Chapter 8 #3
I kissed his forehead after his prayers, thankful for the unique gift of Justus.
“Mom, don’t stay up too late. You don’t wanna be cranky in the morning.”
“Yes, Daddy J.” I gazed around his room, amazed by his fastidiousness.
Books neatly lined his bookcase. The prized baseballs his dad had gifted him, autographed by Hank Aaron and Dusty Baker, were safely contained in their acrylic cases while his stamp collection was on proud display.
Very little was out of place. “Love you, baby.”
His echoed sentiment wrapped a sweet halo about my head as I gently closed his door and headed to the great room, expecting to find Paul there.
Sounds from the kitchen redirected me. I found him at my small, quartz-topped kitchen island scooping ice cream into bowls. “Okay, sir. Make yourself at home.”
He laughed without a shred of guilt for having rummaged through my drawers and cabinets. “Pecan praline for the queen. Have a seat.”
I complied, accepting the cold confection he placed in front of me, finding it nice to be served for a change. I dug in without hesitation, moaning with satisfaction as deliciousness bathed my tastebuds. “Bay-bee, Fisher’s still can’t be beat!”
“Agreed. Now, fill me in on the life of Lynette.”
“My friend, talking has to wait.” He grinned as I shoveled more ice cream in my mouth and shimmied my shoulders in satisfaction. “Okay… one more.” Three spoons later I’d satisfied myself enough to launch into our years apart.
I offered highlights and snippets, enough to paint a picture of the life I’d lived. College. Daddy’s death. Earning my teaching credential. Having Justus. Navigating his recent diagnosis. “Now, you. My turn to eat uninterrupted.”
He chuckled before bringing me up to speed.
He was a mortgage broker who also renovated and flipped properties.
He and his college sweetheart divorced three years ago, having grown apart.
His sons—a freshman and junior attending HBCUs—were his heartbeats.
“They both received full rides to their top pick Historically Black College, so my pockets aren’t bleeding. ”
“Congratulations and thank You, Jesus.”
“Indeed. I hope this isn’t offensive… but Justus seems like a well-balanced kid.”
I swallowed the remnants of the praline I was chewing, glad he’d called my son well-balanced versus normal.
Part of our growth was acknowledging that he was different.
Normal wasn’t a goal or aspiration. The greatest kindness I could show Justus and that he could show himself was acceptance.
“No offense taken. He’s blessed with a good support system.
I’m proud of who he is as well as his progress. ”
I dismissed worrisome thoughts of budget cuts, obtaining my master’s and earning more so I could afford Thrive Time and a better life overall.
I reminded myself that, as Granny liked to say, everything would work out because it was already divinely orchestrated.
I redirected my focus to my guest, relaxed to the sounds of jazz filtering in from the other room, and told myself to enjoy this moment. “This is nice…”
Truly, it was. I had Bria, Shay, Nichelle, good friends and a host of women relatives.
Other than my uncles and meathead cousins, I rarely had the opportunity to relax and chat with the opposite sex.
With or without romance attached. It felt good sitting with someone who knew me past and present without the need to manipulate or inflate perceptions.
Paul’s company was a sweet interruption to my routine.
We talked. Laughed. Reminisced. With subtle but frequent physical touches.
His hand on mine. Mine on his. I felt mildly flirtatious, hyperfeminine.
I wasn’t Miss Stanford, Nette, or Mom. I was simply me.
Two years deep in celibacy. “Why did we lose touch in the first place?” I spoke quickly, rushing past the growing heat I was feeling.
Paul reached for my hand. “We went in different directions. I looked for you on social media a couple of years ago but that was a fail.”
I laughed quietly, needing time to dispel the shivers flashing over my skin as Paul slowly stroked the back of my hand. “I’m not big on social media or wasting energy scrolling and drooling over the world’s fakery.”
Seconds passed before he responded—voice low and enticing. “So, it took me flying home to find you again?”
“I guess…” Words evaporated as he leaned in and kissed me. Gently. Sweetly.
I wasn’t ready for the electrical shocks his kiss sent through me, or the way that kiss went from gentle to deep in five heartbeats. Or the want and hunger that rocked my life-imposed celibacy. When he stood, I stood and melted into his embrace as if I’d always wanted to be there.
When kissing became too much and I craved more of his touch I ignored decorum and the responsible me. I surrendered to need, led him down the hall to my aqua and ivory oasis.
I was tempted to text Nichelle and tell her I wouldn’t need her telepathic orgasm as I quietly closed the door behind us.