Chapter 3 #2
“Lo.” Demi was close to desperate, but he was too proud to beg. “I love my son. Out of everybody, you know how much I love that kid.”
Her resolve softened, and she swiped at a stubborn tear. “You left us.”
“I left you,” Demi stated. “It was time. You deserve better than what I could give, Lo. When you find it, you’ll understand why I couldn’t stay here.”
“What was so bad about us? About me?” Lauren asked.
After fifteen years of marriage, Demi’s abrupt exit was one she couldn’t comprehend. She was trying. He received the therapy bills once a week, so he had proof that she was, but it was hard; for them both.
“It was me. It had nothing to do with you. You’re a great woman. She’s just…”
“The one?” Lauren finished.
Demi knew better than to answer that verbally, but his heart was an animal fighting against a cage at just the thought of Charlie.
If there was ever a match to be made, she was his.
Out of seven billion people on the planet, he had walked into a smoky bar and found something that made him feel.
He couldn’t let it go. He wouldn’t, not for Lauren or anybody else.
“You can take DJ tomorrow and keep him the weekend. You can take him after practice. I’ll bring his bags to the field.”
The words felt like comprimise, like she had finally accepted the fact that her marriage just may be over.
Demi nodded, breathing a sigh of relief because his diplomacy was acknowledged.
He was unprepared to force her hand, but he knew that would be the next step if she took it there.
Being amicable was easy for him because he wasn’t the one who had been hurt.
He was the perpetrator of the demise of their marriage.
For that, he was extending more grace than he usually would.
He stood and made his way out, stopping in front of her, lingering. Guilt ate Demi alive.
“I’m sorry.”
It was the last words he said before taking her heart with him as he disappeared into the night.
Open the door; I’m outside.
The text came through at 3:52 a.m. and Stassi squinted at the bright screen.
“Boy,” she complained as she forced herself out of bed.
The chill of the floor traveled through her soles up to her chest, and she shivered as she pulled at the hem of the off-shoulder t-shirt she used as pajamas.
She pulled open the door to find Day holding her key, allowing it to hang from one finger.
“As promised,” he said.
“It’s late.” Again, complaining.
If there was one thing she hated, it was for her sleep to be broken.
“Yeah, my fault. I got caught up,” Day replied.
“You smell like you got caught up,” she said, standing in the sliver of the doorway. She had opened it just enough to see his face. “Weed, Louis XIII, and ewww,” she paused, frowning her face. “It smells like a bitch bathed you in Baccarat.”
“Yo, you one of them?” He asked, chuckling while he scratched the back of his neck.
“One of what?” She frowned.
“One of them crazy chicks. You can track a nigga whole life. Better than a detective.”
She laughed. “Niggas love to call women crazy for reacting to their bullshit. If we are keeping it real, men love when women act up because it makes y’all feel desired, like the man. Like you got the biggest dick in the world.”
“I’d rather not replace my windshields,” Day snickered.
“That’s cliché. I’d steal your keys and watch you look for them. Do shit like take your wallet and when you replace the cards, take them out the mail before you get to the replacements. You know… little practical shit to fuck up your day over time.”
Day’s eyebrows raised, stunned. He was high as hell. She could see it in his delayed reactions. Cottonmouth caused him to lick his lips.
“Women are some devilish creatures,” he said, squeezing his lips while shaking his head.
“You wage war on my heart, I’ma wage war on your mind. Everything is fair play in love.”
“That ain’t love, though. That shit sound like hate,” Day replied.
“Aren’t they the same thing depending on your mood?” She asked.
The question stumped him. “You might be right.”
She pushed the door open wider. “You can come in, sober up,” she said.
She retrieved bottled water from her refrigerator and handed it to him before leading him to the living room.
He sat on the couch, stretching one arm across the back and kicking out one leg.
Too damn comfortable. His eyes glanced at the wine bottle and the bills scattered on the coffee table.
She had been working on her budget before she had gone to bed.
She quickly scooped them into a pile and put them face down.
Her savings would be depleted after three months if she didn’t get a new job soon.
“I’m sorry about your job,” he said.
“It’s my dream. I risked my whole dream.” Her disappointment was heavy.
“The crazy thing about them dreams,” he said as he leaned forward and picked up the wine bottle. He poured a glass and then nodded for her to pick it up.
She smiled. “It’s three in the morning.”
“You ain’t got a job to get up for.”
His joke landed first as an insult, and then Stassi snickered.
“Boy, fuck you!” She said, laughing. She shook her head. Might as well laugh to keep from crying. Might as well drink to keep from sulking. Fuck it. It was a party.
She picked up her glass and the bottle. “If we’re gonna drink we’re gonna drink, drink.”
“Tito’s or Casamigos?” She asked.
“Mann, don’t nobody want none of that shit. That’s the shit leave a nigga fucked up the next morning.”
“Well, this is all I got, so me asking was really just a courtesy,” she said, laughing. “I’ll make you something real smooth.”
He watched her work, taking a seat on the barstool as she pulled out a shaker set.
She sat a margarita in front of him and then made one for herself.
He scratched his eyebrow with his thumb, hesitating to taste it.
“Just drink it!” She exclaimed. “Bougie-ass nigga! I know you rich! This is broke bitch libations.”
He lifted the glass, amusement living on his stern face as she studied every crevice.
He was darker than dark, like the scariest hour of Halloween night.
Dark like that carried mystery because you didn’t know what lived amongst its shadows.
He had no softening features. No friendly smile, no light eyes to turn his menacing looks pretty.
Day was a Black man with a black heart and black Glock to match.
Fine. This nigga was just too motherfucking fine, and he wasn’t even trying.
“See! That’s how you show appreciation to the bartender!” Stassi said, pursing her lips and doing a playful hip wind in celebration because he enjoyed her drink.
He reached for the coaster and placed the glass on top of it.
Oh, so you got manners, manners, Stassi thought.
“Yo, this shit is terrible,” he said, grimacing.
She poured shots. A challenge. A dare that he wouldn’t back down from.
“To drinking our worries away.” Stassi lifted the shot, and Day raised his.
“Nah, my baby, I think it’s looking up for you,” he said.
He lifted from his seat. “I’ma head out, cuz if I stay and we keep drinking this cheap shit, we gon’ regret what happens next.”
She blushed deep down in her soul because what he didn’t know was she probably wouldn’t regret shit, but for the sake of being a lady, she answered, “Goodnight, Day.”
Charlie heard Demi come into the room, and she was grateful that her back faced the door because she didn’t feel like hashing out their differences tonight.
Bails laid in the bed, right in Demi’s spot.
The only time Charlie let him in their bed was when she didn’t want Demi next to her.
It was how he knew when she had an attitude.
She closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep.
Avoidance. It hurt her that they had come to the point of avoidance.
She didn’t even know how this had happened.
She knew he would head directly to the shower.
Demi’s OCD wouldn’t allow him to just climb in bed as she had done.
Charlie had barely wiped the makeup from her face before seeking retreat between the expensive sheets.
She bawled up in a fetal position as she heard the water to the shower turn on.
She hated conflict, especially with him.
It made her sick to her stomach to think of the disagreement waiting to be addressed.
The scent of his body wash entered the bedroom, and Charlie desperately wanted the smell to cover her too.
She laid underneath that scent every night, safe, secured, loved, by a man that loved no other.
Demi made her feel like a queen, but when they were at odds, she felt powerless because her strength was diminished when her heart was heavy.
Demi called her “Bird” because of his appreciation for her voice, and she felt exactly like a fragile bird in his hands whenever they weren’t on the same page.
When the sound of the water ceased, she tensed, knowing he was coming to bed.
She hated this. The man she loved more than anything felt like a stranger.
They were closer than close, best friends and lovers.
God, how they were lovers, but when they were enemies, the line in the sand was wide and deep.
They could be like oil and water at times.
This was one of those times, and Charlie’s soul was unnerved.
“I know you ain’t sleep, Bird. That ain’t even how you breathe when you sleep,” Demi said.
She kicked off the covers in frustration and rolled her eyes as she sat up. Rouge became her at the sight of him. Demi was all man. Her man.
“Say, man,” Demi said. “Keep them pretty-ass eyes over there before I forget I ain’t fucking with you and do something to you. Got Bails big-ass in my spot,” he huffed.
“It’s late…” She was searching for an explanation because she had been up wondering where the hell he was.
“I ain’t never had a curfew, Bird,” Demi responded. He sat at the end of the bed and planted his face in his hands.