Love in a Carry-On Bag (10 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Honey, I’m Home

E
r
ica didn’t know her
flight had been canceled until she reached Hartsfield-Jackson airport in Atlanta. At the counter, the clerk explained that her only option of getting out that night was to fly to Miami for a connection. Desperate to see Warren, she agreed. But when she called to give him the news, the home line was busy and his cell phone went to voicemail. She batted away the fleeting thoughts of unfaithfulness. Warren had never given her cause for concern, but it troubled her that she couldn’t get in touch with him.

When she arrived at Reagan National airport, it was much later than she had planned. Tired and worn thin, she eased into the backseat of the taxicab hoping that Warren was at home. She gave the driver the address and pulled a compact from her handbag to touch-up her lips. The anxiety she felt wasn’t comforting, and when she finally stood in the hallway at his door, one of Grandma Queeny’s sayings slapped against her ear.

“When you think you surprising a man, nine out of ten times, you’re the one left wide-eyed.”

She turned her key. The flat-screen television flickered while a shampoo commercial played on. A pizza box lay open on the coffee table with five untouched slices and several ends of crust. Warren was on the sofa rounded in the fetal position wearing only his underwear. Erica could smell the scent of marijuana in the air. “Hmm, I thought he’d quit,” she thought to herself.

Warren had been a typical weed-smoking musician when she met him. He had even persuaded her to try it a few times, but it made her too hyper and it never became something they shared. When he accepted the job at RCSI, he had no choice but to stop because of the drug testing. He hadn’t lost his way once since, even when his mother died. Something serious must have happened to make him break now.

“It’s me baby,” she pushed her hip into his waist, squeezing next to him on the sofa. Warren opened his eyes and the sleep on his face made him appear boyish. When his focus adjusted, his expression widened to a smile.

“You’re here,” he grabbed her tight and they rocked and touched.

“Why’s the phone off the hook?”

Warren stretched out his legs, yawned and then struggled to stand while uttering something about practicing. But it didn’t sit well with her. The living room was completely out of place. His trumpet wasn’t in the case, which he was religious about. Two pairs of shoes without their shoehorns were scattered and a pile of sheets were crumpled in the lazy chair. Warren was a neat freak by nature and the disorder puzzled her.

“How did you get here?” he broke into her thoughts.

“Claire let me leave early,” she reached for a cold slice, but he took the pizza from her and offered to warm it.

The cheese from the pizza was heated but wasn’t hot, and while she nibbled on her slice Warren flipped the television from TNT to ESPN trying to decide on a game. He was too quiet, making her wonder if he was still mad at her.

“How was the dinner?” she tried.

“Cool.” His lips curled but his eyes never left the TV.

“What’s wrong? You don’t seem happy I’m here.”

Warren twisted the cap to his water bottle. “My dad’s marrying Shar.”

“His secretary?”

“I
n a month.”

“Damn,” reaching for his knee. “You okay?”

“My mother hasn’t been in the ground a year. I knew he’d move on, but shit. And it would have been nice if he’d talked to me first instead of making a fucking announcement in a room filled with people.” The thick vein in his forehead pressed against his skin.

Erica stood up. “Get dressed.”

“What?”

“Let’s take a walk. You need some fresh air and I’m stiff from the plane.”

“You hate the cold.”

“I’ll layer up.”

Ten minutes later, they
were walking down thriving U Street where some of their favorite restaurants and bars lived. Erica was especially fond of Ben’s Chili Bowl when she wanted comfort food and Patty’s Boom Boom when she needed to let her hair down, drink a rum punch and dance.

“How come you never wear gloves?” She grabbed his hand, and he shrugged.

Wa
rren had on his three-quarter heavy coat, a skullcap and trendy boots. Erica had changed into a pair of flats and wore her mint green scarf and its matching hat low and tight. It wasn’t just cold, it was freezing and the party street wasn’t as crowded as usual.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he squeezed her around the waist, and
they walked two more blocks before he opened up.

“Losing my mom, there’s like a hole inside of me the size of a cantaloupe. I can feel it every single day. My dad doesn’t feel that?”

“I know, I remember honey,” Erica had taken off a whole week of work to be with Warren the week of his mother’s funeral. She had even helped write the obituary.

“Maybe it’s different for him.” They stopped on the corner of 9th Street while waiting for the light. Dance music was blasting from the top floor of Nellie’s sports bars, and Erica could hear the patrons shouting their fun.

“He was probably so used to being taken care of that he can’t be without a woman,” she added.

“I can’t be without you,” Warren turned and cupped her chin, “no other woman would do.”

She kissed him and ran her fingers across his cheeks. “I was miserable thinking I’d have to go two weeks without you.”

The light changed and they turned off U street, dipping down a side street. In front of them was an old school bar that dodged the gentrification of the neighborhood. The neon sign flashing in the window reflected an era that had since passed. On impulse, Warren steered Erica through the front door. It was an older crowd and the barmaid didn’t smile when she took their order. A pool table was positioned toward the back. A jukebox sat across from it and someone had played Curtis Mayfield’s “Pusher Man.” Two middle-aged women with sagging breasts and thick waistlines danced together in the middle of the floor while three men watched from their barstools. Warren took Erica’s hand while they sipped vodkas splashed with cranberry juice and continued about the events of the dinner. “And when he made the announcement, he was looking at me like I was supposed to be happy. Meanwhile, my world is turned upside down. And I feel like a punk for saying it.”

Erica wrapped her arms around his waist.

“S
orry, I’m just rambling. Tell me about Atlanta.”

“Nothing much to tell,” she said, filling him in on the Reverend, his entourage and her conversation with Claire.

They drank another round. Alcohol had a way of making things better.

One of the men sitting at the bar played “Reasons” by Earth, Wind & Fire, and Warren surprised the hell out of Erica by asking her to dance. It was the first time he had ever done that in public and she shuffled to her feet.

“My dad played this song out when I was growing up,” he whispered, pulling her to a dark spot by the window. While their bodies responded to the music he sang in her ear, “Kissing and hugging and holding you tight.”

Erica rested her head on his chest, savoring the sound of his soul’s breath against her ear. The layover, connecting flight, and hassle to get to him was all worth the pleasure of a single slow drag in a dinky local bar.

When they got back
to his apartment, Warren flipped through his vintage records for Earth, Wind & Fire. Erica lit every candle that she could find, placing them along the windowsill, table and kitchen counter. While the sounds of the seventies serenaded them, Erica undressed Warren. Kissing his lips, she undid his belt, letting his pants fall to the floor. Pressing into his pelvis, her hands searched his chest, and then relieved him of his sweater. Black boxer briefs were all that was left, and as she thumbed them down, she licked every bit of skin that was within reach. Warren moaned for more attention and she knew by the way he whispered her name that he was ready. A passionate urgency welled between them and when they couldn’t make it to the bed, they
used the floor.

The next morning Erica
didn’t want to get up, so Warren spooned her while stroking her hair. “So lovely.”

“Such a lie. What’s for breakfast?”

“You’ve been sleeping awhile. It’s lunchtime, baby. I can order you something, or we can eat cold pizza.”

“C
old pizza.” She forced herself to sit up, then stood in front of the closet mirror. Her red hair was tousled and her lips dry. She pulled on her white, fluffy bathrobe before meeting Warren in the kitchen where he was making coffee. His chest hairs pressed flat against his bare tea-colored skin.

“Why do you have to leave me?” He handed her the Book section of the Sunday newspaper.

“’Cause Claire knows I am here, crazy.”

“So cancel the flight. I’ll book you the last train out.”

Erica smiled, swatted him with the newspaper and agreed. They spent the afternoon in T-shirts, passing the newspaper back and forth, dozing in and out of sleep, and occasionally taking in the various basketball games on the screen. He took her one last time in the shower and they both hoped it would get them through the week.

Warren placed her carry-on
in the trunk and once he closed her door, she flipped on the seat warmers. Nestled into the buttery leather chair her foot kept hitting something spongy. Reaching down she picked up a condom, extra-large and flavored. Her nerves sank like an iceberg. She and Warren hadn’t used condoms in months.

“What the hell is this?”

He glanced over, while backing out of the parking space. “I
don’t know.”

“Don’t give me that shit. Where did it come from?”

Warren looked again, searching his memory, “Blanche must have dropped it.” They rode down U Street.

“B
lanche?” Erica racked her brain for why the name sounded familiar. “That girl from work? What was she doing in your car dropping condoms?”

“I gave her a ride after the dinner Friday night.”

“Why? Did her car break down?”

“She was sort of my date,” he said, regretting the way the words sounded as soon as they left his mouth. Erica’s toffee skin turned the color of eggplant. Rushing, he explained that the whole department had been invited and that he and Blanche just sat together.

“Did you fuck her?”

Warren laughed. “No. You sound insane.” They were at a stoplight and he turned to face her. “Babe, she must have dropped it when her purse fell open.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“I forgot,” he shrugged.

“You don’t forget important shit like your father being honored for all of his years of service and that you took some bimbo from work instead of me,” she said, without taking a breath. “Now the little whore thinks she has a chance.”

“Would you calm down? You don’t even know her.”

“A
pparently, it’s you I don’t know.” Erica turned up the volume on the stereo.

Warren turned it back down. “What’s that supposed to mean?” It was his turn to flex, but she refused to give up her position in the argument. Her butt had grown hot and she flipped off the heater. Trees sped by with streets that she had driven several
times with Warren but everything seemed different now, duller with no sheen. When Warren pulled in front of Union Station, she got out of the car and rounded the trunk, but he was there before she could unload her luggage. Every organ in her body felt cracked. She wanted to sucker punch him.

“Stop looking at me like that. I’m not cheating on you,” he folded his hand around the handle of her bag. Warren wore a black baseball cap and a thermal shirt, his leather jacket flapped open, but he didn’t close it. “Look, I wouldn’t waste my time running up to New York if I were,” he stepped closer.

Erica paused. She hated that she was already thinking about forgiveness. “You should have told me,” she said softly.

“But that’s my only crime,” he took a deep breath. “I swear on my mother’s grave that nothing happened.” Another first and when Warren reached for her chin, she knew she could believe him.

“Come on, baby, I don’t want to end another weekend arguing. Especially over this bullshit,” he pleaded, touching his lips to hers, but when he tried parting them with his tongue she pulled away. Grabbing her luggage, Erica hurried toward the double doors of the station with Warren staring after her.

Chapter Seventeen

Foolish Me

From the moment Erica
slipped her key into Warren’s lock, she had sensed that something wasn’t right. The weed smoking, chaotic disorder, and phone ringer turned off could have easily added up to him cheating, but Erica didn’t know. So far his loyalty was as clean as freshly laundered shirts and up until that point he gave her no concern for worry. But what was worse, Erica couldn’t even begin to picture her life without Warren. If he were cheating, then what? Did she start over or swallow the affair like a tart tonic? These thoughts turned over in her head while walking the aisles of the train searching for an empty seat. For the first time, Erica understood why some women didn’t investigate when they thought their man was cheating. It was much easier to look the other way. Because to be in it—knee-deep, faced flat in it—breathing the stink of your own failure was gut-wrenching.

Usually she found riding the train comforting; the chugga-chug of the engine, the cushiony window seat, the long bridges, crystallizing bodies of water, and the multiple colors of piney vegetation. But on this trip Erica’s chest throbbed and the passing scene did nothing to stop her crippling thoughts.

There was no way that the condom just “slipped” from Blanche’s purse. Baby girl had that planned from the moment she stepped foot into Warren’s car and what made Erica furious was that he was being so naïve.

Through the reflection of the glass window, she could see Blanche’s face, eventually remembering her well. They had met at last year’s company Christmas party. Model thin, oversized eyelash extensions, teeny clothing, chatty, blonde patched hair, mole on left nostril, sing-songy voice, flat ass, Thumbelina feet, and the ability to shine in a room filled with straight, successful men. Women like Blanche didn’t drop anything accidentally.

By the time Erica arrived in New York her temples were tender from overthinking, and she couldn’t see straight. So she hailed a taxi, and it was in the backseat of the car that the blues found her. Biting down on the collar of her sweater, she tried sending those feelings away. As they passed through Times Square, Erica couldn’t believe that she had put her job in jeopardy by going to D.C. Sure Claire had told her to go, but she should have declined, saying that work was much more important. How was she supposed to climb the corporate ladder if she was busy chasing Warren? Then out of nowhere, the next thought hit her so hard she bolted straight up in her seat. What if this weekend had been a set-up from Claire, testing her dedication? Well, then Erica had failed miserably, and she felt even heavier as she tugged her luggage up her front steps.

The telephone message light was blinking when she entered her apartment; two from her mother, one from Edie, and the last from an irritating author complaining about the thread count of his hotel sheets. Erica wasn’t in the mood to deal with work yet so she called over to Tess’ to see if she wanted company. When she didn’t get an answer, she surprised herself by dialing her mother.

“Hey, Slim,” she answered on the second ring. “I been calling you all weekend.”

Erica explained that she had been away.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t tell me nothing, girl. I can hear it in your voice.”

It always amazed Erica how well her mother could read her, even over the phone. It was like some sixth sense that she had or a radar that always zeroed in at the right moment. Erica rewarded her by recounting the story.

“So whatcha gut saying?” her mother was munching on something crunchy, probably salt and vinegar potato chips.

“I don’t know.”

“You know.”

“No I don’t,” Erica yelled back, but her mother was unfazed by her outburst and spoke even softer. “Then you ain’t listening. Slim, push past the anger and feel Warren. You know his heart. ’Cause you’re in it.”

When did her mother get so smart? Erica pulled her chenille throw up to her chin and wiped the tear now slumped in the corner of her lip.