I saw it on his face. I think I struck a nerve when I asked, “What about Mr. DeGregory?”
“Dead,” Dexter responded, and I figured so was this conversation. That wasn’t the response I expected. I was displeased. “I’ll let you in on that part of my life later,” he offered.
That part of my life, I thought. I couldn’t imagine referring to my own father as “that part of my life,” but I guess not everyone had a father like Robert Seymour Harrison, my very best friend, my confidant, and the only man I trust with my life.
After dinner, I was in the guest room where I had slept since arriving in Chicago. I lay in bed with my hands clasped behind my head, providing the perfect cradle. With my legs crossed at the ankles, I stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep. I wanted to call Jackson, but after looking at the time on my cell phone, I had already decided it was too late. I had spoken with him earlier after the baseball game. Though the conference was informative, he said he was ready to be back in his own bed and sleeping next to me. Hearing that made me smile. When he asked what I had done all weekend, I mentioned the baseball game and plans for dinner. I conveniently didn’t tell him I had checked out the White Sox game and the dinner I had planned was with Dexter, in Chicago. I had kept my trip and the specifics to myself all week. Why mention it to him now?
I stood staring through the large windows that extended from one corner of the room to the other. I admired the Chicago skyline, forty-four stories up in the air. How was Dexter affording this? I thought. He hadn’t mentioned Giovanni all week. What if…?
“Nice view isn’t it,” Dexter interrupted. He was standing in the door with two champagne flutes in one hand and a bottle in the other.
“Seriously, Dexter,” I said, looking down at his possessions. “I think I’ve had enough wine for one night.”
“Come on, man,” he pleaded. “One for the road?”
Does he always sound like this when he begs? I thought. Dexter brought the bottle and glasses up to eye level, as if that action was supposed to convince me.
I smiled.
It had.
After pouring the glasses full, Dexter and I stood beside each other, leaning against the dresser. I looked at him, trying to figure out his intentions.
“To friendship,” he toasted. He held up his glass and waited for me to follow suit.
“To friendship,” I echoed, lightly tapping my glass against his. A fusion of papaya, guava, and sweet Cavaillon melon invaded my mouth. When I removed the glass from my lips, it was empty. I nodded at Dexter, instructing him to fill my glass again.
When the alarm sounded, I opened my eyes and stared across the room. I had a piercing headache. There were no signs of last night anywhere—no wine bottle, no wine glasses, no Dexter. I smiled at the obvious innocence in our nightcap.
After falling asleep I had missed just one phone call. I picked up my phone and proceeded to listen to my voicemail.
“You must think you’re grown.” It was Caela. “I haven’t heard from you all weekend. Call me when you can,” she instructed.
The next message rattled my nerves, but I tried to remain composed. “When the cat’s away, he’s going to play. And apparently, the mouse is doing a little playing of his own.” I deleted the message without a second thought. This early in the morning and to think he had nothing better to do than to toy with me.
I still had four hours before my flight leaves for home. The aroma of rich Italian coffee had crept in my room and danced under my nose. Then Dexter appeared with two coffee mugs and a smile of satisfaction painted on his face. I knew what that smile meant. Last night, the innocence of our friendship disappeared. Now I wasn’t sure if I was feeling the same hate towards him I was now feeling for myself.
17
When Can I See You Again?
Jackson…
There was only one imperfection in this otherwise perfect week. It was our first stop on our boys’ night out when I was met with a not-so-lovely surprise. I hesitated when I saw him standing there, but I proceeded to the bar and stood beside him as if he were a total stranger.
“Jackson?” he asked, hearing my voice as I attempted to get the bartender’s attention.
“Hey, Gavin,” I greeted and turned my attention back to the bartender.
“What brought you to Miami?”
“Say what?”
“Are you here for business or pleasure?”
I wasn’t interested in small talk with Gavin. My reasons for being in Miami were none of his business, but he was trying his hardest to make it so. I couldn’t get away fast enough. The bartender took his time making the drinks, but I had no arguments when I tasted mine.
“Do you need some help?” Denard whispered in my ear. He
stood behind me with his hand around my waist. I had left him
on the dance floor with Colt. Colt had arrived 4 hours earlier. I was pleasanly surprised when I received Colt’s phone call and his announcement that he had arrived in Miami and was in the lobby of my hotel waiting on me. My best friend hadn’t let me down.
The look on Gavin’s face when he saw Denard was priceless—a Kodak moment, if nothing else. I handed Denard two of the glasses the waiter had placed on the bar in front of me. I began walking away with my drink and bottled water in my hands when I felt someone’s firm grip on my arm. I looked at the hand around my elbow and then into Gavin’s face.
“So is that your new guy?” Gavin asked.
“Gavin, is who I’m with really any of your business?”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I could care less how you take it.” I stared at him as I spoke. “And please let me go,” I said through gritted teeth, yanking my arm away from him. I continued my evening in the company of Denard and Colt, and although I felt Gavin’s stares as the night progressed, I paid him no attention.
I had more fun with Colt and Denard than I intended—way too much fun. I had asked the concierge for a wake-up call at 4:30 a.m. since my flight was scheduled to leave at 6:20 a.m. It didn’t help that our decision to get it in didn’t end until 3:30 a.m. that morning. We should have just stayed awake when we made it back to the room, but our eyes had something else in mind.
So Colt and I had slept through the wake-up call, probably thought we were dreaming. I know I did. We slept through my phone alarm that was supposed to have given me only fifteen minutes of shut eye. I woke up to Colt tapping me on my feet.
“Jackson, man, get up,” he said with urgency.
My head was pounding, and I could now admit I had one drink too many.
“What time is it?” I asked. A serious headache stretched across my forehead, a semi-serious hangover. When my eyes focused, Colt was pulling a fresh white t-shirt over his head. He sat on the bed and bent to lace his shoes.
“It’s five-fifteen,” he answered.
“Damn,” I said and popped up like whole grain bread from a toaster. “I’m not going to make my flight.” I lay back down.
“Not by lying there. Get your ass up,” Colton said, slapping me on my ass cheek.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“That’s what that loud ass phone and that annoying alarm ring tone you have were supposed to do. Plus, you kept telling me ‘five more minutes, five more minutes,’ knowing damn well we didn’t even have five more seconds.
“My bad, Colt.”
“My bad,” he teased. “Hell, get your ass up, dude.” He knew I hated when he called me that, but I had no time to argue.
I rushed to the bathroom, hurriedly brushed my teeth and washed my face. I didn’t care how much time was against me, I wasn’t going to hop on anyone’s plane with sleep in my eyes and last night’s alcohol on my breath. I had already packed and placed my suitcase in the trunk of the car earlier. While I was in the bathroom, Colt left to get the car from the garage, leaving me to reminisce on the fun I had with him and Denard and the possibility of missing my flight home.
/>
Sunday morning traffic on the 95 was as clear as the runway at Columbia Metropolitan Airport. I never thought bats came from hell, and I knew damn well they couldn’t drive, but if they could, I imagined they would drive like Colt was driving.
“I’m not going to make this flight.”
“Man, would you just be quiet,” he begged. “Are you worried about getting home to Trevor? He’s probably out there doing his thing,” he said under his breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Colt nascared down the highway, pushing the 2009 midnight black Chevy Corvette coupe to its limits, looking through the rear and side view mirrors for a state trooper looking to fill his monthly quota for speeding tickets.
Colt obeyed the speed limit posted on the airport grounds. He pulled up to the Delta Airlines placard hanging from the rafters, threw the car in park, and told me to hurry. I hopped out the car, grabbed my suitcase from the trunk, and ran quickly up to the counter. I inserted the company credit card into the kiosk and typed in the first three letters of my destination.
“Good morning,” the attendant standing behind the counter greeted with a warm smile.
“Good morning,” I said without looking up at her.
“Long night?” she asked. I looked at her with an if-you-only-knew-the-half-of-it look in my eyes. Until I’m sure I can make this flight, I’m not saying another word, I thought and smiled. I wasn’t going to give her attitude since she had nothing to do with the rush I was in this morning.
“What time does you flight leave?”
“6:20,” I said.
“To Washington, DC?”
I didn’t think I had native Washingtonian tattooed on my forehead, but I answered, “Yes.”
She leaned closer to the counter. “There’s a twenty minute delay. You can slow down.” As she spoke, my boarding pass was spat out from the Kiosk.
I didn’t ask for rhyme or reason. I just breathed in relief. This woman, Krystina Smythe, had just made my morning. I turned around, and looked at Colt who was still sitting in the car outside. I gave him the thumbs up. As I made my way to security checkpoint, I received a text. It was from Colt.
Lucky bastard. Glad you’ll make your flight. Love you, playboy.
-Colt - Colt.
Instead of texting back, I called Colt, thanked him for driving like my life depended on making this flight, gave him instructions to return the rental car, and told him to call me the moment he landed in Atlanta. I also thanked him for flying down to surprise me and ended our conversation with the same I love you he had included in his text message. As I walked up to gate 4, I called Trevor, leaving him a voicemail with my flight info.
Once onboard, I sat beside a male passenger who inquired about my fantasy football picks. When I told him I didn’t have time to organize a football team, real or fantasy, he proceeded to share his theories in Virginia Tech’s wins over Nebraska and Western Kentucky, and was prophesying the outcome of their upcoming game against Boston College Eagles. I thought both games were closely contested, and had nothing more to add.
While he continued, I felt the airplane reach maximum speed, going from zero to take-off in less than twenty-five seconds.
18
Could It Be?
Trevor…
When I walked through the double glass doors and into The Harrison Agency, I was expecting the usually cheerful voice that often greeted me during my early morning arrivals. Instead, an unmanned desk welcomed me. It was 7 a.m., two full hours before my usual arrival time. It was unlike Caela to arrive late to work. I walked steadily, scrolling through the emails on my phone, which actually could have waited until I reached my desk.
Before I could sit and ready myself for the morning, Caela appeared at the door.
“Good morning,” she greeted with a mischievous smile on her face. She had two coffee mugs in her hands. She walked in and over to my desk, placed one of the cups in front of me, and then turned back slowly towards the door. As she walked, I smiled. Her pace slowed, and I knew exactly what she wanted.
“I went away with Dexter,” I began, granting Caela a fragment of the information she sought. I walked and stood in front of the desk and leaned carefully against it. I reached for my coffee mug, and as I sipped, I lifted my eyes, staring at her.
“Tell me you told him you have to put space between you and him.”
“I tried.”
“You tried? I know that’s not all you’re giving me. I waited two weeks for this. I know there’s more.” Caela was tiptoeing over to my desk, her ears burning for more like some gossiping schoolgirl.
“Oh, there’s more,” I replied, smiling naughtily with my eyes. Caela walked behind the desk and sat gracefully, almost as if I had granted her an exclusive tell-all interview on some syndicated daytime talk show.
“I am all ears,” she instructed, looking at her watch. “I’m not going to say anything, but because I’m listening doesn’t mean I agree with what you’re doing.”
“Duly noted,” I said, and continued. “Caela, he’s perfect.”
“Trevor, he’s your friend. And if he were that perfect, he wouldn’t be sharing his bed with you knowing you’re with Jackson.”
“Didn’t you just say you weren’t going to say anything?”
“Carry on,” she directed.
“His lovemaking was nothing short of intoxicating. If I could lie in bed with him all day, I swear I would. His touch made me so weak, and even now, I wish I could see his face. I think about him at times when he shouldn’t even be on my mind. And when I tell myself to focus, I find myself thinking about him even more.”
“Are you listening to yourself?” Caela interrupted.
“What do you mean?”
“Listen to how you talk about him.”
“I know, right. I’m so comfortable when I’m with him. There’s just something about him.” I licked my lips, smiled, and then took another sip of my coffee.
“And Jackson? Isn’t there something about him, too?”
“There is something about Jackson. But...”
“I still think you need to distant yourself from Dexter.”
“That’s the problem, Caela. You think too much. Now, if you want to know more, you have to join me for lunch.”
“Do you even have to ask? Where are we going?”
“Give me some time to think about it. I’m not sure what I feel like having. And you know how my appetite is dictated by my mood.”
“Well, let me know. I’m thinking seafood.”
“I’m thinking, see you later,” I joked. I extended my hand and assisted Caela out of my chair. “And thanks for the coffee.”
“And because you’re feeding me, doesn’t mean I condone,” she reminded.
“Yes, Caela. I heard when you said it earlier.”
“Before I forget, Morgan Frazier came looking for you early this morning. What does he want?”
“Nothing he couldn’t have sent in an email, I’m sure,” I responded.
Caela winked, flashed a girlish smiled, and then closed the door behind her as she exited the office.
A casual Eurasian restaurant a few blocks from the pavilion provided the backdrop for my conversation with Caela. Maybe she thought there were a ring and a proposal at the end. The interrogation continued over her Chilean Sea Bass and the Atlantic salmon I ordered.
“You better stop acting like you can’t eat and talk. How long am I going to wait to get the details?” Caela asked, helping herself to a piece of my salmon.
“Be patient, heifer. Not too much to tell.”
“Ok, look. Stop acting like you’re the son of a preacher man. I know something went down,” she said, pointing the empty fork at me.
I released a sigh and, as I spoke, I closed my eyes in an attempt to relive the moments. I told her about waking up in arms that held me all night, and how Dexter made love to me as if he felt like I needed his lov
e.
“And how did that make you feel?” Caela interrupted.
“The weekend with him definitely made me think about many things. His loving brought tears to my eyes, and I found myself wondering, even in the moment, if I was giving him too much, too soon.”
“Especially since you shouldn’t be giving anything at all,” Caela reminded. “How did you find yourself in Dexter’s bed? Have you gotten that weak around him?”
“Being in his bed had nothing to do with weakness. And so you know, it was Dexter who found his way in my bed.”
“Insignificant detail. Either way, you were wrong.”
“I wasn’t wrong, I was tired. We’ve been fighting this obvious attraction and urges for a long time. It was going to happen sooner or later. We’ve come close to messing around before, but something always stopped us.”
“Maybe it was knowing you have Jackson.”
“Whatever! At least we’ve gotten it out the way.”
“What you’ve done was add another level of complication to your friendship with Dexter.” She took a sip of water and stared at me with menacing eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“You’re playing with fire, Trevor. Now, what about Jackson? What if he finds out?”
“You’re not going to tell him. And I know I’m not going to tell him. Besides Giovanni, Savon is the only other person I’ve seen at Dexter’s house, and I know I have never given him reasons to think something was going on between Dexter and me.”
“Do you really think people need reason? This is no longer just between you and Dexter,” Caela said, sounding as if she was warning me. “You think this is you and Dexter’s little secret?”
“I don’t know what Savon knows. Damn girl! You sure know how to ruin a moment,” I retorted, and took a sip of my strawberry lemonade.
'Til It Happens to You Page 11