Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Whitney
Money to Burn
I’m in the line for the bathroom when Clive plants himself in front of me. “You win,” he blurts, grinning.
“What?” I laugh.
He snaps his fingers next to my ear. “Ma’am, I just spoke to your boo.”
My heart does a little flip.
“He’s in love with you too. You win.”
I blink, both stunned and ecstatic. But then I spot Terrell the Artiste and thank my lucky stars the line moves into the restroom.
A few moments later, I head into a stall, still processing.
I’m finished, should flush to let the next person in line relieve themselves, but I’m just sitting there with a goofy smile on my face, while some woman, loud as can be, is having an entire phone conversation.
“…That’s exactly my point.” Through the crack in the door, I spot her leaning over the sink in a backless black satin dress, fixing her mascara in the mirror.
“Girl, this man done taken this woman to his island and everything. Bought out Cibo Nero on a Thursday, and you know how that waitlist is, like, a year long.” She cackles at something the person on the other end says. “Insane work, right?”
I freeze, realizing she’s talking about me.
Insane work.
But I’m smiling because if Clive’s right and Warner’s in love with me, might be nice to get some insider scoop from an unbiased party.
A toilet flushes and I miss part of what she says, but I catch the tail end. “…Mm-hmm, that man is in denial. He’s so far gone for Whitney. Just looking at him, I could see he was falling for her…”
I’m fighting for my life not to scream. I’m so happy I could pee again.
But then, as she touches up her lipstick, still talking through her teeth, she says, “I still can’t believe Cord bet that man he couldn’t just make that trip about exhibiting Sherry’s collection and meaningless sex…
Another gallery had already turned him down…
It was either the Artery or take Zeek’s offer…
” My stomach drops. Every word feels like a punch.
“He turned him down, and Zeek doubled the offer. Can you believe it?”
I flush, feeling completely empty as I come out of the stall.
The woman and I lock eyes in the mirror.
“Whitney?”
Her eyes go saucer wide.
I don’t even have the tears to cry, so I’m not about to soften the blow for her.
As I rush out of the restroom, I run straight into Warner.
“Oh, there you are. Everything okay? Still alive?” He smiles, calm as ever. “The awards are starting soon. Sure there aren’t any new life-or-death lab results messing with your ability to find romantic love? Love gene still intact?”
I can’t even look at him.
“Of course you’re here.” I huff out a laugh. “I guess I’ve just been busy giving it up on Clover Cay to influence you into exhibiting Sherry’s collection with me. Hope it’s not in vain. But who knows… maybe Zeek will triple his offer. Save you the trouble of exposing him.”
“What are you—” He stops cold, realization smoothing his expression.
“Yes, I know all about your little wager with Cord.” I drop all pretense, fire blazing in my chest. “So, unless you’ve changed your mind and want to take back the collection, please don’t contact me. My business hours are available online and my assistant will take care of you. Goodbye.”
And then I run, tears hot on my cheeks, away from the man I love.
Too early on Monday morning, I go for my follow-up gyno appointment.
Usually I sign in, check my insurance—again—then wait for upward of an hour before I’m called back.
Then she inspects all my goods for ten minutes, I leave, and six months later, I get a bill not too far off my mortgage payment.
That’s the deal. The predictable script I’ve recently come to appreciate.
But today, when I look like I’ve been dragged in the mud by my lifeless coronary arteries, of course my left butt cheek barely touches the seat before my name is called.
I follow the nurse to whom I’ve been providing a play-by-play about my body and sex life for over eight years, yet we have never actually called each other by our first names, to the third room on the right, and—
“Hello, Ms. Graves. I’m Dr.—”
The doctor is already in the room?
Not mine, but a doctor. Forest-green scrubs, stethoscope, spotless sneakers, same I’m standing here but my mind is six appointments ahead look on her face. She’s sitting there just basking in all that glowing melanin with a chart in her hands and a tray full of tools, ready for action.
“Are you mine?” I mutter, before I can fully process what I’m actually saying.
She laughs. “If you mean, will I be your new assigned doctor, yes,” she says, and then what’s left of my heart warms as she informs me that she’s new to the practice, but she takes more of a hands-on approach, if that’s okay with me.
If that’s okay with me? Ha!
An emotion-choked laugh sputters out of me.
Does she know how long I’ve dreamed of having a hands-on gynecologist? Is she kidding with this?
For a solid fifteen minutes, my spanking-new gyno doesn’t just talk at me.
She thoroughly explains not only my recent double-whammy lab results, but my chart.
Bloodwork, preventative actions to take, how my family history affects my health but may not always be a guaranteed predictor.
And my results? Still abnormal. But? But…
“Are you ready?” she asks, gloved up, game face on.
Why, yes, I am ready to not sentence my dense breasts to the pancake smasher, and instead use the magic sonographic wand, currently dipped in warmed jelly, to discover my gorgeous C-cup tatas are healthy, just thick as hell like me.
I know that’s right. And yes, as it happens, I’m also actually ready for cryo, Mr. DeMille!
Clearly, my movie intake as of late has increased to unhealthy levels, but I don’t have it in me to care.
I’M NOT DYING!
Just walking around like any other slightly crampy zombie with a frozen cervix, a broken heart, and a to-go prescription for a fourteen-to-twenty-eight-day sex fast. Funny enough, it just so happens I’m fresh out of desire to be with anyone other than the man responsible for tossing my heart into the crusher.
All in all, though, my mood needed the uptick.
Which is why I’m not the least surprised when I get to my car, and the second I sit behind the wheel, my phone rings on Bluetooth and the name Gertrude Graves appears on my screen, zapping every ounce of relief from me.
Knew my good luck couldn’t last all day.
For my sanity, I let it ring two times, taking deep breaths, before I connect the call.
“Hi, Gertrude…” I answer, locking my doors.
Just in case.
“Whitney, have you got a moment?” Her tone cuts sharp and unwieldy. It always does. But she didn’t use my full name, so it makes me pay closer attention.
“Yeah, what’s up? Everything okay?”
The engine is still off, so I hear her belabored sigh before she says, “I just got off the phone with your mother.”
I just saw my vitals, so medically, I’m okay, but I just know she’s about to run up my blood pressure. Or give me palpitations. Anything.
“Is she okay?” I ask. Again, just in case. The woman works my nerves something awful, but she’s still my mother.
“We’re fine,” she says, full stop.
And now I’m confused, because what do you mean do I have a moment and you spoke to my mother, but you want me to play the guessing game about what y’all talked about? Hello?
“Uh-huh.” It’s all I’m giving.
“Well, we’ve just had quite an illuminating disagreement about the Restroom Rendezvous.” Are we being serious? “Your mother seems to think it’s healthy for you to engage in such… uncomely behavior.”
“I see.” I start the engine and weave through the parking lot toward the exit. “And you believe…”
She clears her throat, tellingly. “Listen, it’s not important what I believe,” she says. “My point is, after I spoke to Phyllis… after she was rather rigid about my… disciplined rearing choices—”
“What are you trying to say?” I blurt, deciding to help her along as I flip on my blinker and wait out the oncoming traffic. “You were strict, inflexible, unyielding, controlling, by the book, yes. We’ve got all the adjectives. Now, what about it?”
She inhales sharply. “Whitney Anika Graves.” There it is. “Is that really how you feel?”
It’s something about the way she asks, a slight hint of hurt in her tone, that makes me pause. Does she really remember it differently? She’s actually got the nerve to be taken aback? How I feel? It’s just the facts.
“Gertrude, you said disciplined, and I think we can all agree that’s putting it lightly.
” Easing into the lane, I go easy on the gas, toeing the speed limit because it’s the first of the month, and I’m not trying to help some overachieving cop get a head start on his quota.
“Everything you say to me usually begins with ‘Well, it’s quite unfortunate that you don’t seem to recognize the error in your thinking.
’ Or ‘I know good and well I done raised you better than that.’”
She sucks her teeth. “Usually it applies,” she says, weakly.
“Right, I’m sassy, putting myself into precarious situations, or it’s a shame that I’m such a brilliant young lady who just needs to apply myself.”
The low hum in my ear is a telltale sign. Something’s getting through.
She clears her throat again. “If rendezvousing in restrooms is how you choose to find and nurture love in your life—”
I actually choke on my spit.
“What are you even saying?” A laugh shoots out of me straight from my gut. “There was no rendezvousing. I’m not looking for, nor nurturing love in my life.” Anymore. “Or don’t you read the headlines?” It’s apparently where I live these days.
“Yes,” Gertrude says, so dang matter-of-fact it grates on my nerves. “That’s what spurred our conversation.”
Ah, yes. Today’s inspired whopper in the Ellswood Times.
RESTROOM RENDEZVOUS ENDS IN ROMANTIC RECKONING
WARNER EASTON AND WHITNEY GRAVES OVER
“Well, then you already know how it ends.” I chuckle.
I’m three blocks from my house, ready to put a wrap on this conversation, and unbelievably, my grandmother fixes her lips to blow my mind.
“I’m sorry,” Gertrude says.
It’s so off-putting that I have to pull over to fully grasp what’s happening.
“You’re sorry?” I repeat.
She sighs like she’s the one put out because I’m making such a big deal of it.
“You heard me correctly. I’m sorry that your new relationship didn’t pan out the way you might’ve hoped.
” Another throat clearing, so I know whatever follows will be a doozy.
“Contrary to what you and Phyllis may believe, I wasn’t always a curmudgeonly old woman.
” She chuckles, and it’s so light and airy.
“Oh, wow…” I grin. “Do tell.”
My heart swells a little. I can’t remember the last time we talked like this. Probably because we’ve never talked like this. Just us, two women, sharing casual stories.
“Eons ago, long before I met your grandfather, I too was a dazzling young lady with my heart cautiously on my dress sleeve.” I hear the smile in her raspy voice.
“I fell hard and fast for a man at a tender age. No one could tell me a thing. And by the time I realized he dimmed the light right out of me, I was living a state away from my family and friends, wearing clothes he’d picked out—that I hated—sitting in my car parked around the corner from our house, wishing I’d listened to even half what my mother had been trying to tell me, and wondering how I’d gotten things so screwed up. ”
Heat swarms my skin. I lower my forehead to the steering wheel, tightening my grip around it. “And what’d you do about it?”
As she tells me how she sat in her car and cried for exactly fifteen minutes—no more, no less—then drove straight to a newsstand, picked up a copy of the day’s paper, and turned straight to the classifieds, I feel myself rooting for her like she’s a heroine in my movies.
Her journey wasn’t action-packed. There were no high-octane car chases or masked intruders on remote islands.
But it was an adventure. One that included saving every penny to fill her tank, pack up her life, and head home without looking back.
Her adventure was a do-over. She didn’t look for love again until she’d forged her own path—education and a career worthy of a Graves woman.
Listening to her, so much makes sense.
Thinking about her sitting in her brass-and-brocade living room, perched on her favorite antique telephone chair, mauve-hued lips smiling, softening, the pieces fall into place.
Of course she thought she was protecting my mother and me.
Zion & Zara is in our bloodline as strong yet graceful Black women.
Our legacy. A place to start before a career in finance, so we’d always be able to understand, earn, and manage our own money.
Only then would we receive our trust funds.
It didn’t work with Phyllis, but she didn’t give up on me.
It’s a cool balm to my heart. The why I’ve always yearned to know. It’s her version of tough love. Why she never led with her heart. Or let me. It wasn’t manipulation.
I wasn’t her pawn—I’m her legacy.
“If I was a little too by the book,” she says with a small laugh, “hopefully you’ll forgive me. I was just doing what I thought was best. For both of my girls.”
It’s quiet for a beat.
I’m still recalibrating. Reframing history.
Fat tears trail down my cheeks, and I just let them spill into my lap. Suddenly, I hate that it took us this long to get here. She’s almost eighty, and I’m on the cusp of thirty-seven.
“I love you,” I say, proud as can be of my new love gene.
Gertrude Graves just about malfunctions. “Well, we don’t need to take things overboard now, do we?”
A loud laugh bursts out me as she tells me she hopes I’ll stop by soon for some peach cobbler and coffee, rushing me off the line.
But not before she throws in that she’s proud of me, congratulating me on my Ascension Award, and giving me a tip to keep an eye on newsstands for an article dropping soon about Zeek Harrison.
When I set my phone on the passenger seat, I sit there for a second. Despite the tiny ache in my heart, I’m smiling as I pull up the Ellswood Times website, actually contemplating making a U-turn of my own, headed back to the man I love.