by Lori Johnson
“Girl, why on earth are you still here? Church has been over. Don’t you have someplace else you need to be?”
The shrill voice jerked Aliesha from her trance. She shifted her attention from the empty pew at the back of the church to the cherublike face of the petite woman who stood scowling at her from the still-opened doors that led out into the vestibule.
Aliesha’s face brightened, as it nearly always did, at the sight of Barbara Phillips, the short, bossy, and always immaculately dressed woman who’d all but appointed herself Aliesha’s advisor and surrogate mother from the day of her first visit. Barbara, who Aliesha always referred to as “Mrs. Phillips,” wagged her finger and shook her head of tight salt-and-pepper curls in the manner of one who’d just walked upon a child in the middle of some mischief.
“Like I couldn’t very well ask the same of you,” Aliesha said. She’d started toward Mrs. Phillips when she felt the vibration from the phone in her purse. Thinking it might be Javiel, eager to make things right between them, she paused and dug around in her bag until she found the phone. To her surprise, the number on the display wasn’t Javiel’s, it was Kenneth’s. Rather than answer, she resumed her meander down a long row of pews and toward Mrs. Phillips, who in the meantime had commenced a march of her own in Aliesha’s direction.
The two women met in the center aisle. “What you doing in here?” Mrs. Phillips inquired again, in a softer voice. “You know that man is out there waiting on you.”
“Oh, I just had a few things I needed to tend to first,” Aliesha said.
“Uh-huh,” Mrs. Phillips said, “Careful now. Church might be over, but you still standing up in one. And I ain’t hardly trying to catch a lightning bolt that’s got your name written on it.”
The two women enjoyed a hearty laugh before Mrs. Phillips’s face resumed its seriousness. “Far be it from me to try to get all up in your business, but I’ve got to say, chile, whatever it was that broke the two of y’all up must have been awfully bad.”
Aliesha’s own face turned somber. “Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid awfully bad is a fairly apt description.” What she couldn’t tell Mrs. Phillips, what she’d never discussed with anyone besides Monica, was that Kenneth’s obsession with porn, an obsession that Aliesha had tolerated and indulged until one horror-filled night in Vegas, is what had led to their painful breakup.
Mrs. Phillips seized Aliesha’s free hand. “Well, not that you asked my opinion, but I’m offering it anyway—it takes a smart woman to know that it’s never good to love a man, or anyone else for that matter, more than she’s willing to love herself.”
“Now aren’t you the wise one?” Aliesha said prior to enveloping her surrogate mother in a tight, loving embrace. She planted a peck on one of the older woman’s perfectly rouged cheeks and whispered, “Thanks, Sister Phillips. I really needed that.”
Looking as embarrassed as she was pleased, Mrs. Phillips said, “Aww, girl, you know you’re quite welcome. But allow me to let you in on a lil’ something about wisdom. It’s kind of like hindsight. Most times, it’s only good after the fact. See, had I been a smart woman, like you, I’da done a better job—as far as teaching my own two about loving themselves.”
The two women turned toward the figure that suddenly materialized at the door. “All right, Barbara, come on, I’m ready to go,” Archie Phillips said. On noticing Aliesha, he added, “Hey, Doc Eaton, I thought you were already gone. How long you planning on making that poor fella stand out there and wait? See, that’s what’s wrong with y’all Black women . . .”
CHAPTER 10
Before Aliesha could make it outside, her phone buzzed again. She looked at Kenneth’s number and sighed. In the twenty or so months since their breakup, he’d always called her at work—never at home, never on her cell, and always during those hours when he knew she wouldn’t be available to take his call. She knew why. He wanted to avoid making her feel pressed upon, uncomfortable, or obliged to talk to him. Nor did he want to risk the creation of an awkward situation, should she just so happen to be in the company, if not the arms, of another man. Kenneth was just like that—always on the lookout for her best interest. It was one of her favorite characteristics on the long list of things she adored about him.
Instead of ignoring his call, like she’d done while in the sanctuary, she answered it. “Hey, I’m sorry. I’m on my way out as we speak.”
“No problem,” Kenneth said. “I just wanted you to know I’m out here standing next to your car. Looks like it’s been a while since it’s had a real good washing.”
Aliesha couldn’t contain her amusement at what was, for them, a very private joke. The day they’d transitioned from being friends to lovers, he’d come to her house with the intent of helping her wash her car, only to have her invite him inside afterward for a shower, which had quickly turned into an encounter of a more intimate nature.
On regaining her composure, Aliesha said, “Need you any reminding, Mr. Baxter, looks can be awfully deceiving. So don’t go getting any ideas. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Upon reaching the parking lot, the Phillipses waved at Kenneth before bidding Aliesha a wink and hug-filled good-bye. Kenneth, who’d moved his Lincoln Navigator next to her Nissan, stood between both vehicles with his cell phone pressed to his ear.
As she walked toward him, the expression on his handsome face told her exactly what he had on his mind. “Stop that,” she said, upon spying the old familiar grin.
“You know I would, if I could,” he said.
On reaching him, she stared at the thick, wide chest that still beckoned her fingers, that still called out for the soft press of her cheek, the moisture of her lips. In hopes of shaking the feeling, she shifted her gaze back to his face and said, “How come you aren’t having lunch at the Piccadilly with Rihanna, KJ, and the kids?”
Aliesha remembered how on her first visit to Garden View she’d wrongly assumed that the young woman seated on the pew next to Kenneth was his lady-friend rather than his daughter, Rihanna. Even more shocking had been her discovery that not only was the youthful-looking Kenneth a widower and a father to several adult children, but he was also all of twenty years her senior. In the months since their breakup, the only time Kenneth had shown up at Garden View had been in conjunction with an activity in which either his kids or grandkids played a significant role.
“Because I can eat at the Piccadilly with Rihanna, KJ, and those little snot-nose grandkids of mine any ole time,” Kenneth said. “But it’s not every day that I get to see much less spend a few minutes alone with you.” He reached out and caressed a spot behind her ear. “Your hair . . . it’s nice. You must have finally broken down and gone to see Peaches.”
She smiled and shook her head. She’d forgotten she’d confided in him about Peaches, Miss Margie, Big Mama, and all of the rest. She’d shared so much with Kenneth in the short time they’d been together—things that she’d yet to even think about revealing to Javiel, even though they’d been together longer.
“No, not Peaches. Someone new,” she said. “A young guy who reads Kafka, actually.” She wasn’t sure why she’d felt compelled to include those particular details.
Kenneth acted as if he hadn’t heard and asked, “So, you ever think about giving me another chance?”
“I’d be lying if I said it’s never crossed my mind,” she said, while staring at his suit and this time realizing it was the same Canali she’d helped him select at the men’s clothier she’d accompanied him to in the weeks prior to their breakup.
“So what’s the but?” he asked. “You still need more time?”
She gently brushed away a bit of lint she spotted on the front of his suit jacket. “Time isn’t going to make what happened go away, Kenneth. I wish it would.”
“Are you seeing someone? The young fellow who reads Kafka, perhaps?”
She bowed her head, shook it, but didn’t say anything.
He placed three of his fingers beneath her chin and gently
guided her head up again. “Tell the truth now, Miz Babygirl, you love him as much you loved me?”
“Miz Babygirl” was the pet name Aliesha’s father had first tagged her with as a child, due to her stubborn ways, no-nonsense nature, and all too grown-up disposition. Most of the people who’d routinely called her that—her father, her Big Mama, and Miss Margie—had all passed. She remembered how much joy she’d initially felt at Kenneth’s resurrection of the term. Over time her joy had all but dissipated and been replaced by a growing knot of sadness.
She smiled and looked away from him. “See, now you’re just being mean.”
“You did love me though, didn’t you?”
She forced her gaze back onto his face. “That’s the thing, I’ve never stopped loving you, Kenneth.” She let him pull her into his arms. She nuzzled her face against his neck and bit her lip to hold back the hot flood of tears pressing against the corner of her eyes.
He held her and whispered into her ear, “I’m gonna keep on trying, you know.”
“I suspect you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t,” she said. “Just don’t ever accuse me of giving you a sense of false hope. Because the truth is, Kenneth, as much as I still care about you and miss all that was good about what we had together, I’m not liable to change my mind. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”
He looked as if he were about to speak, but a shake of her head silenced him.
“Good-bye, love.” She granted him a soft peck on the lips, after which she turned and walked alone to her car’s driver’s side.
She got in, adjusted her seat belt, and stuck the key in the ignition. But before she drove away, she heard the rattling buzz of her cell phone again. Sure enough, when she peeked at her cell’s blue display window, she again spotted his number. “Yes,” she said, letting some of her exasperation with his antics seep into her voice.
“Forgive me,” Kenneth said. “I had to say this one last thing. I know it’s a Sunday and all, but I swear, girl, if you don’t look just as good going as you do coming.”
CHAPTER 11
Closing the book on the fairy tale, the one with the happily-ever-after ending, the one she’d once longed to live out with Kenneth, lent her an odd sense of relief. It still hurt. She still missed him. A part of her would always love him. But now that she knew for sure it was finally over, she felt a sense of freedom . . . at least in some respects.
The argument with Javiel still weighed heavily on one corner of her mind. Even though she’d played an active role in the nastiness that had transpired between them and even though she couldn’t say with any certainty if reconciliation was what she really wanted, she’d fully expected him to make the first move toward such. But Sunday rolled into Monday without him either calling or showing up on her doorstep, looking contrite and seeking forgiveness. Was this her convenient out? Her no-fuss ticket to freedom? Did she dare jump at the opportunity and put herself at risk for being alone again?
She might have spend more time pondering those questions and others in earnest had it not been for her morning drive past Wally’s Cool Cuts. A single glance toward the establishment was all it took to jump-start the craving she had yet to acknowledge. In an instant her mind was off and racing backward, like a fast-spinning, old-fashioned movie projector. Several dark and grainy images of Dante flashed before her in quick succession and the flood of pleasure she’d felt when his fingers first landed upon her scalp returned.
She tugged at the hair on the back of her neck and silently mouthed the word, Damn! Not even a week had passed since she’d last seen him. She hardly needed another haircut and calling him about one would only make her look like an idiot and a fool, if not a stalker. She banished the thought and chided herself for even going there.
But the longing wouldn’t leave. She felt it again on her drive back home that Monday evening. As soon as her gaze fell upon the barbershop, she felt drawn toward it. She pictured a smiling Dante standing by the shampoo bowl in the back, cradling a huge bottle of his Big Mama’s homemade shampoo in one hand and a big-ass magnet of some sort in the other.
Come Tuesday morning the itch . . . the pull . . . the distraction was such that she found herself slamming on the brakes to keep from rear-ending the car ahead of her. Get a grip, girl, she kept telling herself. Whatever this feeling is, it’s anything but normal.
In an effort to lessen the chances of encountering the out-of-control sensation again, she chose a different route on her way home—one that took ten minutes longer and required her to drive several miles out of the way. Thinking she’d hit upon a workable solution, she took the longer route to work the following morning . . . only to find herself sitting in her parked car in front of the Wally’s Cool Cuts parking lot by midafternoon.
She hadn’t planned it. But as luck or fate would have it, she’d darted out of her house that morning without first grabbing the stack of important papers she’d deposited on the kitchen table the night before. While she’d managed to drive back home and collect the paperwork, without incident, on her return she’d slipped up and headed back down her old route instead of turning off on her new detour.
She contemplated mashing her foot against the accelerator and whizzing by the establishment without looking. But in the end, not only did she look, she slowed down, pulled over, and parked right outside the barbershop.
“Okay, I’m here. So what now?” she said aloud and feeling as crazy as she knew she probably looked sitting alone in her car, mumbling to herself.
Though it took everything in her, getting out of the vehicle and going into the shop was an urge she somehow suppressed. Instead, with trembling hands, she opened her purse, pulled out Dante’s card, and dialed the number.
“Wally’s Cool Cuts,” a voice on the other end said.
“Yes, may I speak to Dante?” she said, hoping the person would tell her, “Sorry, but he’s not here right now.”
Instead, “A’ight. Hold on,” is what she heard.
“Hey, this is Dante. How can I help you?”
“Hi, Dante, this is Aliesha. Aliesha Eaton. I stopped in last Wednesday and you gave me a haircut and a shampoo . . .”
“Oh yeah, sure, I remember. I tightened up your natural for you. Miz Professor, right? So, what’s shaking? Don’t tell me my Big Mama’s shampoo didn’t do proper by you and you’re looking to collect on that get-triple-your-money-back guarantee?”
She laughed. “No, nothing like that. I was just calling to—”she squeezed her eyes shut as her mind raced to come up with something that didn’t sound totally ridiculous “—umm, you know, to set up an appointment for next week.”
“Yeah?” he said. “So whatcha thinking—next Wednesday, about this same time?”
“Yes, that would be perfect.”
“Great, I’ll make a note on my calendar. What else you need?”
“Well—” She paused and gave it a couple seconds’ worth of thought. “You wouldn’t happen to do eyebrows, would you?”
“Sure, I did a couple of my Cali clients on a fairly regular basis. But I’m strictly a tweezers guy kind of guy—no razors and no wax.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” Aliesha said. “I prefer tweezers actually.”
“Yeah?” he said. “You want me to do them now? I mean, seeing as you’re already here and all.”
Aliesha’s closed eyes suddenly snapped open. She bent her head over the steering wheel and peered toward the barbershop’s large, tinted storefront window. Behind the darkened glass, she spotted Dante gazing back at her. When he waved and smiled, she momentarily closed her eyes again to keep from turning the key in the ignition, yanking the car into reverse, and peeling out of the lot as fast as she could.
“I guess I look pretty silly, huh?” Instead of retreating, she’d made herself get out of the car and join him on the sidewalk in front of the shop.
Good Lord, could the man have possibly gotten better looking in the span of a week? Aliesha drank in the sight of him, pausing every fe
w seconds to breathe and swallow, as if he were an extra rich, extra thick, extra chocolaty milk shake, handspun and with a cherry on top.
“Hey, everybody’s got their own unique way of doing business,” Dante said, managing somehow to keep the amusement in his voice to a mere smidgen.
Undaunted, Aliesha’s wandering gaze tripped, fell, and rolled in the curly, soft-looking hairs she spotted peeking from the V-neck of his clean, white smock.
“You sure you don’t want to come in?” he asked. “Right now, I’m prepping a guy for a shave. After I shave him and line him up, I’m free.”
Aliesha peeled her roving eyes from the dark chest hairs that sat atop the well-developed and even darker pecs. She glanced at her watch and said, “I really do have some things I need to take care of at school.”
Dante raised a hand toward her face, then stopped and said, “May I?”
She nodded and managed not to tremble, moan, jump, or even blink as he eased a thumb across first her right eyebrow and then her left.
“They’re not too bad,” he said. “I’ll be here until 9:00 if you want to swing by after you get off work this evening. Just give me a call.”
“Okay,” she said. “I may just do that.”
Before she could summon enough spit to moisten her lips and tell him good-bye, he ran an appraising eye over her head and said, “Your hair still looks good.”
“Thanks,” she said, then added with a smile, “Or should that be thanks to you.”