What He's Been Missing (24 page)

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Authors: Grace Octavia

BOOK: What He's Been Missing
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This allowed me to open myself to him. I didn't even realize that I'd been closed, but after years of dealing with those other kinds of men, I had invisible barriers up that I was beginning to realize may have kept me from finding out what I'd been missing. I'd learned not to say how I felt about someone. Not to ask for what I wanted. Not to hold hands in the park. How to accept a man letting go of my hand, by pretending it was ok, that I didn't need it. But Xavier gave me what I needed and I gave him what he needed.
What was interesting about having him in my space, so close and for so long, basically playing house, was learning about Xavier. His needs. Like how he hated cheap toothpaste. When we went grocery shopping he'd go to the natural foods aisle and get this organic blueberry toothpaste that tasted like softened chalk . . . with blueberries. He hated the sun in his eyes in the morning when he was half asleep. Claimed it messed up his “circadian rhythm.” (I had to look that up.) He started turning the blinds up to the ceiling, so when we woke up, the small glints of light would shine on the ceiling and not in our eyes.
Xavier liked going to happy hour and trying new restaurants. And after being in Atlanta only a few weeks, he knew a whole lot of insiders, many of them our former FAMU classmates who'd made it big time in the city, and had a list of investors and artists who wanted to help him with his gallery. He decided that he wanted the mission behind the gallery to focus on the early twenties set. Project X would expose abstract works created by minority artists to their peers. He was so excited about it. One day, he picked me up at the office and took me to a 3,000-square-foot, raw loft space in an artist community right near the Atlanta University Center that housed Spelman, Morehouse, and Clark, and told me he'd purchased it outright for Project X. “I'm not the kind of man who drags his feet when he sees something he wants,” he said, holding me in his arms in the middle of the loft.
“Guess you'll be here for a while,” I said.
While Xavier kept encouraging me to reach out to Ian, I didn't speak to Ian for the first few weeks while Xavier was there. I just didn't know what to say, and I wasn't sure how I'd feel. But when a reminder for his approaching birthday popped up on my phone in August, I sent him a birthday card. I didn't write anything personal on it. I just signed my name and put it in the mail.
Two days later, I got a text from him:
FROM: IAN DUPREE
TIME: 10:23am
It's Wednesday. I want to see you.
Meet me at Fado for lunch.
At noon, I found Ian sitting in our back booth across the table from Shane.
“There she is!” Shane said, getting up and clearly unaware of the predicament between Ian and me. Or was there a predicament? Maybe there was nothing. Maybe we were both just busy. I mean, when I got his text, I was at the office and I called Xavier to tell him I was meeting Ian for lunch. Xavier was cool. He told me to say hello and invite him and Scarlet over for dinner.
“Hey . . .” Ian said, looking at me like I was partially a stranger and partially a family member. He got up and hugged me like there was an invisible person between us.
After asking me where I'd been through the summer, Shane hustled to the bar to get the pitcher of beer Ian had ordered.
“You look good,” Ian offered.
“Thank you. You, too.” There was really no reason for this exchange. We both looked exactly the same. It was just something pleasant to say.
“Thank you.”
“So—” we started at the same time after an awkward pause.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “You go first.”
“How's business? I was reading in the newspaper that you're planning Alarm Clock's wedding?” he asked. A gossip reporter for the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
had gotten ahold of my client list for the next two years and wrote a story about local celebrities getting married.
“Yeah. It was supposed to be last week, but his manager booked a bunch of shows this month, so we moved it to the spring—if we can make it to the spring. I get paid either way, so I'm not tripping.”
“Yeah. I read that. It also said something about A. J. Holmes from CNN?”
“Yep. He's jumping the broom next week. The great thing about moving Alarm Clock's wedding was that I got to make A. J. and Dawn my summer couple. They're so cute.”
Shane poured two beers from the pitcher and took our orders.
“Sounds like you're having a lot of fun,” Ian said to me after Shane was gone again, with a tone that could be taken many ways.
“Yeah, I am.” My answer sounded like it was meant to be taken many ways, as well—I hadn't intended that. “What about you?”
“I'm good. Scarlet is finally getting back to normal. For a while there, she was going a little ‘black Martha Stewart' on me.”
“Well, it takes awhile to decompress after a wedding.”
“Yeah . . . decompress. I'm sure that's what it is.”
After a little alcohol and food, it didn't take long for Ian and me to go back to who we were. We were all politics and disagreement. The first pitcher of beer was followed by a second and then a long sigh where we just smiled at each other. I realized how much I had missed my friend and wondered what I'd been afraid of.
Then he brought it up: “So how's Xavier?”
“Good,” I said like I was on an interview. “He's at my place working. He Skypes his business meetings. Welcome to 2011!”
“Fancy. So—how did you two get together?”
“Wow! I didn't expect you to ask me that.”
“Why? I mean, I'm cool with it and stuff. You and I are just friends. I just want you to be happy.”
“Really? I thought it would be awkward . . . since . . . you know . . . what happened.”
“You thought I'd be mad?” Ian asked.
“No. It's not like you tried to get with me.” Right then, just right then, I remembered everything Ian had ever done in my life that could be confused with him trying to get with me: the foot massages, posting up at my place, making me tea, coming to the rescue, holding my hand, kissing me on the lips. Maybe he hadn't tried, but looking at him, I was thinking he sure made it easy for me to get it twisted.
“Sometimes, I regret that I didn't.”
“What?”
“Joking!” Ian laughed. “That's the old beer bitch talking! I'm happy for you, Rach! If you think Xavier is the right man for you, go for it. I'm sure Mr. All About Me will make a great husband.”
“Husband? And what is that supposed to mean, ‘
If
I think'?”
“My boy don't have the best track record,” Ian pointed out.
“He's different now.”
“I'm sure he is. Listen, I'm cool. In fact, why don't you two come by and visit Scarlet and me sometime? It'll be great.”
“You think so?”
“Yup.”
Ian and I toasted to the promise and agreed that we'd try our best to keep our Wednesday lunch dates alive. The next week, I had to call off lunch, though. Xavier wanted me to join him at a meeting regarding this woman's paintings. Ian texted me two times during the meeting.
 
On a humid summer night, in a plantation house in the North Georgia Mountains, Mrs. Dawn George became Mrs. Alexander Justin Holmes. At first, they were a little let down that I'd wanted them to move up the date from New Year's, but when I told them how colorful and vibrant and full of life the mountains that cradled the plantation would be in August, they perked up. And it was the best decision possible. Dawn's twins were all over the property, chasing lightning bugs and picking the flowers we used to decorate the bridal suite.
Neither one of them cried when they said their vows. They held hands with the twins in front of one of the lakes on the property and spoke like they were lying in bed together, promising that their love would never end.
There were only sixty guests. No one from entertainment. Only one professional photographer taking black and whites. It was quiet and beautiful.
At the wedding reception, under a tent beside a field of strawberries, R. J., Dawn's son, led the Soul Train line and asked Krista to dance with him—I think he was in love.
Xavier surprised me and showed up right before it was over to drive me home. I'd ridden up with Krista and was planning on coming back that night, but he said he missed me too much to wait for me to return.
After Dawn threw her bouquet, she and A. J. said good night to their guests so they could enjoy their wedding night alone in a cottage at the back of the plantation. Xavier and I ended up being the last two people on the dance floor. My feet were hurting, so I took off my shoes and danced to Anita Baker singing about being caught up in the rapture of love. It was so appropriate, because I was caught up in the rapture of him . . . until he let me go and we did a two-step that led to him stepping on my pinky toe.
“Ouch!” I hollered.
Xavier had to carry me to the car and we argued about his sloppy misstep all the way back into the city. I was calling him Vanilla Ice and joked that I might have to cut him for messing with my pinky toe.
When we got back to my place, he insisted on carrying me into the building like I was a little baby.
“Baby hurt her pinky toe?” he teased with one arm behind my back and the other under my knees. “Daddy has something for that.”
“Stop it!” I said, laughing hysterically. “You sound like a total pervert! And you're the one who's responsible. How are you going to be the one to fix it?”
We'd been in the car for an hour, so my toe was fine, of course, but I was playing it up for the attention.
Jeremy met us at the door looking worried about Xavier carrying me. “Will you need a wheelchair, Ms. Winslow?”
“I'm fine, Jeremy.”
“Nah, man, call 9-1-1! She hurt her pinky toe!” Xavier interjected playfully. “We might have an amputation on our hands.”
“Whatever!” I plucked Xavier in the forehead. “Will you put me down now?”
“With a toe injury like that?” Xavier joked. “I most certainly cannot.”
Jeremy had already pulled out his phone, but then he figured out the joke and was laughing, too. He opened the elevator door and Xavier stepped on with me still in his arms and giggling. Jeremy was about to come into the elevator with us, but Xavier stopped him.
“I'll take it from here, man,” Xavier said.
“It's no problem, sir. I always escort Ms. Winslow to her floor. It's our—”
“I'm her escort now,” Xavier said strongly.
“But I'm supposed to—”
“It's fine, Jeremy,” I said. “I'll be fine.”
Jeremy nodded and stepped back from the doorway.
When the door finally closed, Xavier let me down and pulled me into his arms. As the elevator started climbing from floor to floor, he kissed my ears and neck. Massaged my lower back.
“I know a special cure for stubbed toes,” he whispered in my ear.
“What?”
“I can show you better than I can tell you.” He lifted me up and wrapped my legs around his waist, staggering from one side of the elevator to the next, where my back was against the wall. One of his arms was under my legs and he was thrusting his hand into my underwear. The other arm managed his belt strap as he loosened it. “You're all mine,” he said breathlessly.
“Oh shit,” I cried, feeling Xavier tear away the seat of my underwear. I closed my eyes and bit into his neck.
His kiss and touch were so engulfing I hadn't felt that the elevator had stopped and had no idea how long my neighbor, Mrs. Jackson, who happened to be the oldest woman in the building, had been watching us going at it in the corner, with Xavier's pants falling down to his ankles.
Luckily, my phone started ringing and I opened my eyes to see her standing in the open doorway, holding her trash.
“Shit!” I wiggled out of Xavier's arms and stood up.
Xavier snapped around to see what I was looking at, but he forgot to pull up his pants and Mrs. Jackson got a big eyeful of his whole anatomy.
“Oh!” she said and her voice was more pleasantly surprised than angered.
Xavier apologized and pulled up his pants.
We ran down the hallway to my door, laughing like we were teenagers who'd been caught making out by one of our schoolteachers.
Fully embarrassed, I kept turning around to the elevator. Mrs. Jackson was just standing there in awe, looking like she hoped Xavier's pants would fall again.
The phone was still ringing when Xavier and I were in my place and pulling off clothes in a race to the bed.

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