Second House from the Corner (32 page)

The Last Dance

Rory, Two, and Liv have long been tucked into their beds when I hear the front door push open. It's been hot and the wooden door rubs against the swollen wooden frame, causing a loud friction. Preston stops to flip through the mail, remove his shoes, tuck his keys into the second door, and walks in. I'm wearing terry cloth shorts and a fitted capped-sleeve top.

I look at him from where I'm seated on the living room sofa. He's wearing his golf polo and khakis. “How was your day?” I ask flatly.

“Nice, played eighteen holes.”

His skin looks radiant from being in all that sun.

“Did you have dinner?”

He shakes his head. “I'll just order some Chinese.”

“I made spaghetti. It's on the stove.”

“This came for you.”

It's a letter. It's addressed from the Dames. I stare at it. He stares at me.

“Aren't you going to open it?”

“Yeah.” I run my finger along the inside of the envelope and pull at the seal. There is a single sheet inside. When I unfold it, it reads,

Dear Felicia,

Thank you for your interest in the Dames and Culture Club. I am pleased to inform you that the chapter has accepted your request for membership. We are excited and look forward to welcoming you to our family.

The letter continues with the steps I need to take to complete my membership. My face is frozen with shock. I made it in.

“What does it say?” Preston stands.

“I made it in. I'm a Dame.” I can't stop the grin from brightening my face.

“Congratulations. It's what you've wanted.”

“Thanks.” I hold the letter and read it again. Preston moves into the kitchen. I poke out my lips and do a shoulder shimmy.
I am a mother-freakin' Dame.
I can't believe it. After everything that has happened to me in the past few weeks, I'm a Dame. I'm reading the letter for the third time, adding the listed dates to my electronic calendar when he returns with a bowl of food. He sits on the opposite sofa. I toss him the remote.

“You aren't watching this?” he asks, formal and polite.

I shake my head.

Next thing I know we are watching a special on Barbados on the Travel Channel. All of the two-sided conversations that I've had all day go flying out of my head. I feel shy to be the first to bring it up.

Preston finishes his spaghetti and goes for another bowl. “This is really good.” He resumes his place on the couch.

“Thanks.”

We watch television from our respective corners. When the Barbados show goes off, it's ten o'clock and he flips to our favorite show,
House Hunters
, on HGTV. When the show gets down to decision time, Preston asks me which house I think they will pick.

“Number three.”

“I knew you would pick three, but they're going to pick two.”

They pick house number one.

“What? That's crazy,” he says.

We have been occupying the same space for almost two hours. I have no idea what's going on with us, but I can't help but think of Shayla.
It's cold out here. I would trade my life for yours in a baby's heartbeat.

But I'm not going to be anyone's doormat, either. No more apologizing.

Preston disappears up the stairs. I lower the television and play Pandora from my phone. Marvin Gaye comes up first, crooning, “Got to Give It Up.” The song reminds me of the one good memory I have of my parents together. We lived in a little apartment around the corner from Gran. I woke up from a bad dream and when I scurried into the living room, they were in the kitchen, kissing and dancing. I think it was my father's birthday or their wedding anniversary. It's the only time I really remember them being happy. I question what happiness really means in a marriage. Could my parents have made it work, or did my mother throw in the towel too soon? Would things have turned out differently if she hadn't? Would he be alive? Would she be normal and whole?

When Preston returns, he has showered and is wearing loose pajama bottoms and a T-shirt that has two fists pictured with the word “Sandwich.” He sits back down on the sofa. I glance over and he is chewing his bottom lip. He must be ready to discuss the divorce. I take a deep breath and brace myself.

“How did you feel afterward?”

“After what?”

“The baby died.”

Relieved, I tuck my feet under me. “I didn't feel anything. I just shoved it down like it never happened.”

“I'm sorry you had to go through that at such a young age. It must have been hard. Did you ever talk to anyone about it?”

“You know there was no therapy for what I was going through. I was expected to forget and move on.”

“Right.”

“Gran never even brought it up until I was just in Philly.”

“What did she say?”

“Not much, but she gave me this.” I reach into my purse that was tossed next to me on the sofa. I hold out the death announcement letter. Preston reads it and then looks up at me.

“Did she have a name?”

“I named her Angel, but I don't know what her family called her before she died.”

He folds the letter carefully and hands it back to me.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.”

“Do you still love him?”

“Who?”

“The man from the church.”

“God, no.” I look at him dead on. “I love you.”

Preston shuffles his feet.

“Thanks for dinner.” He walks into the kitchen and then down into the basement.

*   *   *

The next evening our routine is the same. Preston comes in after the kids are in bed, eats what I left him on the stove, and asks more questions about my past.

“How was it that you were seeing this man and Gran didn't know?”

I answered him as truthfully as I could, not holding anything back. We watched
House Hunters
again, then he thanked me for the food and went to the basement.

When he left, I played Pandora on low, wondering when he was going to bring up the divorce or separation. I'm not moving again or giving up my children. I'll fight him with my mouth and teeth. He'll have to make the adjustments.

The next night he texted me before he came home.

I'm stopping for sushi. You want?

I text back.
Sure.

The usual?

Yes.

When Preston walks in, I am in my favorite place, on the couch. I haven't bothered to shower tonight or add a little conditioner to my hair.

“You look pretty,” he compliments me.

“Thanks.”

“I'm going to set up the food in the kitchen.”

I run up to check on the kids and then sit across from him at the table. I'm nervous. Like I'm sitting to eat with a stranger. Shayla's voice, Gran's voice, my mother's voice are swerving through my head.
Work it out.

I squeeze a bit of wasabi on my spider roll and then drop a sliver of ginger on top. Preston has set up two ramekins with soy sauce and I dip my roll before putting it in my mouth. All the flavors combine and hit my taste buds at once. I feel euphoric while I chew and swallow.

“Good, isn't it?” Preston offers a hint of a smile. It makes me blush. “I found a new place in Union. Pretty addictive. This is my third run in a week.”

“What are we doing?” I blurt.

“Getting to know each other.”

“I already know you, Preston. Shouldn't we be making plans trying to figure—”

“Shh. Just be here for now. Tell me something else about you.”

I slap my hand against my forehead. “I landed a commercial.”

“The one in the city?”

“No, I went to Johnson & Johnson on my way to—Philly.” I pause. “It's for their baby powder. I'm worried sick over my hair. It was long when I went.”

“But you booked it. Your agent called and said it was yours?”

“Yes, the contracts came over but I haven't signed them.”

“Then it's yours. Sign them and send them back. There's always hair extensions.”

I shake my head. “No more hiding. This is what it is. Either accept me or let me go.”

Our eyes meet, caress, and cling. I want so badly to kiss him. Tonight I'm the first to go.

“Good night.
Gracias
for the sushi.”

“De nada.”

“Been working on your Spanish?”

“Watching too much
Dora
with the kids.” He laughs and it reverberates through to my soul.

*   *   *

In our bed, sleep eludes me. I stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks, then counting sheep, then counting backward from ten to one over and over again, but nothing. My eyes stay wide open like a cartoon character. I picture them bloodshot. The covers are around my ankles and my mouth is dry. I look over at the clock: 3:33. I'm thirsty. I push myself from the bed, slip into my slippers, and pad softly downstairs for some water.

Preston is standing against the counter. The room is dark except for a sliver of light coming in from the side window. He is shirtless. My will feels weak as I pass him.

“Can't sleep.” The voice coming from my throat has deepened, and my words sound husky, even to me.

“I haven't slept since you came home. It's like you've put a spell on the house.”

Goose bumps sprout on my bare arms. I get a cup from the cupboard and reach past him to the sink. I turn on the water. He's so within reach I think I hear his heart pumping in his chest. We haven't been this close since I shoved him in the basement. We stand side by side, near but not touching. But I could feel him. Everything has changed, but we stood connected just the same.

I lean into him, pressing my hip into his thigh. Breathing his air.

“Foxy.” He draws my name out like it's a tune. It sounds like the sweetest melody on his lips. The greatest love song.

 

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank God for blessing me with the gift of writing and the passion to pursue my dreams with tunnel vision. My angel in the sky, my love, Mommom. Thank you for weaving your stories into my heart and nourishing me with your humor and good will. Your memories sparked the magic and breathed life into this novel.

To a wonderful and supportive family, my parents, Nancy Murray, Tyrone Murray, and Francine Cross Murray for your amazing love and advice. My grandmother, Yvonne Clair, thanks for your effort to keep us together. To my siblings Tauja, Nadiyah, and Talib Murray for your constant companionship, it has always been us four. Twin nephews, Qualee and Quasaan you make my heart do flips. My in-laws, Paula Johnson for loving me like a daughter and Glenn Johnson Sr. for taking care of business. Pacita Perera for your wisdom, David Johnson, and Marise Johnson for always being available and lending me your children, Armani and Aarick. I have the best friends on the planet and I love you all.

To my mighty team: Cherise Fisher, I could not imagine my life without you. Wendy Sherman, Laurie Chittenden, Melanie Fried, Dawn Michelle Hardy, Mary Brown, and the amazing staff at Thomas Dunne Books. Thank you for your hard work and dedication to this book and my career. I promise you the best is yet to come.

To the numerous book clubs who have supported me, fed me, and shared my novel. I need you now more than ever. A special thank you to Sharon Lucas, Lori M. Legette, Kelly Clemens, and Max Rodriquez. So many authors inspire and take me under their wing, but especially Benilde Little, Kimberla Lawson Roby, Trice Hickman, and Curtis Bunn.

To my dynamic and talented children Miles, Zora, and Lena Johnson, you three are my greatest creation. You make it all right in my world and I love you with fever. Remember, all things are always possible. To my best friend, partner in crime, and husband, Glenn, for believing with the faith of a mustard seed, catching me when I fall, and keeping me. Your love is my oxygen.

 

ALSO BY
SADEQA JOHNSON

Love in a Carry-On Bag

 

About the Author

Originally from Philadelphia,
Sadeqa Johnson
currently resides in Virginia with her husband and three children. You can sign up for email updates
here
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