Serenity (Miller Family #4)

FIRST WORST DATES

I didn’t know it was a cesspool.

Craig

The fun guy. Craig knew how to have a good time. Never too serious about life or anything for that matter, a joke dwelled in his uncanny thoughts, and laughter reigned in his heart. Refreshing, he was in comparison to all the frogs masquerading as perfect princes.

Our first encounter took place at Vivid , the gallery I owned. For hours, he entertained my ears with jokes ranging from the disparity in the lack of representation of Black art in galleries to the rising costs of healthcare. Craig knew how to transform anything into ridicule.

Our first date was casual. A day date that was supposed to include brunch and a walk through Anderson Mills Park. During our walk, I found myself grinning at Craig, admiring his appearance, and hanging onto his every word. Every joke .

So far, so good.

Our chemistry fizzled when he dug into his nose and tugged on a hair in his nostril.

The cringe I crunged .

“What—what are you doing?”

Collapsed into a grimace, my face displayed my disdain. Wildly, my lashes fanned my face, seeking to clear my head of confusion.

Craig looked at me with watery eyes. “It helps my contacts when they’re dry,” he explained. “Gets my eyes moist.”

Ignoring my shock, he proceeded to hunt through his nostrils, digging for gold and flicking said treasure into the scenery around us. Disgusted was too poor an adjective to describe my sentiment. His audacity revolted me. To make matters worse, the nigga tried to use the same hand to drape his arm around me. My departure was a forgone conclusion.

We didn’t make it to the waterfall. No lie was required. As his arm rose, my frame dipped, curving away from him.

“You are repulsive.”

Andre

Andre was a day trader. Work hard. Party harder. The motto reigned in a long list of convictions he held despite his groomed presentation.

The perfect gentleman, he said everything right, did everything flawlessly, and looked even better. In a world of dying chivalry, his attentiveness and consideration were appreciated. Months of celibacy left me disinterested in toys and wholly interested in what Andre had to offer.

After stuffing our faces with braised beef and potatoes, I followed him to his condo, intent on being stuffed with him. Up the oak-paneled elevator, down the warmly lit hall, and into the swanky apartment, I trekked beside the man who failed to stop smiling in my direction.

Our battle of lust commenced once safely inside the privacy of his doors. Serpent-like kisses, unspoken salacious wishes, our tongues danced with urgency and need. His hands slid from my waist and groped my ass. My heart paced hard and fast. Hungrily, my body melted into the growing hammer sheathed by clothes. Perfect . Our sexual chemistry lacked nothing.

Without warning, he withdrew from our journey to ecstasy and took a step back from me.

“What is it?”

“Let me just… grab some party favors.”

Dre disappeared down a hall and into a room, returning shortly with a hundred-dollar bill and an eight-ball of coke contained in a clear, plastic bag.

Party favors .

Discomfort was immense, dousing the fire between my legs and quickening my heart rate. I watched as Andre laid two lines of coke out on his quartz kitchen counter, utilizing an AMEX credit card.

“Lady’s first?” He asked, motioning to the counter.

The rolled-up bill was motioned in my direction. The intent was clear. One I ceased to possess interest in. My brows dipped into my face, aiming to connect. My breath caught in my throat as if the air itself was contagious.

Wordlessly, Dior embroidered heels led me toward the front door. Grateful to have driven my own set of wheels, I journeyed backward in the direction I’d come and toward my car.

Readily and willingly, I freed who and what didn’t align with me. In doing so, I welcomed who was for me to enter my world.

Eric

Lukewarm, I wasn’t really feeling the date with Eric. His red flags waved high in the sky, warning me that he wasn’t quite my type. The nervous energy he exuded was a turnoff. From the start of our evening, the conversation had been dry, with me carrying and dominating most of it while he scrolled through his phone.

Far from innocent, I’d only accepted the invitation for an outing due to boredom. My schedule was cleared for two weeks just to invest in reentering the dating scene. A promise to myself was made not to open my laptop and work on some project or event instead. Now, at the close of those two weeks, I daydreamed of proposals, art shows, emails, memos, and charity events.

The check came with Eric hastily grabbing the tab and placing a credit card inside. As we waited for the waitress’ return, I examined my nails, nitpicking at a small chip on my index finger.

“I had a great night,” he confessed.

I didn’t . Silently, I thought, clicking my nails and anxiously awaiting the conclusion of our evening. A small prayer was sent upward in gratitude that I’d driven my own car to Butter & Sage .

The check returned, held by an apprehensive waitress who uncharacteristically lingered at the table.

“Sir, your card decl—”

“Try one of these.”

Hastily, Eric dragged two identical cards from his wallet and placed them in the billfold. My brow hiked, but I resolved to mind my damn business.

“What is it you do again, Eric?” I probed, fighting against the inclination to get out of my seat and leave.

“I’m a club promoter,” he offered with a grin.

Falling into light banter about his job, he offered more words at that moment than he had the entire night.

“Sounds… exciting ,” I quipped, heightening my brows and offering a toothless smile.

“It can be. I make a lot of money,” he nodded.

Broke men always discussed wealth as if it were their long-lost soulmate. Always flourished lies about their accomplishments in the presence of a woman. I saw through it every time. And it wasn’t that I was opposed to dating a man who made less than me. Above all, however, I valued authenticity. Pride came before the fall.

Sighing, I uncrossed my legs and recrossed them, this time with the opposite leg atop the other. In an instant, I hated that I’d even entertained him. Far from an average woman, I didn’t typically entertain the likes. It was far from my usual behavior of obtaining background checks and substantiating my suitor’s claims. In truth, doing so had become so surgical that I opted to do something different for once.

And now look at you .

My head rotated around the restaurant in search of the moment our night would come to an eventual close. Finally, the waitress returned, her anxiety doubled in volume.

“Sorry, sir, we can’t accept any of these cards.”

Such a farce caused me to wonder how difficult it must be to be a man. Eric had gone from pretending to be someone he wasn’t to unmasking before my eyes. I pitied him. Even considered pulling out a bill to pay for our meal. But something told me that might offend.

His face dissolved into frustration at the waitress’ revelation. Reluctantly, he dragged his wallet from a rear pocket. I prayed I didn’t witness the emergence of yet another gift card. I should have left, but curiosity made a home in my bones. Far too entertained, I wanted to see how the evening would unfold.

“Here.”

In annoyance, he freed a wad of cash from his wallet and rolled his eyes at the waitress. His recent transactions caused me to wonder if the money was authentic or just as fake as him. Queued to leave, I rose from my seat and collected my purse.

“Good night, Eric.” With a chuckle, I announced my departure.

“Serenity, hold up. Let me get my change.”

Ignoring the request and accelerating my pace, I left the restaurant in disbelief and amusement. While I agreed that everyone needed love, broke men needed to handle their finances before attempting to date. Second-hand embarrassment for the man posing as someone he wasn’t reigned immense. My pity ran deep, though not enough to entertain him further.

Sean

Sean owned an investment firm. No kids, a widower, and diabetically sweet. He was so sweet that I was considering the lingerie I’d wear on our next date prior to the conclusion of our current one. After candle-making at Foundry Flame , we’d followed up with dinner. Our time spent together was absolutely flawless.

Too perfect.

The coq au vin I’d ordered was delicious. I wasted little time chaperoning the contents of my bowl down my throat and into my waiting belly.

“What?” I asked, pausing mid-fork of chicken, carrots, and potatoes.

“Nothing. I just love to watch you eat. Not on no weird shit. You just let your hair down. No prissy picking around the food. No pretense.”

“ Oh . Well, shit. If you bring me to the food, I’ma eat.”

“One of your love languages?”

“It is,” I nodded, loading my mouth with more of the tender chicken paired with mushrooms.

Our night continued with ceaseless but welcome flirting. Sean was a Virgo, explaining his endearing demeanor. Considerate and observant, he left few crumbs for the next potential suitor to pick up from.

I liked him.

“Serenity, you aight?” Concern colored his handsome features. I’d cleared my plate shamelessly while considering Sean for dessert.

“I’m fine, why?” I smiled, feeling a tingle of my lips. He made weird shit happen in my chest and apparently my lips.

“Your face... It’s swelling.”

Eyes blooming, brows hiked, I rested my fork down beside the plate of food. With haste, I shuffled for my phone in my purse and pulled up the camera application.

An examination of my face revealed I was, indeed, swelling . The source of the reaction was yet to be discovered, but it wasn’t Sean, as I initially assumed. I had no known food allergies.

“Swhit.”

My bottom lip was hastily growing. Simultaneously, my throat seemed to be collapsing inward. The protrusion disfigured me into a cartoon character. The inflation of my lips and the obstruction of my throat caused a panic in me. My thoughts were feral and exaggerated. Horror consumed me at the thought of it being my last night on earth.

“Swean.”

My handsome saccharine date rose from his seat and was by my side in an instant. We rushed out of the Butter & Sage after the meal was comped due to my unknown reaction.

At the hospital, I received an epinephrine shot and was informed that I had a severe mushroom allergy. Sean remained by my side every step of the embarrassing and frightening ordeal, brushing me off with every apology I offered.

As I said, he was sweet.

I went home that evening, recalling pity-filled eyes and the sympathetic hug I was awarded in lieu of a kiss or plans to link again. Hair wrapped, bonnet on, showered, and comfortably between fourteen hundred thread count sheets, my phone buzzed with a text from the man I’d shared my evening with.

I enjoyed our time together,

and I hate that our evening was

disrupted by your unexpected allergy.

I do hope you’re okay.

Ditto, Sean. Ditto. The sprinkle of hope I held to see him again diminished as I kept reading his message:

My wife passed away from an

uncontrolled allergy to peanuts.

Tonight triggered me in a way

that has put me two steps back

in my healing.

Damn. Dammit. Damn .

You’re a wonderful woman,

Serenity.

But …

There was always a but.

…but I can’t see you again.

I wish you well.

Jesus wept, and internally, so did I. As wonderful and refreshing as Sean had been, I understood his stance. Reliving trauma placed him in an impossible position. A position I cared not to place anyone in at the start of a potential romance. His feelings were valid, as were mine. What missed me was never for me.

Depleted of energy and desire to issue a response, I silenced my phone for the evening. Clicking off my nightstand’s lamp, I fell into the welcome arms of slumber.

Dating in the modern world was such a tiresome sport. One I only tepidly played. Men were hardly men. The small percentage of those who could be considered men possessed scarcely tolerable eccentricities . A war against black love was being waged, convincing us that we didn’t need one another. Convincing us that love had grown obsolete.

I refused to engage in such divisive tactics. Raised by two wonderful black parents who’d shared decades of marriage, I refused to accept that what I sought no longer existed. Being surrounded by siblings who’d settled into love after scavenging the world to locate it further aggravated my hope.

I craved a man, man. A wood-chopping-with-his-shirt-off man. An Alexandria House Fine Nigga Friday, man. A man who could tell me what the fuck to do. Too much fire. Too much zest made me a problematic conquest for the weak but not a man fully embodying his masculinity.

My person was out there somewhere. Perhaps hidden behind four walls of a dwelling away from society. Perhaps he was involved with the wrong woman, or maybe he was searching for me as well. Maybe hope was slipping through his perspired fingers, oozing away like sap from a maple tree, evaporating as quickly as petrol with every passing day. Maybe exhaustion at the selection of low-value souls was riding him as much as it had ridden me with every passing date.

Trauma was not my narrative unless one concluded that dating was, indeed, traumatic. Most of the dates I’d encountered over the past two weeks had been amusing, if not entertaining. Still, I remained optimistic. My treasury of hope suffered a slight depletion, but heavily, it remained.

Butter-cut flour and buttermilk wafted up my nose, leaving behind a touch of excitement at what would soon be. With gloved hands, I mixed the ingredients.

“How was your evening with Sean?”

Following the weekend of my mushroom allergy inci date , my mother inquired about my time out with Sean. As her only daughter, she worried incessantly about my romantic life. My mother loved me and craved for me to share my life with someone worthy.

“It was great, mom.”

“So, do you feel like there was a connection?”

Eagerly, my mother probed for more details.

I sighed, hating to recall yet another failed prospect. “Sean is still grieving the loss of his wife. I don’t think there’s anything there,” I shrugged, casually denying the chemistry Sean and I shared.

I spared my mother the mortifying details in favor of focusing my energy on making biscuit dough. The sticky concoction of buttermilk, salt, butter, sugar, and flour would soon transform into warm, flaky goodness. She’d weaseled me into assisting her ahead of the family dinner planned for the evening. I couldn’t complain. Our time spent in the kitchen was how we bonded. It also heightened my skills behind the stove. Biscuits were always last to be made of the meal. The finish line was near.

“You know…” she started, and I braced myself against the marble quartz counter for the oncoming lecture. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re too rigid or too critical of the men you choose to date.”

“Ma…”

She held her hand up.

“Hear me out, Reni. A man doesn’t want to come home to a hostile environment. Let his home be his place of ease. His rest. As women, it’s our job to be his peace. His home.”

“I agree with everything you said except that last part, ma,” I said, placing lumps of biscuit dough into a cast iron pan. “A man who fails to find peace within himself will never locate it with me. A man who requires my presence for peace is a red flag.”

“You know what I mean, Serenity,” she rolled her eyes and dusted her hands on her apron.

“No, ma. Daddy raised me to enforce words as a superpower. Say what you mean. Mean what you say.”

“You might be too aggressive.”

“Too aggr—Ma, these men are too soft,” I rolled my eyes.

She couldn’t understand. She’d never understand. She’d been married for decades. She didn’t possess a clue of the atrazine they were putting in the water, feminizing our men.

“I’m far from aggressive. If a man can tell me what to do, then he’ll tell me what to do. Willingly and easily, I’ll submit in the presence of healthy masculinity. I do it all the time with my brothers.”

Aggressive was so far removed from anything I was like. Hell, if anything, I was too damn nice. If a person didn’t align with my values and needs, I refused to waste my time. If that made me aggressive , as she claimed, so fucking be it.

“ Okay , Reni.”

Ending the tense discussion, we focused on finishing up the biscuits and clearing up our mess.

Aggressive ? No, that wasn’t me. I was the softest, ooeiest, gooiest woman for the right type of man. Maybe I’d been spoiled by what that type was supposed to look like. My father with my mother. My brothers with their wives. Hell, what did she expect? If I settled for anything less, they’d be ripping said man to shreds. They’d surrounded me with greatness. It was all I knew. How could I not desire a man of similar stature? Corny lines, blatant disrespect, the desire to be chased… I’d take a hard pass on these new-age niggas. I wanted a man .

Hours later, Supreme, Sadie, Saint, Victoria, and Sincere all poured into the familial home tucked behind Paramour Canyon. Our feast proceeded, absent a hitch or anguish about my lack of a love life from all present at the table. In gratitude, I embraced the reprieve.

My brother, Sincere, was in a similar space romantically. Double standards were a tough-tittied bitch, though. Because he was a man, he didn’t undergo the same level of scrutiny. As the only woman among my siblings, pressure reigned for me to marry and have children. My mother was the main culprit pushing me toward a finish line in a race in which I held no desire to partake.

The rat race against an invisible biological clock had not besieged me. To the famed baby fever, I’d been immune. Despite considering it a blessing not to suffer such ailments, I never missed the side eyes or bewildered glares as if I were the contagion.

I was a woman who wasn’t afraid to be alone. A woman who chose people who added value to my life versus feeling the need to keep people around to fill a void. A woman who refused to settle in my relationships—romantic and friendly. A woman who knew the power of peace and made it a priority. I understood the value of my energy and presence. I refused to settle for less.

A difference of opinion failed to discourage my stance. Heavily, I stood on business and the desires of my heart. Marriage and the baby carriage were not my narrative. Nor would they ever be.