by R. S. Lively
I turn and hustle out of the closet and through my bedroom. Pulling my cellphone out of my pocket, I call down to the garage.
“I need you to bring the car around, Roger,” I say. “I'm running a little bit late and need to make up some time.”
~ooo000ooo~
“I was surprised you were on time,” she says. “The Carter I knew was always running late.”
I shrug and laugh it off. Good thing Roger knew some quick shortcuts as he navigated us through and around the city. We'd pulled up to Darby's place at seven on the button.
“I've turned over a new leaf, Darby,” I say. “As I'm hoping we can too.”
“Pump the brakes there, cowboy,” she says. “I told you dinner and no promises of anything else.'
“I'm not asking you to make me a promise about anything,” I reply. “I'm just stating my hope.”
Her smile is warm and genuine, and I see the color flare in her cheeks. In a simple green vintage-style dress – one that happens to match my tie, thank you Shelly – that accentuates her curves and shows off a slight hint of her amazing cleavage, Darby is every bit as radiant today as she was a decade ago. And I can't take my eyes off her.
We're at a small, intimate cafe called Havana's – home of some of the best Cuban food anywhere outside of Cuba, as far as I'm concerned. It's not a fancy place, but it has a homey vibe, the aromas coming out of the kitchen will make your mouth water, and the staff treats you like family, rather than just a customer. I've been coming here for – I don't even know how long, honestly.
“I'm surprised you didn't try to impress me with some trendy, five-star restaurant,” she says, looking around at the restaurant.
Some call it a hole in the wall. There is no valet service, no stiff-necked, uptight staff, and overpriced meals. It's nice enough, I mean, it's not dirty or anything like that. Old black and white pictures of Cuba line the walls, the interior is decorated in a riot of garish colors, and authentic music from Cuban musicians play over the restaurant's speakers.
“Would a fancier place have impressed you?” I ask and give her a grin. “Because, if you'd prefer, we can go somewhere that has white linen tablecloths, expensive champagne –”
She holds up a hand and laughs. “No,” she says. “This is actually pretty great. You know I'm not a high maintenance kind of girl. I prefer cozy places like this.”
“Good to see some things haven't changed.”
The waitress comes back and drops off our mojitos. She greets me with a cackle of a laugh and a kiss on the cheek.
“Mr. Carter,” she says. “Good to see you again. It's been what, a week?”
I laugh. “Yeah, about that,” I say. “It's nice to see you too, Maria. As always.”
She turns to Darby and gives her an equally warm greeting. “And who is this?” she asks.
“This is Darby,” I say. “Darby, this is Maria. She's the owner of this fine establishment.”
Maria gives Darby a wink. “Mr. Carter never brings a woman here with him,” she says. “You must be very special.”
I feel my stomach lurch and an unexpected rush of heat to my cheeks. Darby's smile is uncertain, but there's a twinkle in her eye that can't be denied. She quickly looks away from me and down at the menu in front of her.
“Maria, can we start with some of your world famous empanadas, please?”
“Of course,” she says. “Anything for you, Mr. Carter.”
Maria bustles away, leaving an awkward silence in her wake. I clear my throat and quickly recover though. She's not wrong. Darby is special. And because this is my place, I don't bring the women I date here. Most of them would look at it and turn their noses up at it anyway. But, I know Darby isn't like that. She's never been one for the things deemed acceptable by the wealthy. She's always been more down to earth and level-headed about everything.
It's one thing I've always loved about her. She's not one for status or wealth – even though she has both.
I raise my glass to her and Darby follows suit. “To new beginnings,” I say.
A wry grin touches her lips. “To dinner,” she replies.
“Well, it's the best I'm going to do for now, so I'll take it.”
We clink glasses and take a drink. I watch her, drinking in every last bit, unable to get enough.
“Tell me something,” she says as she sets her glass down.
“Anything.”
“How in the hell did you find out all that information about me?” she asks. “I mean, that's next level stalkerish.”
I grin. “I'm a man with a particular set of skills.”
“Great,” she replies. “Going to go all Liam Neeson on me now?”
I shake my head, chuckling softly. “No, I did a basic background check on you. Nothing too invasive. I just wanted to find out a little more about you.”
“Definitely stalkerish,” she says. “But, a basic background check wouldn't have told you I didn't have a boyfriend. Maybe that I wasn't married, but there's no way you could have known I was single.”
“I didn't,” I say. “I was guessing. I took a stab and you confirmed it for me.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “Great. I'm my own worst enemy.”
“Come on,” I say. “Is this really so bad?”
“Well, let's see,” she says. “You pester me until I agree to go out with you. Once we're out, I find out you are snooping into my private life, running background checks on me, and generally behaving like a stalker.”
“On the plus side, I was on time.”
She tries to bite it back, but she can't stop the burst of laughter that erupts from her mouth. She's trying to make this hard on me – and probably, rightly so. I know I deserve a lot of shit for what happened all those years ago. I hurt her, and I own that. It's up to me to make it right.
“Tell me something,” she says. “Why are you so persistent? You're good looking, have more money than God, and you can have any woman you want. Why are you chasing me so hard?”
I take a drink and set my glass down, my eyes never leaving hers. “Because I don't want any woman,” he says. “I want you, Darby.”
She shakes her head. “I'm nothing,” she says. “I've seen the pictures in the tabloids – those underwear model blondes on your arm at this or that event. I don't compare to any of them.”
“You're right,” I say. “You don't compare to them.”
I see a shadow pass through her eyes as if my words had just hurt her. Had, in some way, touched on her insecurities and wounded her.
“The truth of the matter is, you stand head and shoulders above all of them,” I say. “None of the women you saw in those pictures can hold a candle to you.”
She scoffs. “I find that hard to believe.”
“I don't.”
Her eyes are wide as she looks at me, our gazes locked. She bites her bottom lip as her cheeks flare with color once more and she finally looks away.
“Darby, I never stopped thinking about you,” I say. “All these years, you've been the woman I measure all others by. In a lot of ways, I still feel like you're mine.”
“But, I'm not,” she says. “You walked away. You gave me up.”
“You know why though,” I say.
She shakes her head. “It doesn't make it any easier,” she says. “It doesn't make it right.”
“You're right, it doesn't,” I reply. “But, given what we meant to each other, don't I deserve a second chance?”
“I don't know,” she says. “I really don't.”
I nod. “I hate that I understand, but I do,” I say. “But, let me ask you a question, is there anything inside of you, any small part whatsoever, that wants to give me a second chance?”
She sighs and sits back in her seat. I can see the open conflict on her face. Which tells me that there is indeed, some small part of her that wants to give me a second chance. Good news for me. All I need to do is capitalize on it.
“I really don't know right now, Car
ter,” she says. “If I'm being honest, then yes, there is a small part of me that wants to give you a second chance.”
“That's good then,” I say.
“But, I can't trust you,” she says. “You walked away and hurt me once. You hurt me bad. I don't know that I can come back from that.”
“Well, that's less good,” I reply. “But, I believe we can come back from it.”
“Why, Carter?” she asks. “Why are you working this hard to make this happen?”
“Because it matters to me,” I say. “Because you matter to me.”
“After all these years?” she asks. “Why?”
He leans across the table, his eyes earnest and fixed on mine. His gaze pins me to my set and sets gauzy butterfly wings fluttering against my insides.
“Because you're mine, Darby,” he says. “And I'm yours. That's the way it was meant to be. And fate, or whatever you want to call it, is giving us another chance. Those don't come around too often and I'm not willing to let it go. Not again.”
There's uncertainty on her face, but also something more – a yearning. She's careful to keep it in check, refusing to give herself over to it completely. But, it's there. I can see it. I know this won't be easy and that she's going to be a tough nut to crack.
But, at least it's a start.
Chapter Twelve
Darby
My mind is a chaotic whirlwind of thought and emotion. On the one hand, I can't believe I'm sitting in the back of a car, enjoying an evening with him. On the other hand, I'm appalled that I'm sitting in the back of a car, enjoying an evening with him. Like I said, a chaotic whirlwind.
He seems sincere about wanting to earn my trust and repair the damage he did to me. He seems sincere about wanting to be with me again. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't get a little bit of a thrill when he said – more than a few times – that I was his. That I belonged to him.
Yeah, I'm sure feminists would be appalled by getting a thrill out of a man laying claim to me like that, but there was a time when I wanted nothing more than to be his. To have him lay his claim to me. Mostly because, I knew that was a two-way street. Just as his mark would be indelible on me, my mark would also be indelible upon him.
But, that was a long time ago. A lot had happened over the last decade and a lot had changed. Could we really just pick up where we'd left off? Could I carry on like nothing happened? Maybe more importantly, did I want to?
Carter's changed a lot over the last ten years. He dresses a lot nicer. He obviously has a lot more money. He's a lot stronger today than he was back then. I can see it in the way he no longer tries to hide his intelligence. He no longer forces himself to talk like some street kid. He's a lot more comfortable in his skin than he was back then. And that's good to see. That's maybe, the biggest and best change in him I've seen.
But, some things haven't changed. He's still fiery and has a take no shit attitude. That attitude has maybe even gotten a little stronger than before. He still makes me laugh like he always did. His irreverent sense of humor hasn't changed a bit. He still challenges me intellectually – a rarity among the men I've dated. He pushes me. And, he's still sexy as hell. If anything, the last ten years have made him even sexier.
The fact remains though, he'd devastated me. He'd taken my young, fragile heart, and set fire to it. And I don't know if I can ever truly get beyond that.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“You'll see.”
The car winds through the crowded streets and my curiosity only deepens. We're heading into Brooklyn for some odd reason. After another twenty minutes or so, the car pulls to a stop at a curb in front of a small building. His driver opens the door and we slide out. Carter says a few words to the driver and then offers his arm to me. I take it, looking at the neighborhood around us.
Big pieces of Brooklyn are being gentrified as the hipsters move in and take over. Up and down the street we're on, there are little hipster-approved mom-and-pop type businesses. The evening is cool, which is nice. One too many mojitos left my skin feeling a little warm by the time we'd left the restaurant.
“You know, what I said at the gala was true,” Carter says. “About you being the one to open my eyes to everything and teaching me to appreciate art.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
He nods. “I meant every word I said.”
“That's sweet, Carter.”
“You've enriched my life in more ways than I can even begin to list,” he goes on. “It sounds trite, but you've broadened my horizon in so many different ways.”
“I think you give me too much credit.”
He shakes his head. “Actually, I don't think I give you enough credit,” he says. “Nobody has had a bigger influence or impact on my life – and on me personally – as you and Pops.”
I don't know what to say, but without thinking about it, I lay my head on his shoulder as we stroll. There is a warmth spreading through me that has nothing to do with the mojitos I consumed with dinner. No, this warmth is something else entirely. Something I know well. And something I know I should be terrified of, but for some reason, I can't be bothered to actually be scared. Not at the moment.
No, at the moment, I'm enjoying the evening. I'm enjoying being with Carter. Somehow, everything feels right. It feels like the puzzle pieces that make up my life have finally fallen into place and I want to hang on to this feeling as long as I can.
“Here we are,” he says.
I lift my head and look at the building standing before us. I look at him, feeling the smile sliding across my face.
“I stumbled onto this place a while back and make a point of stopping by now and then,” Carter says. “There are some interesting pieces in there, but I think, walking around in there and taking it all in, somehow made me feel closer to you. It made me feel like I was somehow still connected to you.”
“I've heard of this place,” I say. “I just hadn't had the time to check it out yet.”
“Well, no time like the present.”
Carter escorts me to the door of Moton's Gallery of Modern Urban Art, and holds it open for me. He follows me inside, the door swinging shut behind us. The inside of the gallery is neat and clean, every exhibit nicely lit, and the variety of work I see is utterly amazing.
“Carter,” comes a deep, booming voice. Good to see you, brotha.”
“Harold,” Carter replies. “Good to see you too, man.”
Carter turns and smiles, pulling a large, black man into a tight embrace, pounding on each other's backs like men do. Carter isn't a small guy, but the man named Harold practically dwarfs him. Six-foot-six and easily three hundred and fifty pounds – pretty much all muscle, from what I can tell. His hair is dark and shot through with gray, he wears black-rimmed glasses, and he has a neatly trimmed goatee that doesn't have nearly as much gray as the top of his head.
Carter steps back and motions to me. “Darby, this is Harold Allen,” he says. “He owns the gallery.”
“Very nice to meet you, Harold,” I say.
I hold out my hand and Harold takes it. My hand looks like the hand of a newborn infant in his giant paw, but his touch is surprisingly light and gentle.
“Nice to meet you as well, Darby.”
“Harold here used to play pro football,” Carter says. “He was a tight end with the Eagles for about a thousand years.”
“Seven years,” he says. “I'm not Methuselah, kid.”
Harold's laugh is deep and rumbling, sounding a lot like thunder as it rolls in. But, it's good natured and infectious and I find myself smiling.
“I – I'm sorry,” I say. “I don't watch much football.”
“That's okay, sweetheart,” he says. “The teams I was on weren't worth watching anyway.”
“But you guys were great against the spread,” Carter says. “I always knew I could make some money on you guys.”
“From pro football to urban art?” I ask. “That seems like quite a radical change.”
/> He shrugs. “I've always enjoyed art,” he says. “Got a scholarship to play football and a degree in art history from the University of Michigan.”
“Wow,” I say. “That's amazing.”
“Anyway, nice to see you both,” Harold says. “Please, take a look around and let me know if you have any questions.”
“Thanks, man,” Carter says.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Of course.”
Harold gives us a smile and walks away, his massive frame somehow disappearing among the displays. Carter puts his hand on the small of my back and starts to guide me through the gallery.
“What turned you on to this place?” I ask.
He shrugs. “You did.”
“Me? How so?”
“The first couple of times we went out, you took me to look at street art, you called it,” he says. “Do you remember? I thought it was just graffiti, and you – changed my mind about it. You opened my eyes. To that and a lot of other things.”
I laugh. “Wow. And here I thought you were just humoring me by going along.”
He shakes his head. “I thought I was at first too,” he says. “But, seeing those murals and whatnot through your eyes, having you talk to me about them, share your perspective – it really got to me.”
I look at him, stunned by his revelation. I really had thought he was just humoring me. But, I can see by the way he's looking at some of the pieces that he has a genuine appreciation for them. Maybe it's silly, but seeing that in his face, hearing that conviction in his voice, it moves me. It makes me – happy.
“I mean, don't get me wrong,” he says. “I'll never know as much about art as you do. I'm sure you forget more every day than I'll ever know. But, there are some pieces I've seen – that I've collected – that really speak to me.”
“I honestly never thought I'd hear anything like that fall out of your mouth, to be honest.”
He laughs and gives me a sly little wink. “Yeah, surprised the hell out of me too.”
I punch him in the arm playfully and we continue on through the gallery. I'm more focused on the paintings and sculptures than anything. There are some beautiful, intense, and emotionally evocative pieces. We stand before a small sculpture that adorns a pedestal display. It's made entirely of bullets and pieces of various guns, and is splashed with red paint. The message is abundantly clear. And chilling.