17. Chapter 17
Chapter 17
What does one wear to stay up all night with their former enemy? Finding it difficult to answer that question, I dive in and out of my wardrobe searching for the perfect outfit. Discarding pajamas as being too intimate, I change out the silks I had originally planned for the night. Work pants and pencil skirts are thrown to the side for being uncomfortable to sit in for hours. Everything I would normally wear to socialize seems like I’m putting in too much effort, leaving me with little to no options.
When it seems like I’ve possibly found the styling challenge I can’t best, lounge sets come to the rescue. Light, breathable and stretchy, they are exactly what I need to be stylish and relaxed.
So, dressed in white linen pants with a matching short sleeve crop top, I show up at his door ready to start the evening. It’s just after 10 p.m., and I’ve come with snacks in hand. Not sure what he likes, I raided the pantry and took everything but the crackers with me.
Now that I’m here, hesitation keeps me waiting on the porch, unsure if I should knock. I mean, about a week and a half ago, I would have never imagined myself hanging out with Errol. How has that changed to us spending an evening together in his home? Before I can think further on our progression, he opens the door, cutting my thoughts short. Realizing he just caught me standing here, I try not to look awkward as I wave.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Oh, uh, I was just about to knock.” I raise my hand like that makes a difference now.
“Uh huh,” he deadpans. He makes a show of looking around for what may have held me up before turning his doubting stare back to me.
“You pulled in ten minutes ago.”
I point to my car and then my bag, stuttering over what I hope is a good excuse.
“I, well, I, uh, brought snacks and they fell out of my bag and I was picking them up, and it was taking a long time and, and that’s why I didn’t knock right away.”
Folding his arms across his chest, he smirks down at me and my lame excuse. Feeling flustered, I huff out a sigh as frustration begins to kick in.
“Are you going to let me in or not?”
He moves, and as I walk into the house, I hear the sound of a saxophone lightly playing over a piano. Recognizing the music, I point in the direction it’s coming from.
“Is that John Coltrane?”
He nods, leading me down the hallway.
“Good ear.”
When we enter into the living room, the music kicks up in volume as the scents of garlic and saffron hit me. Slightly recovered from my earlier fit, I take in the spread he has laid out on the table. Steaming bowls of curry sit next to piled high plates of rice. Everything from tikka masala to butter chicken is offered up as options. Next to that are onion pakoras and samosas with chutney and two tall glasses of mango lassi. It’s a feast, and my mouth waters at the sight.
“I hope you like Indian food.” He slides onto the floor in front of the coffee table. Dropping my bag on the couch, I join him, my stomach eager to taste everything that is creating that wonderful smell.
“I love it.” Never shy around food, I dig in, making a plate with a little bit of all the options. We eat in silence for the first few moments, lost in the savory and spicy mixes of the different foods. When I’ve tasted everything, I finally find the space to say something.
“I didn’t know you like jazz.”
Tilting his head, he wipes his mouth on his napkin before replying. He says the words with an ease.
“Well, you don’t know everything about me.”
“True,” I say, laughing. “I guess what I meant is I didn’t take you for the type to like jazz.”
He leans back against the couch, and pushes his plate away from himself.
“It’s not my favorite, but it helps me relax. I used to listen to it with my grandfather when he would watch me after school. It would play in the background as I did my homework. So I guess it became my focus music.” His answer is honest and personal, shining a light on the softer side of him. Eyes lost in the memory, he looks beyond me as he speaks, face lax and smooth, all soft curves and gentle lines.
I really don’t know anything about him. Tonight is going to change that, if I have any say. Lapsing back into silence as we finish our meals, I think on the best way to approach this. Memories of college nights meeting strangers gives me the solution on how to go about it. After we bring the plates into the kitchen and settle back onto the couch, I bring it up.
“Let’s play Twenty-One Questions.”
Looking skeptical, he rubs his chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“Seriously?”
I nod, scooting up a little in my seat.
“You’re right, I don’t know you and you don’t know me. We have literally been operating on assumptions about each other since we met, so let’s fix that.”
“Okay, me first.” He crosses his legs. “Where do you get your confidence from?”
He asks in a tone that doesn’t imply that I shouldn’t have it, he just sounds curious. Thinking on the question, I try to pinpoint how I turned out this way. Looking back to find when I woke up in this body and loved it fully, I can’t figure out the moment. It didn’t happen all at once. At every point in my adolescence, I had always battled with a different piece of myself, never fully comfortable in who I was. Even still, I walked around the halls of my high school, like they were mine, never afraid to stand tall in my short chunky body. Where did that come from?
“My parents.” I lift my hands to explain. “I was adopted by white people, and they knew that bringing me into their family meant I was going to have to contend with our differences a lot. So they taught me young that no matter where I was or who I was with, I belonged. They tried to cement in me the belief that I deserved everything in this world, no matter my skin color. All while praising everything that made me different.
“I learned from them that my worth is more than the price tag the world put on Black women, and that I should make sure other people know it too. It made me strong, brave, and well, confident.” Smiling as I pull my lip into my mouth, I try to keep the laughter in. “It made me entitled.”
I hated being called that word just a short while ago, but now I’m claiming it as a prize. Maybe I did think the world turned for me, but is that really a bad thing?
“I wish I had that.” He leans in closer. “My mom was so scared for me as a Black man in this country, she kind of did the opposite. She taught me to be cautious, careful, and overly respectful. So focused on making sure I survived in every space, she didn’t teach me to own them.” Lips pulled into a frown, his eyes lower down to look into mine.
“You are confident, though. I can tell in the way you carry yourself.”
The corner of his mouth lifts as he rubs his hands together.
“Well, with what I got going on, how could I not be?” He does a little shimmy from side to side.
I roll my eyes as I laugh.
“In all seriousness though, I don’t have what you have. When I walk into rooms to sell my scripts, I have to constantly remind myself that I should be there. I know my value, but I don’t always act on it,” he says.
I nod along, understanding how he could feel that way. Knowing that if I weren’t constantly praised despite my size and skin, I would probably think the same. Plopping my elbow on top of the couch, I rest my head on my hand and get more comfortable as I ready myself to dive into him.
“My turn,” I say in a sing song voice.
He tilts his head in my direction, gesturing for me to go.
“What do you value most and why?”
Lines are drawn on his forehead as he furrows his brows. I can see the story beginning to write itself there even before he speaks.
“Respect and honesty.”
I flick my wrist, rolling my hand towards him, urging him to go on. He looks at me, cheek twitching as he moves his mouth from left to right. With his fingers fiddling with each other in his lap, he seems completely unsure of himself. Scooting closer to him, I put a hand on his knee. Running his fingers over mine, he stares off into space.
“You kind of can’t have one without the other. You need to respect someone enough to be honest with them always, no matter how hard it is. And if you can’t be honest at all times, is there even respect there?” His eyes are caught on the wall behind me, staring into the painting. “I learned early that not all relationships have that.”
Pulling his hand back away from mine, he focuses his eyes back on me, determination glinting in them.
“My dad lied to my mom and me for a long time, and it cost us everything. That’s why those two things matter to me.”
Feeling like there is more to that answer, I break the rules of no follow-up questions and ask another.
“What happened?” Half expecting him not to answer, I’m surprised when he does.
“He got fired when I was ten. Which really is no big deal. Instead of telling us though, he got up every day, got dressed, and left the house like he had somewhere to go. We would sit around the table at dinner talking about our days, and without fail he would always have a story about work. Never once did he let us know what was going on. When the truth came out, he didn’t even come clean about it on his own. We found out when the bank came to repossess the house. No job, no money. He wasn’t paying any of the bills.”
I try to imagine the terror of what that must have felt like, and come up short. Having grown up wealthy, I never had to worry about financial security a day in my life.
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugs, a small smile pulling at his lips.
“I’m fine. I wouldn’t have shared if I weren’t.”
“Even still,” I ease back to my spot, “having that type of betrayal as a fundamental memory is terrible.”
“Yes, but it made me who I am today, and I wouldn’t change that.”
I can understand how he values those things, having now come to feel the same. If I were to enter into a relationship again, I need someone willing to respect me enough to let me make my own decisions, and be honest enough to deal with the consequences.
Getting a taste of his past makes me hungry for more. I eagerly wait my turn to bite into everything that is Errol as he goes. Asking me about my style, we ease into lighter conversation. When it’s my turn to go, I dig into his record collection and taste in music. From there, it’s easy banter as we go back and forth asking more and more of the other. When we finally get down to question number twenty-one, I look at the clock and see that hours have passed. We made it to 2:30 a.m.
“Okay, last question,” he says, kneeing my leg with his. “It’s a tough one.”
“Shoot.” I sit up from my slouch.
“How did you lose your virginity?”
The laugh vibrates through my chest as the memory pops to the front of my mind. I press my palm to my lips, trying to keep it contained, and then hold up one finger.
“It was…well, it was awkward.”
“As all first times are.”
“It was with my highschool sweetheart Daniel while we were on our senior trip. Cliché I know. But I thought it was better than waiting until prom. He literally bribed my roommate to give us the room by paying her five hundred dollars cash.”
“He paid five hundred dollars to sleep with you?” His eyes bulge out of his face.
“As he should have; I’m well worth the money.” I flip my hair over my shoulder and sit up straighter, unable to contain my smile.
“I don’t know.”
I kick my foot into his side, causing him to yelp.
“Come on, with what the minimum wage was, you know how long someone would have to work to earn that much just for one time?”
“He was rich,” I squeal, kicking him again.
“Alright fine, so it wasn’t a sacrifice for him. Less romantic, but more practical. Go on.”
“We set the mood with flowers, candles, and music. I bought lingerie for the occasion and was sitting in it when he walked in. It was perfect, just as I imagined it would be. Until we got to the actual sex part.”
“He was a three-pumps-and-done kind of guy, wasn’t he?”
The chuckle is back shaking my entire frame.
“I couldn’t tell you, when he started to hump me, I didn’t feel anything. I literally stopped him and asked him if it was in.” As I take in his expression of horror, my chuckle turns into a full-blown cackle.
“No you didn’t.”
I nod.
“Everyone talked about how uncomfortable it was, but I couldn’t feel anything.”
Sliding down in his seat, he covers his face with his hands.
“So you told him that? Poor man had his heart ripped out through his penis.”
“Oh, come on.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “You, without a doubt, ruined his life in that moment. I wouldn’t be surprised if that memory haunts him to this day.”
Seeing how upset he is for Daniel just makes me laugh harder.
“So what happened after that?”
“After he tried putting it in again and still nothing, I told him it wasn’t working for me, so we stopped.”
Shaking his head, Errol closes his eyes tight as he presses his hand to his mouth.
“Oh come on, you are the one who said honesty matters. At least I told him.” Expecting him to contradict himself now, I can’t help but be surprised when he agrees.
“You did the right thing.” He opens his eyes. “Better he knows early on that his stuff isn’t up to the task.”
“Sounds like you relate.”
His chin hits his chest as his mouth flies open.
I burst into hysterics at the sight of how offended he is.
“I will whip it out right now. Don’t play with me.”
Waving my hand back and forth, I try to tell him no in between fits of giggles. He shoots up with a smile on his face, pulling his basketball shorts away from his body, yanking like he’s going to pull them down.
“Do you need proof Farrah? Is that what you need?” Dancing around the room like he is about to strip, his attempts at being sexy just make me die more. When he finally slides back onto the sofa fully clothed, I fight to gain composure.
“It’s now 3 a.m. and you have distracted me all night.” He sounds delighted by this, his tone reflecting his grin.
“Three hours left until you have to leave. I think we can focus on the movie now.”
He stands and goes to get the script. Coming back with it and a binder, he slides onto the floor.
“What are you going to do?” he asks.
Pulling up my own copy from my bag, I shake it to show him my plan. He nods, turns to his papers, and eases into a calm concentration. I follow suit.
Like old time friends, we are happy to exist in each other’s presence in a companionable silence. We pass the last of the evening this way until his alarm goes off.
With a big stretch of my arms, I yawn for the first time tonight. Covering his mouth with his hand, he sympathetically joins me.
“Time to go.” I stand up.
Walking to the door, my sense of time feels weird. We spent an entire night within these walls, and it all at once seems like it’s been forever and a few minutes since I last saw the door. As I slide on my shoes, we stand in a silence that is more comfortable than the one that started this evening. We have transcended the title of stranger and moved into new territory.
This place of friendship is solidified when he pulls me into his arms for a hug. Wrapped tightly around me, his scent of sage and coffee surrounds me. Inhaling it, the smell lingers in my throat, making me want to consume him. The tingles that shoot through my body at every point of contact don’t help until I’m enveloped in the urge to do more that just hold him. When he pulls away, I let that feeling go.
It doesn’t fade though. It stays with me all during my drive home, blossoming as I replay the night. It is in full bloom by the time I lay my head on my pillow, a garden of affection just waiting to be nourished. The question I have yet to answer is, should I water it?