Naughty or Nice (27 page)

“What?”

“Hope.”

I
t was what Tommie said about carrying her old issues into the New Year. That had been bothering me ever since she said that she was letting her old issues go and moving on. Not bothering me in a bad way. Just making me realize how old issues kept you from being able to move on.

That's why I called him a couple of days ago. Why I asked him to meet me. Why I sat in the parking lot at 'Bucks sipping on bottled water and thinking. The coffeehouse was deserted, just like the rest of the parking lot, but the traffic out on La Cienega and Centinela and La Tijera was starting to pick up. Everybody was out doing what we'd be doing later on, visiting family and dropping off presents.

A silver convertible Benz pulled up and parked on the side of the lot by TGIF. It was an older model, classic. Nicolas Coleman got out. He had on dark gray sweats.

I got out of my car, went and stood near the trunk.

It was awkward at first, him coming to meet with me after the way I'd tripped out the night I'd seen him at Reign. I know it might sound trivial to others, but it was important to me.

He said, “Sorry it took me so long.”

“It's cool. Just chilling before we do dinner.”

“Saw you on the monitor at church a few days ago.”

“You were there?”

“I was there. Was visiting with some frat brothers.”

I opened my trunk, tossed him a bottle of water.

I said, “First, I really want to apologize again for the way I acted at Reign.”

“It's cool. I told you that when we talked that night.”

“We didn't really talk. I was a mess.”

“I know.”

The night he called he'd woken me up from a too real dream, the one where Momma told me that she . . . that she was sick. Have to admit that I was pretty jacked up when the brother called, but he talked to me, brought me from tears to laughter.

I said, “Sometimes it hits me that my folks are gone. Hit me hard today.”

He nodded. “You okay?”

“Went to the cemetery this morning.”

“Sure you're okay?”

“Yeah. I'm okay. Just hard being strong all the time.”

We talked and sipped on bottled water.

I said, “I just wanted to say a few things. Think I have a few unresolved issues when it comes to you.”

“Okay.”

I told him how I had felt about him back then, that residuals of that still lived with me now.

He said, “Frankie, I'm serious. Didn't know you felt that way.”

“Guess I assumed you did.”

“We were pretty . . . There was a lot of alcohol involved.”

“I know. But that was because . . . Guess you were special.”

“Well, to be honest, you told me about the other brothers you'd gone out with, always talked about them like they were no big deal, how you had them on a list. While we're talking about assumptions, I assumed that after we crossed that line, that I'd become one of them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn't want to be just another one of the guys on your lists. Didn't want to become one of the guys you kicked out before the morning newspaper hit your front porch.”

“Shit. Guess, I told you too much, huh?”

He chuckled. “I'm not saying that.”

“I did.”

“You didn't tell me any more than I told you about Nicole.”

I ran my fingers through my locks. “I know, but men and women are judged by different standards.”

“Hell, you made it sound like men were no big deal. A dime for a baker's dozen.”

“Nick, a woman tells a man the truth because she's feeling him, she wants him to accept her as she is with no secrets and no bullshit, not because she wants him to think of her as a ho.”

“That's not the way I see you, Frankie.”

“I was just saying.”

“It wasn't just that.” Nick sipped his water. “But the other things you told me about, how you had a hard time being attached because of what your mother had gone through, that made it . . . hard to even think that you could operate at the same level I was willing to operate at.”

I nodded. “Momma lost two husbands. That was . . . that was hard. Until Bernard came along I had to keep Livvy in line because Momma was so damn tired from working so much.”

“She didn't have an easy life.”

“But she had a lot of love at the end.”

Momma lost both husbands, our natural father and the man who stepped in and raised us like we were his flesh and blood, and I think that was why I always had a rough ride. Hell, I know it pissed me off that my ex-hubby was a ho, but if the truth be told, I don't think I was the best wife either. I mean, I did the best I could with the tools I had, but still . . . I had a lot of fears. Fear of being as broke as we were when we grew up in Inglewood, fear of being alone and going off to glory a capella, and fear of spiders.

I think I allowed men to get only so close, then most of the time I backed away.

I told Nick, “You were different.”

He smiled. “Was I?”

He came from a great family, ministers and doctors and all kinds of professional people, the kind of family I wished I had, the kind where the little kids had names I could pronounce. And he was brilliant in his own way. And the brother was packing pleasure, was a straight-up superfreak. In the one night we were together, he had me doing shit I never thought I'd do.

“Nigga, you know I was feenin' for you. Bringing you chicken soup when you had the flu, breaking my neck to read your stuff, writing to impress you, and I don't even like writing.”

“You don't like writing?”

“Hell no. I was doing . . . hell . . . being the kind of woman I thought you liked. I did all that then . . . then . . . I thought we had connected and you . . . you . . . you vanished.”

“Serious? Is that how you see what happened between us?”

“Yup. And so far as writing and finishing a friggin' book, hell, that shit is too . . . tedious. And I don't care too much for commercial fiction from jump street.”

“Damn. So you hate my books?”

“I liked yours. And since we're talking about things I like, I liked you better with locks.”

“Wait, wait.” He was laughing so hard. “Forget the locks. Thought you liked writing.”

“Not the way you do. Ain't got that kinda passion. I don't see how you sit by yourself all day long and do that shit. Write and rewrite and rewrite and . . . I don't have that kind of discipline, not the kind that makes a sister want to sit in one spot until she got hemorrhoids.”

“And let me guess . . . you hated running too?”

“Oh, I love running. I'll run until I get down to a size six or my legs fall off.”

We were laughing like . . . like friends. We talked, light and easy.

I said, “One question.”

“Okay.”

“And be honest. If you can remember . . .”

“Sure.”

“How was it with me? The sex.”

“You haven't changed a bit, Frankie.”

“Well?”

He laughed, blushed. “I was an emotional wreck, buzzed . . . and I was attracted to you.”

“Oh, really.”

“I haven't forgotten. It was good. I just didn't . . . at the time there was nowhere it could go. I had too much . . . clutter. Too much unresolved shit.”

“Nicole.”

“Yeah.”

“You're not over her, are you?”

“To be honest . . .” He paused and pushed his lips up into a soft smile, the kind that held old memories, then spoke in a soft tone. “Some things you never recover from, not fully.”

I nodded because I understood how he felt, how complicated life and loving could be.

I asked, “Your wife? . . .”

“We're fine.”

“Big celebration today?”

“Yeah. You know how large my family is.”

“You snuck away?”

“She knows where I am. We don't have a marriage based on lies.”

“Good.”

“And she knows about you. Told her we had something unresolved.”

He was a great guy, maybe that was why I had tripped so hard. I patted his hand, gave him my empathy. “Well, my timing has always been bad when it came to the good brothers.”

“I'm not the best at relationships. But I'm trying.”

“Good. And stay that way.”

The conversation, despite the laughing and whatever, never moved too far from feeling awkward. Maybe because it was the kind of dialogue you had when you needed closure, and when
it ended, you moved on with your life. I checked my watch for his benefit, that good old body language that said it was time for the fat lady to break out with a song.

“Merry Christmas, Nick.”

“You too, Frankie.”

“And I'm happy for you.”

“Thanks. Same for you and all of your success.”

I raised a brow. “What success?”

He said, “You're a regular Donna Trump. I heard they were thinking about renaming Ladera Heights ‘Frankieville.' And you have the best house in Westchester.”

I laughed so hard. “You're keeping up with me?”

He smiled. “You're smart. Beautiful. Independent. I'm proud of you.”

I paused. “And your wife. She's beautiful.”

“Thanks.” He paused, his body language showing his awkwardness. “Maybe I'll see you around, maybe I'll run into you at the L.A. Marathon.”

“And maybe I'll show up at one of your book signings.”

I was ready to send him back to his beautiful wife, and it was time for me to head back to . . . back to Frankieville. It was hard getting to that awkward good-bye.

But I was ready to move on.

We gave each other one-arm hugs, and I headed toward my car.

I had promised myself that I wouldn't, but I looked back. Hard not to look back at a man who had you going
Woo Woo Woo
and popping Percodan like jellybeans.

Nick was staring. Not at my ass, but at the whole me. Admiring me from the soul out. The dreamy expression, the way he grinned at me told me that his mind was on a journey, playing what-if with both of us as the leads in that mental production.

I nodded and smiled back at him, telling him,
Yeah, what if?

I chuckled and shook my head. Maybe wishing he wasn't married, maybe wishing I was the kind of woman who shared
her natural resources. But Nick looked like he wondered how it would've been to have me as his queen. No sin in that.

I savored my small victory as I sang my way to my car and drove away, headed toward Frankieville with the top down, locks being teased by the wind, my face one big smile.

I was free from that old lover who would never love me. Letting go felt good.

Frankie was happy with Frankie right now.

 

Before I rushed back to the crib and threw down the Cornish hens, since I was in the area and there wasn't any mad traffic, I zoomed over the speed bumps and parked in front of Mail Connexion. Needed to check my post office box since I hadn't done that in the past few days.

My head was down and I was getting my mail out when this brother walked in. Really didn't see him or look up, not at first, was too busy tearing up junk mail, and didn't feel like being bothered.

He said, “Merry Christmas.”

I sighed and looked up.

He was tall with a body that looked like it had been chiseled from stone. His locks were perfect; each one a carbon copy of the next. His skin was the color of burnt caramel and a small, silver hoop earring dangled from his left ear. He wore jeans and a T-shirt with 205 across the front. And he had on running shoes.

I cleared my throat, said, “Merry Christmas.”

“Love your locks. The brown and light-brown, that's tight.”

“Thanks. Your locks are tight, too.”

He asked, “How long have you been locking?”

“Four years. You?”

“Little over three.”

He got his mail from his box, stood at the counter, smiled, and asked me my name.

I tossed the last of my junk mail, said, “Frankie.”

He laughed. “My name is Franklin. People call me Frankie.”

I laughed too.

He said, “Don't mean to bother you. But I'm new in the area.”

“Okay.”

“So I was wondering . . . You know anybody who can tighten my locks?”