Vérité

by Rachel Blaufeld

  We stood on the train, Tiberius leaning up against one of the safety poles with me tucked into his side. “I forgot, we got to make one stop on our way back,” he mumbled into the top of my head, then kissed my hairline.

  “Where? The stadium? I can just go home and you can meet me there.”

  “Nah, we have to make a pit stop over in Brooklyn Heights.”

  “Why?” I tilted my head to look up at him.

  “I got to meet someone over there real quick. No big deal, got to pick some paperwork up.” He pulled my head back against his chest.

  I took a deep breath, inhaling his woodsy scent along with a small trace of sweat left over from his morning workout. He might be a good guy, but he was all man, especially in the bedroom—when it meant more than a quick romp.

  “But then we can go home and eat?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  After we exited the subway and were walking up toward the street, Tiberius pulled out his phone to text someone.

  “Are you going to give me any clue as to what’s going on?” I asked to pester him, hip checking him the whole time we walked. “What paperwork? Are you pranking me?”

  “Nope,” he replied with a smirk. “Come on.”

  He grabbed my hand and dragged me up a street to a tall, well-weathered brownstone. It was a duplex, and there was a FOR SALE sign in front of the building.

  “What? Really? You’re looking at houses?” I squeaked. “I thought you were happy living with me,” I said, unable to control the frown that took over my face.

  Tiberius gave me a patient, long-suffering glance. “Rex, it’s a one-bedroom apartment. You’re all over me and I’m all over you. Which, don’t get me wrong, I like. But when I buy a TV that’s actually a TV and not the size of a microwave, it’s gonna take up the whole joint, and you’re gonna be pissed. Plus, I want to put an Xbox there, and it’s gonna be loud as shit. You’ll have nowhere to go, and we’ll fight like a bunch of sorority girls.”

  I turned to look at him and willed myself not to cry. I’d just thought to myself a few minutes ago how happy I was, and now this. It wasn’t our first disagreement, but it was the first one to cut through my heart like a knife through butter.

  “So, you’re moving out,” I said, doing my best not to full-on pout. “I thought you liked ordinary. What’s wrong with my TV?”

  “No, T. I’m not moving out. We’re moving out.”

  Just then, the door on the left side of the brownstone opened and Jamel strutted out in his standard low-riding basketball shorts and bright red-and-purple slides.

  “Yo!” Tiberius shouted.

  “Welcome home, Rexie,” Jamel hollered.

  “Wait! We’re living with Mel?” I squinted at Tiberius, shooting him a death glare. This was actually getting worse, not better. He knew I loved Jamel, but living with him was a whole different story.

  Jamel had been picked up by the same team as Tiberius in the second round of the NBA draft. We’d held our breath until the rumors came true . . . Jamel and Tiberius were an unstoppable combo, and now they had their chance in the big league.

  But that doesn’t mean we have to live together!

  “We bought the whole building. We got half and Jamel has the other. Mel and I are partners, fifty/fifty. It was a good investment and I’m not about to throw away my signing bonus on rent. Plus I need a quiet place to study and finish my courses.” He winked, knowing he had me when he mentioned studying. He’d promised he would finish his degree, and he was well on his way. No matter what happened with his pro career, Tiberius would have a fall-back plan and a degree in business.

  I shut my eyes and braced myself for the revolving door of women I’d witness over the next few years. None of them Stacy. She was living in Philadelphia, working as an assistant coach for one of the universities there. We’d kept in touch since she graduated with a degree in sports management a year or so ago. Chey was in law school in New Jersey, and I thought that I’d see them regularly with my moving to New York. Now that I was practically shacked up with Jamel, I doubted I’d see them much. At least, at my place.

  Deep down, I knew Jamel to be a solid guy. He was like an M&M, soft and smooth on the inside, a hard candy shell on the outside. But he was a green one, always horny; the guy couldn’t keep it in his pants. Suffice it to say, his girl back home broke up with him when she heard he’d knocked someone up. He tried to make a go of it with Stacy, but he couldn’t keep his dick out of the cookie—ball baby—jar.

  “Say something,” Tiberius said in my ear.

  It occurred to me that I’d been standing there dumbfounded, just staring at the daunting piece of New York real estate. I gave myself a mental shake, then tried to string some words together.

  “It’s beautiful, huge . . . I don’t know what to say. I can’t believe you bought this! Your mom would’ve been happy that you’re not throwing your money away, but this is too much for me. I mean, really—”

  “Wanna see the inside?” he asked, cutting me off.

  My mind raced, trying to focus on a bigger issue than having Jamel as a roommate. “But what about the money for this? I can take some out from the trust and go in on half of it—”

  Tiberius placed the tip of one long finger over my lips. “Rex, I got more money than I know what to do with, and the trust . . . I don’t need it. It’s yours. We can give it to our kids.”

  “What?”

  “Our kids.” It came out so matter-of-factly, rolling off his tongue easily, as if he’d never doubted we would have kids.

  “This is all too much. And kids? We never really discussed that,” I said, punching Tiberius in the arm. I glanced at Jamel, but he just shook his head and went back inside his half of the house, apparently not wanting to deal with our bickering.

  Tiberius flung his arm around me and held me close. “Because you’d run away from me a thousand miles an hour if I mentioned it. Like now, you’re going over ways to speed away in your head. I know it.” Smiling down at me, he said in a low voice, “I don’t mean now for kids. Later. You know I like to take things slow, and I’m not ready to share you, T.”

  When I just stood there, stunned, he chuckled and said, “Come on, let’s go look inside, and then you can start banging on your phone and figure out when we can move in.”

  I scanned the street, looking for an alley, a quick escape, but Tiberius tightened his grip on me and led me toward the door.

  As we stepped through the entry, I immediately fell in love. Exposed brick lined the hallway. To the left was an empty sitting room with a long wall opposite a gas-burning fireplace surrounded by an intricately carved mantel.

  “That’s where my TV’s gonna go,” Tiberius said, confirming my suspicions with a chin lift at the plain wall.

  To the right was a dining room; in the back was a small alcove entry that led to a gourmet kitchen and a glassed-in sunroom in the back.

  “That’s your room to get away from me,” Tiberius teased.

  “And where I don’t have to watch the girls coming and going from next door,” I shot back.

  He shook his head. “I think you’ll be surprised. Jamel is making all kinds of changes. He’s even promised to help me study on the road.”

  I raised my eyebrows, but didn’t have time to say anything else because Tiberius pressed me up against the glass partition between the kitchen and the sunroom. His tongue teased my lips, swiping my mouth, sending a roiling wave of heat between my thighs.

  When the glass was sufficiently fogged up, he winked and said, “Want to see the master bedroom?”

  I squinted up at him. “There’s no bed, though.”

  “That’s okay . . . we don’t need one. Hasn’t stopped us before, Rex. Remember the pavilion?” He winked and grabbed my hand, dragging me toward the staircase lined with a spindled banister painted an antique white.

  Upstairs, I was surprised to find a blanket spread out on the master bedroom floor along with pillows and a bottle of champagn
e, and a fire roaring in the corner fireplace. Twinkling lights were strung across the ceiling, reminiscent of the pavilion, and soft R&B played in the background.

  Raising my eyebrows, I said, “How?”

  “Jamel and a little help from a secret helper. You like?”

  “It’s perfect. Stunning. But how did you know you’d get me back here? Seems like you knew we were gonna do this all along.”

  “Rex, I know all your little escape and avoidance tactics. You were gonna suggest takeout at home no matter what.”

  He leaned down and kissed me, melding his lips with mine, and my body pressed against his. With an audible smack, he released my lips, and I protested with a long whimper until I saw him dropping lower, yet he didn’t stop at my pulsing core like I expected. Instead, his knee hit the floor and he came up on one bended knee, his face level with my abdomen as he shoved his hand into his pocket.

  My whole body began to tremble at the thought of what he was about to do. First a house, and now he was going to do . . . this?

  “Get up, Tiberius!” I demanded as heat climbed up my cheeks and my limbs trembled from nerves.

  He shook his head. “Nope, I’m going to do what I came down here to do.”

  “You’ve done enough,” I insisted as I tried to pull him up. “You’re enough. You, the guys, and the way you all took me in when I had no one else. This house, and being here in New York, I don’t need anything more. Life is extra-ordinary enough. Don’t you think?”

  He took my hand, twining his fingers with mine, and he squeezed tight. “Babe, I need to do this. So let me.”

  Although I felt like my stomach had fallen through the floor, I gave his hand a light squeeze and promptly shut my mouth.

  Tiberius gazed up at me, the emotions swimming in his eyes making them appear bluer than usual. “Tingly, will you marry me? Tie your T with mine and leave our pasts in the past, and make an extra, extra-ordinary future together?”

  Despite growing up in Los Angeles, the ultimate La La Land, I’d never believed in fairy tales. But here I was, experiencing my very own happily-ever-after, and it completely overwhelmed me.

  “Ouch!” he yelped.

  “Sorry,” I squeaked out. “I didn’t mean to squeeze your hand that hard. I’m just so happy! I don’t know, I never imagined this, and here you are asking me to marry you!” I slid down to the floor in front of Tiberius and cupped his cheek with my hand, then whispered, “Yes.”

  His dimples winked at me as he slid the small ring on my finger, an antique setting with sapphires flanking a center diamond, before laying me down on the blanket. The fire crackled, its flames casting shadows all around us while the lights sparkled above.

  Tiberius didn’t lie; we didn’t need a bed.

  All we needed was each other, and the truth.

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  Read more of Rachel Blaufeld in Redemption Lane, Book One in the Crossroads Series.

  Bess

  Back then . . .

  “Ugh, shit. God damn,” I mumbled to myself as I stood up, holding my hand to my forehead while I stumbled toward the kitchen.

  I’d woken up curled in a ball on the floor, my cheek resting in a tiny puddle of drool on the rug immediately inside my front door. Nipples peeking through my tiny white crop top, skinny jeans stuck to my body, and knee-high black leather boots completed my look.

  I know, not a very glamorous situation for a twenty-one-year-old coed. But pretty much my daily ritual.

  Standing, I held my palm to my forehead, running it over my cheek as I tugged cobwebs of hair out of my mouth. Memories of the night before flooded my brain as my feet tried to remain steady on the floor.

  “Ouch,” I said to myself.

  If I concentrated hard, I could remember being high last night, dancing on the makeshift bar until a guy lifted me off and took me somewhere else for another hit of something even better. Things were hazy after that.

  Finally reaching my destination, I gently leaned my clammy forehead against the cool vibrations of the fridge/freezer combo, willing its chilled touch to drag the pain and awful thoughts away.

  It didn’t.

  Oh well, I’d come to prefer my current state of pain to the one I’d lived in as a little girl, and later as a misguided teenager left alone to her own devices. Yes, I would take dry mouth, a wicked hangover, and incessant jonesing for my next hit over watching my mom walk out or being left with an emotionally absent father.

  Any day, hands down.

  Speaking of hands, my fingers drifted back to the rat’s nest that was currently in my hair, my thick long waves twisted in a million different clumps only a bottle of conditioner and a tearful comb-out would solve. That was what I got for sleeping on the floor, resting my head on a burlap mat instead of a fluffy down-filled pillow in my bed.

  After taking a small step backward, I opened the fridge door and grabbed the bottle of orange juice, then poured some into the dirty mug sitting next to where my bony hip was resting against the counter. I sipped it slowly, trying to avoid it sloshing in my stomach, and willed it not to come back up, which was no easy feat.

  Take a tiny sip, Bess, then a big breath in through your nose and out.

  I repeated this mantra until my eyes no longer watered. The natural sugar eased only the smallest pinch of pain, but just enough to make it so I could move.

  When I turned a little too fast, the juice became a brutal rolling storm in my belly, threatening to come back up. Slowing my pace, I made my way to the bathroom for some useless ibuprofen and to pee.

  With my butt on the ice-cold toilet seat, I looked at my watch. One o’clock in the afternoon. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly morning, but it was Friday, the one day I didn’t have any classes. Nothing missed, nothing lost.

  I’d wiped and moved on wobbly legs to wash my hands and get the pills when I heard my phone beeping. Geez, that fucker was so loud. Where the hell was it? I leaned down, resting my hands on the vanity and thought hard, then felt it vibrate in my back pocket.

  Bingo. Score one for Bess. I found my phone without running upstairs to use the Find My iPhone app on my neighbor’s phone, which might have happened more times than I cared to admit.

  I cupped some water in my hands and brought them up to my face, although most of it dribbled down my chin before I swallowed the tiny iridescent blue over-the-counter capsules that would bring little to no relief.

  But who really wanted that?

  Actual relief meant covering up the real pain that burned in the pit of my stomach, the empty ache I desperately tried to fill with boys or pills or booze. Or all of the above.

  Turning and resting my butt on the sink to check out my text message, I rolled my eyes.

  CAMPER: Yoga with hot DJ & blacklight. 5:30 p.m.

  With stiff fingers, I typed out a response that turned into a conversation.

  ME: Seriously? Happy hour instead?

  CAMPER: Nope. Yoga, then margs at Texi Mexi in our sweaty yoga gear.

  ME: Say pretty please.

  CAMPER: Pretty please! Be ready at 5.

  I didn’t respond; I knew there was no talking Camper out of it. Besides, she lived one floor up, and she and her long legs and big curly head would show up at five o’clock whether I said yes or no.

  Whipping around sixty-five miles an hour too fast for my current state, I faced the medicine cabinet again and pulled out the tiny first aid kit covered in pink and purple kitty stickers, opening the stupidly concealed container with caution. That box, proof of my stunted childhood, held everything that was precious and sacred to me. Carefully, I took stock of its contents: two extra-lush joints, five tabs of Molly, and a few oxy.

  Shit, I was low on pharmaceuticals. I made a mental note to call my “guy” before plucking a pretty little Molly or two out of the box. I needed to dim the pain slowly seeping from my heart, and while I was at it, enhance the upcoming yoga experience a touch.
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  I wasn’t sure how Camper did it; that girl raged as hard as I did. Didn’t she?

  We’d been friends since freshman year, immediately bonding when we’d found ourselves in a nearby tattoo parlor during orientation week. We were both taking the first bold move of our college lives, establishing our independence with a permanent reminder on our fresh and creamy young skin.

  Despite her bubbly nature and peppy white smile that often clashed with my somber demeanor, we’d been inseparable ever since. Living the last two years in the same apartment building, taking identical courses, covering for each other, and most importantly, avoiding Friday classes so we could live it up Thursday through Sunday.

  Setting my magic pills on the dresser, I stripped out of my smelly clothes from the night before. As they fluttered to the floor, I watched their descent, remembering moments of my own extremely real downward spiral.

  Then I crawled naked between my cool sheets, shutting my eyes for a moment or three hours.

  Read other books by Rachel Blaufeld

  Many projects were pushed aside to make room for this book, and without certain people, this wouldn’t have happened.

  A huge thank-you to my family for eating more Chinese takeout than humanly possible during this last adventure, and supporting me in all my crazy ideas. For my husband, who pretends to listen to my endless rambling—you deserve something incredible. I don’t know what, but when I figure it out, I’ll let you know. I love you all very much.

  An extra special thank-you goes to my oldest son, who guided me in accurately writing the details of college hoops (without peeking at any other parts of the book). Thanks for having my back, J.

  Thanks go out to:

  Pam, my editor, for your guidance, encouragement, and iron fist when it comes to ellipses and sentences that never end. Sometimes all it takes is one encouraging comment from you to brighten my week. Leaning on you grammatically, often daily, makes this all possible.