Better Than Okay (31 page)

Chapter 31

Saturday,
7:12 a.m.

Everyone
is always talking about how weak love makes them. How it deludes their senses,
makes their vision cloudy, makes them soft and malleable. I don’t know a lot
about it, but I don’t think any of those things are right. Love makes you
strong. Love covers your weaknesses. Love fills all of the tiny cracks in you
that would be imperceptible to anyone else. Love is there even when you think
you don’t want it or need it. Love stays. Love endures. Love covers. Love
chooses. Love isn’t weak at all. Love is strength. And if God is love, and love
is all of those things, I think that just maybe—well, I KNOW I’ll be
okay. Actually… I’ll be better than okay.

###

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I prayed constantly while writing
this book—to say that the unending grace of God sustained me is selling
Him short. To my mom, who read this book at every stage, cheered me on and
constantly asked me for another chapter, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have
finished this if it weren’t for you. So thanks. And I mean that with everything
in me. To my daughter who isn’t old enough to read this but will someday, I
love you. You are my everyday joy. To my love, Mike, who said “darkening eyes”
gave him the creeps, to my brother Justin for his creativity and support and to
my brother Jordan and my dad for their grunts of encouragement, thanks. Also, a
huge thank you to Ciarra Hodges, I so appreciate you. To every family member
and friend who has ever given me a kind word encouragement, thank you. To the
musicians who served as a soundtrack while I was writing: Jesse Boykins, The
Foreign Exchange, Minnie Riperton,
D’Angelo
,
Erykah
Badu,
Outkast
, Stevie
Wonder, John Legend, Scarface, Sade, Daley, Miles Davis, Kendrick Lamar, Killer
Mike, Radiohead, Raphael Saadiq and countless others, thanks for sharing your
art. And finally, to you—yes, you—thank you so much for reading
these words. Sweet.

ABOUT
THE AUTHOR

Jacinta Howard is a writer, music
junkie and lover of love. She lives in Atlanta with her family. Visit her at jacintahoward.net.

Happiness
in Jersey

COMING SUMMER 2014

Excerpt from
Happiness in Jersey
copyright © 2014 by Jacinta Howard

Chapter 1

I’m
not having an orgasm. And that realization is a little disappointing, given that
he’s still on top of me pumping like there’s no tomorrow. Or like… well, I’m
about to have an orgasm.

I would feel sad for him if I wasn’t the one
under him, having to endure his sub-par sexual ability that he clearly has not
yet realized is sub-par.

I
wonder if Willow remembered to record the
Different
World
marathon for me? Whitley is pretty freaking hilarious. She probably
didn’t. Willow doesn't ever remember shit. I should’ve left one of those
post-it notes for her. But I refuse to write a note on a damned neon heart for
another girl. It’s weird. I wonder why she buys those kinds of post-its? I
mean, I get that she’s a girly-girl and generally enjoys anything shaped like
hearts but…

“
Jersey
!”

My
eyes automatically opened when he said my name. He said it like he just
realized he’s about to have an orgasm and I can’t help but feel more than a
little giddy that this terrible shit is about to be over. Once upon a time I
would’ve stopped him right in the middle of his pathetic, rhythm-less humping
if he wasn’t getting me off. I must be getting nice or something. It’s probably
that freaking Willow rubbing off on me.

I
kept my eyes open, waiting for the moment as I studied his face. Despite his
lack of sexual skill, he was pretty damned fine. Nice eyes. Strong jaw. Pretty
smile. Not that it means anything. I never sleep with anyone that I don’t think
is attractive.

A
few seconds later, he grunts and rolls over, utterly spent. From what, I have
no idea. I guess he worked really hard or something. I just hope he doesn't try
to spoon me. Guys who think they need to spoon me after sex are pretty
pathetic. Nothing about me even remotely suggests that I’m the kind of girl
that enjoys spooning.

“That
was so good.”

He
inched toward me and tried to drag me against him. Shit. He wants to freaking
spoon.
I have to get out of here.
I
pulled out of his loose hold and sat up, pulling my short, manicured
fingernails through my untamed, curly hair. He looked up at me with a content,
almost cocky expression. He does realize I didn’t have an orgasm, right?

 
I somehow stopped myself from rolling my
eyes and leaned over on my hands and knees to find my Spider-Man underwear,
giving him a great view of my ass. It’s the last time he’ll ever see it, so why
not?

He
eyed my underwear as I sat down next to him, hastily pulling them on. I found
my purple Jimi Hendrix t-shirt hanging off the side of the cheap mattress and
slipped it over my head, ruffling my hair with my fingers again. I hadn’t taken
off my bra, so once I found my shorts I’d be out of here. I lifted up his plain
beige comforter and peered under the sheets. I’m pretty sure they’d been
discarded under there somewhere.

“You
were wearing Superman underwear?”

I
didn’t glance at him.

“I
am
wearing
Spider-Man
underwear,” I corrected.

Seriously.
What kind of idiot doesn’t know the difference between Superman and Spider-Man?
Where the hell are my shorts?

“Are
those actual little boy underwear?” he asked, still gaping. “Like for actual
little boys?”

He
had the nerve to sound disgusted. I rolled my eyes, becoming increasingly
annoyed.

“They’re
more comfortable than that lacy, frilly crap.”

I
shot him a look. Why the hell was I explaining myself to this guy anyway? I
don’t explain myself to anyone. I don’t have to.

“So
what, did you buy them at Wal-mart or something? In one of those packages that
have like, four or five pair in them?”

What the hell?

“Are
you seriously still talking about my fucking underwear?” I asked, unable to
help myself.

Where the hell are my shorts?
I have to get out of here before I punch this
asshole. He didn’t even get me off and now he’s talking shit about my choice of
underwear? I knew coming up here was a mistake.

“You
have such a potty mouth,” he said, making his disgusted face again.

I
turned and scowled at him, this time not even trying to disguise my strenuous
eye roll.

“What
are you, eight? Who the
fuck
says
‘potty mouth’?” I said, deliberately trying to rile him.

He
huffed but said nothing.
 
I got up
and peered underneath the bed. Yes! I yanked my holey jean shorts from under it
and quickly put them on, jumping a bit as I pulled them over my hips, covering
the tatt of the sun I have right where my hipbone meets my pelvis.

“Sorry
if I offended you about the underwear thing,” he said, catching my eye as soon
as my shorts were on. “You’re still the prettiest, sexiest girl I know. Your
lips are incredible.”

Ugh,
I think I just threw up in my mouth. I rolled my eyes at his blatant bullshit.
I don’t have low self-esteem. I know I’m cute, even pretty when I try. I know a
lot of guys think I’m sexy and I know the reason why is because I genuinely
don’t give a crap about what people think about me anymore. Men dig that
“untamed” shit.

My
complexion is clear and brown with a red undertone. My Pops says it’s the
Georgia red clay coming out in me—that shit doesn’t make any sense but he
says it all of the time like it's a brilliant observation. My hair is thick and
curly and my lips are lush but not so big that they don’t fit my round face. My
nose is small but not too button-ish like the chick from
America’s Next Top Model
. What’s her name? Eva? Eve? Whatever. Not
saying that anything is wrong with her nose. It works for her.

“We
cool?” he pressed when I didn’t say anything.

“No
worries,” I replied, still trying to be nice.

“We
can hang out if you want,” he said, sounding hopeful but trying unsuccessfully
to play it off. “I’ll order a pizza or something.”

“Nah,”
I said, making my voice softer. “I have a test tomorrow and I need to go
study.”
 

He
smirked, almost like he didn’t believe me. I felt agitation surging in my
chest. Dumbasses like him always think that just because I openly enjoy sex and
don’t run around campus looking like the rest of these misguided chicks, I must
not give a shit about my grades. Well, guess what? I have 3.8 GPA, assholes.

“I’ll
call you later, J,” I lied, nevertheless.

I
call him “J” because I can’t remember whether his name is pronounced Jer-
on
or Jer-
in
and I simply can’t bring myself to give a crap either way.

I
found my bag and flip-flops by the door, grabbed my keycard and lip-gloss off
of the small desk that was pushed against the wall of his dorm room and quickly
opened the door.

“Okay,
well, later,” he called after me, disappointment lacing his voice. I gave him a
half-hearted wave, shutting the door soundly behind me.

Damn.
I was hoping I wouldn’t have to worry about getting the obligatory “after sex”
call, in which the guy openly wonders “where this is going.” The answer is
always the same: Nowhere, dude. Now, kick rocks.

 
I made my way through the hallway that
was littered with multi-colored flyers announcing study groups, open-mics and
offers
to join bullshit clubs nobody cares about and ambled
down the wide stairs that led to the main entrance of the dorm building. I
passed by a couple of guys who openly assessed me on my way down the steps but
I wasn’t in the mood for them. My lack of orgasm had given me a momentary
disdain for overly excited teen boys and their overly confident teenage sex
experience. I pushed through the heavy front doors and inhaled.

 
It felt good to be out of J’s cramped,
stuffy-ass room. The smell made me pretty sure he’d had more than his share of
girls up there already, even though we were only a couple of weeks into the
fall semester. His roommate, Derek, was clearly not getting any. Derek’s face
looked like Mount Vesuvius erupted on it. I suppose I should probably be
disturbed that I remember J’s roommate’s name and not his. But I’m not.

Oh
well.

I
dug in my bag for my Oreos, popping one in my mouth as I walked leisurely down
the promenade toward Cannon Hall, where my dorm was located. The campus was
littered with students, talking and laughing with the various groups that made
up the student body. The lawns were impeccably manicured and thick clusters of
pecan trees were dotted throughout the campus. It was idyllic, really. The
immaculate landscaping was tailored specifically for overprotective moms and
dads who otherwise would be too afraid to drop their precious sons and daughters
off at school. Pecans trees definitely scream safety. No chance of date rape
happening if the campus has pecan trees.

Really,
I figured South Texas State was just like any other college—a means to an
end. It got me the hell out of Douglasville, Georgia, which has been my sole
desire since I was fourteen and fully realized that college could be a
legitimate escape.

 
The curriculum at South Texas was decent
enough, the students were average enough and the tuition was astronomically
high and totally not worth it. Yep, just like every other university in
America. Which is why I’m on academic scholarship. My scholarship covers about
eighty-five percent of my tuition. The other fifteen percent is on me, courtesy
of my job at the coffee shop around the corner, Aroma.

It
was a little after seven and dusk was just starting to settle over the sky. It
looked like red and orange crayons had melted there, merging together in a
jumbled, but alluring mess. It made me want to draw, or play my bass outside on
the patio like I used to do back home.

I
kept my stroll steady as I passed a couple of girls who were clearly art
majors. They practically wore their “creativity” and disdain for any
conventionalism on their hipster sleeves. I hate hipsters. They’re stupid.
Talking, dressing and looking like everyone else who “goes against the grain”
kinda
defeats the purpose of going against the grain, right?

Plus,
majoring in anything artsy is a waste of time. I mean, I play the bass guitar
and I’m not a music major. No way I’d ever do that stupid shit. I learned a
long time ago that all of that following your dreams crap is just that… crap. I
need to survive. And I don’t have fifteen years to waste “finding my way” while
I wait for my art to start paying. Nope. I’m a business management major.

“Jersey!”

I
whipped my head to the left and saw Devin, one of my oldest friends, jogging
toward me. I finished off my cookie and waited for him to catch up to me. We
grew up together in Douglassville and decided to come to college together. Actually,
I decided to come college here. Devin didn’t really care where he went to
school so when our overworked guidance counselor, Ms. Mitchell suggested South
Texas he’d applied. Once he found out I was going it was just extra incentive,
mostly because one day while sitting in Mr. Thompson’s Trig class, he decided
that we were eventually going to be the black, unmarried version of the White
Stripes. He’d literally texted me the declaration in the class. I remember
because my phone buzzed loudly and Mr. Thompson almost kicked me out of class.

“Damn,
Kinkaid,” he said calling me by my last name, as he often does. He sounded a
little winded. “I’ve been trying to catch you for the past five minutes.”

“Sorry,”
I offered with a slight shrug. “Must’ve zoned out.”

“I
was just about to text you before I saw you,” he said, falling in step beside
me. His Red Sox baseball cap was twisted backwards on his head and he was
wearing a black Velvet Underground t-shirt and some camouflage army shorts with
the bottoms cut off.

“What’s
up?”

“We’re
calling a mandatory rehearsal tonight. We booked that gig for Saturday at The
Spot.”

Devin’s
face was lit up like a Christmas tree as he delivered the news and I couldn’t
help but grin in return. He plays drums and is the one who put our band, The
Prototype, together last semester. He gets super excited whenever we actually
book something. Mostly we just play open mics and jam sessions around town. A
real featured gig is a feat for us.

“Awesome,”
I said, trying to remember if Cheyenne had scheduled me to work on Saturday.
I’m pretty sure she did. We won’t start playing until at least ten though, so
there is no need to call out. It just means I’ll be extra tired. I usually
works
twelve-hour shifts on Saturdays so that I can have more
time for school during the week.

“What
time is rehearsal?” I asked, rounding the corner on the path to my dorm. “I’m
supposed to be studying for my macroeconomics test as we speak.”

He
rolled his eyes, repositioning his cap on his head.

“Come
on, Jersey. You know you already studied for it, right?”

He
eyed me, a knowing look on his face. In all truth, I already had. But I needed
to review. I needed an ‘A’ on this test to pull my grade up from a ‘C+’, which
was important for my overall G.P.A.