by Tina Martin
After leaving the shop, I take a stroll down the street to Jamar’s guitar shop. Jamar is one of those artsy guys and that’s a good thing. I like the fact that he and I both have a creative side. And he’s not bad on the eyes. He has a thin build – nothing extra in the way of muscles. His eyes are a noticeable chocolate brown. He’s clean shaven with a groomed mustache. He wears black dreads to his shoulders and dresses like a white boy – plaid shirts, faded jeans and Vans shoes. Both of his arms are tatted up. I’m not much into tattoos but they add to his look somehow. He’s charming in his own way. The kind of guy you can watch sports with but at the same token, the kind of man who would have no hang-ups about joining you for a thirty-minute yoga session. He isn’t one of those manly men like Romulus, but he’s a man, nonetheless.
Side note: I really need to stop comparing guys to Romulus.
When I push the door open to his shop, he’s playing the guitar, jamming to his own music then glances up at me and smiles. He’s singing as he plays. It’s only us in the store. He closes at the same time I do, 7:00 p.m. After seven on a Saturday, these people around here are only concerned about eating and over-indulging in alcoholic beverages – not buying gifts and checking out the latest and greatest guitars. The only time I would consider staying open past seven is during the art gallery crawl nights that usually happens once a month.
When Jamar finishes his song, I smile and offer a small applause. He stands with his guitar, takes a bow, his dreads swinging, then places the guitar on the counter.
“Is that one of your personal guitars, or is that one for sale?” I ask.
“It’s for sale. Just got this beauty in today. I thought I’d give it a test run before adding it to inventory.”
“Nice. You play so well.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I walk closer to the counter and pluck a guitar string. After the easy, melodic tone fades, I ask, “How did you do today?” Hip to our shop lingo, Jamar knows I’m referring to his store sales and traffic. We often discuss our days, our way of comparing notes to determine which days are more profitable than others.
“Not bad. I had more sales than last Saturday. That’s for sure. What about you?”
“I did pretty good, too. Now, I need to go somewhere and sit down.”
He smiles. “I see what’s going on here. Is this your way of asking me out?”
I can feel my face tighten and I have no idea why, especially since Romulus is the only man that has ever made me blush. I’m not all that attracted to Jamar and I honestly wasn’t trying to ask him out. I was simply stating a fact about needing to sit down. I’ve been working all day. A sister is tired. That’s a bit of a stretch for him to mistake my words for an invitation. “Um...no... I was just sayin’,” I tell him.
“C’mon. Let’s go to Boudreaux’s,” he says like that was his plan all along.
“We really don’t have to, Jamar,” I say, trying to get out of it.
“Nah, let’s go ahead and make it date number two.”
“Okay, if you insist...”
* * *
We walk down the street to Boudreaux’s – one of those Louisiana-style restaurants with some really fantastic food – situated on the corner of North Davidson Street and East 36th Street, next to a bar called Sanctuary and The Neighborhood Theatre. When we arrive, I feel totally underdressed – not that Boudreaux’s is the kind of place where you have to dress up and look all fancy in order to eat – because it’s not. I feel underdressed because I’m not feeling pretty like I’m trying to impress Jamar since this is date two. And I’m tired – my feet still hurt even though I’m sitting down now. My hair is up in a bun which reminds me – I still have an ink pen tucked behind my ear. Ugh. Entrepreneurship has made me a slob.
I inconspicuously remove the pen by acting like I’m fixing my hair, then slide it in my purse. Jamar must think I’m a crocheting dork. See, I don’t have these problems when I’m with Romulus because I’m comfortable with being his friend and all. He wouldn’t notice a pen behind my ear or that my makeup has begun to fail me at this point in the evening. He doesn’t care about those things because he’s not into me like that. But someone who’s actually trying to date me, like Jamar, can easily be turned on or turned off by certain things – like the way I chew or how many times I go quiet without trying to add to the conversation. I’m so not used to this dating thing.
After we’ve both eaten a bowl of seafood gumbo and red beans, Jamar stretches but shows no sign that he’s ready to call it a night. It’s 9:15 p.m. Boudreaux’s closes at eleven. I’m ready for bed. I can barely keep my eyes open after getting food drunk on gumbo. In fact, I feel myself dozing just slightly when Jamar asks, “How do you think it’s going so far?”
“Me and you?” I ask. A yawn escapes.
“Yes. Me and you.”
He absentmindedly plays in his dreads. I’m curious to know if he knows how often he does that.
“Well, seeing as though this is only our second date, I think we’re having a good time,” I tell him trying to sound upbeat to hide the fact that I’m exhausted.
He nods. “Yeah, I think so, too.”
I watch him run his fingers through his dreads again. He looks like he could stand a good night’s rest himself.
“Hey, I meant to ask you this on our first date, but I didn’t want you to think I was the jealous type, which I’m not by the way, but who’s that guy you’re always with?”
Dang it…he’s talking about Romulus. I don’t want to talk about Romulus right now but I don’t want to come off as suspicious by refusing to tell him who Romulus is either. So I respond passively by saying, “Oh, that’s Romulus. He’s a friend.”
“Just a friend, huh?”
He asks the question in a way that makes me believe he doesn’t believe me or he’s one of those people who think men and women can’t be platonic, no-strings-attached friends.
“Yes. A friend. My best friend actually.”
His brows raise. I imagine his antennas does as well. “Best friend? You’re best friends with a guy?”
“Yeah. I have female friends, too, but Romulus and I have been friends for a long time.”
“Interesting,” he says with a skeptical, twisted face glowing with skepticism. “Personally speaking, I know I couldn’t be just friends with a woman, especially one as beautiful as you.”
I foil a blush and look away from him again. For a second, I imagine he’s Romulus telling me those words. That I’m beautiful. That he knows he couldn’t be just friends with me. After a long sip of water, I say, “Oh, stop it. Men and women can be friends without involving emotions. Me and Romulus are living proof.”
Yeah, we’re living proof alright…living proof because Romulus has no emotions at all – well when it comes to me that is.
Jamar makes a tune with his knuckles by tapping on the table. “I don’t buy it.”
“Like I said…living proof.”
“Does he have a girl?”
“Not a steady one. He dates, though. He never gets serious with anyone.”
“Did you tell him about us?” he asks.
The question catches me by surprise. Did you tell him about us not only makes it seem like me and Jamar are exclusive, but it also implies I need clearance from Romulus just to date somebody. Like I need him to be okay with the fact that I’m seeing someone. Not in this life…
“I mentioned it to him,” I say. “No biggie.”
I’m ready to move away from the subject, but Jamar looks like he’s gassing up with more questions.
“When you mentioned it to him, did he have anything to say about it?”
What was I supposed to tell him now? That Romulus didn’t like him? That would open up another can of worms. Why? Because Romulus has never met him, so why would he automatically not like someone he’s never met? That he’s never had any dealings with whatsoever?
“No, he didn’t have anything to say. Listen, Jamar
—the bottom line is I’m a grown woman who just so happens to have a male best friend. I wouldn’t read too much into it if I were you. This is our second date. We’re taking things slow, starting off as friends—getting to know each other. Let’s be good with that for now.”
“You’re right, friend, and on that note, I think it’s time to get you home. You look exhausted.”
Now he notices…
“I am.”
Jamar stands, reaches for my hand. I accept his grasp, make myself stand up and we walk out of the restaurant and down North Davidson Street, holding hands. Is it a bit preliminary for us to be holding hands? Most likely it is. Right away I notice his hands are not as large as Romulus’ hands or as tough. When Romulus holds my hand, I feel his strength through them. Like he could handcuff my arms behind my back using only one hand to secure my wrists. Jamar’s hands feel softer than mine. There’s nothing wrong with that but I’m into more of the muscular, brawny type of guy – not one with soft hands. Still, I don’t attempt to break his grasp of my hand. Should have, but I didn’t. I just hope he doesn’t try to kiss me.
He walks with me to the staircase that leads up to my apartment. We head up. With each step I take, I grow more anxious.
Please don’t try to kiss me. Please don’t.
I’m not ready for that yet, especially from a guy I’m not feeling. But what if he does? What if he makes an attempt and I duck out of the way? For sure he won’t ask me out again.
I haven’t kissed a man in like five years, but I don’t consider a peck on the lips a real kiss, so I guess you can say I haven’t kissed a man in nearly ten years, around the same time I met Romulus. He’s the man I want to kiss, but that’s not going to happen.
Ugh...why am I thinking about that right now?
We reach the top of the stairs. The lights back here gives off enough illumination that we can see each other clearly. His dreads frames his face. Not many men can pull off the dread look but Jamar manages to do so flawlessly. That’s one thing he has going for himself as far as my attraction to him goes. Soft hands – no. Dreads – yes!
“I think we need another date real soon,” he says, looking dreamy-eyed, nibbling on his bottom lip. “Date number three. What do you think?”
“I would like that,” I kinda force myself to say.
“How soon would you like it?”
“Hmm…not sure. Our work schedules are screwy.”
“What about Monday night?” he suggests. “Is that too soon?”
“A date on a Monday…that’s different.”
“Since we both have busy shop days on Fridays and Saturdays so what do you say we give Monday a shot?”
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
“Yeah?” he asks, looking like he’s amped and ready for Monday to get here already.
“Yeah.”
“All right. I’ll pick you up at eight.”
“Good. That’ll give me time to actually look decent, unlike tonight.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks. His eyes survey me from head to toe. “You look good tonight. You look good every time I see you.”
I offer up a lopsided smile, not believing a word he’s saying. “Thanks for the compliment, Jamar, but tonight I look like I’ve been working all day which I have.”
“Well, you know I understand that. Even still, you wear work well.”
I smile, glancing into his brown eyes. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So, I guess this is goodnight,” I say. My feet still hurt and standing on the porch exchanging small talk ain’t making them no better.
“Goodnight, Siderra.”
I cringe when Jamar begins to lean towards me. He presses his lips against my cheek then tells me goodnight again.
“Goodnight,” I say, relieved. After unlocking the door, I wave at him a final time before I disappear into my apartment. I immediately take a shower then go to bed and lie there, unable to sleep. I’m not thinking about Jamar or the dinner we had. I’m not anticipating what our Monday date is going to be like. I’m lying here thinking about Romulus. We usually never go a day without talking to each other whether it’s by phone, email or text. There’s always some form of communication, but not today.
In college, seemed all we ever did was argue. People used to say we fought like an old married couple. But we were young. Inexperienced. Most of the time we argued about his girls. Or he’d miss assignments and skip classes to party with his fraternity brothers. I thought he was too intelligent to be playing with his future that way. After all the bickering, we’d find a way to make up somehow. We had no choice but to. We shared an off-campus apartment ever since our sophomore year. I had to see him every day. There was no room for holding grudges in a small two-bedroom apartment.
Now, I’m here alone. In my one-bedroom apartment and I haven’t heard a single word from Romulus. I must have really pissed him off this time. I said what I thought needed to be said at the moment, so why am I the one that can’t sleep? Why am I having this nagging feeling like I’ve done permanent, irreversible damage to him and our friendship? Like I’m the one who needs to reach out, apologize and make things right between us again? Does he not have that same feeling? Or am I easily dismissed like the rest of his women?
Chapter 4
Romulus
He wasn’t avoiding her, he told himself. He’d never been that petty. He was giving her space because apparently, she needed it to get her feelings in check.
Sunday evening, he rolled up to a restaurant near his house – one with a full bar where he could enjoy a meal and a drink all at the same place. He’d ordered a steak and shrimp scampi as he sat at the bar glancing up at the TV. He sliced a piece of steak and glanced to his left when he felt someone near him. He saw a woman standing there. She looked mixed – African-American with Caucasian and had long, black hair with streaks of burgundy highlights. From what he could tell from the quick look he took, she had a nice body and a pretty smile.
“Excuse me—is anyone sitting here?”
“No,” he responded without looking at her somewhat annoyed that she wanted to sit this close to him – like in the next bar seat when the seats at the bar were plentiful. She just had to choose the seat next to him. He didn’t like the unwanted attention. Women throwing themselves at him used to massage his ego. Now, it felt more like borderline harassment. He was done with that life. Done sleeping around and hopping from woman to woman. He wanted something more. Something deeper.
“So, what’s good here?” she asked, eyeing up the menu.
Romulus glanced at her, then returned his attention back to his food. “I’m sure your server can assist you with that.”
He wasn’t trying to be rude although he considered it rude for this woman to assume he’d want her company because she looked nice. He was in no mood for small talk. He wanted to be left alone.
“Oh,” she said, cocking her head. “Sorry to have bothered you.” She got up and moved down a few seats.
Romulus continued eating, thinking about Siderra. He recalled something she told him a while back at the last family dinner she attended – how their lives would be different if she met someone and got married. Said she wouldn’t be there with him at family dinners and such. Her new man wouldn’t want her spending all that time with him – friends or not. That’s the way it was. But did it have to be that way? If she were to get married, did that mean he had no place in her life?
The thought sickened him. Besides his family, Siderra – who he considered family – was the only outside constant that made him who he was. She was very much a part of his life.
He dropped his fork and held up his glass, requesting another vodka-Sprite. Why was Siderra tripping? Said he had no feelings. No emotions. Didn’t know how to be there for her. When her father died, he was there for her. Stayed with her for days while she grieved. Wouldn’t leave her side. When she wanted the space for her store, who negotiated to make sure she got
it and fronted half the down payment? He was there for her and had always been there.
Now, she wanted to kick him to the curb for mop head.
A knot twisted in his abdomen. He couldn’t handle what was going down right now. How does one come to the brink of ending a ten-year friendship like it was nothing?
He finished the drink, put some money on the counter and walked out. He sat in his car thinking about the situation, replaying the conversation he had with Siderra. Everything in him wanted to drive to her apartment and have a good conversation with her – in an effort to make sense of this strange place they suddenly found themselves. What was odd about that was, he didn’t know what to say to her. So why had he pressed the dial button next to her picture in his contact list? Not a smart move for someone who was tongue-tied and unprepared.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Then…
“Hello?” she answered softly.
“Hey. It’s Romulus. Remember me?” he asked and while he talked on speaker, his eyes stayed glued to her picture.
“Romulus, what do you want?”
“Do I have to want something to call you, Derra?”
“No, but—I—I was just wondering.”
“Actually, I do want something. I want an answer to this question. When did you start hating me?”
“I don’t hate you.”
“You must,” he said getting comfortable in his seat, starting the car and turning on the AC.
“I don’t know what would make you think that, but—”
“Oh, I have plenty of reasons. You wanna hear ‘em?”
Siderra sighed heavily.
“Let’s just start with the things you said to me Friday night.”
“Rom—”
“You said my family isn’t your family and all that nonsense.”
“I wasn’t trying to offend you, Romulus. I was just stating facts.”
“Really?”