Naughty Or Nice Part 17

"Nick, a woman tells a man the truth because she's feeling him, she wants him to accept her as she is with no secrets and no bulls.h.i.+t, not because she wants him to think of her as a ho."

"That's not the way I see you, Frankie."

"I was just saying."

"It wasn't just that." Nick sipped his water. "But the other things you told me about, how you had a hard time being attached because of what your mother had gone through, that made it . . . hard to even think that you could operate at the same level I was willing to operate at."

I nodded. "Momma lost two husbands. That was . . . that was hard. Until Bernard came along I had to keep Livvy in line because Momma was so d.a.m.n tired from working so much."

"She didn't have an easy life."

"But she had a lot of love at the end."

Momma lost both husbands, our natural father and the man who stepped in and raised us like we were his flesh and blood, and I think that was why I always had a rough ride. h.e.l.l, I know it p.i.s.sed me off that my ex-hubby was a ho, but if the truth be told, I don't think I was the best wife either. I mean, I did the best I could with the tools I had, but still . . . I had a lot of fears. Fear of being as broke as we were when we grew up in Inglewood, fear of being alone and going off to glory a capella, and fear of spiders.

I think I allowed men to get only so close, then most of the time I backed away.

I told Nick, "You were different."

He smiled. "Was I?"

He came from a great family, ministers and doctors and all kinds of professional people, the kind of family I wished I had, the kind where the little kids had names I could p.r.o.nounce. And he was brilliant in his own way. And the brother was packing pleasure, was a straight-up superfreak. In the one night we were together, he had me doing s.h.i.+t I never thought I'd do.

"n.i.g.g.a, you know I was feenin' for you. Bringing you chicken soup when you had the flu, breaking my neck to read your stuff, writing to impress you, and I don't even like writing."

"You don't like writing?"

"h.e.l.l no. I was doing . . . h.e.l.l . . . being the kind of woman I thought you liked. I did all that then . . . then . . . I thought we had connected and you . . . you . . . you vanished."

"Serious? Is that how you see what happened between us?"

"Yup. And so far as writing and finis.h.i.+ng a friggin' book, h.e.l.l, that s.h.i.+t is too . . . tedious. And I don't care too much for commercial fiction from jump street."

"d.a.m.n. So you hate my books?"

"I liked yours. And since we're talking about things I like, I liked you better with locks."

"Wait, wait." He was laughing so hard. "Forget the locks. Thought you liked writing."

"Not the way you do. Ain't got that kinda pa.s.sion. I don't see how you sit by yourself all day long and do that s.h.i.+t. Write and rewrite and rewrite and . . . I don't have that kind of discipline, not the kind that makes a sister want to sit in one spot until she got hemorrhoids."

"And let me guess . . . you hated running too?"

"Oh, I love running. I'll run until I get down to a size six or my legs fall off."

We were laughing like . . . like friends. We talked, light and easy.

I said, "One question."

"Okay."

"And be honest. If you can remember . . ."

"Sure."

"How was it with me? The s.e.x."

"You haven't changed a bit, Frankie."

"Well?"

He laughed, blushed. "I was an emotional wreck, buzzed . . . and I was attracted to you."

"Oh, really."

"I haven't forgotten. It was good. I just didn't . . . at the time there was nowhere it could go. I had too much . . . clutter. Too much unresolved s.h.i.+t."

"Nicole."

"Yeah."

"You're not over her, are you?"

"To be honest . . ." He paused and pushed his lips up into a soft smile, the kind that held old memories, then spoke in a soft tone. "Some things you never recover from, not fully."

I nodded because I understood how he felt, how complicated life and loving could be.

I asked, "Your wife? . . ."

"We're fine."

"Big celebration today?"

"Yeah. You know how large my family is."

"You snuck away?"

"She knows where I am. We don't have a marriage based on lies."

"Good."

"And she knows about you. Told her we had something unresolved."

He was a great guy, maybe that was why I had tripped so hard. I patted his hand, gave him my empathy. "Well, my timing has always been bad when it came to the good brothers."

"I'm not the best at relations.h.i.+ps. But I'm trying."

"Good. And stay that way."

The conversation, despite the laughing and whatever, never moved too far from feeling awkward. Maybe because it was the kind of dialogue you had when you needed closure, and when it ended, you moved on with your life. I checked my watch for his benefit, that good old body language that said it was time for the fat lady to break out with a song.

"Merry Christmas, Nick."

"You too, Frankie."

"And I'm happy for you."

"Thanks. Same for you and all of your success."

I raised a brow. "What success?"

He said, "You're a regular Donna Trump. I heard they were thinking about renaming Ladera Heights 'Frankieville.' And you have the best house in Westchester."

I laughed so hard. "You're keeping up with me?"

He smiled. "You're smart. Beautiful. Independent. I'm proud of you."

I paused. "And your wife. She's beautiful."

"Thanks." He paused, his body language showing his awkwardness. "Maybe I'll see you around, maybe I'll run into you at the L.A. Marathon."

"And maybe I'll show up at one of your book signings."

I was ready to send him back to his beautiful wife, and it was time for me to head back to . . . back to Frankieville. It was hard getting to that awkward good-bye.

But I was ready to move on.

We gave each other one-arm hugs, and I headed toward my car.

I had promised myself that I wouldn't, but I looked back. Hard not to look back at a man who had you going Woo Woo Woo and popping Percodan like jellybeans.

Nick was staring. Not at my a.s.s, but at the whole me. Admiring me from the soul out. The dreamy expression, the way he grinned at me told me that his mind was on a journey, playing what-if with both of us as the leads in that mental production.

I nodded and smiled back at him, telling him, Yeah, what if?

I chuckled and shook my head. Maybe wis.h.i.+ng he wasn't married, maybe wis.h.i.+ng I was the kind of woman who shared her natural resources. But Nick looked like he wondered how it would've been to have me as his queen. No sin in that.

I savored my small victory as I sang my way to my car and drove away, headed toward Frankieville with the top down, locks being teased by the wind, my face one big smile.

I was free from that old lover who would never love me. Letting go felt good.

Frankie was happy with Frankie right now.

Before I rushed back to the crib and threw down the Cornish hens, since I was in the area and there wasn't any mad traffic, I zoomed over the speed b.u.mps and parked in front of Mail Connexion. Needed to check my post office box since I hadn't done that in the past few days.

My head was down and I was getting my mail out when this brother walked in. Really didn't see him or look up, not at first, was too busy tearing up junk mail, and didn't feel like being bothered.

He said, "Merry Christmas."

I sighed and looked up.

He was tall with a body that looked like it had been chiseled from stone. His locks were perfect; each one a carbon copy of the next. His skin was the color of burnt caramel and a small, silver hoop earring dangled from his left ear. He wore jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt with 205 across the front. And he had on running shoes.

I cleared my throat, said, "Merry Christmas."

"Love your locks. The brown and light-brown, that's tight."

"Thanks. Your locks are tight, too."

He asked, "How long have you been locking?"

"Four years. You?"

"Little over three."

He got his mail from his box, stood at the counter, smiled, and asked me my name.

I tossed the last of my junk mail, said, "Frankie."

He laughed. "My name is Franklin. People call me Frankie."

I laughed too.

He said, "Don't mean to bother you. But I'm new in the area."

"Okay."

"So I was wondering . . . You know anybody who can tighten my locks?"

"Yeah. Cathy at Hands in Motions hooks mine up."

"Any way I can get her number?"

"Sure. She'll hook you up real good."

We walked out together, stopped in the Christmas suns.h.i.+ne, started talking. No mack talk, no slick dialogue, just talking the way two people talked. He was divorced. New in town from the 205, Ruebenville, the place formerly known as Birmingham. Alone on Christmas.

I said, "Well, if you don't have anywhere to eat, you're more than welcome to come and eat with me and my family."

"I'd like that. I really would."

We exchanged numbers.

My blues exited stage right.

The moment I stopped looking for my keys, I think I found them.