Don't Tell A Soul (16 page)

YVONNE

 

 

 

 

W
hat time is it?
I sit up straight in my bed, disoriented and soaked through with sweat. I shake my head, trying to clear the dream haze, because that's exactly what woke me up—a dream about Luke.

I fan myself at the recollection of that dream, and then I immediately feel ashamed. I dreamed about one of our anniversary vacations, specifically our boudoir activities. I snap my legs shut under my sheets and ask God to forgive my lustful thoughts.

Why in the world would I have a sexual dream about Luke? I haven't thought about him that way since he broke me in a way that no woman should experience, not from the man she loves. And it's not like he was ever that exceptional in the bedroom, either. Whenever I heard married women talk about how much they wanted their husbands in that way, I never felt as if I could relate. It was always wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, with Luke.

Then I remember Eva's stolen kiss. Is that what caused me to have this dream? Was I aroused by that? Oh, Lord Jesus, please don't let me be a lesbian.

I glance over at the clock on my bedside table. It's only six in the morning, but I might as well get up and prepare for my date with Kingston. We're going to get on the road early to beat the Sandusky amusement park traffic.

Maybe the dream has something to do with Kingston. We haven't kissed or held hands even, but his lingering gaze has started a slow-burning fire in me. I didn't want to admit it at first, but I find myself thinking about his cologne for hours after we separate.

No. I am definitely not a lesbian, but is Eva?

That kiss seemed so surreal, as if she was in some kind of dream haze herself. Even after a full night's sleep, I still feel bad about how that ended, but I have no idea how to fix it, or if I should even try. I could end up making it worse.

My cell phone buzzes on the nightstand. I pick it up and squint at the number in the caller ID. It's Eva. I must've thought her up this morning. I hesitate before answering, but I suppose I can either deal with this now or later.

“Hello?” I say, trying to sound as chipper as I possibly can, seeing that I haven't even brushed my teeth yet.

“Oh, I didn't think you'd answer. I was just going to leave a voice mail message.”

“Well, I'm awake, so you don't have to do that. What did you want to say to me?”

There is a long pause before she speaks. “Yvonne, please say that we can still be friends. I'm so sorry for what I did.”

“I do forgive you, honey . . . I mean Eva . . . but I don't know so much about the friend part.”

“I understand why you don't want to be my friend, but I really want to change. Sometimes I feel like I'm out of control when it comes to my sexuality.”

“Are you a lesbian?”

“No. I mean, I have been with women on film, but I am attracted to men.”

I think about this response, and I don't know what to think. How could a woman have sex with another woman on film and not be attracted to her? I don't know how it works, and I don't even know what I believe about how people become homosexuals. Some people say they are born that way, and some don't.

“How could you do it, then?” I ask.

“It was like I was outside myself when I was filming. We'd use Ecstasy or marijuana, and everything would just kind of run together. Once I did it the first time, it was easier the next time, and the next time and the next.”

“I'm going to be honest, Eva. I don't think I can be friends with you. You violated something when you kissed me, and I really wish that you hadn't.”

“Okay.” I can hear the sadness in her voice. She sounds so pitiful that I could just cry with her.

“But I promise to try as long as you promise to keep your lips to yourself.”

“I will! I will! Can I ask you something else?”

“Sure.”

“I want to be free of all this. I want salvation, too. God spoke to me when I promised Him I wouldn't do adult films anymore. But I don't know what to do. Can you tell me where to read in my Bible? Where can I find something for me? I keep reading about Israel and the apostles, but I feel lost when I pick up the Bible.”

Hmmm . . . what Bible verse would speak to Eva? Then I smile, because I think of the perfect one.

“Try the Gospel of John, chapter four. It's about a woman who Christ met face-to-face. She had a past that she was ashamed of, I think.”

“Thank you so much, Yvonne. Will I see you at church on Sunday?”

“I'll be there.” I try to sound non-committal, but not mean. Even if I can't put the horrible feelings out of my mind, I still want this girl to meet Christ.

“Okay, then. See you tomorrow.”

I breathe a huge sigh of relief as I disconnect the phone. Even though I reacted badly, she still hasn't been soured on Jesus. I would've felt guilty if that had happened.

I jump out of bed, feeling much better, and ready for my date with Kingston. I do all my bathroom rituals, including soaking in a bathtub full of perfumed soap. I've found a new fragrance I like that smells like sweet rose petals. It's soft and sexy. Well, I guess it's sexy. I have no idea what kind of scent a man finds arousing.

And do I even
want
to be sexy? After that dream, I'm not so sure! What if Kingston kisses me and I just start pulling clothes off like I don't have good sense? Lord, help!

Then I pick my outfit. I want to be comfortable, so I pick a jean skirt and flats and this halter top that Taylor forced me to buy last summer. It is very pretty, and Taylor has great taste in clothes.

My hair is easy. I just got my bob freshly cut and styled, so it falls into place perfectly and is soft and bouncy.

I've never been one for a lot of makeup, but I've been taking man-catching lessons from my vixen friend Taylor. She says that I need mascara and at least lip gloss. I can do the lip gloss but not the mascara. I always end up almost putting my eye out with the mascara wand.

When I am totally assembled, I look in my full-length mirror to give myself the once-over. Not bad, if I do say so myself. I'd ask myself out, I think. I may not have all the killer curves of some of the sisters I know, but I am shapely. There are a few gray streaks in my hair, but if I dyed them, I could be mistaken for a woman in her early thirties. Black don't crack, baby! Thank the Lord for good genes and a healthy dose of melanin.

While I'm waiting for Kingston to show up, I put on a pot of coffee and warm a bagel for breakfast. It's not like I can actually eat anything. I'm too excited about our date.

Right on time, at nine, I hear Kingston's car pull into my driveway. I stop myself from running to the door. That would look desperate, I think, even though I am very eager to see him.

I peek out of the front window as he walks up. He's wearing a peach polo shirt and some khaki shorts. With his sunglasses and baseball cap, Kingston looks younger than his years, too.

I force myself to wait until he rings the doorbell, and then I take slow and measured steps to the door. Finally, I swing it open, wearing a smile on my face. Kingston stands there with his hands in his pockets and a crooked grin.

“Making me wait, huh?”

“No, no! Not at all. I was having a cup of coffee. Do you want one before we get on the road?”

“Sure, especially if you've got some coffee cake to go with it.”

“Will homemade almond pound cake suffice? It goes well with coffee.”

Kingston steps inside my town house. “I'm sure if you made it, it's delicious. You know you're a legend at New Faith with your baked items.”

“I am? Well, I've had a lot of practice at that. When I was growing up down South, it seems like somebody baked something every day.”

I lead Kingston into my kitchen and motion for him to sit on one of the bar stools. I pour a cup of coffee and sit it in front of him with cream and sugar.

“I think my next wife is going to be a great cook. I've never been blessed to find that in a woman.”

This makes me laugh as I place a big hunk of cake on a plate and slide it next to Kingston's coffee cup. “Oh, really? So who cooked during your marriages?”

“With my first wife, it was spaghetti three days a week and hot dogs the rest of the week.” Kingston takes a bite of his cake, closes his eyes, and smiles. “My second wife was too much of a diva to cook. Yvonne, this cake is incredible.”

“Thank you. I've got to say, I like a man who knows his way around a kitchen, too. Do you like to barbecue?”

“That is one thing I never mastered. I'm more of a shrimp scampi guy. I could whip you up a spinach soufflé before I could grill a slab of ribs.”

I scrunch my nose. “I've never had a spinach soufflé. It sounds bourgie.”

“It is. If you want, I can take some barbecue classes before I propose.”

“Aren't you getting ahead of yourself?” I ask.

“Nope. I'm right on schedule. I've been trying to win your heart for two years. It's not my fault you only just got on board. You've got some catching up to do. I already know what I want.”

I feel my cheeks grow warm at his frank admission. “Um . . . let me use the restroom before we leave.”

I rush out of the kitchen and into the bathroom. Clutching both sides of the sink, I breathe in deeply and exhale slowly, trying to slow my racing heartbeat. I look in the mirror and notice that my cheeks are slightly reddened, which is hard to see with my brown skin.

Kingston is coming on strong, and it scares me. I want to get caught up in the whirlwind with him, but does the fact that I'm dreaming of Luke mean that I'm not yet ready to move on? It's been eight years since I've shared my life with a man. If I'm not ready now, maybe I'll never be.

When I feel like I've regained my composure, I go back out into the kitchen. Kingston has finished his coffee and cake. He's washed his dishes and mine and placed them in the rack to dry. This brings a smile to my face. Luke never once helped with chores. He'd rather have an enema than wash a dish, vacuum a floor, or even pick up his dirty underwear and socks. I hated picking up behind him, but over the years I got used to it. Now that I live alone, I'm used to cleaning only my own messes, so if I did decide to take the marriage plunge again, he'd have to be neat.

Kingston is fine, romantic, and he cleans up after himself? He's ahead by a lot more points than I want to admit. I don't know if I deserve him! He seems too perfect.

“Are you ready to go, pretty lady?” Kingston asks.

I nod. “Yes, I am.”

“It's a nice day, so we can ride with the top down if you want.”

“Sure!”

Kingston claps his hands. “A woman who doesn't mind messing her hair up in the wind. Yvonne, I think you are perfect.”

All I can do is grin. He thinks I'm perfect, and I think he's perfect. How perfect is that?

PAM

 

 

 

 

S
ince I have another free day before my family gets home, I decide to have a spa day. It'll take my mind off Troy and Aria. Especially since I can't do anything about it right now, save driving down to Cincinnati like a madwoman, which I almost did more than once. I had to force myself to follow Taylor's advice and stay put.

I get dressed in my comfortable light blue Baby Phat jogging suit and flip-flops, pull my hair up into a curly ponytail on the top of my head, and throw on my sunglasses. This is my “I absolutely do not care” look. And I don't care today. I'm about to get my fluffy body rubbed from head to toe and to drink licorice tea and cucumber water.

When I step out on my porch, Logan is parked in front of the house. He's standing outside and leaning against his car, as if he's waiting for me. I take my sunglasses off and stick them in my hair as I walk down the path to greet him. He's wearing athletic clothes, so I wonder if he's on his way to the gym.

“Hi, Logan. What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I was out and about, running my Saturday errands, and I thought about you. Just checking to make sure you're okay. You were a bit of a mess when I saw you yesterday.”

“I'm fine. Thanks for checking on me.”

“You sure you're fine? You haven't booby-trapped the house to choke Troy out as soon as he walks in the door, have you?”

“No, not yet. I'm still hoping that the only thing he has to explain is hiding the note from Aria or, better yet, not throwing it away.”

“Okay, okay, I believe you. Where are you off to? No laptop, so you're not going to Starbucks to write.”

“Very observant. I'm not going to write. I'm going to get a full-body massage by my girl KeKe at Sassy Femmes.”

“If you needed a massage, you should've let me know. I would've taken care of that for you. You wouldn't even have to tip me.”

“Logan, you are out of order.”

He folds his arms across his chest and nods. “I am out of order. I apologize.”

“Forgiven. Thanks for seeing about me. I'll see you later.”

“I was hoping so. I was thinking that we could talk about my book career over an early dinner.”

Dinner with Logan doesn't feel safe to me. Not with him standing here, looking like a chocolate-dipped Greek god. He might be an aspiring writer, but he's also trying to get extra close to me.

“How about a late lunch?”

“I'd love that. P. F. Chang's sound good?”

Nope. That place is too dark, and there are too many intimate corners inside, even during the day.

“Not in the mood for Chinese. Plus, that place is kind of romantic. It wouldn't look right if any of my church friends saw me there with you.”

“How about my place, then?”

Now I crack up laughing. “You didn't seriously ask me that, did you? Let's just scrap all the meal plans, okay? I can help you with your book when my husband gets back home. We can all do lunch together.”

“Why do you think I'm up to no good, Pam? I've not made any advances toward you. This isn't fair.”

Okay, how about telling me that he's attracted to me, showing up at my house when he knows my husband isn't home, asking me out to dinner? His advances might be subtle, but they are certainly real.

“Maybe it's not you. Maybe it's me. I might not be able to resist you.”

“Now, that's what I'm talking about. To thine own self be true.”

“Oh, please.”

“Wasn't that a writer-like thing to say?”

Now the cute banter is starting to annoy me. “I've got to go. I'm gonna be late for my appointment.”

“Sure, Pam. Do you want me to come back later to tuck you in?”

“Logan!”

“I'm kidding!”

He waves as he hops back in his black convertible Benz. Troy probably drooled when he first saw this car. It is exactly the kind of ride I'd expect Logan to have. It's dark, fast, and dangerous. Just like he is.