Chapter 40 Raya
Raya
My ears pop hard as our plane descends through a thick quilt of grey clouds. They’re laying heavy over New York, and they match my mood.
Ace has his hand on my thigh. It feels like he’s anchoring me. I’m grateful for that, because these last few days have been almost unbearable. I don’t feel present in my own body. I’ve been floating overhead, watching myself suffer. And I don’t even think all of it is grief. I think it’s confusion.
I felt nothing when Daddy died. Well, relief is something, and I definitely felt that. I wasn’t confused at all. I went to his funeral because it was customary, not because I gave a fuck.
With Rashad…it’s a lot more complicated. And now, I’ll never be able to work those feelings out.
“You good?”
I nod at my husband, staring down at his hand, at his thumb circling absentmindedly against my thigh. Stimming by proxy, I suppose. It’s helping.
“How do you feel?”
I ponder that for a minute. “I honestly don’t know. How should I feel?”
“I don’t know.”
“We weren’t speaking before, so…do I get to be sad?”
“Baby. You get to be whatever you want. There’s no one way to grieve."
After we land, I follow Ace through the throngs of noisy travelers, grateful for the sounds. They’re drowning out the constant refrain of guilt I feel. He tried to call me. Several times. Was he gonna apologize? I’ll never know, and that’s the problem.
Even worse, I don’t feel like myself anymore. A year ago, I would have felt nothing. I probably would have smirked when I found out. He did me wrong, and I never forgive that. The only reason I never got revenge is because he moved away.
Today?
I feel like…a person. A normal person with regrets.
Weird shit.
Ace grabs us a taxi. On the way to the hotel, I lay my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. I guess I fell asleep, because Ace is gently nudging me awake and we’ve stopped.
Inside, he undresses me, then himself, and we shower together. I’m pissed because the stall has two of those rainwater shower heads, and I just got my hair done. But we make it work. There’s enough space to wash separately without me getting any drops on my shower cap.
He keeps sneaking looks at my body. At my stomach, really. I already know I’m starting to show a little, but we don’t talk about it.
It’s fine, I know he’s happy about it, and I can ignore the glances.
It’s the giant throbbing erections I can’t unsee.
Like right now, we’re both acting like it’s not there, but I mean, you can’t miss it.
I fuck around and look down at it right when he starts to soap it up, and my clit starts thumping.
And his sexy ass knows I’m looking so he grips it and works the soap up and down. He even slows it down. Annoying ass.
I finish and step out, grabbing my lotion on the way out the bathroom door. My body’s dry, but my coochie is not, so when I hear the shower water turn off, I assume the position, bending over the edge of the dresser.
He doesn’t say a word. I watch him in the mirror, bare-chested, his towel slung low on his waist. He eyes my naked body, licking his lips as he approaches me. The towel’s gone, the dick is out—and ready—and our eyes lock.
Nothing needs to be said.
He uses his foot to nudge my foot, putting me into a wider stance while he lines himself up. He pushes in. I breathe out. He pulls off my shower cap, then my bonnet, and my silk press falls off the bone and into his fist. One yank, and my eyes meet his again.
Our breaths are the soundtrack to this sad, subdued lovemaking. Maybe it’s not what I need at the moment, but I want it. I love it. I always love it with Ace.
He’s taking it easy on me today. His thrusts are slow and steady, gentle in a way that feels reserved for special occasions. This is how he takes care of me. It’s how he loves me.
I cum with a bone-deep shudder, struggling to keep my eyes on his while my body surrenders to the pleasure. It’s so good. He’s so good. He smiles when I bite my lip, but only for a few seconds before his eyes roll back and he slams into me for the last time.
After, he cleans me up, we get dressed, and we get on our way.
It’s not very crowded here at the church. I don’t know what Rashad got up to here in New York, but it doesn’t look like he made a lot of friends.
Tori finds us on the second row. I’m surprised to see how she looks. Her eyes look sunken, her body seems frail, and even her hug feels feeble compared to the last time I saw her.
“How you doin’, baby?”
“I’m okay. How are you?”
“I’m here.”
She passes me to hug Ace, then comes back to sit on my other side, leaving me sandwiched between the two of them.
It’s an odd feeling, being between the two people I love most in the world while also being acutely aware of the fact that they worked together to betray me, and the evidence of that betrayal is currently resting comfortably inside my fucking body.
It’s a mindfuck.
The old me would be plotting on both of them right now, but I’m putting that on the backburner.
“Damn, he looked just like you,” Ace says, gesturing toward the large picture of Rashad that’s sitting on an easel next to the casket.
It’s a cute picture. He was handsome. He’s wearing a polo shirt—you can take the boy out of Atlanta, but not the Atlanta out of the boy—and smiling with his head tilted like he always did in pictures.
The casket is closed, thank God, but I imagine whatever is in there looks nothing like the vibrant young man in the photo.
Oh well.
Ace’s fingers lace with mine. He presses his thumb against the back of my hand, anchoring me again. The service starts next, but I don’t hear a damn thing. The words float past me like paper airplanes in the wind.
But even in my daze, I manage to make out the word complicated quite a few times, which lets me know Rashad was up here being a menace.
I imagine that word will be spoken a lot when I die.
After the service, we hang around for a minute to thank the minister, then we make our way toward the door. And I don't know how, but I sense her presence before I see her. Hair raises on my skin, goose bumps, even a little tickle in my throat.
I turn around, and yep, there she is.
My fucking mother.