"Son," my mother said during a quick drive through Georgetown, a few weeks before I left for Houston, "I want you to be aware of those agenda-hoes. I think you guys call them fans now."
“Agenda-hoes?” I questioned, laughing to myself.
"I'm serious. You know, that girl who attaches herself to the potential Heisman trophy winner, even before his pass completions, quarterback sneaks, and other impressive football stats would lead him to that prestigious honor, simply because she saw something in him."
"But, Mom, I’m not a quarterback."
I remembered my attempt to correct her, believing she had forgotten my dreams.
“Boy, I know what position you play,” she admitted. “You didn’t let me finish.”
“Ok. I'm sorry," I said, smiling.
"And it won't be long before some too-fast girl connects your last name to the district attorney, and eventually to your grandfather, believing it would lead to some trust fund, even though the name could just be a coincidence."
“I won't be distracted. I'll make you proud," I said. “Either in football or the courtroom, you’ll be able to brag about my accomplishments.”
"I know you won't. But just be aware."
A faint smile appeared on my face as I mused over the conversation, just as I had when my mother first spoke. As the memory of the conversation faded, I realized my mother's warnings had me going through my college years cautiously, sizing up every woman who smiled or winked at me, scrutinizing those who approached me, and quickly dismissing them as soon as they showed hint of gold-digger status. Then I saw her.
I’d noticed Belinda before. I’d stopped in the RJT Library to return a book I’d borrowed for a law research paper. She was a tall beauty with caramel complexion. Her face was long. Her eyes had the perfect slant. The irises were a light brown with a dash of gold. Eggshell white teeth sat behind slightly separated glossed lips. Her head was tilted slightly to her left; her hair danced around the back of her neck and hung over her left shoulder. She looked up and caught me staring at her.
She seemed hard to infiltrate then, like she could spot bullshit as it approached, no matter what its disguise. With my All-star status on campus, I thought she probably would have taken one look at me and lump me with the other football jocks who collected names and added to the number of women they had boned between games. Since then, I’ve noticed her standing on the sidelines at our football games, cheering her heart out and wearing that smile that somehow lasted all four quarters. I hadn’t given her the attention I was giving her now. I didn’t know if it was my broken leg or that I was tired of staring without speaking, but I had finally decided that her turning me down would only build me up for the next time I had the gall to approach her. But Belinda Todson had said yes.
“I’m not going to listen to this silence too much longer. Say something,” she demanded.
I had dialed her number, hoping it had been changed, and sat with the phone to my ear, listening to her sweet sound.
“Hey, Lyn,” I finally spoke.
“DaMarcus?” she questioned, as if she didn’t recognize my voice. “So I do need to get that restraining order. It’s the only way to get you to see I’m dead serious when I speak these words,” she paused. “Leave me alone, DaMarcus.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Oh, isn’t it? So this means after I hang up, I won’t be hearing from you again?”
“You know that’s not going to happen.”
“Then you leave me no choice.”
I could hear the revulsion in her voice, and I could tell it was heartfelt; coming from that place where I thought only her love for me lived.
“But you do have a choice.”
I was sitting in the living room in front of my big picture window, with my left leg hanging over the side of my white leather convertible sofa. I had rested my half-emptied wine glass on the coffee table that sat on a soft, luxurious white fur rug.
“I have to hear this. What choice do I have, DaMarcus?”
“Give me…”
“Another chance? Is that what you want?” Belinda paused and waited for me to respond. “Remember, I gave you a chance, my dear. I gave you a chance to love me. Most people only get one, I gave you two. When I knew you were lying, I gave you an opportunity to tell the truth. I let you convince me to stand before my friends, my family, and God and renew vows that never meant anything to you because I had convinced myself I was throwing away the perfect love…your love, DaMarcus.”
“Lyn, you’re not being fair.”
“All those tricks you pulled to get me back. You have no right to talk about what’s fair when it comes to us. You gave that up when you decided to betray your love, if you ever loved me, and my trust, because I did trust you, and play house with our accountant. You don’t get to decide what’s fair and what isn’t.”
This conversation was not what I had in mind when I dialed her number. I loved Belinda, and sleeping with Taylor and fathering her child didn’t mean I had stopped loving her. It meant I had fucked up. Everything I did after that was because I didn’t want to lose this good woman. Yes, as far as I was concerned, my lies were justified. Nothing was worth losing Belinda, and I’ve always thought nothing could ever come between us. She had lived up to that promise. I, on the other hand, allowed sex and a bottle of wine to cloud my better judgment. I allowed Taylor’s kisses, her soft hands around my manhood, and the warmth of her mouth to get me all confused. I thought Belinda would still be right here with me, and if Taylor hadn’t gotten all self-righteous, I would still have my wife in my arms.
“You don’t know how sorry I am. I’m sorry…”
“We all are,” she interrupted. “But we’re not sorry for the same things or reasons.” She was probably right. “After Terrence, I thought we would last, but all you did was confirmed the doubts I had in my mind, and the only difference between you and Terrence was that it took you just a little longer to run the same game.”
“So you’re just gonna throw away all our memories because you’ve found some dude to sweep you off your feet.”
“DaMarcus, you silly, jealous boy. I don’t need to remind you. Shedrick Wise isn’t just ‘some dude’. And yes, he did sweep me off my feet, just like you did. So, I guess I do have something to thank you for. Anyway, as much as I would like to sit on this phone and listen to you cry over losing me, my fiancé will be home soon.”
“That’s how you’re going to announce your engagement to me?”
“DaMarcus! Please! Do you really think I care one bit how you found out? It’s summer and I’m sure you watch a little T.V. between your football workouts. My engagement to Shedrick should no longer have a shock value. It’s yesterday’s news. It was never a secret.”
“How could you give up late nights sitting up in bed, drinking wine and laughing over nothing because we had too much? And what about cold winter nights after a football game when you made losing feel just as good winning?”
“You remember.”
I heard the sarcasm in her voice.
“I’m a man, Belinda. A man with a heart.”
“Yes, you’re a man with a heart that deserves to be broken, just like you did mine. Your memories are no good to me, DaMarcus. Since you’ve had your trip down this wondrous road, let me tell you how I remember that same road to be. I remember telling you how you hurt me, yet all you did was lie and connived your way out of accepting breaking everything I thought our marriage stood for. I remember fighting images in my mind, images that broke me each time they crept in. So if you want to sit on this phone and reminisce about those good times we had, don’t you forget those same good times somehow weren’t good enough for you to keep your dick in your pants.”
“Tell me you don’t love me anymore.”
“No,” she answered quickly and stubbornly.
The pounding in my chest had slowed.
“Why not? Because it’s not true?”
“That’s not wha
t I said.”
“Then tell me,” I pleaded.
“No, because it’s not what you want to hear. I loved you when I forgave you. I loved you when I thought I was blaming you for something that just wasn’t true. I loved you when I decided to trust you would never betray me. But the DaMarcus I hate lied his ass off when truth was an option. Now, do you still want to know if I don’t love you anymore? I already forgave you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have allowed Shedrick to slow-dance his way into my life. So, just in case I forgot to thank you… Thanks.”
I sat with the phone in my hand, looking in disbelief ‘cause Belinda had just hung up on me. Hearing that I had driven her into the arms of another man was unnerving. I had just pled my case to the woman I still loved, and nothing I said, nothing I’d been saying, was enough to bring her back to me. I wanted to get those nights back when I held her beside me.
Chapter 6
Patrick…
Just Be a Man About It
I picked up my cell phone and held it tightfisted in contemplation. I’d left it on the counter of my personal size gourmet demonstration-style kitchen. I’d been sitting at the far end, under the hanging fluorescents, since I’d walked in the house, after pouring a glass of Bordeaux. It’s where I’d spent the last few evenings, quietly preparing my mind for the next few days. I sat staring at the screen on the phone, rehearsing phone numbers─very few─I had committed to memory.
I had been working on this conversation with Dr. Kendrick. After every session, I had promised her and myself I would make the call, only to return to her office the next week, lay on her couch with one leg hanging over the side with my face buried in the fold of my arm, telling her my nerves had gotten the best of me. Or, in her words, I had chickened out. Saying “I’m sorry,” had proven to be more difficult than I thought it would ever be. My careless self had never apologized for anything─didn’t think I needed to. After all, Omar had never offered me any apologies for the unhealthy relationships I’d found myself in because of him. Nor did he apologize for the nightmares or the confusions that greeted me when night came and stayed with me until morning broke. He never apologized for the self-hate he caused because I scorned the skin I was in, all because of him. It was as if he had left handprints on me, and prints of other parts of him in me that became visible under fluorescents. Instead, he sat hiding behind his lawyer’s words with a smug look on his face, as if he’d done the world or me a favor. Damn, the hatred I had for that man. Because of him, I lived and loved haphazardly, concerned about no one else’s hurt but mine.
I thought about calling Devaan, but that would raise questions I didn’t feel like dealing with, and I was doing all I could to keep so much of me hidden from her. It bothered me that I was still keeping things from her. I hadn’t told her about my trips to Atlanta to see Dr. Kendrick. After what I had gone through with the last two brothas I had kicked it with, I needed a fresh start─I needed Devaan.
I’d met Devaan on August 7, 2008. I was sitting in Palena on Connecticut Avenue, in the Cleveland Park section of D.C. with my brother Chance and his new agent, Montreal Crawford, when Devaan and two friends walked in. I wish I could say the three women were equally matched in beauty, but I would be lying. The truth is Devaan was the prettiest of the three at the time, that’s all that mattered, though the other two were no ugly ducklings. I tried to hide my instant infatuation, but her presence demanded my attention. I tried to be inconspicuous, but I would need dark sunglasses to keep my eyes from wandering in her direction and a neck brace to keep my head from turning around. When I looked at her a third time─I had lost count─her eyes caught mine. Embarrassed that I had been caught staring, rather than turning my head in shame, I nodded and lifted my wine glass, acknowledging my stare. After my debacle with Jacoby, and then Dexter, I wasn’t looking to try love anytime soon, but I was willing to give liking Devaan a try.
Instead, I’d pressed the phone icon on the screen and had typed in the letters of his first name. Yes, I was nervous, but I had been putting off the necessary, the inevitable for a long time. I ignored the voice in my head, the same one that had been instructing me for years.
“Hello,” he answered.
Hearing his voice surprised the hell out of me. Just as I remembered, it was filled with a sexy bass.
“Jacoby!” I announced, as if I had expected someone else to pick up.
“Wassup? It’s…”
“Patrick?!”
“Don’t hang up,” I pleaded.
“Oh, I wasn’t going to, man. I’m just…”
“Surprised to hear from me?”
I was still seated, slowly spinning the wine glass around the stem with my index finger and thumb.
I hadn’t spoken to Jacoby DeVone in more than three years, not since he had packed everything I owned and had left me sitting on a stepping stool, in the kitchen of our two-bedroom condo, reading a letter from him that basically told me to kiss his ass. Though I was hurt, I couldn’t blame him. I was surprised he had kept the same mobile phone number. Maybe he had been waiting for me to call. Maybe I was just flattering myself with that thought.
I had met Jacoby the winter of 2006 walking from Concourse C to the baggage claim at the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. He stepped lightly in his brown tapered square toe leather lace-up oxford. His grey suit clung to his body like he was a mannequin in a men’s section of a Nordstrom’s department store. We stood, waiting for the rail that would transport us closer to baggage claim.
“You’re here for the game?” he had asked without looking in my direction.
The Cowboys were in town to play the Falcons in a Sunday night game at the Dome.
“Nah, man.” I adjusted the luggage strap over my shoulder. “Is that the only thing going on in Atlanta this weekend?”
“It doesn’t have to be.” He extended his hand, and with a strong, firm handshake, he introduced himself. “Jacoby DeVone.”
“Patrick McKay,” I said, wrapping my hand tightly around his, and finally looking at him. I shouldn’t have looked at him.
Jacoby was a beautiful man with high cheeks and lips that extended across his face. His dark complexion was evenly smooth. The white of his eyes were very white, and they seemed to tell a story no one could figure out.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he’d asked.
He had the perfect set of white, evenly spaced teeth─no stains.
“That depends. Am I supposed to?” I asked.
He was right. I didn’t remember him. I did think he had a familiar face, but then again, don’t we all.
“Sorry man. You said Jacoby DeVone, right?”
“That’s right,” he confirmed. “Been a while since I’ve used my other name.”
“Other name? I’m sorry, man. Who are you?” I asked.
I looked at him with skepticism. Who the hell is this dude hiding from?
“It’s cool. Relax.”
I gave him that brother-I-don’t-know-you-for-you-to-be-to-be-telling-me-to-relax look, which didn’t intimidate him. He moved in closer.
“It’s me. Jacoby Means.”
“G’Tech ’99,” we said in unison, laughing.
I grabbed and pulled Jacoby in a tight squeeze.
“You threw me with the name change, bruh. What’s that about?”
“That’s my pops name. I started using it just before my first year at Oklahoma. You know how they get. We finally had that conversation about carrying on the family name. Dude had all kinds of plans for me.”
“I see. So you became a Sooner, huh. What? The Jackets weren’t good enough for you?”
“That wasn’t it. Mom’s wanted me close to home, plus they gave me the full ride I wanted.” Jacoby said.
He didn’t seem like a momma’s boy.
“I’m joking. You did what you had to do,” I said, managing a quick smile.
“Yeah. I did.”
There was a brief pause.
“We should just
walk to baggage claim. It doesn’t look like this train is coming any time soon, and it’s not that far from here,” Jacoby said, even though the train was less than a minute away.
So, that’s why I never heard anything about this Jacoby Means after I hosted him during his visit to G’Tech at the beginning of my sophomore year. Coach had told me about this prospect with a good arm. He could throw the ball at least 50 yards to a good wide receiver, and he could run a decent 40, too. As his host, I had to pick him up from the airport, show him around campus, and convince him that Tech was the place to ball. When he walked through the doors at Hartsfield, I took pleasure watching his muscular, 6’2” compact sexiness strut towards me. That was the first time I met Jacoby Means. The good time I was going to show him had nothing to do with what coach had in mind. While my roommate was away at a Kappa party on Techwood Drive, N.W., Jacoby and I had a party of our own. He had walked into the room with a tightly wrapped white towel hanging low around his waist and expected me to ignore him. He must have been tripping. I’d thrown a few test questions to Jacoby. Once I knew he would keep whatever happens between us to himself, shit, it was on. When I met Jacoby DeVone again, a few years later that Friday evening waiting for the train in Concourse C, I wasn’t going to let him disappear again.
As much as I hate to admit it─’cause I promised myself to never love a man─part of me loved him. I don’t think I need to specify which part of me that was. Ok, maybe I only loved being in him. I had pulled him back into the closet with me. I was a successful twenty-six year old man with a roommate. I think some of the women I dated refused to entertain the thought that Jacoby might be finding his way into my bed─or me finding my way into his─when the lights were low and his were the arms I wanted to hold me while I slept.
“Are you there?” Jacoby asked, snapping me out of my trip with a carry-on filled with memories.