“You’re going to thank me one day,” Mother had said one evening while we sat across from each other at the dining room table. As she spoke, she waved the fork for emphasis, as if she couldn’t have gotten her point across without such a threatening gesture. Devaan sat looking at her, and then at me, waiting to see our next reaction. I wasn’t intimidated. I just sat like a stubborn mule impervious to the whipping I had received. I can’t exactly remember what I had done. Though I was saddened by the consequences that usually followed, I was comforted by the thought that soon, my father would walk through the door, and before long, would convince my mother to “let the boy alone.” A few days later, the same father who had often rescued me, had ran out on my mother, my sister, and me, leaving her a heartbroken, single mother, adjectives she never thought she would use to describe herself after she and my father were married.
“Junior, are you there? I asked how you were doing,” Mother interrupted.
“I’m here. I’m fine.”
“Your sister is worried about you. Have you heard from her?” she asked.
“I spoke with her earlier.”
“Well, needless to say, she doesn’t call or visit as often since you left. I heard from her two days ago. She called to sing about some gentleman friend she had been seeing for a couple months now and that she couldn’t wait for us to meet him,” she said with a bit of uncertainty. “If she was so excited, why are we just hearing about this man?”
“I have no idea, Mother. She just wasn’t ready, I guess.”
“Anyway, I have a new cell phone number.”
I reached for a pen and jotted her number in my planner next to today’s date.
“Aren’t you a bit curious who this guy is?” she asked.
“Curious? Yes. But it sounds like you want me to be worried, and I’m not.”
“Well, why aren’t you?”
“Because I trust her judgment.”
Devaan was no fool. She sounded happy. She didn’t date a lot. The men she had met, the ones who hadn’t worked, were just men who simply weren’t compatible. She was smart enough to leave them before she invested too much, if she invested anything at all.
This was my opportunity to give my mother some insight on the decision I had made. She was at work, and any desire to question my reason would have to be put off until later. At least I would’ve had some hours to prepare my response. I finally told her about the heartache I endured and how badly I needed to get away. She was disappointed I didn’t trust our relationship or her love enough to tell her what happened. It was hard for me to explain everything since I hadn’t quite figured out certain things in my own head. Then I told her about Trevor, about the new job at the University Hospital, and the new house.
“You know no matter what, I will always love you,” she said.
“Yes Mother, I know. It was never your love I was questioning. I just…” Before I could finish my response, another call beeped in. I asked my mother to hold and swapped calls.
“Hello,” I answered.
“What’s going on, baby brother?” Devaan greeted.
“Hello, lovely. I have your mother on the other line. Hold on a sec.” I clicked back over and wrapped up my conversation with my mother. She promised to call me later. I promised to be here when she called.
I clicked back to Devaan and engaged in our usual question and answer conversation.
“Work is going ok?” I asked.
“There’s talk about a promotion, but I keep reminding myself they had that same talk last year.”
“Maybe this time it’s real talk.”
“Maybe.” She paused. “Hey, did your mother tell you Aunt Whitney has been asking about you?”
“You mean she’s fishing for new information to gossip about? I hope Mother hasn’t told her anything.”
“She knows better than to go to her with questions about you.”
My Aunt Whitney and I haven’t had the best relationship in years, and she used to be my favorite aunt, that is until she decided to make me her hot topic.
Their whispers usually didn’t bother me. I paid as much attention to them as I did the other things I cared nothing about. They didn’t make or break me, and if I were broken, I wasn’t giving them the satisfaction of seeing me in pieces.
It was always my aunt Whitney. She was more like a nosey neighbor than a family member, always in somebody’s business and never paying attention to her own disheveled life. She had nothing else to do but sit around and thrash out what is and what isn’t in the lives of people who barely knew she existed. But I had some pity for her. The one man who had stayed around long enough to muster an ounce of care left seemingly without a trace. And her own son pulled the same disappearing act about five years after, calling her only on birthdays, Mother’s Day, and Christmases because, after all, she was still his mother. Her one true friend, her abettor, Janae DuBose, and her daughter Mackayla Conner were the only two women willing to lend an ear to her misguided conjecture.
“That man did something to that boy. I swear he hasn’t been right since,” Whitney said, talking out the side of her mouth.
“And I hear he’s into them men.”
“And where did you hear that?” Janae asked, crossing her legs and soaking up the scandal.
“Contrary to what people believe, we aren’t the only ones talking,” Whitney responded, taking a sip from a tall glass of apple martini. “And I don’t think he knows what he’s looking for in them.”
“What makes you think he’s looking for something?” Mackayla pitched in. I hadn’t decided if she was on my side.
“Oh, now you want to play dumb with me.”
As always, they were sitting in a corner during another family gathering, separating themselves from everyone, making them the outcasts they’ve become known for. And they wondered why they rarely got invited. Their conversation would continue. Only a look from my mother in their direction could bring pause to their banter.
But my Aunt Whitney was right. They weren’t the only ones engaged in careless whispers.
“Blame his father for the way that boy turned out,” my grandmother said three weeks earlier.
I’m not sure what had preceded my grandmother’s statement. I walked into the kitchen unabashed by the overheard. My grandmother was sitting in the kitchen drinking her usual cup of green tea. My mother stood with her back against the kitchen sink. I walked over to the refrigerator, grabbed an orange, and walked out as if I had heard nothing. I felt their eyes following my quick departure. I stood outside briefly waiting for either to speak but I heard nothing. Regardless of what she said, I was still grandma’s boy. I knew what she said was said out of love. This much I could say about my grandmother. I couldn’t say the same about Aunt Whitney.
After talking with Devaan, I listened to the voicemail I had received. It was from Caela.
Mr. Bradley. I have made reservations for you and Mr. Harrison at Smith and Wollensky at 12:30.
I returned to the kitchen, grabbed the glass of orange juice, which was now room temperature warm from sitting on the counter top, and poured it in the sink. I poured another glass to half-full and made my way back to my office. I turned on the flat screen LCD television that hung on the wall between two five-shelf bookcases. I sat back on the floor with my legs stretched out before me and watched as they dissected Presidential candidate Barack Obama’s readiness for the oval office. From what I gathered, pundits had already assumed he would not be prepared to tackle problems created by his soon-to-be predecessor. He hadn’t even won and he was already being written off left and right. When I had had enough, I muted the television and directed my attention back to reviewing my agenda for the first days at work. I had two hours to kill before my lunch date with Trevor.
9
Brand New
Trevor…
When I wanted a quiet lunch and good food, Smith and Wollensky always stood on the top of my list of favorite downtown steakhouses. It was located on 19th Street
in northwest, DC. Without a reservation, you needed luck on your side, or some connection to Jada Pinkett-Smith to get a seat by just walking in.
I was waiting for Jackson in an area outside the restaurant only used during the summer months that extended into late October, or the occasional unseasonably warm January days that, every now and then, visited the area. The lunch menu featured anything from classic steaks to catches from the sea, and after having eaten here so often, I had sampled everything. The marinated Cajun rib-eye was my favorite. Jackson had only been here on one other occasion.
“You didn’t have to dress to impress me, sir,” I said in greeting as he walked up to me.
“I hardly call this dressing to impress. I haven’t unpacked everything just yet,” Jackson replied. I got up and gave him the hug I’d been waiting to give him all morning. “And who said dressing had anything to do with you?”
He wore a white striped fitted shirt, with sleeves folded neatly up to his elbows. His caravan-colored stretch cotton dress pants covered legs that went on forever, and his burgundy belt secured his pants to a waist any woman would be glad to wrap their arms around. He still had that confidence, that focused and calculating walk I can now admit I loved the most about him.
As we walked into the busy restaurant, I could feel piercing stares, mostly from the ladies with the usual questions in their heads. Damn! Any chance those two are available? Or, they must swing that way. Where are their lady companions? Some of the men had their questionable expressions, too, as if homosexuality had made it unconstitutional for two fine-looking men like us to dine together.
“Reservation for Mr. Trevor Harrison,” I said as I approached the maître d’.
“Here it is. Reservation for two,” he said, looking up at me, and then at Jackson.
“Yes, sir,” Jackson confirmed. He looked at me and smiled.
“Follow me, gentlemen,” he directed.
As we were seated, the maître d’ carefully placed our menus to our right on the table and mentioned the name of our waiter. “You gentlemen enjoy your lunch,” he said with a warm smile, and then excused himself.
London, our waiter, stood 6’2”. His skin was fair. His perfect teeth were hidden behind sexy pink lips. Without even trying, he looked as if he were posing for a face shot. His deep, dark brown eyes sat deep in his face, shadowed by far-reaching eyebrows.
“Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?” he asked under a soft tone that forced you to listen.
I requested a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino, and since we had been perusing our menus, we placed our orders at the same time.
“I’ll be back shortly with your wine,” London said, and walked away as if he were practicing his runway debut.
“Model?” I asked Jackson.
“If he isn’t, he should definitely consider it.” Jackson turned his head, looking over his shoulder at London. When he turned back around, I could read what I’m sure was supposed to have been an inward smile all over his face.
“What is it?”
“Did I tell you about this one time I was approached about modeling?”
“No.”
“This guy told me I had ‘the look’ and I waited for him to tell me what exactly was this look. I was quite sure the look varied from one person to the next, or else everyone in the latest issue of Vogue, Elle, or GQ would look exactly the same.”
“You didn’t believe him?”
“I did. He said his name was Travis Price. Called himself a model agent, but I’m sure it was his mastered pick-up line and he thought I looked gullible enough for it to work.”
“You must have thought about it for a minute?”
“Of course, but I knew at my height, I would have been a hard fit. Plus, I was with Sarina Crafton, and if you knew Sarina Crafton, you would have thought about it for only a minute too.”
“Sarina Crafton,” I repeated. “I think the name says enough.”
“Pretty much. She had her own bent ideas about male models. If they weren’t on one of the pages of VIBE magazine representing Enyce, or holding one of the sexy Apple Bottom models, they didn’t qualify. She thought being a personal shopper for a still unnamed star had made her the juggernaut in the industry. I hated Sarina’s sometimes self-centered, hypocritical thoughts. Her younger brother was a model, and as much as I liked him, he was nothing like those models his sister’s mouth watered for. But his ads were plastered on billboard under the bright lights of Times Square because he had the smile and the body that made you buy shit you didn’t need. And I think I’m sexy as hell in underwear.”
“Sounds like jealousy was her middle name.”
“I have a middle name for her but trust me, jealousy isn’t what I’m thinking.” Jackson laughed.
Jackson was smart and athletic. He was the super athlete in high school, once dominating the quarterback and wide receiver positions for his Stonewall Hardy Senior High School Panthers varsity football team beginning in his freshman year. That wasn’t the school he was supposed to attend, but after his father left, Jackson’s desire to please his father and graduate from his alma mater Plymouth High went also.
Jackson was as sexy as anyone in his practice gear, which included a panther t-shirt cut short enough to expose abs he had obviously worked hard for all summer. (I’d seen pictures.) Swimming was his passion, but he concentrated on football, the sport most adored by his father. Jackson was 6’9”, a solid two-hundred-and-five pound, with skinny yet very firm legs, sporting a curve that began just where his knees ended. He had a great personality and a very attractive demeanor, which helped him survive when it seemed his world crumbled after his father left. He had a nose that complimented lips that, when he smiled, showed a gap that probably would have been unattractive on anyone else. He had eyes that always seemed distant, yet they had the power to pull you in, enthralling you unintentionally. And if the picture of his father was any indication, he had a lot more good-looking years ahead of him.
“Well, I think you would have had the modeling world ablaze, just like Tyson Beckford and Bobby Roache.”
“I know,” Jackson agreed, rubbing his chin and smiling. I needed to say something to wipe that smile from his face.
“So your last day of freedom,” I began. “You ready to go back to work?”
“Not going to say I’m ready, but the bills have to get paid. And honestly, I’m running out of things to do around the house.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “You still have boxes to unpack and furniture to assemble.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Jackson said, and laughed.
London returned with the bottle of wine in one hand and two wine glasses in the other. He poured a glass full. Its color was a rich ruby. Its natural aroma tickled my nose. A quick taste left a lasting impression in my mouth. I nodded in approval.
London continued to fill our glasses, placed the bottle in an ice bucket on the table, then left to get our meals.
“So, listen. You’ve heard me talk about Dexter, right?
“Yeah. Your friend from the accident,” Jackson said. “Yeah, I remember you talking to him.”
“Well, if you’re not busy this weekend, we’re trying to make dinner plans with him and Giovanni.”
“Giovanni?” Jackson asked.
“The man he’s talking to. I told him I needed to check your schedule first before I could commit.” I felt my personal cell phone vibrate in its case. I always leave my phone on vibrate or silent mode on workdays. Usually on lunch breaks I would turn down the volume, but since I was having lunch with Jackson, I left it on the setting it has been on since I arrived at the office at 8:45 a.m. I ignored the vibration and continued to focus on Jackson.
“So, we’re already having dinner with your dad and Natalie on Thursday, and dinner with Dexter and his beau on Saturday. So where in between that do we try and find time for us?” Jackson asked with a smile, but I could tell he was serious.
“All you have to say is
no and we can do something else. Dinner was my idea. I wanted him to meet you, the person in my life.”
“Boy, stop getting so serious. I’ll check my schedule tomorrow and let you know. Deal?” Jackson asked, winking his left eye. I smiled and took my wine glass to the head.
The marinated Cajun rib-eye was finger licking good, though I dared not lick my fingers in the presence of these fine diners. Jackson’s Miso glazed Chilean sea bass smelled as good as it tasted. He didn’t have to ask once before I was reaching across the table with my fork, boldly stealing one piece of the succulent cut sitting to the side of the plate.
If I didn’t have work to finish, or if I didn’t have another afternoon meeting with my partner Wesley and a potential new client, I would have definitely spent the rest of the day with Jackson. And I’m certain he wouldn’t have minded.
10
What’s My Name?
Trevor …
I walked through the doors to my office at exactly 2:30. One of the best two-hour lunches I have had in a long time. Okay, the best two hours, since getting there took some time. As quickly as I was seated, Caela appeared at my door.
“Quick message, Mr. Harrison,” she said. “Mr. Monahan wanted you stop in his office once you returned.”
“Did he say what for?”
“He didn’t say. But he did have a huge smile on his face,” Caela said, turning and heading back to her desk. After a few steps, she turned back around, walked closer to the office, and leaned on the side of the door. She lightly tapped her pen in the palm of her right hand. Caela was left-handed.
“Yes, Caela,” I said. I was standing behind my desk running lines through the items on my to-do list. With two meetings, a phone call, and lunch with Jackson, I hadn’t made much of a dent in my errands and the day was almost over.
“How was lunch with Jackson?” she asked, smiling.
“It’s not everything I’m going to tell you, Caela.”
“Yes. But…” she said, and flashed her girlish smile. She paused, waiting for me to disclose.