“And you expect me to believe that story?”
“Honestly, Trevor, I love you, but I don’t care what you believe.” I smiled. “I met Ethan at Java because he had to see in my eyes that I had moved on. All the other times me leaving him were just words, but he knew what was in my heart. I needed him to see that the only person in my heart this time around was you. Caela should have told you that while you were busy with Dexter, I was sitting across from Ethan convincing him I had finally found happiness, and professing your love for me, because he already knew how I love.”
“That’s it?”
“What more did you want? You wanted something, anything, to justify your irresponsible choices. So what are you going to do now that your theory no longer has one good leg to stand on?” I walked towards the stairs and headed towards the front door.
“Where are you going?” Trevor asked following behind me.
“I’m not going anywhere, Trevor. You are,” I responded, not even turning around to look at him. I opened the door and leaned against it. My body had grown cold.
“I made a mistake, Jackson, a bad decision in moments of weakness, a lapse in judgment. Call it whatever you want, but I didn’t do it hurt you.” Trevor stood at the bottom of the steps looking at me.
“You think your reason is supposed to dictate how I feel? You make mistakes when you’re young and still trying to figure out your place in this world. You’re a grown ass man, Trevor, and you should’ve learned by now that mistakes have consequences. And unfortunately, yours is losing me.”
“That’s it?”
“Goodnight, Trevor.”
He walked towards the door, stopped, and then looked at me with a dead stare. He walked through the door, and as he turned around, I slammed the door shut in his face.
This was such a familiar scene. I walked back upstairs and into the dining area. I stood at the table and poured my glass full with the last bit of wine. I walked into the living room, picked up my cell phone and began to dial.
“Hello,” he answered.
“Hey Colt.” My voice was soft. “Can you talk?”
34
To The Arms of the One
Trevor…
I stood on the other side of Jackson’s door waiting for my Love and Basketball moment, my second chance, but it never came. I contemplated ringing the doorbell, but I found no strength in my finger.
As I walked towards my truck, my cell phone buzzed. I looked at the screen but purposely ignored the phone call. I dialed Denise’s number.
“Hello love,” she answered.
“Hey, Den. I need a favor.”
“Anything for you.”
“I need you to tell me whatever you can about a Mr. Ethan Angelo Overstreet. He’s affiliated with Starpower, but I want to know how deep is his affiliation with Jackson.”
“What’s the matter, sweetie?”
“I can’t go into details now, but I will tell you everything soon. Can you do that for me?”
“Sure. I hope everything is ok.”
“If it isn’t right now, it will be. I’ll call you later.”
“Wait a minute. I think you’ll want to hear this.”
“Ok.” I opened the car and sat listening to Denise.
“There isn’t going to be a wedding.” I couldn’t tell if she was disappointed.
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t have to do anything. Didn’t I tell you someone was going to show their ass before the veil was lifted?”
“I’m sitting.”
“But of course you are.” She laughed.
“Let me guess. Cold feet?
“No. Cold heart.”
“You have to tell me more, but let me know what you find out about Mr. Overstreet.”
“I’ll do my best research, love.”
“Love you, Den.”
“Love you, too, Trevor.”
My conversation with Denise had given me a quick reprieve. After hanging up, I dialed into my voicemail. I wished I had ignored this message just like I had ignored the call. Even if I wanted to, my curiosity wouldn’t let me. Just as I suspected. It was Bran telling me my time was up. Little did he know, my time being up had nothing to do with him.
I deleted the message and dialed Dexter.
“Are you busy?” I asked when he answered. He was the only other person I wanted to talk to right now.
“Trevor, hey. You okay?”
“I’m not. Are you busy? I need to talk.”
“Phone, or in person?” Dexter asked.
“In person, if you don’t mind.”
I wondered if I was making another mistake running to Dexter in my time of crisis, but besides Denise and Caela, who better to run to. There was nothing to fear since this time, unlike the last times, what I had to lose had already been lost.
When I reached Dexter’s house, I stood in the living room leaning against a back wall with my legs crossed at my feet, my hands in my pockets and my shoulders shrugged forward. Dexter sat in the couch, his legs extended, his hands clasped behind his head.
“What’s going on with you, Trevor?” he asked
“Jackson knows.”
“Oh, man. I’m sorry. I guess it didn’t turn out well.”
“You guessed right.”
“Come on, Trevor. Have a seat.”
I was fine standing, but I obliged.
When I sat down I didn’t look at Dexter. He was partially to blame. I was staring at the picture that sat on the coffee table in front of us.
“Who’s that?” I asked, pointing at the 8 x 10 silver picture frame.
“That’s my ex, Patrick.”
“Why do you still have pictures of him? How does Giovanni feel about that?
“It’s only one picture, and that’s the picture I look good in.” He smiled. He ignored my last question and I took that as my cue to suppress any further questions about Giovanni. But I did have one last question.
“How is Giovanni?”
“He’s fine. He’s away with Paisley. We’re taking things one
step at a time, but we’re fine.”
I wanted to comment on what Dexter said, but I had an epiphany. “Wait, did you say his name is Patrick, as in the man from the hospital?”
“That’s him.”
“He looks familiar. Does Patrick have a last name?” I picked up the picture and examined it closely.
“McCay,” Dexter responded.
I didn’t think it was possible, but my breath had been taken away. “I know him?”
“From the hospital?”
“No. I never really got a good look at him that day. I know him from Jackson.”
“Jackson?” Dexter asked. “You’re confusing me.”
“No. When we went to Jackson’s folks for Thanksgiving, his sister, Devaan, introduced him as Telly, the man she’s dating,”
“His name is Patrick Telly McCay,” Dexter offered.
“So Devaan only knew his middle name. He never said too much to me, but I think I know why.”
“God, I hope you’re going to tell me. ”
“That phone call I got while I was in Chicago and the ones I have been getting since Jackson moved here, since our friendship began, they’re all from him. Patrick is Telly. Telly is Bran.” I got up and paced around Dexter’s living room like a detective who had just figured out a cold case. “Telly, or Patrick, was trying to keep his past a secret. Your ex, Patrick, is involved with Jackson’s sister. His past was getting too close to his present and he had to do something to make sure one never meets the other. So what does he do? He threatens me to either end my friendship with you so this doesn’t happen.” I pointed back and forth between Dexter and me, “or end my relationship with Jackson so I would never meet him, thinking I might know who he is from your accident. I guess he thought I would have seen him and then say something to Jackson. But how did he know me?”
“I can answer that.” Dexter finally spoke. I looked over at him
. “A couple weeks after you and I met at Daily Grind, I got a call from Patrick, which I reluctantly accepted after ignoring so many of his previous calls and messages. He wanted to know who I was dating. I was so pleased to rub his face in my relationship with Giovanni. I didn’t bother to ask this man whom I cared nothing for why who I was dating mattered to him. Then he asked about the man I sipped coffee with at Daily Grind. All I gave him was your name. How he got your number, knew about our involvement or your relationship with Jackson, I can’t tell you.”
“Oh, I’m sure he has his ways.”
“I’m sure he does,” Dexter agreed.
As I talked with Dexter, my phone vibrated. When I looked at the screen, it was a number similar to those usually displayed whenever Bran called. With the information I had just found, I was more than willing to talk to him.
“Hello,” I answered.
“I’m done playing with you,” he said. The familiar voice was Bran’s.
I decided to play stupid. “Who is this?”
“It’s Bran,” he confirmed.
“I’m just making sure, because I’m done playing this game with you, too. I’ve saved you some trouble. You don’t have to worry about hurting Trevor by telling him about me and Dexter and Chicago. He already knows. So now that you have nothing to threaten me with, I don’t expect to hear from you again.”
“You think I’m going away that easily? I know you’re not going to let Jackson walk out of your life just like that. I know you, and as long as you remain friends with Dexter, you will find yourself in his bed again.”
“As for what happens with Jackson and me after tonight, we won’t know now will we? But since you say you know me, you should also know that I don’t plan on ending my friendship with Dexter either. But I do want you to do something for me. Bran, is it?” I loved this feeling of control.
“What’s that?”
“When this conversation ends, I want you to call Devaan and tell her you like to play with boys. Tell her about the special fondness you have for men. Make sure you tell her about Dexter and how he almost died proving his love for you. Oh, and make sure you tell her about any other man that came before him. See, I know who you are, Patrick Telly McCay. We just need to make sure Devaan does, too. I know what you were trying to do with your phone calls and your threats. Now that your threats mean nothing to me, how long can you keep your secret?” There was silence. “I hope this silence means I’ve gotten your attention. I remember you telling me about men like me, but it’s men like you I can’t figure out. Men like you who keep running back. Remember you told me I didn’t deserve Jackson? Well, you damn sure don’t deserve Devaan.”
I stood with the phone to my ear, but I heard nothing. Dexter remained in the couch, his face covered in disbelief as he listened.
The phone went dead.
I left Dexter’s house feeling a little better than I did when I got there. I found some satisfaction in my conversation with Mr. McKay. I’m sure wherever he was I had him sweating bullets, wondering what else I knew, what else Dexter had told me, and thinking of ways to keep me quiet. But I wasn’t worried about Patrick and his wondering.
I hadn’t heard from Jackson, and I didn’t think I would be hearing from him before morning came. I wanted to call him. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was, but calling him and not getting a response would make me feel even worse. I had hurt someone I really loved. I wished I could take it all back.
When I reached the house, I dialed my voicemail and listened to a message I received while I talked to Patrick. I was praying it was from Jackson.
“Hey, Trevor, this is Caela. I did it. Call me.” Her voice had an unusual excitement.
I hung up the phone and walked upstairs. I lay across my bed with my arms stretched above my head and my feet hanging close to the floor. I closed my eyes, squeezing tears that finally fell to the sides of my face. Where I lay was where I slept.
35
That Same Old Feeling
Jackson…
“Is love really that important to you, Jackson?” Colt asked. It was 2:30 in the morning and we hadn’t yet run out of words. “You keep waiting for these sorry ass brothas to love you, and you can’t yet see that, in the end, all they do is hurt you.”
I sat in silence and listened to Colt beat me with words.
“After Gavin, what did I tell you? Love yourself. After Ethan, what did I tell you? Love yourself. And guess what I’m gonna tell you now that Trevor has followed in their footsteps? Love your damn self, man.”
“I thought he was different.”
“He’s not different, he’s hurt. And he’s already told himself before any man hurts him again, he was going to do the hurting first. Just like there are some scorned women out there, there are some men out there who are scorned as hell, too. They make even the man who loves them pay for the hurt the previous man inflicted on them.”
“But why me?”
“Damn, man. You love asking that question. It’s you because you make it you. You put yourself in the situation for it to be you. You keep searching for love expecting it to end differently all the time. You keep telling yourself, this time it’s gonna to be different, this time it’s gonna be different. Because you settled for less the last time, you tell yourself this time you want it all, so you go searching for all, and still you fall short. And still, you keep going back. I love love, and I love optimism, but man, ain’t that much optimism in the world.”
“So you expect me to just give up?”
“No, Jackson. I expect you to give in.”
“What?”
Our conversation was intense. My mouth was dry, and I was becoming furious with myself. My heart began to race as Trevor’s admission played in my mind. How could he? I thought. When all I did was love him, how could he?
“Give in to the idea that you’re not gonna find your father’s love in these men. That’s right, ‘cause if I don’t say it, you’re not gonna admit it. Seems you don’t get it. You’re always going to find those who love you and leave you, or those who never even bother to love you at all, because that’s what your father did. You try to find him in them and the only part of him that exists is the kind of hurt you’re feeling now. And I know it feels familiar. This didn’t start with Gavin, or Ethan, but with Kynard, and if your reason for love doesn’t change, it’s not going to end with Trevor.”
“You know what kills me, Colt? He expected to fix everything by telling me he’s sorry.”
“That wasn’t for you. That was for him. He had nothing else to say, so he said the next best thing, hoping he had fixed everything. My question to you is, has he?”
I never answered Colton. I had some figuring out to do.
After finally hanging up, I went to sleep with thoughts I couldn’t get rid of. My mind traveled down some familiar roads, with familiar signs I never paid attention to. I painted my own disturbing pictures of Trevor and Dexter, and the more I told myself to stop thinking, the more I thought. Was Colt right? When will I stop looking for my father’s love and begin loving myself?
36
If You Ask Me To
Trevor…
Patrick’s phone calls had stopped. I guess my last conversation with him gave him some things to think about, and if I were in his shoes, I’d be doing some thinking, too. I wanted to know if he’d had his talk with Devaan. Jackson hadn’t called, so I didn’t have anyone to get information from. I didn’t speak to Dexter as often since he was cementing the cracks in his relationship with Giovanni. The last time we spoke, he hadn’t mentioned hearing from Patrick.
But the joy of not getting one of Patrick’s annoying phone calls was short-lived.
“It’s you again,” I answered. “Nice to hear your voice.”
“Just be quiet and listen.”
“I don’t think you’re in the position to be giving out orders. In case you forgot, you no longer have the upper hand. But guess what? I’m going to
let you think you’re still in control and I’m going to listen. Now, what the hell do you want?”
“I’m making reservations at Teatro Goldini for 8 p.m. tomorrow night. I think we need to talk.”
“The person you need to be talking to is Devaan Bradley, the woman you have kept your past from. See, this is what you didn’t want to happen, but you know what, sometimes you can’t stop or control the inevitable. You should have just quit while you were ahead.”
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Patrick asked.
“You got what you wanted, didn’t you? You wanted me to tell Jackson the truth. Now the challenge is can you tell Devaan your truth? Do you need my help?”
“What I need you to do is meet me tomorrow at 8, and please don’t be late.”
“I told you, you’re not in the position to tell me what to do. Now I’ll think about it.” I said nothing for a few seconds.
“And please don’t mention this to Dexter.”
“And why not? Don’t you tell him everything? He seems to have forgiven you for almost killing him and his nephew.”
Patrick was quiet. “Just please don’t say anything to him. Or Jackson.”
“You don’t have to worry about Jackson. We aren’t on speaking terms right now.”
• • • • •
I was supposed to follow Patrick’s instructions when I arrived at Teatro Goldini. I was supposed to tell the headwaiter who I was there to have dinner with and everything would be taken care of.
At exactly twenty minutes before 8, I entered the peculiarly opulent interior of Teatro Goldini. I had a troubling afterthought, which I ignored. I had dismissed the childhood lessons my father taught me: Never talk to strangers.
“Good evening, sir.” I was greeted by the headwaiter in a profound Italian accent. “Will you be dining alone?”
“No. I’m meeting a Mr. Patrick McKay.”
“Oh, yes. Mr. McKay. Right this way, please.”
I followed the waiter upstairs to what I assumed was Patrick’s usual table. I was surrounded by etched glass windows, which gave clientele privacy should they need it. As I sat in a carrot- orange velvet Vittoria sidechair, the waiter, who had yet to introduce himself, unfolded a menu and placed it before me. He placed another on the table in front of the empty chair soon to be occupied by Patrick and then excused himself. Lighted tea candles in frosted crystal on each table illuminated the cozy ambiance. Calming Italian music played at a whispering level, adding to the mood. The walls boasted black and white portraits of famous Italians, from famed actresses Anne Bancroft and Alessa Marcuzzi to prominent painters Raphael and Michelangelo Buonarroti, smiling as if they owned a piece of the brick wall behind them.