Afraid to Love (3 page)

                                                                      Chapter 3: Cynthia

I didn't know what the hell had come over me at the coffee shop. I never discussed the finer points of my father's illness with anyone. Not even Sasha knew the details of the false hope the doctor had given him. I suspected that the doctor knew my father was going to die soon, but wanted to put his mind at ease to make his death easier. Maybe he thought my father wasn't strong enough for the truth, but he could have at least told me to be prepared. But would that really have been enough? Could I have smiled at my father, knowing he was going to die soon?

I shook my head to clear the thoughts from my mind. The doctor did what he thought was best. He had been good to my father and helped him win the fight for many years. I missed him, but we all have to go sometime. It was something my father had told me when he was first diagnosed. It was what we did with our lives that mattered, not when or how they ended.

My hands shook as I cooked dinner. I wasn't hungry, but knew it was time to eat. I didn't want to wake up in the middle of the night with my stomach growling. I paced the floor as I waited for the water to boil.

I had been on my own for the last two years and had done fine. I got up every day and faced the world. I hadn't allowed anyone to keep me down, no matter how hard they tried. I made my father's dream come true, too. I wasn't living in the ghetto and I was working at a respectable job. I should be happy, so why wasn't I? I knew the answer to my question, but quickly dismissed it from my thoughts. I was too alone to be happy.

I ate dinner and settled down in front of the television. I watched a medical drama that was supposed to be funny, but it only reminded me of how crappy my first week of work had begun. I turned the television off and decided to go for a run. Before college I had never been one for exercise, but Sasha had gotten me into running with her. I never thought of it as something a black woman would do, but apparently that thought never occurred to her.

I changed into my running clothes and pulled on my sneakers. It felt good to feel my feet hitting the pavement again. My mind raced as I jogged. Memories of my father hit hard, and I ran faster. I felt if I ran fast enough I would outrun the memories that chased me. I could outrun the way everyone thought I shouldn't succeed because I was a black woman, a double minority. I know white women can have it rough because they're women, but being both seems to paint a target on your back that even your own gender can't resist taking aim at.

My heart thumped against my chest and I panted for air, but I pushed my sore muscles harder. I didn't want to quit running until I felt better, but that might have meant running forever and my legs weren't going to put up with that shit. I stopped and leaned back against a building. I was panting hard and sweating, but the physical sensations I felt were overriding my mental confusion and misery. After resting for a few minutes, I continued my run. I only ran about two more blocks before I turned back and headed home.

I kicked off my shoes at the door and headed into the shower. I decided that I'd style my weave tonight before I went to bed. I had never been much of a morning person, so I knew it was now or never. I scrubbed my body, enjoying the soapy lather on my skin. I ran my fingers over my slippery body enjoying the powerful muscles moving under my hands. My build was lean for the most part, but I was proud of the work I did to stay in shape. My ass was still round and out there, but that was genetics, not the aftermath of fried chicken and cornbread.

After my shower, I wrapped up in a towel and got to work on my hair. I took my time styling it perfectly and then wrapped it for the night. By the time I crawled into bed, I was exhausted and sore. I didn't want the next morning to come because I didn't want to spend another day at the hospital, but I knew it was inevitable. Everything I dreaded in life seemed to be inevitable.

The next morning, I started my day on autopilot. I went through the motions of getting ready without giving it much thought. I wanted to distance myself from what I had to survive at work, but when I walked through the door I knew it wasn't going to be possible. Heather greeted me with her normal smile, but there was something different about it.

The day passed and several of my coworkers went silent whenever I entered the room. Their rudeness kept me aware that I was the new kid on the playground and I didn't look like them. I didn't act like them. Put plainly, I wasn't one of them. During lunch break, I met another black nurse.

“How long did it take them to get used to you?” I asked her.

“What do you mean?” she arched a brow.

“I mean how long did it take the white people to accept you?” I asked.

“You’re crazy,” she laughed.

“You haven't noticed how they talk about us?” I asked.

“You're crazy,” she shook her head, “they aren't talking about me. They're talking about you, because from what I've heard you walk around here thinking you're still in the damn ghetto. Cut the attitude!”

She shook her head and walked out of the room. I crossed my arms and followed her.

“What the hell do you mean?” I shouted after her.

“What you're doing right now, honey,” she said shaking her head.

The bitch didn't even look back at me as she walked away. I wanted to chase after her and tell her what a traitor to her own she was. I wanted to tell her to cut the high and mighty crap. She could act like she was one of them, but at the end of the day she was just another black woman that the world tolerated. They may act friendly to her face, but I knew they talked about her behind her back. White people always did that shit.

I lied to Heather and told her I had the beginnings of a migraine. I think the older woman knew I wasn't telling the truth, but she let me leave early anyway. I drove around town for a while fuming at that bitch's remarks. Acting like I was from the ghetto? Please bitch, I am from the ghetto and I'm damn proud of it. I worked my ass off to get through nursing school. No one helped me. Not my parents, not my friends, hell I didn't even take help from the damn government.

My stomach growled and I considered going to the coffee shop, but I didn't want to see Mark again. I had already told him too much, given him too much leverage over me. I thought about trying to explain the situation at work to him, but it made me laugh. He'd be just like everyone else. He'd tell me to change myself to fit into what they wanted. I rolled my eyes as I pulled into the drive way. I decided I'd call Sasha. She was the only person in the world who might understand what I was going through.

I searched my purse for my phone, but it wasn't there. I searched the entire car before deciding I must have left it at work. I was getting ready to drive back to the hospital when I saw Mark walking up. He waved to me and held something up. It was my phone! How did he get it? Sighing, I realized I must have forgotten at the coffee shop the evening before.

“Hey,” he called.

“Hi.” I frowned at my own stupidity.

“You left this yesterday,” he said and handed me my phone through the window.

“Wait a minute,” I said, “How did you know where I lived?”

“I called around to the numbers in the phone until Sasha finally told me your address. Nice girl. Said I should tell you to call her,” he chuckled.

“Sounds just like Sasha,” I said and rolled my eyes.

“Sorry, if I offended you,” Mark said, “I just wanted to make sure you got your phone back.”

“No, thank you,” I sighed, “I'm sorry I caused you so much trouble.”

“It's not a problem,” he smiled.

“I was just on my way to the coffee shop,” I lied, “would you like to join me?”

“Sure,” Mark grinned.

His blue eyes lit up as he sprinted around the car and slid into the passenger's seat. He was grinning like a fool. I had to fight the urge to shake my head and tell him he hadn't won
that
many brownie points.

On the drive downtown, I told Mark that I had left work early because I had a disagreement with a coworker. It wasn't a lie, but I wasn't about to tell him what that wretched woman said. He wouldn't understand it anyway.

“I'm a writer and my curiosity always gets me into trouble, but I'm going to ask you anyway,” he chuckled. “What was it about?”

“Nothing you'd understand,” I said as I pulled into the parking garage.

“Try me,” he said and arched a blond brow.

“Fine,” I sighed as I found a parking spot.

I told him what the other nurse had said and he listened quietly.

“Maybe they're not talking about you at all,” he said.

I nearly missed a step, because it wasn't what I had expected him to say.

“Maybe they're talking about personal issues with people they know well,” he shrugged, “or they're talking about a cute doctor. Women who work at hospitals love to gossip, I would know. My mother and her friends from the hospital were always clucking about one thing or another.”

“Believe me,” I assured him, “I know they were talking about me.”

“You're a pretty woman,” he nodded, “and I'm sure you're a great person, but one should never assume they're the center of everyone's universe.”

“That's sort of a rude thing to say,” I said stopping in my tracks.

“Maybe, but it's true,” Mark said with a grin, “and if they are talking about you, how do you know it's bad? Maybe they're jealous of you for being prettier or something.”

“Where do you come up with these ideas?” I asked him, shaking my head.

“I'm a writer,” he said, “it's my job to think of every scene from every possible angle.”

“This isn't a book,” I sighed, “This is real life.”

“Maybe, but I like my books to be as real as possible. It's how to get real people to read them,” he retorted with a laugh.

“You sure do have a comeback for everything,” I laughed.

It annoyed me that he waved away my concerns, but his bluntness entertained me.

“A writer is always armed with words,” he said as he winked at me.

Mark held the door open for me and I couldn't bite back my snide remark.

“Aren't you the gentleman?” I laughed.

“My mother would haunt me until my dying days and beyond if I was anything else,” he laughed.

I ordered a cherry cola and Mark ordered some fancy coffee. He offered to cover the tab, but I declined. He had already gone out of his way to return my phone, so I owed him something, but a coffee was all I was willing to give.

Being in the coffee shop reminded me that I needed to talk to the manager. Today Justin wasn't working so it was the perfect opportunity. I asked the cashier for the manager and the young girl quickly obliged.

“Hello,” a middle age white man said as he appeared from behind the counter.

“Hi, I wanted to speak with you about one of your cashiers. The young man working on Monday afternoon. I believe his name was Justin,” I said.

“Justin has problems,” the manager chuckled, “his girlfriend dumped him about a week ago and every time he's on the clock she shows up with a gaggle of her friends. They don't cause any trouble so I can't tell them to leave, but it does put Justin in a mood.”

“He was rude to me,” I said and crossed my arms. “Everyone had issues and his teenage drama didn't excuse his behavior.”

“I'll talk to him about it, thanks for letting me know,” the manager said and walked away.

I could tell he hadn't taken me seriously.

“Everything okay?” Mark asked.

His cheeks were tinged pink and I wondered if I had embarrassed him.

“No, he should do more than just talk to him,” I said.

“Sounds like the kid's in a tough spot,” Mark said.

“Life is a tough spot,” I said and turned on my heels.

“Do you want to sit down?” Mark asked.

I nodded and led the way. As we walked to the table, I wondered what we were going to talk about. It didn't seem like we had much in common. As we sat in an awkward silence I caught myself enjoying the bright blue color of Mark's eyes. I scolded myself and reminded myself that it was just loneliness making him so attractive. I had told myself a hundred times or more the next man I took to bed was going to be the one I spent my life with. Mark was nice, but I couldn't imagine taking him home to meet my aunts and uncles. Hell, I could even imagine telling Sasha I was dating a white guy. I almost laughed out loud, because here I was checking him out and wondering why he went through all the trouble to return my phone instead of just handing it off to the staff of the coffee shop.

“Why did you go through so much trouble for me?” I finally asked him.

“Because I wanted to see you again,” he answered.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you're intriguing,” he said.

I blinked.

“You mean you want to hit on me?” I laughed.

“You're a beautiful woman,” he admitted, “but you're also a bit mysterious and I love meeting new people. As a writer it keeps me inspired.”

“So you want to use me for a muse?” I laughed.

“Is that a bad thing?” he asked.

“No, it's a bit silly,” I smiled, “and not what I expected, but I can live with that.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” he said as he grinned.

“No, you're just different,” I said.

“Different?” he asked.

“Different from most men. Different from how I thought white men would be,” I said, and instantly regretted it.

“Am I the first white man you've talked to?” he asked laughing.

“No!” I retorted, “I've just never really...”

“It's okay,” he laughed, “but you should know that just because I'm a man or white doesn't mean I fit into any box. I've been called weird my whole life.”

“Sorry,” I said, looking down at the table.

“It's okay,” he said again, “I'm a hard man to offend. I have a box of keepsakes at home. It's full of rejection slips from publishers.”

“How many?” I asked.

“More than thirty,” he laughed, “but I have several books out that I've self-published.”

“Really?” I asked.

“No, I just made it up,” he said sarcastically before laughing. “Of course, I do.”