chapter one.
cyn
[eleven-ish months later]
Cyn, call me when you get this.
That’s the text I get from Brixton out of the blue while I’m at work, minding my business like I always do, and staying out of his way, everybody else’s way, but waaay out of his way.
Beneath these bright, fluorescent lights, I’m tucked away in my own little world – a cubicle with gray walls and hardly any privacy.
I stare at my computer screen all day, figuring out numbers.
Equations. Balancing spreadsheets. Preparing quotes.
This type of work takes extreme focus. I cannot concentrate knowing there’s a lingering text from my ex – well, husband because we’re not quite in ex territory just yet.
But we may as well be.
It’s been roughly eleven months since we shared a roof, a hug, a kiss, or anything of the sort. And why is he texting me?
I grit my teeth.
Should I text back or ignore him? Decisions, decisions…
If I ignore the text, I’ll sit here and wonder what he wants. If I text back, whatever he wants is probably going to give me an everlasting, potent migraine. Either way, I’m screwed.
“I’ma ignore it,” I tell myself, “Like he ignored my phone calls that night of the surprise anniversary party I was trying to throw for him. Mmm, hmm. This is payback.”
I shake my head. With narrowed eyes and arms crossed as I lean back in my chair, I realize how vindictive I sound and quickly check myself.
This is so not like me. I sit back up and try to get into work mode again, but while I stare at my computer, figuring out these Excel equations, something gnaws at me to message Brix back, and I’m even considering it, but why?
For one, this is completely out of character for Dr. Brixton LaSalle to need anything from anyone, especially me.
Two, I have a gut feeling he needs something major.
He’s not messaging me just to chit-chat – to see how my day is going.
We haven’t spoken since New Year’s Day – the same day I moved out and decided to live my life the way I wanted to live it.
I no longer wanted to be smothered under the umbrella of Brixton and his super-busy life.
His important job. His laser-focused attention to galas and fundraisers – to everything else besides me.
Nope. I’ll pass.
Once happily in love, we dwindled down like snowflakes on a warm ground – dissolving to absolutely nothing.
Well, nothing might be a bit of a stretch.
At the very least, we were glorified roommates.
He worked ridiculous shifts while I worked normal hours.
I ate dinner alone. Went to bed alone. Got up alone.
Got ready for work alone. Spent weekends alone when my friends weren’t available.
I frequently hiked alone at Monticello Park while thinking about these things – how I wish I had someone to share my life with.
Those should not be the thoughts of a married woman.
Now, it’s November, and he wants me to call him.
After driving myself insane with going back and forth about what to do, I decide to text back only so I can return to my job and concentrate. In peace.
I’m at work. Brix. Can’t talk. What do you want? Just text me.
I would prefer not to text.
Well, bye. You contacted me, not the other way around.
Dang, Cyn…thought you’d be happy to hear from me.
Happy to hear from him? He must be out of his mind! He’s the man who made his job a priority while making me an option, and he thought I’d be happy to hear from him? In what universe?
I respond:
You thought wrong. What do you want?
I need to ask you a favor.
I sneer as my displeasure mounts. I don’t even know what this favor is, and the answer is no.
I type back:
Of course you do. I don’t hear from you in eleven months, and you text me out of the blue for a favor. I see nothing’s changed.
Did we not speak to each other back in March?
Only because we ran into each other at Martin’s Grocery.
The messaging stops. Now, he’s calling me like I didn’t just tell him I was working. But when something’s important to Brixton, screw what’s important to you. He’s the priority. Always. But this time, I take precedence. That’s why I don’t answer.
He calls again. I send it to voicemail and then text:
I told you I couldn’t talk.
Okay, then. We’ll talk later. What time do you get off work?
I roll my eyes and turn my phone face down. Some things and people never change, no matter how much you want them to. And Brix, the honors Howard graduate hasn’t changed one bit.
But I have.
I refuse to have my time wasted by a man who wanted me so desperately, but didn’t know how to keep me. That’s so different from how we started.
Looking at us, you wouldn’t be able to tell this, but Brix is ten years older than I am.
Perhaps that was my first mistake – marrying an older man and thinking I was getting a protector with life experience.
Mom warned me that men like him – men with money, status and ambition – were set in their ways and not easily bendable.
But silly me was thinking that a man would bend, even break, for his woman if he genuinely loved her.
Brix didn’t bend when I left. Didn’t break, either. Like always, he had his job to keep him company while I had nothing but this gray, half-walled cubicle.
We initially met at Derita’s – one of those fancy downtown, fine dining restaurants that requires a reservation and costs a day’s wages to get a half-fulfilling meal.
At the time, Brix was with a group of his colleagues.
I was dining alone. It was something I did often as a single woman to break away from the stereotype that a woman couldn’t have a solo dinner without feeling a certain type of way.
Without feeling embarrassed and unwanted.
I could’ve gone with a friend, but it was my time.
Alone time. Time I’d come to value and enjoy over the past few months.
While I was eating the best flavored shrimp I’d ever had in my life, I glanced up and happened to catch this handsome man all up in my mouth, his eyes piercing my tonsils like he was enjoying my meal as much as I was.
The way our eyes met told me there would be something between us, whether I liked it or not.
Uninterested, I looked away and didn’t glance in his direction again, but I still noticed him noticing me.
I could feel his eyes scorching my face, almost making me look over at him again, but I stayed strong.
I nearly rolled my eyes because men were vultures when it came to attractive women, seeking their attention even if they didn’t want to give it.
I’ve had to fan a few of them away from me recently, and here goes another one, eyeing me up.
Out of my peripheral vision, I saw him when he got up.
“Ugh…here we go,” I said quietly. Or perhaps he was going someplace else. “Please don’t come over here. Please don’t come over here,” I started to chant. I wasn’t in the mood for company. Sometimes a woman just wanted to be left alone. That concept was foreign to men.
“Good evening,” he said before he took the liberty of pulling out and sitting in the chair across from me.
“Good evening,” I replied, “But I didn’t invite you to my table.”
“I’m aware. No one was sitting here, so–”
“So, you assumed my husband wasn’t coming?”
“Husband?” he asked, glancing at my left hand. “I don’t see a ring on that pretty hand of yours. You have a boyfriend at best, and I doubt that, too, because ain’t no man in his right mind going to let a woman as pretty as you eat alone.”
“Then he must not be in his right mind.”
“Must not be, but I doubt that he even exists.”
I pause, bite back a smile because he’s got a lil’ rizz, but still–I didn’t request his company.
I ask, “What can I do for you, stranger?”
“I just wanted to come over and speak.”
“Let me guess–because I look lonely. You feel sorry for me because I’m dining alone?”
“Absolutely not. I wanted to tell you that you’re stunning in that dress.”
“Thank you.”
“And, if you ever get tired of that man you’re with and his wrong mind, maybe next time we can have dinner together so me sitting here won’t feel so awkward.”
I glanced over at who I assume are his colleagues and said, “It appears you have enough people to eat with.”
He turned around, looked at his crew and said, “Oh, I see them all the time. They’re colleagues of mine. I’m Dr. Brixton LaSalle, by the way. I would shake your hand, but you’re eating.”
“I wouldn’t shake your hand if I wasn’t eating. It’s a germ thing. I’m sure you understand that, being a doctor and all.”
“I do. I wash my hands a zillion times a day,” he says, placing his hands on the table.
I think he did it so I could see that he wasn’t wearing a ring.
Then he says, “Tell you what—” as he whips out his wallet.
He pulls out a business card, takes a pen from the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and scribbles his number on the back of it.
He pushes the card across the table and says, “Here’s my number. I hope you use it.”
I crack a smile and say, “Does this supposed to make me feel special or something?”
“It should.”
“Wow,” I responded and laughed out loud. The audacity…
“Why should it make me feel special, Dr. Brixton LaSalle?”
“Because I don’t do this. Ever.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No, but it’s the truth.”
“Then why are you doing it now?”
“There’s something about your eyes that spoke to me.”
“Yet, you didn’t compliment my eyes. You complimented my dress.”
“My bad. I was saving that for our first date.”
“Wow.” Beaming, I responded, “Okay, um, well, if you don’t mind, I would like to return to my dinner in peace,” I say to get him away from my table.
“Of course.” He stands, slides a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet, places it on the table and says, “Dinner’s on me.”
“No, thank you. I can pay for my—”
He walks away from the table before I could refuse his money. He and his crew left shortly after.
Since I got some extra cash now, courtesy of Dr. Brixton LaSalle, I ordered a slice of chocolate cake for dessert and sat here looking at his neat, yet interesting handwriting on the back of a Classic Catering business card.
It must’ve been an old card he had in his wallet because he told me he was a doctor, and I believe him.
He gives off doctor vibes. The handwriting is a dead giveaway.
I wonder what kind of doctor he is, though.
What kind of person he is. If he goes around handing out his number to women all haphazardly, or if he actually took a genuine interest in me.
Well, not in me but my looks because he doesn’t know me.
Not sure if I’m offended by that or flattered.
And he was handsome in his own right – clean-shaven, nice skin, white teeth.
He smelled good. Carried himself well. Spoke well.
No broken English. I had nothing bad to say or think about him other than the fact that he invited himself to my table.
The arrogance.
I used that hundred and paid for my food, left my waitress the change, and took the card Brixton scribbled his number on.
But I didn’t use it. I hadn’t planned on using it. It was a just-in-case type deal.
It wasn’t until two months later that I ran into him again as he jogged toward me on the trail at Monticello Park, Christenbury’s signature park, wedding venue, and festival headquarters. Anything you wanted to do outdoors it was usually done at Monticello Park.
As he ran in my direction, all I could think about was how yummy his body looked – all hot and sweaty. It was definitely sweatpants season, and he was wearing them well – a lil’ bit too well.
He removed his earbuds, paused his fitness watch, and said, “Ah, so we meet again.”
“Did we really meet the first time, though, because I remember it more like an intrusion?”
“You’re right. I did make my way over to your table, but I’m the kind of man who’s straightforward. I apologize for that.”
“Don’t apologize for who you are. I mean, who am I to stop you from being great?”
He smiled, his chest rising and falling swiftly beneath the sleeveless gray shirt he’s wearing. I smiled and pretended not to notice his distinct pectorals making an appearance.
We locked eyes, communicating without saying words, but so much is being said. So much.
He asked, “Do you come out here much?”
“Not as much as I would like. I just needed some of this fresh morning air.”
“Nice.” He cleared his throat, swiped his forearm across his forehead, and said, “I’m three miles into a five-mile run.”
“Oh, then by all means don’t let me stop you.”
“I’m the one who stopped, so you’re good. I’m in no hurry. Besides, I need to ask you why you didn’t use that number I gave you.”
I pinched back a smile and said, “I figured there were a good number of women already using it.”
“There isn’t.”
“Sure.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“Not at all.”
He smirked. “I’m a doctor. I have a reputation to uphold. I’m not the type of man to get mixed up with a bunch of women.”
“I see.”
“What’s your name by the way?”
“Cyn.”
“Sin? Like being disobedient to God, type of sin?”
“No. Like, short for Cynnamon.”
He bit back a grin and asked, “Your name is cinnamon?”
“Yes, but with a Y instead of an I. My mom is a baker.”
“Ah. I got you,” he said. “I want to take you to dinner tonight, Cynnamon.”
“That’s too bad, doc. I have a full day.”
“Plans are made to be cancelled.”
“Not my plans.”
“Then perhaps you would seriously consider canceling this one time. I’m off work today, which is surprising in itself, but what are the odds I would run into you again?”
I shrugged. “It’s just a coincidence.”
“Albert Einstein once said that coincidence was God’s way of remaining anonymous.”
I chuckled and said, “Oh, so you think God arranged for us to meet serendipitously in the park today?”
“I tell you what–meet me at Derita’s this evening at six and we’ll find out.”
Man, he’s a smooth one with his biceps, heat-seeking eyes, and tall stature.
Dare I say no to his request and miss the opportunity to see that handsome face in dim lighting?
I may be a little peeved about how he approached me that night while I was dining alone, but I ain’t crazy.
Something tells me he’s one of those once-in-a-lifetime men.
I could, at the very least, go and see what he’s all about.
I think that’s what my grandma calls seeing a man about a horse. This horse got some giddy-up and a bag.
I said, “Alright. I’ll be there.”
He flashed that brilliant white smile again and said, “Perfect. I’ll see you then.”
He restarted his watch and continued running. Turning toward me again but jogging backward, he said, “Don’t be late.”
“I won’t,” I said.
And just like that, I was booked for a date with the doctor.