbable that he will.

  ~~~

  He runs past Free Range but does not stop, though Thea is outside and waves at him, her face surprised. Next to her, her boyfriend Martin is working, opening the umbrellas to prepare for the coming heat. It is Monday, but business will still be good as the young professionals and stay-at-home mothers start arriving around seven, babies and toddlers and fat wallets in tow, ready to spend their money on five-dollar lattes and ten-dollar goat cheese omelets.

  “Look at you! You’re moving again, Ibrahim!” Thea yells.

  “Yes,” he calls back.

  He is breathless now but exhilarated from the run.

  The sun is rising in the horizon, but the light is still soft, and golden. He’ll have to call Kaleem as soon as he gets back and brag about all the miles he covered. He thinks it was about seven, maybe eight. That’s a long way, and not too shabby for a man his age.

  He is almost home. Jada will be awake and waiting for him.

  Also by Nia Forrester

  The ‘Commitment’ Novels

  Commitment (The ‘Commitment’ Series Book 1)

  Unsuitable Men (The ‘Commitment’ Series Book 2)

  Maybe Never (A ‘Commitment’ Novella)

  The Fall (A ‘Commitment’ Novel)

  Four: Stories of Marriage (The ‘Commitment’ Series Finale)

  The ‘Afterwards’ Novels

  Afterwards (The Afterwards Series Book 1)

  Afterburn (The Afterwards Series Book 2)

  The Come Up (An Afterwards Novel)

  The Takedown (An Afterwards Novel)

  Young, Rich & Black (An Afterwards Novel)

  Snowflake (An Afterwards Novel)

  Rhyme & Reason (An Afterwards Novel)

  The Mistress Novels

  Mistress (The ‘Mistress’ Trilogy Book 1)

  Wife (The ‘Mistress’ Trilogy Book 2)

  Mother (The ‘Mistress’ Trilogy Book 3)

  The ‘Acostas’ Novels

  The Seduction of Dylan Acosta (The Acostas Book 1)

  The Education of Miri Acosta (The Acostas Book 2)

  The ‘Secret’ Novels

  Secret (The ‘Secret’ Series Book 1)

  The Art of Endings (The ‘Secret’ Series Book 1)

  Lifted (The ‘Secret’ Series Book 3)
>
  The ‘Shorts’

  Still—The ‘Shorts’ Book 1

  The Coffee Date—The ‘Shorts’ Book 2

  Just Lunch—The ‘Shorts’ Book 3

  Table for Two—The ‘Shorts’ Book 4

  The Wanderer—The ‘Shorts’ Book 5

  À la Carte: A ‘Coffee Date’ Novella—The Shorts Book 6

  Standalone Novels

  Ivy’s League

  The Lover

  Acceptable Losses

  Paid Companion

  The Makeover

  Out of Circulation

  30 Days, 30 Stories

  About the Author

  Nia Forrester lives and writes in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania where, by day, she is an attorney working on public policy, and by night, she crafts woman-centered fiction that examines the complexities of life, love, and the human condition.

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  Email: authorniaforrester@gmail.com

  Twitter: @NiaForrester

  Blog: NiaForrester.com