My Daughter's Boyfriend (4 page)

Stop that, Tracey. Stop.

“Hey, uh, I need to get something, please?” Aaron said, and snapped me out of my mental bondage. His voice sounded more normal, more sincere.

“From here? You need something from my room?” I asked.

“Uh, yeah.”

“What is it? I’ll get it,” I snapped.

“My paaaas,” he mumbled.

“Speak up, what did you say?” His tongue got in the way of his words, and he was acting strange, a little too annoying for my tastes. I couldn’t wait for him to get whatever he needed and then get on out.

“Pants,” he said, his voice laden with edginess.

I whirled open the door, smirking in doubt, but sure enough the guy only had on a white undershirt and a pair of tight-fitting BVDs, but no pants.

How utterly stupid,
I thought, looking from his eyes to his midsection to his eyes again.
He could at least have the brains enough to let Lauren
sneak in here and get his pants.

I widened my door and let him brush past me and he retrieved his slacks, which were crumpled on my bureau.

I kneaded the corners of my forehead with my fingers. It was one of those moments when a parent knows she should ask, but just doesn’t want to hear the details right then. I just didn’t want to know.

Moving my hands from my temples, I stood there looking at him yet not really seeing him, but he waved his arms at me rapidly as if to say, “Do you mind?”

Appalled, I spun around, heard him slipping his legs inside his trousers, zipper zipped, and he brushed past me like a whir of light once more. I didn’t say good-bye, didn’t want to. He didn’t say anything either. I followed him to the door and locked it behind him. And in his departure I sniffed again, battling the unsettling feeling he gave me, then taking in a long, deep breath.

In Aaron’s absence, and with the settling down after all the drama that just happened, I noticed how my body ached, how my muscles felt tender and sore, how my throat was parched, and how it felt like everything hurt, on the inside and out. I stepped back inside the doorway of my bedroom and it seemed all my movement came to a complete stop the second I detected the tantalizing scent of a man’s cologne
talking to me.

Tracey 6

“Mom, how old was you when you started having sex?”
“Hmmm. I know where this is going, and the answer is no.” “But, Mom—”

“ ‘But, Mom,’ my butt, Lauren. We’ve been over this far too many times for us to even be having this discussion, and I just don’t wanna talk about it.”

It was Saturday evening, and Lauren and I were in the car on our way home from shopping at the IKEA on the Katy Freeway. Recently my collection of books had been growing, growing, growing. I had some extra cash and decided to pick up two sets of bookshelves. But soon after writing the check, I thought about how I just wasn’t in the mood to assemble them.

“But, Mom, this isn’t fair. You started having sex with Daddy when you were fifteen.”

“I wish I’d never told you that,” I said, trying to fuss and drive at the same time.

“And I’ll probably be on Social Security by the time I find out—”

“Believe me, it’s overrated. These music videos and movies and
Dawson’s Creek
stuff makes your little hormones think they’re missing out. But you aren’t missing a thing.”

“Oh, I’ll bet you weren’t thinking that when you and Daddy conceived me.” I could feel her staring at me from the corner of my eyes.

“Look, Lauren. Only reason I’m telling you this is because I’ve been there and done what you think you want to do. Now, I hope you and Aaron haven’t gone there yet—”

“No, we have not, thanks to you.”

“You ought a be thanking me. I’m trying to save your life, girl.”

“I don’t need my life to be saved.”

“Lauren, at this point you don’t know what you need and I’m not down for you crawling in some guy’s bed when you’re just a teenager.”

“So it was good enough for you to know about sex firsthand at a young age, but not me?”

I didn’t say anything. What could I say? I’d already told her a thousand times how it was for me. How my body was never the same after I’d had a child. Belly puffed out like a loaf of bread, no amount of sit-ups ever making any worthwhile dents. And all those nights my mother and I were forced to rush Lauren to the hospital because her four-year-old self would be running around and boom—she’d slam into the corner of a table and then yell, scream, and suffer scrapes and bloodied gashes on her forehead. Just little things here and there which advertise the fact that you’re a youngster raising a youngster and trying to survive in a grown-up world. As far as I was concerned, I only wanted to tell my daughter about those types of experiences; she shouldn’t have to live through them herself.

“Mom,” she said, with hope lifting her voice. “What if we use a condom? I don’t even think you and Daddy used one.”

“Now hold up. You can whine and state your case all you want. The bottom line is, safe sex isn’t even an option for you. No sex is more like it.”

“Well, what if I sneak and do it?”

I laughed. “Ain’t no such thing as sneaking. Parents always find out stuff sooner or later.”

She groaned and turned away from me. “I guess my stuff will be found out later, huh, Mom?”

“I guess so,” I replied in such a way that she knew the conversation was over.

We rode along in silence for a few miles, but then turned into the parking lot of one of those Burger King combo gas stations and drove up next to the take-out speaker.

“What you want, Lauren?”

“Onion rings. Fish sandwich. And a large cola.”

“Hmmm, okay. I think I’ll just get a strawberry shake.”

Five minutes later we arrived in front of our apartment unit. I grabbed my shake and Lauren reached for her soda.

I paused.

“What about the rest of your food? You gonna bring that in the house? You know I don’t like you to leave half-eaten food in the car.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” she mumbled and reached for her paper bag.

AT MIDMORNING THE NEXT DAY,
Lauren’s dad picked her up fifteen minutes late to take her to worship service at Solomon’s Temple. Lauren had on a cute little beige pantsuit and was tossing keys, a pen, comb, and some cosmetics into her church purse.

“Have a good time. Say a prayer for me,” I called to Lauren, who hustled through the front door.

It was nearly twelve o’clock. Overcast outside as well as inside my mind. I had nothing on my agenda. No plans for lunch, no prospects to be sitting on some guy’s lap. Feeling abandoned and restless, I glanced at the unopened boxes of IKEA bookshelf materials and felt a familiar lump of loneliness in my heart. No matter what bad things go down between a man and a woman, she’s always good for remembering the times. And at that point my mind was clogged with memories. And minutes later those recollections had me snatching my handbag and locking the front door.

During the well-traveled route, my ears burned and my heart screamed.
Yes,
I remembered what happened the other night.
Yes,
I knew I’d smacked him across his lying face, but if he was self-introspective, maybe he’d realize he deserved it. Better yet, maybe he missed me.

Besides, I had those bookshelves and I needed a handyman.

Twenty minutes later I came to a stop in front of the town house. The tan brick building with yellow and white shutters looked peaceful and clashed with the emotions that raged inside me. With my heart thumping like a time bomb, I plodded toward Steve’s door and tapped. Several minutes passed before a guy I didn’t recognize opened the door and peeped through a slight crack. He yawned, then cleared his throat.

“Yes?” he mumbled, like talking was a struggle.

“Steve here?”

He frowned and thumped his fingertips across the back of the door, then let me in.

I tiptoed into the living room, observing every piece of furniture: the sectional that I helped Steve pick out a few months ago; the thirty-two-inch console we used to camp in front of like TV was going out of style. Then I spotted the fish tank and shuddered at the memories of what Steve and I used to do next to his big aquarium. Running my fingers against the chilled glass, I wondered if the fish remembered me.

“Steve’s upstairs. I’ll go get him.”

The guy turned and paused. “I’m Joseph, by the way. Steve’s second cousin.”

“Oh yeah? So glad to meet you,” I said, but actually I could care less.

I inhaled when I entered the kitchen. No female aromas here.

I allowed myself a small grin . . . especially when I noticed a gray box of Aerosoles.

Were these mine, I wondered. Running my hand across the box, I lifted the lid. Hmmm. Cute shoes. Replacing the lid, I blushed and raised the box.

Size eight? My feet can’t squeeze into a doggoned size eight. I dropped the shoebox and sat my dejected butt on the couch. I felt like a stranger in his town house, a place I’d been to that used to feel like home. Parts of me wanted to run from there as fast as my pride would allow, but the stupid and insecure parts of me won out, and I remained cemented to my seat.

It took ten nail-biting minutes for Steve to bound down the stairs. He wore no glasses, was dressed in a wrinkled gray muscle tee with black running shorts, and his beloved ponytail was as wild-looking as an untended lawn.

“What you want, Tracey?” he asked, standing near the television.

Even though my mind told me to walk, I half-ran toward him. “Hey, baby—”

“I’m not your baby,” he said. When I tried to reach for him, he stepped aside.

I felt dumb and dumber and wasn’t sure how to handle him. Maybe I shouldn’t have come to see him. Maybe I wasn’t trying hard enough.

I softened my voice. “Steve, I—I know you may be pissed about what happened, but I’ve had some time to think. I want to make sure you meant what you said the other night.”

“What you talking about? I said a lot of things.”

“I’m not talking about the bad stuff, Steve. I’m referring to the good stuff.”

“Why’d you think I meant that?”

“Because you put your arms around me as soon as Lani left . . . and you told me I’m the only woman for you.” Men are
so
forgetful.

“And so?”

“And sooo . . . I was thinking I must’ve meant
something
to you for you to even do that.”

“You’re grasping, Tracey,” he said with this satisfied smirk.

“Steve, this isn’t . . . this isn’t grasping,” I said. Couldn’t he tell this wasn’t grasping?

“You know, with everything that went down, I can see me and you aren’t going to work out . . . so too bad you wasted your gas driving over here because . . . it
is
over.”

“But it doesn’t have to be. I didn’t mean—”

He groaned and looked unimpressed. “Look, I’m getting a little bit tired of repeating myself, but if necessary I can do it again.”

“It’s not nec—”

“For the last time, Tracey, you are through.”

“Steve, don’t
be
like this,” I whisper-pleaded.

A ringing noise screeched through the air.

We both looked up.

“Tracey, start making your way outta here,” he said in a don’t-fuckwith-me voice.

“But all I want—”

“Hey, Steve. Phone,” yelled Cousin Joe from the second floor.

“Be right there,” Steve shouted, then turned to look at me.

“It’s over, it’s over,” he said, shaking his head matter-of-factly.

When I failed to make my way out, he looked at his watch, then at me, and asked, “Anything else?”

I cleared my throat. “Since you claim we’re through, I—I was wondering if I could get the clothes I left over here. And the photographs . . . and the two hundred dollars I loaned you.”

“You know, I
hate
women like you,” he hissed, and shook his fist. “I’m about to go upstairs, and by the time I come back down, you’d
better
be gone.”

He headed upstairs without a backward glance.

I stood frozen to my spot, blinking. Every time my eyes snapped closed, I pictured myself in his arms.

Steve loving me. Caressing me. Him saying how I was the bomb while a tidal-wave orgasm ripped through my body and his.

I walked toward his front door but turned to look up those stairs. Strained my ears to hear Steve’s voice one more time. To hear him say, “Hold up, don’t go.” Or hear him admit he didn’t mean what he said.

But after waiting so long, I heard nothing, except the tragic thumping of my own heart.

Tracey 7

It’s been two full weeks since I last talked to Steve,
seven weeks since I was held in his arms. I often think about what happened when we were at his town house. It was all so embarrassing, dramatic, and unnecessary. I wish I could receive closure. The things that went down remind me of the numerous other times that my exes cut me loose.

Poncho sent me a “Dear Jane” e-mail that had a virus attached to it. Poncho said he finally knew what he wanted in life, and it wasn’t me. Slick Rick decided it was time to get a new unlisted phone number; he never bothered to tell me. One day I dialed Slick’s old number and caught the hint. And good ole Badman called and said, “I don’t want to be in a relationship with you,” but he wouldn’t explain why. He told me don’t come by anymore, and if I did, he’d apply for a restraining order.

At first I cried from the pain of how my ex-boyfriends treated me, but then I grew depressed. Wondered what was it about me that caused these guys to have such disrespect that our relationship couldn’t end in a civilized way. Wondered if their past claims of loving me were lies because if they really cared, wouldn’t they break up using a method that was a little more tender, a little less humiliating?

This is the way my father, Reynaldo Davenport, did my mother, Grace. Dad married her, gave her a baby, acted like he was in love with her and me, and years later announced that his job was moving him to another state and no, we weren’t joining him. Then he deserted us without a backward glance. Although it was Mom who was married to him, it felt like my dad divorced me too.

These are the things I dwelled on when it came to the Steve Monroe situation. I hoped he’d handle things better, but Steve turned out to be an identical twin of all the other cowardly nonconfrontational men who were so inept at communicating their feelings. As far as I could tell, most women are so much braver than men. We’re fighters, survivors, and far more honest with our emotions. And because some men can’t verbalize their feelings, they’re threatened by women who do. And what happens? If the man can’t deal with it, women get punished and the gender gap widens. These realizations were something that drove me into an overall sad frustration.

On top of all that, I just cannot deny that Steve was the best lover I ever had. No one could do me like him. I missed that part of our relationship like a diabetic misses sugar. Sugar might not be good for you, can even be dangerous, but it may not stop you from wanting it.

So when you add up everything—the fact that Steve wasn’t trying to get back, the fact that I had no other prospects, and the fact that I loved sex—well, things were bound to happen.

It was a Saturday. I decided to skip out to Katy Mills. Katy Mills was the largest off-price retail mall in the Houston area. It had more than two hundred stores and restaurants and was the hot spot for shopping till you dropped. Last time I’d been there was in October, during the grand opening, and I’d been itching to go back.

I gassed up my car and arrived around five that evening. Since it was a few weeks before Christmas, traffic inside the mall was mega-congested. Folks shuffling their feet, elbowing their way through. I thought I’d just get lost in the crowd, venture into my favorite stores, grab a bite to eat, and head on home. But just when you think you’ve figured out your schedule, you realize there’s no such thing as a schedule.

I had shopped for a half-hour when . . .

“Mrs. Davenport?”

I looked up at hearing Aaron’s voice.

He was by himself.

Since the last time I’d saw him, I thought about how I behaved, relinquished my pride, and asked God to forgive me for even allowing my mind to go there. And since then, I’d made sincere attempts not to dwell on those encounters, but now that Aaron was back in my face, he brought back memories. And the fact that I could check him out again, up close, and minus the presence of Lauren, well, it floored me to realize I felt a little bit nervous yet excited at the same time.

I smiled and checked out his attire. He was dressed in a black leather jacket, which covered a pale yellow shirt. The blue jeans and a neat pair of loafers completed his ensemble. And I noticed an energy that surrounded him even though he wasn’t moving.

“Hi, Aaron.”

“You here alone?” he asked, his eyes darting about like men’s eyes tend to do.

“I’m as alone as alone can be.”

He smiled and looked at me with kindness.

“Why would someone who looks as fine as you be all by yourself on a Saturday night?”

I opened my mouth in shock, but laughed. “If you’re trying to make me feel good, you’ve done your job. But you know, Aaron, there comes a day when everyone must spend some time alone. We don’t always have to be up under somebody. That alone shouldn’t validate a person.”

He blinked his eyes like I’d given him too much information.

“Sorry. It was one of those weeks,” I stated.

Without specifically agreeing to do so, we walked side by side. I heard the noises of crying babies, laughing children, and loud teens that swarmed around us, but it was like they weren’t even there. Compared to Aaron, those people looked like a blur.

While making our way through the mall, I was surprised but pleased that Aaron kept a respectful distance. When I’d come a little too close to him due to the crowds, he’d slow down, or spread his hands and point the way so I could pass through. I looked at him in admiration. He noticed my intense stare and had the nerve to blush. I
love
it when men blush.

“So, how are things going with you and Lauren?” I asked with a tease of a smile.

“Th-they’re going.”

“That bad, huh?”

“They’re okay,” he hedged.

“I’ll bet I have something to do with how things are going.”

Instead of responding, he turned to gaze at the mechanical alligator in the man-made pond outside the Rainforest Café, near the front entrance of the restaurant, which boasts a jungle theme complete with towering trees, massive leaves, talking birds, resembling an indoor safari. We laughed at the dozens of children that pitched quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies inside the roaring alligator’s mouth.

“Hey, have you eaten here before?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Want to join me? I’m hungry.”

He looked at his watch.

“Well, I guess it’ll be okay,” he said.

“Why are you hesitating?”

His facial expression froze, so I smiled and pulled him by the arm.

“Come on, son. You’re practically my son, anyway. It won’t hurt you to join me for dinner. Lauren will have a fit when I tell her I ran into you at the mall.”

He exhaled and didn’t move away when I grabbed his arm. After we were seated, we placed our order, sipped on lemon water, and nibbled on chicken breast strips dipped in honey mustard.

“You doing a little last-minute Christmas shopping?” I asked.

“Yep, I already bought Lauren’s gift. Now I need to find something for my parents.”

“Your parents? How are they?”

“Doing good. Except Dad’s sugar’s been getting to him. Other than that, they’re well.”

“I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting them. Maybe you could bring them over one day.” I was trying so hard to be good. Trying so hard to maintain my feelings.

He hesitated, then said, “Sure.”

“You have a problem with that, Aaron?”

“Oh no, no, no. It’s cool. My folks are, well, they’re getting up there in age.”

“Do they like Lauren?”

“They don’t care who I date, Mrs. Davenport.”

“I really wish you’d stop calling me Mrs. Davenport. I’m not a Mrs. Never married.”

“No?” Aaron asked. “Would it be prying if I asked why not?”

“Well, it’s not like I didn’t want to get married. Just never met the right guy.”

“And Lauren’s dad, apparently he wasn’t right for you?”

“Oh, hell naw.”

He grinned in a way that could rival Chris Webber’s smile.

“I don’t mean to make it sound so bad, but ultimately all we did was get together and conceive a baby. At least that’s what it boils down to, in my assessment. Now, if you asked Derrick, he might have a different take altogether.”

“Was it worth it?” he probed.

“What? Having the baby?”

“Not just that, but having a relationship with Lauren’s dad?”

“I’ve never really thought about it. At the time we met, I’m sure I thought it was worth it. And I definitely can’t imagine Lauren not being in my life. So, in retrospect, I guess I can say it was worth it—just to have Lauren, it was.”

“And her father? How does he fit into the picture these days?”

“You should know the answer to that. You see how he keeps in touch with Lauren. You and Derrick have been around each other much more than you have been around me.”

“Yeah, I’ve hung out with Mr. Hayes a little bit. He seems protective of Lauren, nice, but distant sometimes.”

“That’s Derrick.”

“I hope you aren’t offended when I ask this, but I take it Mr. Hayes used to be your type, but isn’t . . . anymore?” he said.

I hesitated, but admitted, “You take it correctly.”

At my revelation, Aaron’s eyes penetrated mine to the point that I felt outright uncomfortable. It seemed he was loosening up a bit and roles were being shifted. I didn’t know if I liked that or not. Wondered what it meant. Having no answers, I downed the remaining half-glass of lemon water, then signaled the waitress for two more glasses. Mouth felt that dry.

“So, what kind of man is your type?”

“Is there a reason for these questions, Aaron? Feels like I’m being interviewed.”

He snickered like he enjoyed the fact he could do things that made me put up my defenses.

“Say, Tracey. Dang, calling you that sounds so strange.”

“Get used to it.”

“Hmmm, okay. Like I was saying—what was I saying?”

“Don’t know. You tell me.”

“I don’t remember what I was going to say, but I will say this. I—I think you’re a highly attractive woman, you seem like a good person to talk to, and I think any guy who has you in his life should consider himself fortunate.”

I thought about Steve and said, “I don’t know about all that,” and shifted in my seat.

I swiped the menu from the center of the table and scanned it with such intensity that even if the ghost of Marvin Gaye floated in, I wouldn’t look up. I pulled the menu close to my eyes like I was nearsighted. But even while I was reading, I was wondering if Aaron was wondering about me. It seemed he’d go from being timid to aggressive, and his mood shifts intrigued me. Messed with me.

I set down the menu.

“Aaron, why would you say something like that about me? Why?”

“Something like what? That you’re attractive?”

“Yes, that.”

“Uh, I don’t get it. What? You want me to lie to you? Tell you something that’s not true?”

“Oh, so you’re saying you don’t lie?”

“I’ll say I don’t make a habit of lying to a woman. Not if I can help it.”

“That’s a lie right there.”

We locked eyes. Mine misted. I don’t know if his eyes misted or not, but I know for a fact they stayed glued to my face. Felt strange to be scrutinized, yet I liked to be looked at by someone who was good to look at. I mean, most days I thought I looked as fine as Vivica A. Fox, but other days I felt I looked just okay, and I was always suspicious if a man told me I was
extremely
attractive. I wanted to believe him, but it was tough to accept a compliment at face value, no matter how great the words made me feel.

When Aaron finally stopped staring, I noticed how his hair smelled so fresh and looked so moisturized. His fingernails were clean, and professionally manicured. And since mustaches are my weakness, I stared at the hairs above his top lip. Stared until I found my mind going there once more. My soul warned “no,” but my bold mind was uncooperative. Imagining. Wondering what would’ve happened if he hadn’t left my apartment that night. Could something have gone on between Aaron and me?

Nah,
I thought.
I doubt it.

Fantasizing is wonderful, and at this point that’s all it was, I reasoned, pure fantasy.

We started eating our meal, and the conversation came to a temporary halt. He didn’t seem to mind the silence. Buried his face in his plate and put the “pig” in pigging out, chomping on food and smacking his lips. Since I had nothing better to do, I looked around the restaurant while I ate. A few women, black and white, cast rude stares toward our table.

“Hmm, Aaron. Check out the looks that we’re getting.”

“Oh yeah?” He raised his head from his plate to observe his observers.

“Wonder what they’re thinking?” I said, starting to feel self-conscious.

“I don’t give a damn what they think.”

“And why is that?”

“For all they know, you could be my sister, my cousin . . . or my girl.”

I bit my bottom lip. Damned eyes misted once more.

“But then again, Tracey, you got somebody already, right?”

“Funny you should ask. I—I recently got out of a relationship with my ex, Steve.”

“Hmmm, sorry to hear that.”

“Why would you be sorry?” This I had to hear.