by Arthurs, Nia
I blow out a breath and survey the street.
To my left, the sidewalk stretches. Grey concrete bricks. Massive trees with dancing leaves, enough to shade pedestrians. Historic buildings—most at least three stories high—host apartments and businesses.
I’m looking for one business in particular.
The GPS beeps. Almost there.
Up ahead, a sign looms. Make It Marriage Agency. The building is one of the few free of the colorful fabric awnings and big windows that seem to populate this area.
It calls to me. A beacon of hope or a purveyor of disaster?
Guess I’m about to find out.
I jerk the car into the yellow lines thrusting away from the curb right out front. When I hop out, I fix the cuff of my grey blazer, run a hand through my hair and stride ahead.
I throw the front door open.
A bell jangles from above, a cheerful, welcoming sound.
The woman behind the desk offers an equally welcoming smile.
“Can I help you?”
It’s go time.
I shake the jitters. Give her my information.
She directs me to a room upstairs. There’s another receptionist. A few waiting chairs. I sit. Bounce my foot against the ground. Pull my phone out to do some work while I wait, but I can’t concentrate.
What feels like hours later, another door opens. A woman steps out. She’s of average height and a slim build, but there’s a grace to the way she moves and a power to her come in gesture. The black pantsuit and over-sized blazer gives the impression she’s a judge ready to make her verdict.
I’m immediately on high alert.
Kayla Montgomery is not the type to take any crap.
We settle in her office. It’s as neat and crisp as I’d imagine it would be. She folds her blazer. Sits in the chair behind the large desk. Stares me down. “Mr. Landry—”
“Call me Teale,” I say and flash her a crooked smile that’s guaranteed to charm.
She doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Mr. Landry, welcome to the Make It Marriage Agency.”
“Thank you.”
“Given your experience,” she surveys a paper that looks like my application, “may I ask why you chose this route?”
I clear my throat. Fix my jacket. “There’s someone I need to meet.”
“Someone?”
“A woman looking for marriage.”
“What kind of woman exactly.”
“Someone about this high.” I raise my hand to my chest, remembering the way Zania’s head barely hits me there. “And about this high when she’s wearing heels.” I raise my arm a little.
“Very specific.”
“I know what I want.”
She jots something down. “Continue.”
“Brown eyes. African American.”
Another glance. This one stiffer than the rest. “Do you have a fetish, Mr. Landry?”
“No.” I tilt my head. “I think all women are beautiful. I don’t care about skin color.”
“Yet you asked for one in particular.”
“Because that’s what I’m looking for.”
“This isn’t an interracial dating site. You specifically asked—”
“Should I specifically ask for a white woman then?” I clasp my hands together. “Would that make you more comfortable, Ms. Montgomery?”
Muscles in her jaw bunch.
I’ve pissed her off.
Great.
“No,” she says. Her expression hasn’t changed except for the tightening around the lips. “Let’s talk personality. What do you find the most attractive?”
“I like a woman who can match me in an argument.” I grin, remembering Zania’s litany of insults. “Someone so genuinely sweet you’d never guess they had so much fire.”
“And if we find this person, Mr. Landry, and I request a match…”
My heart thuds. “Yes?”
She presses her lips together. Tilts her chin down. “What would make you”—brown eyes slide over me in a head to toe look—“worthy of her?”
“Me?” I lean back. Rest my left leg on my right knee. “As you can see by my net-worth, I have a lot to offer.”
An eyebrow arches. She stares me down intently. I’d assume she was flirting with me if not for that hard glint in her eyes. “I’m not talking money or assets, Mr. Landry. ” She rises. Walks around the desk. Clasps manicured hands together. “Do you know why I’m the leading matchmaker at this agency even though I’m not even thirty?”
I shrug.
She leans against the desk. Crosses her ankles. The hem of her tailored pants sways. “Because I know a father when I see one.”
“I don’t have any kids.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Her hand gestures in the air. The light bounces against her silver watch. “Every woman who walks through those doors is looking for a source, a protector, a refuge—not a sex toy who takes out the garbage and shares a bed and a mortgage with them.”
I keep my expression placid; sensing the spiel about to spill from her lips is one she’s had to tamp down for a while. It’s best to sit still and let her ride it out.
“Father means ‘source’, Mr. Landry. It means protection and provision. It means sacrificing yourself for the good of your family. But so many men aren’t trained to protect. They’re trained to take advantage.”
“I have every means to protect and provide.”
“Her body, yes. But what about her heart?”
The question gives me pause. I speak carefully. “You’re making determinations about me from a few words on my form and five minutes in my presence. Do you have something against me, Ms. Montgomery?”
“Yes, I do.” She returns to her desk, a glimmer of a smile on her lips. “I’m afraid this is personal, Teale.” She grabs my file. Lifts it in the air. “I know exactly who you are and why you’re here.”
I read the situation quickly. “Zania mentioned me.”
“By name. I admit, I’ve been curious to meet you in person and when I saw your application…”
“That’s why I was accepted so quickly.”
“Yes.” Kayla hands my form to me.
“You never intended to match me with Zania or anybody.”
She nods, pleased smile still quirking her mouth.
I launch to my feet.
I’ve been duped.
And if Zania finds out what I did today…
“Your money will be refunded,” Kayla Montgomery says.
My feet are moving.
“… And this meeting will stay between us.”
I’m at the door.
Damn it.
What a freaking waste of time.
“But before you go, Mr. Landry. Teale.” Kayla Montgomery stops me when my fingers are a breath away from the doorknob. “I have one more question.”
I spin. “What?”
“Why didn’t you sleep with Zania when she asked you to?”
I stiffen. “She told you that?”
“Her match overheard you on the porch.”
I slip a hand into my pocket. “How is that any of your business?”
“It’s not.” She shrugs. “But I think it’s a question you need to answer for yourself. It’ll tell you whether you’re a father or an opportunist.”
I scoff. Open the door. “You’re crazy, lady.”
“And you’re delusional. Did you think you’d rush here and rescue Zania like Rapunzel in the tower?” She takes her seat behind the desk. “Have a good day, Teale.”
I shake my head. Storm past the receptionist. Down the stairs. Into the sunshine. Into my Jag.
My hands shake.
I’m pissed. Annoyed. All of that.
But there’s more.
There’s a funny feeling in my chest.
I failed to get Zania out of the marriage agency. Hell, I didn’t even pass the first test. All I got for my efforts was a lesson on fatherhood and psycho-babble.
And a question.
/>
Why didn’t you sleep with Zania?
The burning in my chest increases.
I rest my head on the steering wheel. Groan into the leather.
Why didn’t I do it? She was begging for it. Any other woman, any other day, and I would have had her against the wall, bawling out my name and clamoring for more.
I walked away instead.
Why?
Why does my brain completely fritz when it comes to her? Why do I keep following her around and missing her and wanting her…
Something barrels into my brain.
A light.
A realization.
I sit up. Slam my fist against the steering wheel.
How the hell did it take me so long to figure it out?
I’ve gone and fallen in love with Zania.
I love her.
But, after everything, is there any hope that she could love me back?
23 Zania
A month into my three month plan, and I still have no marriage proposal.
But it’s not like I’m hopeless.
Kayla found another match and I’m getting ready to meet him tonight. I’ve already called the taxi and I’m just putting the finishing touches on my makeup. With every breath, I tell myself that this is The One.
It’ll all work out.
Deep inhale.
Slow exhale.
No more Teale.
I won’t think about him.
I won’t dream about him.
I won’t even utter his name.
I admit, I wavered last weekend when Teale fed me tacos and dropped me home. There was a part of me that wanted to hold on to him, even if I knew he and I are on different paths.
But I’m back in control.
I’m ready to open my heart to the kind of love I deserve.
There’s a knock on the door.
Weird.
Is the taxi here already? They don’t usually knock on doors, do they?
I hop on one leg as I attach my shoe on my bare foot and lean against the door to stare through the peephole.
There’s an unfamiliar man on my front porch. He’s shrouded in shadows, so I can’t really see his face, but I’m pretty sure he’s not supposed to be there.
He makes a fist.
A boom explodes.
I yelp. Jump back.
The door shakes.
He’s knocking on it.
Anxiety trips my heart.
Another thud. “Hello? Zania?”
Fear slips into my veins and pools in my stomach. How does he know my name? This definitely isn’t the taxi guy.
Another boom.
“Zania? I know you’re in there.”
Why is some weird guy knocking on my door at this hour?
My mind flits to the news reports of women who live alone found slaughtered in their own home.
Panic sends my pulse skittering. I grab my phone with shaking fingers. Turn away from the door. Slide through my contacts.
Ollie.
I need to call Ollie. And Griffin.
And…
My phone lights up before I can make any calls.
It’s Teale.
I answer, feeling more afraid now than I did before. My voice trembles and my words all escape in a harried, terrified blur. “Teale, there’s someone at my front door and he’s—”
Thud. Thud. “Zania?”
I duck. Cover my mouth to muffle my frightened scream. My stomach is pitching and roiling.
“Zania, slow down. What’s going on?”
I whimper in fear. “Some man is at my front door…”
“I’m coming, okay. I need you to hang up and then call the police. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes.”
“As soon as you get off with the cops, call me back.”
The man outside yells, “Zania, please!”
“I’m on my way,” Teale says.
I bob my head. Realize he can’t see me and say, “Hurry.”
“I’m going as fast as I can, sweetheart. Call the police and stay inside. You’re gonna be alright.”
The stranger calls out again. “Zania, open the door. I just want to talk.”
“Teale…”
“I’m still here, sweetheart.” I hear the tremble in his voice despite his attempt to be calm. Wind rushes in the background. Tires scream against gravel. He utters a soft curse.
I realize that staying on the line like this might put him in more danger. He’s driving recklessly. I don’t want him to get into an accident because of me.
Gathering my courage, I tell him, “I’m hanging up and calling the police now.”
“Five minutes, sweetheart. Wait for me. Don’t open the door unless it’s the police.”
“I know.” I hang up. Suck in a deep breath. Start dialing the cops.
I hear a soft thump.
Silence.
Is he… gone?
Curiosity gets the better of me. I rise slowly. My knees creak. They sound like an old lady’s. I pad forward. Ease against the door. Peer through the hole.
Something shifts.
Adrenaline spikes. I barely contain my scream.
He’s still there, but he’s leaning against the door, his forehead pressed against the wood. His back humped.
“Zania, it’s me, honey.” He mutters. Rasps his fingernails against the door. “It’s your father.”
I freeze.
Dad?
A strange feeling rises in my stomach.
I swallow and whisper, “Are you really my dad?”
He scrambles up.
Glances at the door with hope.
He’s close enough that the shadows no longer obscure his face. Brown skin. Dark, like mine. Almond-shaped eyes. Big nose. Thick lips.
He looks just like me.
Or, I guess, I look like him.
“Zania?” His voice rises. Trembles. “It’s me.”
I don’t respond.
“Um, okay.” He rubs his temple. “You want proof? You were born on the fourth of October. Five pounds and eight ounces. Your mother’s name was Yolanda. She had a brain aneurysm while giving birth. She only got to hold you for a few minutes before she passed.”
I cover my mouth. Tears gather in my eyes.
Could this man…
Is it really him?
“Ah…” He looks down. “I don’t know much about you. Your grandmother only visited prison once, so I don’t have more information than that, but she did let it slip that you loved cooking with her. Your favorite place in the house was the kitchen. Most kids got their scars from playing outside, but you got yours from playing around with the oven.”
I gasp.
My father’s outside.
I can’t believe it.
“Zania, I understand if you don’t want to see me, but I’d appreciate if you’d give me a chance. To talk. Just to talk. Could you… would you give me that much? Please?”
I step away from the door.
This is too much.
My dad’s standing on my front porch.
Emotions roll around like a frantic storm in my chest. I’ve never wished for this day. Never wished for a father. I understood that some people have and some people don’t. Gran taught me to never cry over things I can’t change.
I don’t need him.
I don’t want him.
And what if he’s here to hurt me or something?
Gran never told me what got my birth father thrown into the slammer, but I’d guess it wasn’t because he spent his time gathering flowers and rescuing kittens from trees.
“Okay. This is fine. We can talk like this if you’re more comfortable,” he says.
“What do you want?” I yell from a safe distance away.
Even though there’s a door between us, even though I know in theory that he can’t hurt me, I’m still wary.
“I told you.”
“Yeah, to talk. Why now?”
“I was otherwise occupied before.”<
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I frown. “You just got out?”
“Today.”
“And you came to see me.”
“Yes.”
I pause. Inch closer to the door. “Why?”
He takes a while to answer. Finally, he says, “I’m not going to pretend that I’m a good man, Zania. I have my share of struggles. I made mistakes. And… I don’t know if I even have the right to be here right now, talking to you as if I’ve been there all these years.”
I draw closer.
“But,” he adds, “I’d like to be there for you now. You know? Nothing too strict or too serious. You’re a grown woman. I’m not asking to have any sort of place in your heart. I don’t want to tell you what to do or anything like that.”
My hand goes for the knob. The lock.
“But if you have anyone that’s bothering you, if you need someone to talk to or if you just need an old, rusty ex-con to have your back in a fight—”
I swing the door open.
He stops mid-sentence. Stares at me.
I stare right back. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and jeans. Old, worn shoes. His hair looks thick and unkempt beneath the bill of his black hat. Heavy bags hang beneath his eyes. There’s white in his beard.
Brown eyes fill with tears. “Zania?”
I ease out onto the porch. The night sings so the silence between us isn’t that heavy. Cicadas, toads, crickets—they all bleat at the sky and cover the awkwardness.
“Can’t you make phone calls and write letters in prison? Why did it…?” My eyes flush with tears. I have no idea where all this emotion is coming from. “You never reached out—”
His eyes skitter to the ground. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“Your grandmother. She didn’t want me to.” His gaze sweeps back up to me. Over my face. He steps forward. “You’re so beautiful,” he says. Black hands—dark palms, just like mine—rise. Grab at the air. “My beautiful daughter.”
I don’t know him.
I don’t love him.
But, something deep in my heart shatters and then gathers back to become whole.
“Can I… hug you?” he asks.
I nod slowly.
He shuffles forward. Each step is labored, slow. Is that a limp? I’m not sure. He wraps his arms around my upper back. He smells like cigarettes and sweat.
It’s unpleasant, but I don’t push him away.
My brain registers his fragrance under Father. Before, that mental file had been completely empty save for the words ‘in jail’.