Anytime Soon (14 page)

I remember laughing—at least, I think I laughed—and that's the last thing I remember. The next time I opened my eyes, daybreak was pouring in the windows, and I was lying next to Carl in one of his t-shirts.

He looks cute . . . Did we do it?

I tugged on his shoulder a couple of times, and he opened his eyes.

“What's up, Ny?”

“Did we . . .?”

“No,” he said irritably and turned back over.

I was relieved.

“I suppose you're glad about that,” he said with his back still to me.

“Carl, what's wrong?”

He sat up on his elbow and faced me.

“I've been busting my ass to show you how I feel about you. I asked you on this trip so you could see a different side of me, but all you do is push me away. If you didn't wanna be here, you shouldn't have come.”

I had never seen him so hurt. I didn't know what to say.

“If you're not feeling me, Anaya, tell me. You aren't doing me any favors this way.”

“Whoa! I never said I was gonna do you any favors. I came here because I wanted to. Are you mad because you didn't get any last night?”

“You're damn right, I'm mad! But don't get me wrong—I can get sex whenever I want.”

“Then what's your problem?”

“
You're
my problem. I don't do games.”

“Carl, I'm sorry if you feel like I'm playing games. Believe me, that's not my intention. I
do
like you.”

“You like me, but not enough to be in a relationship with me, is that it?”

“I'm not ready for a relationship.”

“With
me
, you mean.”

I didn't argue. I didn't have the words or the strength. I wasn't giving Carl what he wanted, and I felt that probably I should stop seeing him. I knew I was stringing him along, and it was wrong. We flew back together that evening, and Carl dropped me off at home.

“Do you want me to carry your bag inside?” he asked.

“No, I can do it,” I said. He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. He walked away before I could respond. He drove away and left me on the curb with my bag.

I had only missed one day of work, but when I returned to the office on Monday, Taylor acted as if I'd deserted her for a week. I had six e-mails from her and a stack of paper in my inbox. She was psycho. She had probably eaten the last case clerk.

I didn't see Jeff until later in the day, when he passed me in the hall.

“Welcome back,” he said, but he kept walking without giving me a chance to reply.

What the hell?

I caught up on the work Taylor had for me, and I completed a small binder project for Jeff. Being busy was good. It helped me to focus on something other than Jeff's weird greeting.

The week went by slowly and quietly. Of course, I hadn't really expected to hear from Carl, and I hadn't called him either. But when I didn't hear from Jeff, I was confused. By noon on Friday, I must have checked my e-mail twenty times—but still no word from Jeff. I probably should have just called or e-mailed him like a sane person, but I didn't.

When two thirty rolled around on Friday afternoon, I grabbed my purse and headed to lunch. As I approached his door, Jeff stepped out of his office.

“Hey, Anaya. You going home for the day?”

“Going to grab a bite to eat.”

“You're taking lunch kinda late, aren't you?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Okay, have a nice lunch,” he said as he walked into the conference room.

I wasn't really hungry, but I desperately needed to get out of the office. On the way to the sandwich place, I called Sophie and asked her to meet me there.

“Okay,” she said. “See ya soon.”

As I was getting out of my car, my cell phone rang.

“What did you decide to get for lunch?” Jeff asked.

I sighed.

“A sandwich. I'm meeting Sophie.”

“Oh. What kind of sandwich are you gonna get?”

“I don't know. Did you want me to bring you one back?”

I was irritated.

“Uh, yeah, could you? I haven't eaten anything all day.”

“Why not?”

“I haven't had lunch.”

I didn't say anything.

“Anaya?”

“Yes?”

“Why didn't we go to lunch today?”

Is he kidding me?

“When I didn't hear from you,” I said, “I figured you didn't wanna go. I was surprised, because we haven't been missing our Friday lunches.”

“We did last week,” he said quietly.

“I told you I couldn't make lunch last week. I went out of town.”

“Yeah, I know that.”

“So, what's the problem?”

“I don't know. I guess there isn't one.”

“There must be,” I said with growing frustration.

“There's no problem.”

“What's wrong?”

“You can be really bossy sometimes, Ny.”

“And you can be evasive sometimes, Mister Alexander. Now, tell me what's wrong.”

“I don't know. I guess I don't like that you left last weekend and canceled our lunch date.”

I wanted to scream piercingly through the phone, but I didn't.

“Maybe we should talk later when I get back from lunch,” I said, and I hung up.

In the end, I had lunch by myself, because Sophie didn't show. I called her, but she didn't answer.

NINE

W
hen I got home that evening, everybody was there. Mom was at the dinner table, Roscoe was sitting on his royal throne watching TV, and Ava was holed up in her bedroom.

“Hey, Mom, what are you up to?” I asked.

“Paying bills,” she said, positioning her cheek closer so I could kiss it.

“Doesn't sound like much fun,” I said.

“It isn't. I need to start looking for some new curtains for that living room. Those rags I have up there are so old.”

Roscoe walked into the room.

“How's the new job coming?” he asked me. “We haven't heard much about it.”

“Yeah,” Mom chimed in. “You like it?”

“It's fine,” I said. “I actually like it a lot.”

They seemed pleased with that response.

“That's good,” Roscoe said. “You thinking about being a lawyer?”

“No, that's not for me,” I shrugged.

“Oh? Then why are you working in a law firm?” Mom asked.

Before I could answer, Roscoe changed the subject. “Anita, I'm hungry.”

“There's food in the kitchen,” Mom said, raising her eyebrows.

“Fix my plate,” he crooned charmingly at her.

“What's wrong with
your
hands?” was Mom's response.

“Woman, serve me!” Roscoe joked.

Mom snickered and looked back at me.

“Ny,” she said, with a playful eye to Roscoe, “make sure to check the mental health records of any man you plan to marry. Sometimes the symptoms increase gradually. Just be careful.”

She and Roscoe laughed, and then she got up to get him a plate of food.

Octavia, the receptionist at work, and I were supposed to hang out that night.

I showered and then headed to her place. When I arrived, I double-checked the address she had given me. The luxury condos sported a sign that boasted three- and four-bedroom condos for sale starting at a quarter of a million dollars.

How can she afford to live here?

The doorman asked my name and the unit number I was going to visit. Octavia must have already called down, because the doorman pointed toward the elevator and told me to have a nice evening.

Her three-year-old son answered the door in cowboy boots with spurs and a huge cowboy hat. I smiled at him and extended my hand. He looked at my hand, expressionless, then looked back up at my face.

“What's your name?” I asked, bending down to his level.

Silence.

“I'm Anaya . . . your mom's friend.”

He just stood there, staring at me.

“You stink!” he said.

I must have put on too much perfume.

“Ny?” Octavia called, coming to the door. “Come on inside. Boy, move and let her in.” She chuckled at her son.

She was casually sexy in skinny jeans and a white, button-down shirt. As usual, she was wearing a lot of makeup—which she actually didn't need, because she was so pretty.

“Hey, Octavia,” I greeted her.

“What's up, girl?” she replied.

“I'm good. This is a
nice
place,” I said, looking around.

“Say hi to Anaya, Malik,” she said to the mini-cowboy.

He pinched his nose and ran away, laughing.

“Well, make yourself at home while I finish getting ready. My cousin, Ebony, was gonna babysit for me. But she was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”

Octavia had a large, sunken living room that was perfect for children. There was a flat-panel TV on the wall in the corner of the room, and two red couches. The walls were adorned with pictures of Malik and one huge pencil sketch of SpongeBob, matted in a beautiful cherry wood frame. In another corner, there was a tent with a little table and chair set next to it. Near the TV, there was a bookcase full of DVDs and another bookcase full of books, coloring books, and puzzles. There was also a basket full of magazines:
Highlights, Jet,
and
Bay Area Parent.

I was shocked.

And all this time, I thought she was a party girl.

I sat down on the larger of the red couches, which felt like it was filled with feathers.

Way too soft for me, but the kid probably loves it.

Malik came back into the living room, apparently for the sole purpose of ogling me, because that's all he did. I wasn't the greatest with kids, but I smiled at him, hoping he would speak first. He didn't. He just gawked.

“Hi,” I tried again.

Still nothing.

“Is that your truck over there by the chair?”

“You stink!” he repeated.

He ran away again.

I lifted my arm and took a good whiff.

Octavia came in, her own perfume filling the room as she talked loudly on the phone. From what I could gather, the babysitting cousin had gotten caught up in some drama and was running late. Octavia shouted some expletives into the phone and hung up.

“Girl,” she said, “I'm sorry. Ebony got into a fight with her boyfriend and is just now leaving the house. While we're waiting, would you like anything to drink, Ny? Wine? Vodka? Water? Apple juice?”

“No, thanks. You mind if I look at this?” I asked, pointing to a photo album under the coffee table.

“Go ahead,” she said.

I like looking at other people's photo albums because you can get a feel for who they are and what they're like. In this case, Octavia had a lot of friends in her album. I expected to see club and picnic pictures, which were present. But what surprised me were the number of photos taken with her son—at Disneyland, in a park somewhere, and at the barber shop.

“Is this your mom?” I asked Octavia, pointing to a picture of a woman who looked a lot like her.

“Everybody says we look just alike,” she said with a laugh.

Although I saw a lot of pictures of Malik—at soccer games and at his birthday parties, I didn't see any of him with his dad.

One of the pictures was of Morris, Taylor, and Octavia at an office party. As usual, Taylor looked gorgeous—but about as friendly as a barracuda. There was another one of Octavia and Morris at the same party.

Ebony finally showed up with tear-stains on her face. Whatever happened with the boyfriend had made her pretty upset. She grabbed Malik and gave him a huge hug. It was obvious she had a good relationship with the boy. Malik talked more in the two minutes after Ebony arrived than he had in the entire time I had been there.

Just before we left, Octavia kissed her son and told Ebony not to let him eat cookies until after he ate the pizza she had ordered.

On the elevator, Octavia said, “She's a little dramatic, but she takes good care of my kid.”

We had originally planned to take Octavia's car, but it was cluttered with fliers and bumper stickers for Malik's soccer fundraiser, so we ended up taking my Honda, which was fine with me.

We were a few minutes late for our dinner reservation, but we got seated right away in the crowded restaurant. I could see men looking at us, but I wasn't sure whether or not it made me uncomfortable. Sometimes it did, and sometimes it didn't.

Octavia was comfortable, though. I could see it all over her face. She looked around as if she were waiting for someone in particular. She stared back at each guy at the bar who looked at her.

In contrast, I avoided eye contact with all of them, and I looked around for a waitress. When one finally showed up, she handed us menus and said to Octavia, “That bald gentleman at the bar right behind me would like to buy you a drink.”

“No, thank you,” Octavia said, without looking at the man. “Just bring us water for now.” When the waitress left, Octavia rolled her eyes. “I don't want anybody buying me a drink because they think it's cool to come over and talk. I ain't in the mood for that tonight. He can keep his lil' seven dollars.”

We laughed.

“Octavia, you are crazy!”

“I know. That's how you have to be sometimes to stay sane.
You're
crazy, too. Gotta admit, though, you're much different than I thought you'd be.”

“How did you think I'd be?”

“I thought you were one of those spoiled rich chicks full of herself, with the designer clothes and big trust fund. But you're real down to earth. Not at all what I expected when I first met you.”

I laughed.

“What?” she asked, looking confused.

“Well, first of all, my parents are anything but rich. I work because I have to, not because I want to.”