by L. D. Davis
Running into them wasn’t the worst thing that could happen in my day, but I hated having my routine interrupted. It was one of the very few things I had some control over and I hated for that power to be taken away. If I ever saw Grant Alexander again—which I hoped I didn’t—I’d throttle him.
Off my routine or not, I still planned to get my coffee and pastry. I couldn’t let things get completely out of hand.
I didn’t live too far from the office, so I always walked to work. The city streets were busy at my usual departure time, but not too bad. Twenty minutes made a world of difference. There were three times the amount of people mindlessly buzzing to their hives. I was bumped more often than I cared for, and when crossing the street, I felt like a sheep. I half expected a dog to nip at my heels to keep me inside the crosswalk.
I was almost at the coffee shop when I saw him standing against the building, holding a coffee and a paper bag. I probably would have spotted him sooner if the sidewalk hadn’t been so crowded, but I was too close, because he saw me, too. It was possible he saw me long before I saw him.
He was dressed in a dark blue, fitted suit. His white shirt was free of a tie, however, and unbuttoned a few buttons. He looked like a damn magazine ad.
I intended to ignore him. Totally ignore him. I was already off track; I couldn’t allow for any further distractions. Ignore. Ignore, ignore, ignore.
As I approached, Grant stepped away from the wall and wordlessly extended his arm, offering me the cup and paper bag he held in his right hand. Unintentionally, I halted. I looked confusedly at the cup and bag and then at his dark eyes.
“What the hell is that?”
“An extra-large coffee, light and sweet, and a chocolate croissant,” his velvety voice announced.
I took a step back, surprised, and a little freaked out. That was my exact order, day in and day out. I never deviated from it, but how did he know that?
“Are you stalking me, Grant Alexander?” I asked accusingly.
He gave me a small smile. “I was a few people behind you in line yesterday.”
I looked at him skeptically. “I didn’t see you.”
His smile widened. “No, but it’s okay. I forgive you. Come on, take the coffee, beautiful. You’re hurting my feelings.”
I didn’t take the coffee or the croissant. Instead, I gave him attitude. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? It’s what you are.”
“It’s not my name,” I said icily. “You’re a big black guy. You don’t hear me calling you Big Black.”
My comment didn’t have the desired effect because Grant raised his eyebrows in amusement. “That’s different.”
“It’s not different. Besides, you don’t even know if I have a boyfriend or a husband, and you’re calling me pet names and following me around like a little puppy.”
He nodded his head once as his amusement faded some. “I would have called you beautiful and waited here for you regardless as a friendly gesture. However, I concede to your point.”
“Thank you,” I said haughtily.
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Do you have a man?” He leaned toward me a little. “Or a woman.”
“Single and hetero.”
He nodded again. “Good. Then there’s no issue with me buying you a coffee and a croissant.”
Once again, he tried to hand me the coffee and bag.
Indignant, I said, “I can purchase my own coffee and croissant.”
“Of course you can, but you’ll be waiting in line forever, and this was the last chocolate croissant.”
I glanced past him into the coffee shop. The line was very long, practically out the door, and I had no reason to doubt him on the croissant. Who would lie about pastries?
“I saw you coming a block and a half away,” Grant said, confirming my earlier thoughts. “I went inside and ordered and got out here just in time. The coffee is still piping hot.”
He carefully shook the cup at me. I still didn’t take it. I looked up at him.
“Why are you doing this?”
“You seemed like you were in a hurry yesterday morning.”
“I wasn’t just in a hurry, but I think I was pretty clear about not wanting to see your face.”
He continued on, patiently, pretending that I hadn’t spoken.
“I don’t want to slow you down, but I want to talk to you. I thought I would shave off the extra minutes it takes for you to stop here and take them for myself.”
I felt my heart slow for a few beats before picking up at a faster tempo. It was rather startling because I had not felt anything like it in a long time, at least not while I was sober.
“What if I don’t want to give you those minutes?”
He took one step and closed the distance between us. He looked down at me speculatively for a few seconds.
“It doesn’t really matter. I’ve already taken them.” In a low, commanding voice that could probably melt icecaps, he said, “Now, Mayson. Take the coffee and bag. It’s obvious you’re running late today, and now so am I.”
To be perfectly honest, I usually didn’t care about the feelings of others. Unless they were a friend or family, I just didn’t give a shit. I always said what I meant and I meant what I said. The only time it was necessary to bite my tongue was at work so that I could keep my job.
I shouldn’t have cared about Grant’s stupid pride or the money he’d spent trying to be a nice guy. No one told him to be a nice guy. That was all his idea. But the bottom line was…he had purchased the last chocolate croissant. Most likely, if he hadn’t, it would have been sold to someone else, and then where would I be? In the office, surrounded by The Mommies, with nothing to look forward to.
Grudgingly, I reached for the cup and bag. As my fingers grazed his, I had the sudden sense of déjà vu. Grant’s fingers from another place and time lightly touching mine appeared in my mind, cracked and fragmented. It was like trying to make out images on the other side of shattered glass.
“Mayson?” His voice was filled with concern as he took a step closer to me.
“Um…thank you,” I said abstractedly.
“Are you okay?”
I scowled as I fully arrived back at my senses. My sense of smell also returned to me. I smelled the coffee and fumes from the cars and that grimy yet delicious city smell, but I also smelled him. It was a clean, soft, but masculine scent. Too many men douse themselves in aftershaves and colognes that you can smell two city blocks away, but I didn’t smell Grant until he stood in my personal space. Literally. He was toe to toe with me.
Damn he smelled good, and familiar…but damn he needed to get the hell out of my personal space!
Still scowling, I backed up a few steps. “I said thank you,” I snapped at him.
His laughter had a deep timber that reverberated through my body.
“You’re very welcome,” he said as his eyes moved over me.
My god, I felt a bead of sweat on my neck that had nothing to do with the weather.
Grant gave me another smile and walked away in the opposite direction without another word. I stupidly watched his back for a few moments, until his form was swallowed up by a group of businessmen.
I continued on to my own destination, all thoughts of throttling the man forgotten.
I sat in my car, in the driveway of the house I grew up in, gathering the strength and patience I would need to go inside and sit through another meal.
After my sleepless night and my strange morning with Grant that further bollixed my day by leading to a series of mistakes, mishaps, and unwanted communications, the very last person on Earth—in the universe—that I wanted to see was my mother and her family. I would have rather thrown myself in front of a SEPTA bus.
I had considered it, a matter of fact, but the chances of getting paralyzed and then being in her care for the rest of my life was a frightening and disheartening prospect. That and my burden of guilt that I
had been carrying for eighteen years were the only reasons I showed up to the monthly dinners.
With resignation, I got out of my car and walked to the door. Twenty years ago, it had been my own home and I would have just let myself in, but it had not been my home for a very long time.
I rang the doorbell and waited.
A few seconds later, there were quick, light footsteps in the hall and then the door swung open.
My mother was in her late fifties, but could pass for my slightly older sister. The old adage that black don’t crack was very true in her case. There wasn’t a wrinkle to be found on her face. Her skin was firm and smooth, her hair was still thick and healthy, and her boobs weren’t hanging to her knees. She was a little thicker in the waist than she had been when I was a child, but it only proved to enhance her beauty.
I wished that there was just one thing, one little thing wrong with her body to make me feel better. A few hammer toes, wobbly knees, or ashy elbows, but no. Not my mother. She was disgustingly perfect.
“You could have let yourself in,” Mom said as she stepped back to let me pass.
I tried to keep the contempt out of my voice. “It’s not my house.”
“It’s as much your home as it is Taylor’s.”
“Except that it is Taylor’s home and not mine,” I pointed out.
She didn’t respond before extending her slender arms for an awkward embrace.
“Dinner is already on the table.” She eyed me with some speculation. “You’re late today. Are you okay?”
Translation: “You’re late today. Are you late because you’re doing drugs again?”
“I worked late,” I lied.
I didn’t actually work late. I had been at the office, but I hadn’t been working. I’d pretended to work, doing tasks that didn’t really need to be done, but my procrastination could only carry me so far.
My stepfather, Aaron, greeted me with a kiss on the cheek when we entered the dining room. My sister, Taylor, hugged me, only a little less awkwardly than my mother had.
My dad had died when I was sixteen. My mom married Aaron two years later and had Taylor a year after that. I wasn’t invited to the wedding—I had not even known there’d be a wedding until after it had already occurred. By that time, I wasn’t welcomed in the house. I didn’t see Taylor much in the first several years of her life and didn’t spend much time with her after that.
I had no sisterly affection for her. I liked her. I cared about her, but I was not sure if I actually loved her. I didn’t hate her or dislike her, even if she did give my mother everything she’d ever wanted from a daughter.
Taylor was an accomplished pianist and a capable violinist, but her tour de force was dancing. I had been a good dancer in my day, but Taylor was not merely good; Taylor was an outstanding ballerina. She was every bit of the young woman my mother had hoped I’d be at that age.
Despite the fact that we have two different fathers, Taylor and I do look similar. We share the same skin color, dark curly hair, and full lips, but that’s where the similarities stop. Her eyes are hazel and not gray. She has the body of a dancer while I have the body of a woman who enjoys chocolate croissants every morning.
As usual, young Taylor and all her grand accomplishments were at the center of our dinner conversation. I zoned out. Their voices became nothing more than white noise to my ears. I, again, thought of Grant, and not with any kindness. What did he want from me? Did he want to talk about Sharice? Besides the little bit I’d shared with Kyle, I didn’t want to think about or talk about Sharice. She had been my friend for a long time. She died. I didn’t. Then Grant left me on my own. That was that.
“Mayson?” Taylor’s small voice penetrated through the invisible bubble I had erected around myself. I realized that she had asked me a question I never heard.
“I’m sorry,” I said, blinking. “What?”
I felt my mom’s eyes on me, silently assessing.
“Will you come see me perform next month?” Her eyes shone bright with a youthful innocence I couldn’t remember having.
“Right, you got Odette in Swan Lake.” I managed a smile that I hoped looked sincere. It wasn’t insincere; I was happy for her. Mostly. “Of course. Text me with all of the necessary details so I can mark it on my calendar.”
She beamed, and I felt a little sorry for not being more excited for her benefit. Swan Lake was a big deal, even in the little ratty dance companies, and she was going to be the lead at one of the most notable dance schools in the world.
To make up for being a Kyle—that is, a douche puddle—I did something I almost never did and offered to spend extra time with my sister.
“My cousins are mass-migrating to the shore the week before Labor Day. If it’s okay with Mom and your dad, maybe you can join me for a few days. There won’t be any kids there your age, but we will be doing the boardwalk and all that stuff teenagers like to do.”
Really, I didn’t know what made me invite her. The oldest kid after her was Owen, and he was still a few years away from puberty. What the hell was I going to do with her for days?
Taylor’s small shoulders dropped with disappointment. “That sounds like a lot of fun, but…” She looked from one parent to the other before turning her apologetic eyes back to mine. “We’ll be on our family vacation in Greece.”
She was fifteen, but she wasn’t stupid. It only took a moment of tensed silence for her to understand that it was her choice of words that caused the tension. Her lovely eyes widened as she began to stumble over her words.
“I mean, you-you’re a part of our-our family, of course. It’s j-just that…I…” she trailed off, looking to my mother helplessly.
“It’s fine,” I said quickly when Taylor tried again to explain. “Greece is better than the Jersey shore on any day.”
I poked at my garlic mashed cauliflower. I couldn’t be mad at Taylor for saying “our family” in a way that excluded me. It was true. It had been true since before she was born. I had no immediate family. The closest I had to an immediate family at that point in my life was Kyle Sterling, and that was just sad.
“Mayson, how is work?” Mom asked, ignoring the conversation that had just occurred.
I didn’t feel like playing the game where she pretended to really be interested in my life. The purpose of the stupid dinners were to make sure that I was still clean, not because she missed me or enjoyed my company, or really cared about me.
Instead of answering her, I pushed my plate away and stood up. Six eyeballs looked at me with unease, like I was about to grow twenty feet, turn green, and go into a VPF. It had been years since that had happened, but unlike me, they had long memories. Long, unforgiving memories.
“I just remembered that I have a…work thing.” I pulled the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “Thanks for dinner.”
My mother’s unease had slipped behind her poker face. Her expression was blank and her tone casual when she said, “You barely ate anything.”
“I’m fine. Thanks. Don’t forget to text me the information,” I said to Taylor, unable to find even an insincere smile for the girl. I gave Aaron and my mom a stiff wave of my hand and hurried out of the dining room.
My mother caught up to me before I could walk out the door.
“Are you okay?” she asked without any concern behind her words. There was never any inflection in her voice when she spoke to me.
“I’m not high or on drugs,” I said dryly.
She blinked slowly, the only indication that she was at all bothered.
“I didn’t ask you anything about drugs. I asked if you are okay.”
Holding my fists to my face, I snapped, “I’m fucking fine, Mom. I just need to get out of here.”
“Why? Why do you need to get out of here? What is it that we’re doing wrong this time?”
I dropped my hands away from my face and looked at her. I felt my eyes prickling with tears and it made me furious. I hated showing any signs of weaknes
s in front of anyone, but especially in front of my mother. I felt that every little bit of weakness she saw in me was further proof of my failure as a daughter.
“I don’t belong here.” My voice came out tight with unshed tears.
“You do belong here,” she said calmly. “We’re your family. You—”
I shook my head, cutting her off. “I don’t have a family. I don’t have anyone. The only person I have is myself.”
I pulled open the door and left without any further resistance.
Chapter Five
I scream at my mother again, but she only stands there. She wears the same blank expression that I despise so much. Her face is so emotionless and robotic that it looked alien. I hate her for it. I hate her and I want to do something to make her face change. So, I do. I hit her.
I slap her across the face so hard that her head snaps to one side. Her hair swings as if blown by a gust of wind, hiding her lovely face from my view. I stand there and wait for her to look at me, wait for her to acknowledge what I’d just done. I want to see the astonishment on her face. I want to see anger or fear. I want to see something besides that impassive mask.
It feels like it takes forever before she finally and slowly turns her head and faces me again. She holds a hand to her cheek—which I know must sting, because my hand hurts like hell—but her face, her damn face is as blank as a stone that has been smoothed to perfection.
My hatred boils. I shriek with fury and hit her again. Again. Again. And again. I no longer have control of my body. When she tries to flee, my body follows her. I tackle her to the ground and grapple with the woman I call Mother.
I hear the small child screaming. Screaming for her mom. Screaming for me to just please, please, please stop hurting her mommy. But I can’t stop. I don’t know if I can ever stop. Because her mommy is finally making faces. Her mommy’s mask has finally slipped off, and beneath it is terror, hatred, sadness, and blood. She bleeds and fights and cries out and begs, but I. Can’t. Stop.
I sit on her chest and go on and on, because hitting her, making her face change, it’s like a high. I love getting high. I love that exhilarating feeling, but…there’s always a crash.