I Love My Man (Nicole's Erotic Romance) (6 page)

My eyes narrow quickly. “Why do you ask?”

Her hand goes up, index finger wagging.
“Because, girl, you should watch out. That man is no good. He’s a player
something fierce.”

So that’s why she’s got that face on; she’s
jealous. With a bored glance, I check out her outfit, taking my time as I
finish off my martini. “Jason’s alright. He doesn’t mean any harm.”

Her head goes back and forth on her neck,
her big earrings swaying back and forth. “Uh uh. You gotta run. He is a player.
I’m telling you.”

Now I’m irritated because it’s clear she’s
not going to budge until she feels she’s made her point. Well, no one tells me
who to fuck and who not to fuck. And no one bad-mouths my friends. Picking up
my bag and coat, I stand and tower over her with steel in my eyes, my voice
deadly calm. “Honey, that’s my friend you’re talking about. I’ve been sleeping
with Jason for years. If anyone got played, it was only you.”

Her jaw drops and I walk past her to the
bar. I point to the back couch and throw two twenties on the bar. “Can you get
that woman a drink, too? And keep the change.”

The bartender nods and I walk out. Man, we
women are crazy, sometimes.

An Hour Later – At Home

I watch Jessica’s name vanish for the
millionth time while I wait. “Damn Jess, you are persistent!” She’s been
texting and calling and texting and calling, and then texting and calling some
more. I haven’t listened to her voicemails. Her texts go unread, which takes
some doing. I’ve not responded in any way except with one simple text of a single
sentence that she still can’t seem to get through her thick skull:
I need some time.

My studio is lit by over twenty, flickering
candles that give off a nice amount of heat in this small space. I’ve stretched
a brand new piece of canvas, pinned it to the wall, and I’m ready to go. I’ve
got a bottle of wine, an unopened pack of cigarettes, and Beyoncé’s secret
release album playing loud on the speakers. This isn’t a huge studio loft, but
it’s mine.

As is this fire within me.

As is this time.

As is this paintbrush.

As is this explosion of color pouring from
my mind, heart, and soul.

Gushing magenta paint from a fresh tube, I
wind the bright color in circles and waves on the fabric before taking a brush
and making tiny smooshes where my instinct moves me. Orange is next, blending
and twisting up the magenta. Then red is smeared in beautiful spirals and
zigzags for accent. I detail in tiny black lines last, for the leaves like tiny
spider webs, taking over an hour of my careful attention. Then I use deep dark
yellow for the tree trunks, drawing them in slender slices until I’m satisfied
there are enough.

This is not a landscape that someone’s
grandma painted and hung over plastic-covered furniture. No. This is an
abstract explosion of Mother Nature’s fire, the way I saw it in my mind when
Mark and I walked through Central Park, holding hands
.
I’m releasing that day from circling my mind. It’s been on replay
ever since he left. The only way to get it out before it drives me insane is to
get it out through my art.

Could
I have done things differently? Is it too late?
Will
there be a price worth paying? Will I lose someone I love? Will I forgive
myself for that?

Will I forgive them?

These colors are the same as Michael’s
painting, but he only got it half right. He was missing the most important
ingredient: Mark. Those colors and light do not exist in me without the two of
us together.
We
made that. So for us,
beneath the flaming trees, I draw only our hands weaved together, the size of
the entire canvas base. Our fingers are swirled together red, orange, and
magenta, same as the leaves. We are nature… natural… a love that came from
light.

Love.

My heart twists painfully when I hear the
word whisper into my thoughts like a memory I’d forgotten I had. It’s so
strong, this pain, that it feels like I’m dying. Tears jump to my eyes, ruining
my vision. I brush them away, choosing to focus and pull the paint out through
my brush, instead. Pulling it across the fabric in an odd curly twist, not
knowing where it’s going, I spin and spin the brush, repeating the shape over
and over until finally I see what it is. Spun around our hands beneath the
fiery trees is an imperfectly rough, yanked around heart.

I step back, staring at it, deeply moved. A
heart. I didn’t know I was painting a heart. Who would have ever guessed that’s
something that would come out of me?

I miss him so much. My hand shakes and
without thinking, I reach back and throw the paintbrush as hard as I can at the
painting. It jabs the canvas and falls to the floor, leaving a blot of red
slightly off center. Some will see this and call it a flaw. I’ll know it’s not.
It’s just not.

I have to stop crying. Picking up my brand
new pack of cigarettes, closing my eyes and moving my hips to Beyoncé’s
I’m No Angel,
I tear off the plastic and
turn one cigarette around, for luck. Searching for a lighter, I come up empty, even
though I know I had one here when I lit these candles. Impatiently, with my
unlit cigarette hanging out of my mouth, I wipe my streaked hands on my
paint-covered jeans and search harder. “Fuck,” I whisper, picking up empty
glasses and old wine bottles. My tank top strap falls off my shoulder as I lean
down to look under the table. “Did the little fucker fall down? What the hell?”
Finally, I give up and stand to use a lit candle. They say it’s bad luck to
light a cigarette off a candle, but what do I care? Like my luck’s ever good,
anyway.

But as I’m about to touch the tip of my
stick to the fire, the flame goes out. I shake my head and pick up another
candle, mumbling to my guardian angel, “Nice trick. Cut it out. I’ll just have
the one, alright?” I lean down toward another vibrant flame and it goes out,
too. I look up as a warm feeling waves throughout my body, like love is
surrounding me and I’m not alone in the room. I breathe in deeply because I
smell something I haven’t smelled in years... the scent of jasmine. It’s
unmistakable. I shut my eyes, inhaling deeply.

“Momma?”

I look around the room, as I turn off the
music. Jasmine? It was her favorite scent, the one she’d fallen in love with
when she loved my daddy, when they lived in Los Angeles together in the early,
happy years. I call out again, “Momma?” Grief enmeshed joy pulls hard at my
veins. Slowly I look around the room. If she’s really here, has she been with
me this entire time, watching me make a fool of myself?

Did she blow out those flames?

This smell is crushing me; it’s so full of
memories. I haven’t smelled her or heard her voice in so long! A painful lump
forms in my throat. I have to talk to her! I have so much to say – why
can’t I think of a single thing? I’ve so often wished I could have just five
more minutes with her so I could tell her I love her, and that I’m sorry.

“Momma? I won’t smoke them, I promise. It’s
just that I’ve been going through some things.” Bringing my hands up to my
face, I wipe away tears, and whisper, “But you probably know that, don’t you?
Is that why you’re here, to give me the courage I couldn’t give you?” Rushing
to the kitchen, I toss the cigarettes in the garbage, breaking the one in my
fingers in half before it falls. “See? They’re gone, Momma. I’m okay.” The
smell of jasmine is fainter now. “No, Wait!” Rushing back into my studio, I
point at the new painting, looking up. “See what I can do?” Bringing my hands up
to my mouth in a prayer pose, I whisper, “I’m not mad at you anymore.” The lump
hardens so much I can hardly speak. “I forgive you, Momma and I love you so
much.”

Silence.

The scent is gone now, as if it was never
here. Did I imagine it? Slumping to my knees on the floor, my head falls in my
hands. A knock sounds at my front door. I nearly jump out of my skin, staring
in the direction it came from. “Momma?” I squeak. Pulling myself off the
ground, my heart beats faster with each step I take. The peephole is rarely
used, but if my dead mother is standing outside, I need to make sure she’s not
the scary version. Terrified, I look in it and see a warped version of Jessica
nervously looking back at me, her head huge. “Nicole? Please open the door.”

Damn Girl, You Are Persistent.

I sigh and wipe fresh wetness from my
cheeks. I don’t know what to say to Jess, and this run-in with Momma’s ghost
– or whatever the hell just happened – has my mind all twisted. I
say through the door, “Jess, I said I need some time.”

“Let me in or I’ll call Amber and she’ll
huff and she’ll puff and she’ll blow your door down! Seriously. You don’t want
to make that elf mad.”

A smile tugs at my mouth. I unlock and open
the door. “Am I pig in this scenario?”

“No.” Jess shakes her head. “I’m the pig.”

We stand silently looking at each other. I
move to hold open the door wider. She walks in, straight to the table, and
points to a wine bottle sitting amidst glowing candles. “May I?”

I nod and close the door, pushing my fingers
into the pockets of my paint-spattered jeans. “What do you want to say, Jess?”

She picks up one of the five empty, used
wine glasses. I really need a maid. “I have a lot to say, and this will make it
easier.” She pours and takes a sip, closing her eyes. “Mmm. Magic potion, help
me say this right.”

I lean my back against a wall, looking at
her. She’s in a good mood, and it’s good to see her, like it’s always good to
see her. She’s certainly in a lighter space since I saw her at Ella; her jokes
fell flat that night. Tonight there’s air behind them and the normal ease is
back. It feels good. “Pour some magic for me while you’re at it.”
And a glass for my momma
, I think to
myself, trying to lighten up as well.

“Sure.” She looks at the four dirty glasses
left. “Which is yours? Well, they’re all yours. But which one are you using
tonight?”

“The one you just drank from.”

She freezes. “Oh.”

“Now we’re even,” I say dryly, referring to
Mark.

She winces and instantly I feel bad. I can
be a real bitch sometimes. It doesn’t occur to me that sometimes the words that
roll so easily off my sharp tongue, sting. She came to make peace. I don’t have
to be a bitch about it. I look down at the floor, ashamed of myself. “Sorry.”

She faces me, thoughtful. She’s quiet for so
long that I pick up my head and look at her, my chin titled a little. “Yeah… me
too. I’m really sorry.” The jokes are gone and there’s sadness staring back at
me.

My already weakened heart crumbles even
more. I didn’t expect to have this strong a feeling when I saw her again. I
love her. What if I lose her? What am I going to do if she can’t handle my
being with Mark? It’s so hard to really say the truth to someone you love. I
look at the floor again. “This is a fucked up situation neither of us could’ve
seen coming. And I’ve been taking it out on you, but…”

Jess holds up her hand and says, “Wait.
Please. Can I say something first?”

“No, Jess. I have to go first. I have to.”

“Oh.” Her long eyelashes fall to her hands,
both wrapped tightly around the wine glass. She takes a deep breath, scared.
“Okay. Go ahead.”

Pulling my fingers out of my pockets, I wrap
my arms around my body. “Remember when we were at The Crosby and you said not
to worry? That I’d find him? Well, you were right.” I take a deep breath, hold
her eyes, and continue. “I found him. And as much as it kills me that you found
him first, I still know I found him. Mark is
him
, Jess.” Jess’s mouth opens to speak. “No! Please. Let me
finish. No matter how odd this is or how weirdly it began, it’s not fair of you
to keep this from me. But you’re my family. I love you and Amber so much.”
Tears well up and my heart feels as though it might disappear. “Please don’t
make me choose.”

Jess’s eyes fill up, too. She begins to move
toward me, but stops and turns back to put her glass on the table. She turns
around, a tear falling down her cheek as she opens her arms really wide. “Come
here you big geek.”

I let out a surprised, tiny laugh. Meeting
in the middle, we hug each other tight. After a second, she whispers into my
ear, “You wanna kiss and make up?”

I bust up laughing harder and lay my head on
her shoulder, tears soaking into her jacket as I give her an extra squeeze. I
remember what I just said:
I’m not mad at
you anymore. I forgive you, Momma, and I love you so much.
Is that why you
came? To help me find forgiveness in time to open the door for my friend I was
shutting out?

Aloud, I whisper, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Jess says in a weird
voice. She releases me. “Go open your door.”

“What? Did you get me flowers or something?”

She shrugs, smiling like she’s about to
explode. “Or something!”

Suspiciously, I step to the door. Turning
the knob, I pull it open with a flash. Mark smiles back at me, holding a single
purple rose. “Hi.”

My hand flies to my mouth. Jess squeaks with
excitement. I look at her and she bites her bottom lip through a happy grin,
soooooooo proud of herself. Stunned, I look back to Mark.

He flashes me a shy, nervous smile. “She
emailed me. Apologized. Said maybe you cared about me a little bit. Might want
to see me again?”

I rush toward him. He opens his arms and lifts
me up in an embrace I never want to leave, kissing my shoulder as he rocks me. My
voice catches as I try to talk. “I can’t believe it.” That’s all I can get out.
He sets me down and, grinning from ear to ear, I step into the apartment and
motion eagerly for him to come in.