Feelin' the Vibe (3 page)

In August, we dropped Mia off to college. It seemed like in the two months since we’ve been home alone, the silence was alarming.
It didn’t seem so bad when Morgan was the only one gone, but it was clear that Kenneth and I were missing something. We were
trapped in a monotone, lifeless marriage, distracted by the kids. So, I decided to try again to give my husband what he wanted
and attempted IVF for the fifth time.

I sat up in my bed and looked at the clock: 3:25 a.m. My insomnia had gotten worse several days ago after my eggs were extracted.
When the sun came up, I would be going in for the embryo transfer, in which they would insert up to four fertilized eggs into
me. The process does not guarantee pregnancy. Trust me, I know. I wondered if this time it would work or if it was even worth
it. The damn artificial hormones in my system were driving me crazy. My mind raced with thoughts about bills, needing a new
car, and wanting just to be free of the pressure to conceive. I felt trapped.

If the transfer didn’t take this time, we would be forced into taking out a loan to do it again. Kenneth wanted to try until
the damn fat lady sang. I heard her singing loud and clear, but he was the positive one, the one who believed that your mind
predicts your destiny and all that other overoptimistic hoopla he tells his clients. And I didn’t want to disappoint him,
so I said nothing. I just went along with the program, despite it being my body experiencing all the changes. He was a good
husband and this was my way of being a good wife.

Six hours later, we were in the cold, sterile room trying to get pregnant. Why couldn’t I be like everyone else and conceive
in a warm, sweaty, lustful bed? I looked at Kenneth, standing beside the bed. His hair was thinning, and his dark lips attempted
to crack a smile. I reached out to hold his large hand, which was about as romantic as my reproductive process gets. I lay
back on the table and put my feet in the stirrups. I prayed that it would work this time, because I was tired. I was so tired
of my life being on hold. From the dark blotches on Kenneth’s once-smooth milk-chocolate skin and the slight traces of crow’s-feet
around his small eyes, he was tired, too. Maybe it just wasn’t meant for us to have kids together.

The doctor inserted the egg and tears rolled down the side of my face. Kenneth wiped them and asked, “Does it hurt?”

I shook my head.

“So why you crying?”

I shrugged. “I just hope it works, because—”

“Stopping thinking negative.”

I huffed. You’d think after seven years of marriage, he’d learn to be my husband and not my therapist.
Don’t be negative. Be careful what you say out of your mouth
. Kenneth thought he knew me better than I knew myself. Considering he was five years older than me, it often felt like he
thought he was my father. Sometimes I just needed a partner to say that everything would be okay, not teach me. But, he’d
yet to get it, and when I tried to dispute his teachings, we always ended up in an argument. I closed my eyes, because I knew
that I didn’t need the added stress. Not now, especially since I’d concluded that this was definitely the last time. I wasn’t
putting my body or my mind through this shit anymore. It had to work and I didn’t want to take any risk. I needed to be as
calm as I could be.

S
hortly after I launched the legislative branch of my parent’s law firm in DC, I was quickly inducted into the high-powered
political scene in the Maryland suburbs. Most of my clients were there, and many of them believed I could make a difference,
and they encouraged me to purchase property in the Maryland area. The Democratic congressman in District 4 had suggested he
would retire, making his seat available in the 2008 election. Considering I’d only been in the area a short time, I was surprised
the Young Democrats were interested in supporting me. Congress had always been a part of the plan, but I assumed first State
Senate and then Congress. I guess when things are meant, they’re just meant. Or better yet, when you have the money to pay
for your campaign, it’s possible to win any election.

The Young Democrats knew that it would be no issue to call my parents and ask them to give me a couple of million. That would
seal the election. Right after I purchased the house in Mitchellville, Maryland, I asked Taylor to marry me. Despite the short
courtship, I knew she couldn’t resist the million-dollar home and the million-dollar man. She accentuated my political résumé.
I had set myself up in less than two months to be the party’s candidate if the congressman really decided to retire.

I didn’t want to jinx myself by spreading the word that my plan was to run for Congress if the opportunity arose. After the
wedding, I thought it was the perfect time to surprise Taylor with the news. We were chilling on the beach in Turks and Caicos
for our honeymoon, relaxing in beach chairs. She read a romance novel, while I read a book about being an effective leader.
It hit me, this was the time to say something. “Taylor, what do you think about me running for Congress in oh-eight?”

She lifted her sunglasses. “Oh-eight? Like next year oh-eight?”

“Yeah. I mean the seat would have to be available and it’s not right now.”

“First of all, we just got married. Do you realize how hard running for Congress will be? Do you realize how much of a strain
that would be on our relationship?”

“But, you know that Congress is my ultimate plan.”

“
Ultimate
is the key word. Let’s live our lives for a moment, before we put them under a microscope,” she pleaded.

Considering it was only a mere possibility, I decided my honeymoon wasn’t the time to argue about it. I had nearly six months
before any decision would need to be made. I leaned back in my chair and nodded like I was listening to her plan. Taylor paused
and almost leaned back, too. As if she had another bright idea why this was wrong, she popped back up and said, “Not to mention,
you’re just getting Love My People going in the direction you want it to go.”

I grimaced because I didn’t understand what my nonprofit organization had to do with my possible run for Congress. I kidded,
“You can run that for me. Right, baby?”

Her neck snapped back, probably because Love My People was a concept that Jason and I had come up with in his last year of
medical school. He did a medical rotation in Honduras and when I went to visit, I felt compelled to help. In the small village
where he worked, the clinic was literally about two hundred square feet. The man running the clinic told us if only he had
people to contribute sheets and beds or even to take time to hand out water to the patients that were waiting, things would
be better. He asked for so little, but there was so much that needed to be done. I felt it was my mission to start an organization
that would take a group of law students twice a year to different South American countries, especially in the areas where
black people were. That way the students could experience injustice firsthand and hopefully they’d be willing to fight it
when they graduated.

Jason liked the idea, too, and he wanted the other component to be medical students coming to administer health care. Since
he had been so busy with residency and his finances weren’t actually where they needed to be yet, he hadn’t had the time to
fully commit to Love My People. And based on what happened the night before the wedding, I wasn’t sure he ever planned to
join the mission. Obviously, Taylor thought we’d eventually get it right, which is why she was staring at me with a smirk
that said she didn’t want to work so closely with a guy she used to date.

“I trust you,” I said jokingly.

She rested back and said, “Devin. Don’t play me. Do you realize if you run for Congress, you may have to give up the foundation?
I mean, they’re going to be watching your every move, and you’ll probably have to expose all your contributors. It’s just
not good.”

Maybe she didn’t fully know what type of man she had yet. I laughed. “Taylor, you do realize that I knew all of this when
I started Love My People. I only solicit and accept donations from American citizens.”

“So I guess you got this all planned out, huh?”

“No, I thought I should discuss it with my wife first.”

She rolled her eyes. This was clearly not going the way I expected. I rested my hand on her knee and looked at her. I said,
“Taylor. You make the call. When do you think would be a good time for me to run?”

“After kids, after we explore the world, I guess when we’re about forty or so.”

I nodded and stared out into the sea. I understood where she was coming from, but I clearly didn’t agree. How often do congressional
seats open up and you really have a shot? I decided we’d cross that bridge when we absolutely had to.

It wasn’t until the end of October that I finally gave up hope and assumed that God had granted Taylor her wish. Congressman
Grayford had yet to announce his retirement and was still wavering whether or not he would do it. I mentally began gearing
up for the 2012. That would give Taylor the time she wanted to build our relationship. Things were going well so far. This
marriage was far better than my last. Unlike Jennifer, Taylor knew how to give me space. She liked her time with me when she
liked it, but she knew how to occupy herself when I wasn’t around. Still, we always made the best of the time we had. Taylor
enjoyed socializing and trying new things, so there was never a dull moment in our house. She couldn’t cook well, but she
knew how to pick out the best restaurants in the city. So, I couldn’t complain.

In fact, I loved coming home to Taylor. She was always so excited and full of life. No matter how drained I was, her personality
invigorated me. I came home on the evening train after spending two days in New York with my daughter, Nicole, and I was ready
to relax with Taylor. Initially, I suggested we go out to eat, but she offered to cook.

When I walked in the house dragging my bags behind me, Taylor met me at the door. She talked a mile a minute, obviously excited
that I was home. I kissed her so that she could stop talking. She tilted her head. “You’re not listening to me.”

I laughed. “No, baby. I’d rather just hold you.”

“Well, hold me then.”

We stood in our large kitchen holding on to each other. All I wanted to do was eat dinner and watch a good movie. I raked
my hand through her asymmetrical haircut. I liked to run my hand up and down the nape of her neck where the tapered part was.
She leaned her head into my shoulder, and I asked, “What did you cook?”

She pulled away and shifted her weight to one leg with her hand on her hip. I laughed and she laughed, too. It had to be one
of two dishes. I walked over to the stove and confirmed it was chicken parmesan. I sniffed. “Hmmm. It smells good.”

“You’re just trying to get me hyped,” she said, as she walked closer to me.

Actually, I didn’t smell much of anything, but I wanted to acknowledge her effort. My stomach was growling, and I hoped that
the lack of aroma didn’t reflect how it would taste. “Nah, baby. I’m not trying to get you hyped. I’m ready to eat. Let me
go get cleaned up and I’ll be back.”

When I returned, she had lit an apple cider candle that sat on the kitchen counter. The plates were prepared and on the table.
I grabbed a bottle of Shiraz from the wine rack and set it on the table beside the toasted garlic bread. Taylor dimmed the
chandelier and sat down. She said grace and opened the bottle of wine. I poured some in her glass and then in mine.

She raised her glass and said, “To being happy.”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

We both took a couple of sips before either of us tasted our food. Finally, I was the brave one to taste it first. I put a
piece of the chicken and a forkful of pasta in my mouth. My face immediately turned up. It didn’t taste as good as it did
the last time, but for the sake of her feelings I was going to stomach it. She smiled at me suspiciously and then she started
laughing.

“It’s not good?”

“It’s okay,” I said, struggling to chew the overcooked, unseasoned chicken.

“You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying. It’s okay.”

She tasted her food and pouted slightly. She chewed and her face crunched up like it was sour. She shook her head. “It’s not
good. You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.” Then she laughed slightly, like she was embarrassed, and I started laughing,
too. She said, “Let’s just eat the bread and wine.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Taylor and I tossed our plates. I was just happy she was confident enough to admit the food was horrible. I didn’t rub it
in. Instead, we ate the whole loaf of garlic bread and drank wine. After we were done, I suggested we go relax. She pulled
a box of strawberries from the refrigerator and picked up the wine bottle, and we headed up to our bedroom.

She sat on the bed and began to take off her clothes, and I stared at her. She smiled at me and she took the bottle of wine
and poured some in between her breasts. I walked over to her and began licking her and massaging her breasts. She rubbed my
head seductively. I grabbed the bottle from her and lay her down. Then I poured more on her and grabbed a strawberry. As I
tickled one nipple with the top of the strawberry, I swallowed a mouthful of the other. Taylor squirmed and tried to take
my sweater off. I stood at the edge of the bed, quickly stepped out of my pants, and pulled my sweater over my head. I grabbed
another strawberry and traced up and down the middle of her stomach with it. I carefully grazed her vagina with the strawberry
and put her juices in my mouth, while she stroked my dick vigorously. I wanted to put it in her so bad, but I wanted to make
her feel good. I spread her legs apart and plunged my tongue into her entrance. She clamped on to my shoulders and made sweet
sounds. My hands pressed into her flat stomach, so that I could taste all of her. She was so wet. I had to feel her, and she
summoned me to put it in. I climbed on the bed and entered her. She stared at me intensely as I went deep inside. She moaned
and rubbed my back passionately as I stroked her. She sucked on my neck and I turned her face to kiss me. She told me how
good I made her feel and I stroked harder. She yelled my name and I held her tightly, pumping faster until I came all in her.
She sighed, “I love you, Devin.”