Big Girls Do Cry (27 page)

I wanted so badly to ask what, and I’m sure she knew it. That’s why she hesitated so long before she finished her statement.

“You see, she’s got—how does that song go? Oh, yeah. She’s got papers on him. And as long as she’s got papers, she got a right to half his shit. As you know, they’ve got a lot of shit, and he loves his shit. So instead of giving up half his shit to be with you and the baby, he’s going to keep all of his shit—except for the shit he gives his lawyers—and he and your sister are going to take your mentally unstable behind to court. And not only are they going to win, since you signed surrogacy papers, but you will probably be disowned by the entire family.”

Son of a bitch. Was I that obvious? Or was what I used to think as a child true? Maybe she really could read my mind. If she couldn’t, she’d really given this whole situation some thought. And then to top it all off, she had to bring my mental health issues into the conversation, like that had anything to do with it. She could be so cold sometimes.

“So you see, I’m glad you don’t want to take him from your sister, ‘cause I would hate the thought of you not being here next year for Thanksgiving.”

I swear to God, if she wasn’t my mother, I would have stabbed her with a butcher knife. But I was officially on notice. Now that I knew she had her eye on me, I was gonna have to be a little more careful about staying under the radar.

Lord have mercy, I am such a ho! Why? Because I had just spent the most fabulous day with Big Poppa, and now I was on my way to Washington, DC, to see Ron, my young Energizer Bunny lover. I wanted to give him an early Christmas present and a night of robust lovemaking before he left for the West Coast for a bunch of games and Christmas tournaments. We hadn’t seen each other in more than a week, and even that was just a little parking-lot action, because we were both so busy. He had finals, practice, and a hectic game schedule up here in DC, and I was down South with Loraine, who was in crisis; and Big Poppa, who all of a sudden wanted more attention; and the half dozen other sponsors I was juggling. There was something about the holidays that made everyone so needy for my attention.

When I arrived at the hotel, I saw Ron already sitting in the lobby with an annoyed look on his face. I was a little late, but he’d get over it as soon as I blew his mind—along with another body part. As was always the case, we had to play like we didn’t know each other in public, so I walked right past him and went to the front desk to check into our room. I took the room key from the front desk clerk and walked to the elevator, texting Ron the room number. As a precaution, he always waited five minutes before coming up.

When I got in the room, I placed his present on the dresser and removed my shirt before ordering a bottle of champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries. That’s when I realized for the first time in my life that I was actually the sponsor. I didn’t have a problem with it, though, because Ron was an investment.
After I had a chance to see him play ball and ask around, I decided that he was a sure-enough keeper with NBA potential. By that time, if Big Poppa and I hadn’t run away together, I’d just move to whatever town Ron was drafted to and reap the dividends of my investment. All I had to do was make him fall in love with me—and he was well on his way to that.

Speak of the devil. A knock on the door took me out of retirement planning and back to the task at hand, keeping Ronny boy happy. I checked myself out in the mirror, then opened the door. I was greeted by Ron’s fist in my face, which sent me reeling backward.

“What the heck did you do that for? Is this some type of S and M role-playing game? ‘Cause I ain’t into that shit.” I touched my lip to see if I was bleeding.

“You son of a bitch!” Ron shouted, throwing three more blows that barely landed. He looked like he was crying.

I grabbed his wrists so he couldn’t punch me anymore, and we wrestled to the ground. He was so angry he looked possessed.

“Ron, what’s wrong, man? What did I do?” He was even stronger than he looked, and it was taking everything I had to keep him from pounding my face.

“It was bad enough you sent them to my coach. But my mother?” He pulled his left arm free, then started swinging again, hitting me in the side of the neck and chest. “You sent those pictures to my mother, you son of a bitch.”

“Your mother? What are you talking about? What pictures?” I had both arms up, blocking his blows, but he kept trying to get at me. “Ron, listen to me, man! I don’t know anything about any pictures. I wouldn’t do anything like that. I’m in love with you, man!”

Those words made him pause for a minute. He threw one or two more halfhearted blows, then stopped trying to fight me. To be safe, I backed up out of arm’s reach, because he still had fire in his eyes.

“I love you, Ron. I wouldn’t do anything like that to you.”

“Don’t lie to me, Jerome.” He lifted his arm to strike me again. I covered my face and braced myself, but the blow never
came. When I looked at him, he was seated on the bed. The way his posture sagged, he looked like a man who felt totally defeated.

I sat next to him. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Somebody sent pictures of us in that parking lot last week to my mother, my coach, the university president, and some of my teammates.”

Poor kid. I know he wasn’t ready for that. But I needed to make sure he understood I had nothing to do with it, because he was obviously under so much stress that he could snap and get violent again at any moment.

“And you think I did that?” I asked cautiously.

“Yeah, I think you did it. You set me up, Jerome. Nobody knew we were going to that parking lot, not even me. That was your idea.”

He was right; it was my idea. I was trying to be spontaneous and give him a blow job before I took him back to his dorm. Now it looked like my spontaneity had been captured on film.

“It was your dick’s idea, Ron. Remember, it was you who kept talking about how horny you were. I was just trying to make you happy, man.”

He looked me in the eye and stayed silent for a minute, like he was remembering that night and trying to decide if my version of events was correct. As I watched some of the tension leave his face, I felt a little safer. It looked like he was starting to believe I was innocent, though he still had another question for me, so I wasn’t completely off the hook.

“You didn’t tell anyone you were going to be in DC, did you?”

“Nah, man, I didn’t. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Now the fire in his eyes was gone. He no longer looked angry, just hurt and confused. My heart went out to the kid.

“Then who?” he asked. “Who would do this to me?”

“I don’t know.” One person did come to mind, but even he wasn’t that crazy, was he? “I wish I knew who did it.”

“Jerome, if I find out you had anything to do with this,” he warned, “I’m gonna kill you. This is my future somebody’s fucking with.”

“I know that. I swear to God, I wouldn’t do anything like that.” I raised my right hand in the air.

“Man, my momma is heartbroken over this shit. I may lose my scholarship and probably any chance I got at the NBA. I damn sure won’t ever be one of the boys again.”

I leaned forward on the bed, trying to get comfortable. My entire upper body ached from the beating I’d just taken. I didn’t even want to think about my face. It was probably bruised beyond recognition.

“Don’t worry about your scholarship. If they yank that, we’ll have every gay activist in the country on campus. As far as the NBA is concerned, just go out there and play ball. The rest will take care of itself.”

He didn’t look convinced. I tried to lighten the mood a little, because I really did care about him, and I hated to see him looking so hurt. “I don’t even wanna think about how much money you can make as the first openly gay professional basketball player. Sissies from all over the world will be rooting for whatever team you play for. Man, you’re gonna be like Jackie Robinson, a true pioneer.”

He made a face as he stood up and took a few steps to distance himself from me. “No, I won’t, because I’m not gay. And even if I was, I damn sure don’t want to be a pioneer.”

Even when he’s out, the boy wants to stay in denial
. I resisted the sigh that threatened to escape from my lips.

“Ron, there’s no reason to deny who you are anymore. It’s out. You said it yourself; they’ve got pictures.”

“Fuck those pictures!” He stepped toward me, his anger boiling beneath the surface again. “You set me up, didn’t you? You wanted me outed so you could use me as some type of poster child for gays.”

We were back at square one. I really didn’t want to get hit again. What was it going to take to convince him?

“Look, man, I’m sorry, but I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Sure you didn’t, Jerome.”

“Ron, I swear to you—”

“Save it, aw-ight?” He gave me the finger as he walked toward the door. Lucky for me—and my already aching body—he
looked like he’d run out of steam, so the argument was over. “If anyone asks you about those pictures, they were Photoshopped and you don’t know me. You understand?”

“Yeah, but what do you mean I don’t know you? You just want me to pretend, right? You’re not giving up on us, are you?”

He reached for the doorknob. “There is no
us
, Jerome. There never was, and if you give two shits about me, you’ll keep it that way. I’m trying to get my life back.”

I nodded as I watched him walk out the door and quite possibly out of my life. I didn’t have the strength or energy to follow him—not that it would have done any good. I’d seen my share of men who’d been outed to the public before they were ready. It was never a pretty picture, and it usually forced them to go even further into denial.

I got up and walked into the bathroom, washing the blood from the small cut on my upper lip. I didn’t look half as bad as I felt, so I put on my shirt and jacket, then headed to the parking garage.

I still wasn’t quite sure what the hell was going on, but deep down, I had a feeling it had something to do with that crazy white boy Peter. The scariest part was that if it was Peter, then he had followed us to that parking lot, and who knows how long he’d been following us before then. I replayed that night in my mind, and I couldn’t recall any time when I saw anything suspicious or felt like we were being followed. What the hell was this guy, some type of ninja?

I was just about to get in my car when my phone rang. I reached down to my holster and checked my caller ID.
Damn, now that’s creepy
. It was Peter. What the hell did he want?

I clicked the TALK button. “What?” I yelled.

“You look a little bruised up there, sport.”

I felt my stomach do a flip. I climbed in my car in a hurry, looking around the parking garage. He was nowhere in sight.

“Where the fuck are you? And what the fuck do you want from me?”

“I’m close. I’m always going to be close to you.”

I’d seen enough horror flicks to know that this was my cue to get the hell out of there. A dark, deserted parking garage is not
the place you want to be when a stalker calls. Feeling paranoid as shit, I pulled out of the parking space and headed straight for the exit, expecting his spooky ass to jump in front of my car at any moment.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked.

“You haven’t figured out what I want yet?” He chuckled. “I want you, and I’m not going to rest until we’re together.”

“You’re insane, Peter. Totally fucking insane. Do you know that?”

“If you say so. I’m sick of arguing my sanity with you. I know I’m sane, and even if I’m not, it’s all because of you.” He laughed like a hyena, and that just made this shit creepier.

When he got his psychotic ass under control, he asked, “So, how’d you like the pictures?”

I punched the steering wheel. Now I had confirmation that he was the one who took the pictures. But why did he have to hurt Ron the way he did? I was pissed. Not only had he fucked up Ron’s situation, he’d also caused me to get my ass beat. I tried to keep my voice calm, because I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much chaos he’d created. “I haven’t had a chance to see them.”

“Too bad. There are some really nice shots of you. My favorite one is of you sucking on his dick so good that his eyes look like they’re popping out of his head. I know exactly how he felt. Reminds me of how you made me feel that night at the hotel.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I told you before, Jerome—if I can’t have you, nobody will.”

“But he’s just a kid. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s having a hard enough time dealing with being gay. You wanna fuck with someone, fuck with me.”

He laughed halfheartedly. “I already am, and I’ve just begun. Have a safe ride home. You might wanna get some gas. You’re running a little low.” I glanced down at my gas gauge and almost hit a parked car.

Jesus Christ, this crazy motherfucker’s been in my car.

It was Christmas Day, my favorite holiday of the year. Unfortunately, this Christmas I woke up bitter, miserable, and alone for the first time in ten years. I finally climbed out of bed and headed downstairs to the kitchen around two in the afternoon. I fixed myself some breakfast, then sat in the living room, finishing off a box of chocolate turtles as I contemplated whether I should open the pile of presents sitting on the love seat. Usually I was like a kid on Christmas morning, waking Leon up early so we could come down and open gifts. He would have the entire house decorated like a winter wonderland. But this year, I didn’t even put up a tree. I didn’t want to do anything that would remind me of Leon.

Sadly, everything reminded me of him. I was so depressed and bitter about the whole situation that the only thing I wanted to do was eat—something I seemed to be doing constantly. We’d been separated a month, and I’d already gained a good ten or fifteen pounds. My wardrobe was now a quarter of what it used to be, just because I couldn’t fit into most of my clothes.

I opened a few presents, the majority of them from clients and people from my office. The gifts were all nice but nothing I would use or wear. I had no idea who’d invented gift receipts, but I felt like I owed them dinner.