chapter 14
Wesley
Boom.
I turned up the television, hoping to drown out the sound. Seconds later, another knock followed. Then, another.
One of the reasons I preferred not to stay at Batchelor Place was the unexpected but not surprising visits from family members.
Everyone had access to me through a short elevator ride or a trip up the stairs.
If it wasn’t my sister bringing me family drama or my cousin, Cyn, with her wild puppy, it was Hendrix eating all my food.
Make no mistake, it was someone from my family. An outsider would’ve had to go through Colby or whoever was working the concierge desk today.
It could be Albany.
On second thought … Burrowing into my couch, I flipped the channel to Syfy. Today was Sharknado marathon day.
Albany had made her position perfectly clear when she left in the wee hours of the morning—even though I begged her to stay.
Turnabout was fair play, right? I’d left her, so she left me.
But she wasn’t that type of person. At least, she didn’t used to be.
She kept telling me I didn’t know her anymore.
Yet, as much as she’d tried to tell me she’d changed, she still seemed like the Albany I loved beyond reason—except everything about her was better.
Something had passed between us last night, something deeper than sex, something deeper than the past. Despite what she’d said, our connection was as strong now as it was then. I felt it in the way she responded to me, the way she’d started to leave, then came back. And she was running from it.
I promised to let her set the pace.
She was scared. I couldn’t blame her, though. When she’d described how she struggled after I moved away … my heart shattered at her confession. Because I would’ve done anything for her, I would’ve moved heaven and earth to protect her. I never thought I’d have to protect her from me.
After she left, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t unsee the look in her eyes, the devastation that I’d left there. Since then, I’d been in the same position. My phone was on do not disturb, and my laptop was closed.
Boom.
“Wes,” Erica called. “I know you’re home.”
I finished the beer I’d opened moments earlier and made my way to the door. I still had no intention of letting her in, but I needed to be sure she was okay before I could sufficiently ignore her.
“Please,” she whined. “I’m having a panic attack. I don’t know what to do.”
Shit.
“That guy I went out with last night … He did something and I—”
I tugged the door open and yanked her inside the house. “Did he hurt you?” I studied her face, looking for signs of abuse. “Where is that muthafucka?”
Erica sighed. “No, he didn’t hurt me.”
“Then, what?”
“He turned my proposal down.”
Grumbling a curse, I walked away from her and plopped back down on my sofa. She was still talking, but I’d effectively tuned her out. The tornado just touched down in fictitious Manhattan and the sharks were wreaking havoc in the subway tunnels.
Eventually, she sat next to me. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Did you hear a word I said?”
I glanced at her. “No.”
“Wes, I don’t know what to do. I thought he was a good prospect. He’s successful, works hard, and he’s celibate.”
“What?”
“I figured the best person to marry was someone I wouldn’t really fall in love with.
I don’t want to deal with heartbreak. I’m not ready to be invested in someone like that.
But he turned me down, called me high maintenance.
Said I wasn’t his type. His type for what?
Separate bedrooms, a shared dinner here and there, and companionship? ”
“Could that be the reason he turned you down? Most men would consider separate bedrooms a deal-breaker.”
“It shouldn’t be. He told me he was asexual.”
I choked on the water I’d just gulped down.
“I figured it was a win-win scenario,” she continued, oblivious to how uncomfortable this conversation was for me. “I didn’t have to be intimate with him, but we could’ve built an empire together.”
I blinked. “I guess I’m just confused why you thought this was a good idea.”
“Wes, you know me. You know what I’ve been dealing with. My last relationship ended with flat tires, court dates, and hard feelings. I just wanted this marriage thing to be easy.”
“Don’t you have some friends to talk to about this?”
“Cyn is holed up in some bungalow with one of her boyfriends.” She pouted. “Besides, you are my friend.”
At four, my sister declared that I was her best friend. Through the years, she’d maintained that stance. No matter what she was going through, she typically came to me first.
A night out with the girls? I held her hair up while she hurled in my toilet.
Dreary mood? Dinner at her favorite restaurant followed by a rom-com movie night.
Bad breakup? She used my shirt as her Kleenex as she bawled her eyes out.
Shitty boyfriend? I beat his ass. Period.
But …
Today, I wasn’t in the right headspace to deal with Baby Sis. I didn’t have the energy to comfort her or help her come up with a plan. Today, I was in my own little funk. Rejected. Dejected. A little angry. Mostly sad.
“I’m gonna fail at this, too,” she mumbled, her voice so low, so small.
Frowning, I peered at her. “At what?”
“The test.” She shrugged.
Still confused, I asked, “You have to help me out here, Erica. What are you talking about?”
My sister sniffed into a tattered piece of tissue. “I feel like damaged goods. I’m never going to find someone to marry me.”
Erica was diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder about a year ago.
Up until that point, she’d hid it well, but then the pieces started to click together.
The anxiety, the compulsions she’d waved off as being careful, the way she obsessed about everything.
Her house was pristine, not a single thing out of place.
Her cabinets were organized by color and size.
After her last breakup, though, things spiraled out of control. She’d become abusive to herself, overly consumed with morality. Her condition started to disrupt her work life to the point where she’d refused to come out of her office for a meeting.
Seeing my sister curled into a fetal position behind her desk, crying her eyes out, begging me to tell her what the hell was wrong with her, haunted me.
I still remembered carrying her out of the building and bringing her to the hospital.
She sobbed for three weeks straight. I moved her in with me and took care of her.
It had been a long, slow road of therapy and internal work. But since then, she’d been laser focused on working through it, taking her meds, and continuing her sessions with her psychologist. She was better. But I still worried about her.
Sitting up, I rubbed her back. “Baby Sis, you got this.”
Tilting her head toward the ceiling, she let out a tiny whimper.
“I’m glad you think so. It’s just …” She dashed a tear from her cheek.
“I’ve been doing the work, but there are times when I just want to hide, when I feel like I’m sinking, when I feel like the worst person in the world.
And I can’t shake it off. It’s hard to stop obsessing about it, asking myself all the questions.
What if I fail this assignment? What if Granny is disappointed in me for not rising to the occasion?
What if there is no man willing to be with me knowing about my OCD?
What if I mess up?” Another sob broke through.
“I feel I’m already so behind on everything.
I can’t think, I can’t focus. Now this … I’m a wreck.”
I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and pulled her to me. Kissing her brow, I whispered, “You’re not a failure, and I promise you, Granny would never be disappointed in you. I swear you’re her favorite.”
She let out a watery giggle. “I think you’re it.”
“Nah”—I shook my head—“she loves you. She knows you.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“I’m wrong about a lot of things, but not this. I really feel like you’re putting too much into this whole marriage thing. Granny isn’t going to disown you if you decide to stay single.”
“She sounded so upset,” Erica said. “I’ve never seen her like that.”
“Yes, you have.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re right, I have.”
“But you’ve also seen her dedicated, kind, and giving.”
The woman who’d given us that ultimatum was the woman who ran a multimillion-dollar corporation. That woman had single-handedly taken Batchelor Corp to new heights. But Granny was also generous, loyal, caring, and understanding in ways the average person wouldn’t expect.
I’d seen her empty her wallet to an unhoused person on the corner, witnessed her cancel contracts with companies with discriminatory hiring practices.
She didn’t simply donate food to the shelter on Thanksgiving, she worked there, too.
Every year. She’d purchased housing for employees down on their luck, bought cars for people so that they could go to work, and paid the tuition of countless Detroit public school students.
Granny had been there for me. She’d pulled me out of my personal gutter and encouraged me to assume my rightful position in the company she built. Even now, after everything that had happened recently with Ms. Tea, she sent texts every day to check in on me.
Yes, she was stern.
Of course, she had high expectations for us.
She absolutely would cuss us smooth the fuck out if we disrespected her.
But she also wouldn’t hesitate to do anything to help us out of every nasty situation we found ourselves in. She would burn the world to the ground to protect us. I had no doubt she would do the same for Erica. Especially knowing of her personal struggle.
“I wish you could see how awesome you are,” I murmured. “I’m not saying that because you’re my little sister. You’re an amazing human being. Everyone who knows you, knows that. Everybody else is just the shit you step over on your way to the top.”
She hugged me. “Thank you for being the best big brother.”