Chapter 4
Glitz had a nice vibe.
That is, once she’d gotten through the annoyingly long line and the ultrabright lighting in the main dancing area. After indicating to a host—who had close-shaved hair, creamy-hued skin, and a face that was beat to the heavens—that she was there for dinner and drinks, she was led through that loud and crowded space up a winding staircase into what felt like a totally different world.
Here, gorgeous portraits of Black women sporting lush Afros, stunning weaves, and glorious braids were painted larger than life along the walls. Vanna could appreciate the nod to the importance of Black women and their beloved hairstyles. Personally, she kept her natural 4A hair texture protected by wearing weaves and wigs. Hence tonight’s shoulder-length, loose-wave look.
The ceiling and cement floors on this upper level were black. Sections of rich mahogany leather couches created half a dozen cozy seating areas along the walls, while glossed wood-top tables with low-back mahogany chairs occupied the center space.
She settled at a table for two at the back of the room so she could people-watch while she ate. Her meal selections were a small but scrumptious charcuterie board, loaded fresh-cut fries, and a cheesesteak egg roll that had received rave reviews online. They were all immensely enjoyable. She snapped pictures of everything and sent them to the group-text thread she shared with Ronni and Jamaica.
Ronni: That looks delish. You’re mean.
Jamaica: Davon has me in here cooking spaghetti
Vanna’s reply was a line of laughing emojis. Then she quickly determined they needed all the details from tonight since they both had decided to bail on her. Immediately after the server had taken her dessert order and removed the dinner plates, she stood from her seat and positioned herself in front of what she called the Angela Davis–vibe wall. It was right next to her table, so she didn’t need to get up and walk around the room to find the perfect backdrop. She adjusted her phone and snapped seven or eight full-body and close-up selfies. After returning to her seat, she reviewed each photo, deciding which ones were delete-worthy and which ones were shout-to-the-mountaintops glamorous. She put two—a full-body and a close-up—into the next text and typed:
Vanna: Outfit #1
The elegant black three-piece ensemble—shorts, cropped top, and jacket—was equal parts cute and eye-catching. She was certain from the looks she’d received from the skinny girls as she’d stood outside in the line that they didn’t approve of her size 20 body filling out the midthigh high shorts, or the way her generous breasts lifted and all but spilled over the blessedly fitted crop top, but Vanna didn’t give a damn. She loved every inch of her curves and knew she looked good. It was a signature Freakin’ Forty and Still Fine outfit, and she had six more she planned to rock this month. They weren’t all sequins like this one, but they were likewise as show-stopping.
Ronni: Dayyuuuumm! You snatchin’ all the wigs tonight, huh?
Jamaica: You wasn’t lyin’ about takin’ somebody’s son home tonight. I see you, Van!
Vanna was grinning down at the phone when the server returned with her dessert, a lovely slice of black forest cake that she prayed was as tasty as it was pretty.
“And the drink is from the gentleman in the gray over there,” the server said. She wore large hoop earrings and had her blonde braids pulled into a high bun on top of her head. “Don’t worry, I picked it up straight from the bartender and brought it to you, so it’s safe.”
“Uh, okay,” Vanna replied. “Tell him I said thank you.”
“Will do,” the server replied with a wink.
Aside from the quick glance in his direction when the server had set the drink down, Vanna hadn’t given the guy a good look. Nor did she plan to. Buying her a drink was cool, but it was also a little young, to her way of thinking. She was of the age and stage of a man knowing what he wanted and stepping up to get it. Not sitting across the room, sending a server with a free drink to break the ice for him. That didn’t mean she wasn’t going to happily sip this drink, though.
It was another mojito, so he must’ve told the server to bring her the same drink she previously had. That was smart instead of risking a drink she might not like at all. She was two sips in and had just put the first bite of her cake into her mouth when she heard his raspy voice.
“Can I join you?”
Chewing slowly and praying there were minimal crumbs on her peach-glossed lips, she raised her gaze to him.
Come through, height, was her first thought. At five nine, Vanna loved a man who was taller than she was. Dressed in gray khakis and a darker-gray button-front shirt, this guy was definitely tall—over six feet, she was sure. He had a decent, solid build, not muscular but not sloppy either.
“You need another drink to consider letting me sit with you?” he asked, and she swallowed her food.
She was just about to say Hell no, and you can take this one with you since he wanted to get smart, but then he held up a hand and grinned.
“I’m just kidding,” he said. “You got a brotha all nervous and shit.”
He had a nice smile. The kind that was wide and full and reached his eyes, so you knew his laughter would be boisterous and genuine.
She brought her napkin up to dab at her lips, then offered him a smile in return as she set it back onto the table. “You can have a seat.”
When he was settled across from her, she got a better look at his face—handsome, in a mature Big Daddy Kane type of way. Old-school hip-hop was her jam, so she’d had several baes from that era and usually measured the looks of every guy she met against that prototype.
“I’m Tyson,” he said, and extended a hand across the table to her.
She accepted it for a shake and replied, “I’m Vanna.”
Back in college, whenever she and Jamaica would hit the clubs, they each had a play name they would give the guys they weren’t interested in. Vanna’s had been Nicole, and Jamaica’s had been Ashanti. At this big ol’ age, if she wasn’t interested in a man, she simply told him and sent him on his way.
“It’s nice to meet you, Vanna,” Tyson said. “You look amazing in that outfit.”
She was definitely down for compliments—not that she couldn’t or didn’t give them to herself often. Nice words just hit different coming from someone else.
“Thank you,” she replied. “It’s my birthday suit.”
Tyson’s eyes widened, and her cheeks warmed.
“I mean, it’s one of my birthday suits.”
He raised a brow.
Dammit. She gave him a terse smile then. “It’s one of the outfits I bought to celebrate my birthday.” There, she’d finally gotten it right. Even though she wasn’t sure why she’d tripped over the words in the first place. Men never made her nervous. Not before or after Caleb. She’d always been able to talk to guys, handle their come-on lines, and put them in their place when necessary.
To be fair, this had been a rough week, so she decided to show herself some grace.
“Oh, okay,” he said with a more relaxed look crossing his face. “I see you, then. When’s your birthday?”
“August thirty-first,” she replied. “But I plan to celebrate all month.”
“That’s what’s up.” Tyson nodded. “Hopefully I can join in the celebration.”
He was fast, but she didn’t mind. Life was short, as evidenced by why her week had been so trying. And hadn’t she come here tonight to find herself a good candidate?
“Maybe,” she said, and cut another bite of cake before putting it into her mouth.
“You always come out alone to celebrate your birthday, Vanna? Where’s your man?” Tyson had brought his drink with him. It was some type of dark liquor, which Vanna didn’t do because it hit too fast and too potently for her liking.
“You probably should’ve been wondering where my man was before you sent over this drink.” She nodded toward the mojito.
He shrugged. “Probably. But I was thinking that if you had a man, he had to be a real dumbass to let you come out looking like that by yourself.”
She finished the bite of cake. “First, I’m a grown woman who has no problem coming out by myself.” Which was straight facts. Even though she’d planned this entire month of events to be spent with her friends and loved ones, make no mistake about it, she would do each and everything alone if necessary. Vanna was comfortable in her own company. Blame that on being an only child. “Dinner, movie dates, weekend getaways, I can pay for and attend alone. And second, I’m not mad at a man who can appreciate when a woman looks good.”
“My bad,” he said, placing a hand on his chest. “You shootin’ daggers over there, but it’s cool. I get it—you’re independent.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing?”
“Not at all,” he replied. “I can definitely get with that. So, you don’t have a man, is that what I’m hearing?”
She shook her head. “Nope. I don’t.”
“Cool,” he replied. “Then let’s dance, ’cause I know you didn’t come here dressed like that just to sit in this dark corner alone.”
He stood and extended a hand to her again. She looked at it, then took another sip from her glass. Her purse was small enough to hold her phone, lip gloss, and the keys to her rental and house. It had a long chain strap, which she crossed over her body when she stood. “You are right about that,” she said, and accepted his hand.
Two hours later, Vanna’s feet hurt like the devil. The strappy open-toed silver sandals she’d worn tonight were fly as hell, but they were the kind of shoes that were meant to look pretty, not cut up on the dance floor. Which was exactly what she and Tyson had done. One song after another, fast ones and slow ones, they’d stayed on that dance floor for what felt like an eternity. A blissful, hard-earned eternity that she’d enjoyed every second of.
Except the parts where the straps of her sandals began to cut into her skin and the tips of her toes started to feel numb.
“You don’t leave anything at home when you come out, baby,” Tyson said. His hand was at the small of her back as they returned to one of the highboy tables on the outskirts of the space.
The bright lights down here didn’t bother her as much as they had when she’d first entered—probably because she needed them to help her stay awake now. Last time she’d glanced at her phone, it was nearing midnight, and both Jamaica and Ronni had checked in with her.
Ronni: You still dancin’ with Big Daddy?
Jamaica: You takin’ him home with you or nah?
To their texts, she’d replied:
Vanna: Yes and maybe, respectively.
A variety of laughing, water droplets, and eggplant emojis came through from both of them, and Vanna chuckled heartily.
“You have a beautiful smile,” Tyson said.
She beamed as she replied, “Thank you.”
That was probably the moment she decided to let him take her to a hotel tonight. She didn’t take randoms to her house, nor did she frequent theirs.
It was one thirty when she and Tyson left the club.
“Let me walk you to your car,” he said. “Then I’ll run around the back, get my car, and meet you here so we can head out.”
She nodded her agreement, counting down to the moment she was sitting in the driver’s seat so she could kick off these shoes. They’d just made it to her black rental when Tyson halted her urgency to the door and sweet relief. He snaked an arm around her waist in a move that didn’t bother her, since he’d touched her more than a few times while they were dancing. And once, while they’d been at the table, he’d pulled her into a hug that was tight and strong and had made her nipples hard.
So no, she wasn’t alarmed by his arms going around her this time, nor did she want him to release her. Even though he was stalling the shoe removal. Instead, she melted into his embrace and tilted her head up for the kiss she just knew was coming. And he didn’t disappoint—not in that way, at least. He lowered his face to hers slowly, touched his lips to hers ever so gently, and then ...
“Oh, no the hell you not out here about to get some other poor woman pregnant,” came a woman’s voice.
Vanna froze and blinked in question into Tyson’s caught-ass gaze. The way his brow had furrowed, his eyes looked equal parts apologetic and apoplectic, and his lips remained parted. Well, now they were parted in more of an Oh shit formation, rather than the I’m about to kiss your panties off posture.
“Turn the fuck around, Tyson,” the woman stated.
She had to be close, because her voice was loud and seemed like she was right next to them. But when Vanna glanced to the side, she didn’t see her. Okay, so she was standing behind Tyson. Probably ready to pop him in the back of his head if he didn’t do as she said. Well, he didn’t move.
Punk ass.
Vanna pursed her lips and shook her head. Then she eased out of his grasp and took a few steps to the side. The movement put her closer to the door handle of her SUV, which was a relief. “I’m going to go now,” she said, and meant that to be her only comment to a situation she no longer wanted to be part of.
“Oh, you leavin’ so soon?” the woman asked. She had her hands on her hips and wore black legging shorts and a white Nike T-shirt that did nothing to hide her very pregnant belly.
“I am,” Vanna replied, since the question was obviously directed at her. “You two have a nice evening.”
“How exactly is it supposed to end up ‘a nice evening’ when you were just about to screw my man in the parking lot?” The accusatory tone was acceptable. This time. Hell, the woman wasn’t wrong in her assumption. Still, Vanna didn’t have time for these types of encounters, especially not with somebody she’d just met.
“Look, I didn’t know he was in a relationship,” Vanna replied. “And yes, I did ask. So, my bad for believing the lie. But the rest of what you’re tryin’ to toss at me is unnecessary. Like I said, I’m leaving, and you can deal with your man however you see fit.”
“Vanna,” Tyson said, finally turning around and looking at her like he thought for one second she was the one he needed to be addressing right now.
“Uh-uhn,” she told him and pressed the button on the key fob she’d been holding. “Save the explanations for the woman I presume is carrying your child. You kept me company tonight, we danced and laughed, and now it’s time to say good night.” Even though not five minutes ago, she’d been ready to end it in a totally different—and hopefully more satisfying—fashion.
She had the door open and had climbed in before Tyson could say another word to her. That was probably also due to the fact that the woman had taken that opportunity to step to him and slap the next words straight out of his mouth.
That was definitely Vanna’s cue to leave, so she started the truck and peeled out of that parking lot as if the police were chasing her. A glance back in her rearview mirror showed Tyson grabbing the woman’s wrist before she could land another slap, and Vanna thought the police would probably really be coming along soon.
She was halfway home when the laughter started. It’s better than crying, she thought, and continued to chuckle until there were tears in her eyes. This hadn’t been how she pictured the night turning out. On her agenda, especially since she’d ventured out alone, was at the very least one good-ass orgasm. And she was okay with it simply being good—this time—just to take the edge off.
It hadn’t escaped her that this desire to be with a man had probably been amplified—like her entire mood—by the events of this week. That thought sobered her.
It had taken almost a year after separating from Caleb for her to get back into the dating scene. For all intents and purposes, she was still a married woman. But that really wasn’t as big of a deal as it seemed. Conversations with Granny and her friends during Sunday-afternoon card games at the senior building revealed they’d known more than a few couples who had gone their separate ways but never bothered with making the split legal. That had been for a variety of reasons—some financial, where the women wanted to remain wifey by law long enough to be eligible for half of his pension and/or social security benefits, some where he left and she was cool with it as long as he still paid all the bills in her house and took care of the kids. The reasons were always personal and often judged by others, but as Granny had frequently said, “Whatever floats your boat.”
A heavy sigh as she gripped the steering wheel had guilt stirring in the pit of Vanna’s stomach. If she had divorced Caleb, she wouldn’t have the responsibility of burying him on her shoulders right now. Or perhaps not. Gail wasn’t much smarter—or responsible, for that matter—than her son had been. So it was likely—if Vanna had still decided to keep that insurance policy—that this would’ve fallen in her lap anyway. Would she have said no then? She didn’t know, and it was futile to consider it now.
What she did let her thoughts roam to was the fact that she had terrible luck with men. That thought had her shaking her head and chuckling again at the scene that had played out in that parking lot. Wait until she told Ronni and Jamaica about this. A red light brought her to a stop, and she took that moment to turn on the radio. She was about to bypass the oldies R & B station to find the classic hip-hop one she had automatically programmed in her vehicle, but stopped when she heard a familiar song.
“Yaaasssss!” she shouted, then started bobbing her head to the beat. “ I don’t want no scrub. ” She sang that line and the rest of TLC’s hit tune “No Scrubs” like she was part of the phenomenal singing trio herself.