Love Delayed (2 page)

“I think Mommy’s just about played out, baby,” I say to Jordan as I turn to him, dropping on my
haunches. “I have an early day tomorrow since one of the workers called off. I’ll see you in a couple of days?”

My heart
twists at that acknowledgement, but I know he’s in the best hands. The only person who loves my child possibly as much as I do is his father. He adores Jordan.

Jordan nods, surprisingly not fighting my departure.
I offer my balled hand to do our fist bump and he joins me. I can see the slant in his eyes as well. Sir Jordan is sleepy. It’s nearing his bed time. I kiss his head and turn to collect my leather jacket and purse that I tossed on a statue earlier.

When my gaze meets Stenton
’s, his hand drops from his chin and his shoulders square, a sign of him opening up to me. It further coils my heart.
I hate what we’ve become
. I don’t know how to say a simple goodbye. Over the years, I’ve lost conversation for Stenton more and more. Luckily, he takes the lead in our parting words.

“Good night,
Zo. Thanks for hanging out with us tonight. Jordan will be home on Friday.”

The brevity of his bidding
me goodbye sends a fluttering sensation through my chest. Still, I don’t know what to say. So, I say nothing. I nod, turn on my heel, and give one last fleeting glance to Jordan who’s now shooting the ball, not paying us any attention, thankfully, before walking out.

When I arrive home, I shower and
crawl into bed with a heavy heart and exhausted limbs. I know I should check in with Bernard, but I’m too tired, too preoccupied with images of Stenton in my head. Too troubled about the thoughts of what could have been when I realize I just spent an eventful evening with what, for years, I so desperately wanted to be my family.

Minutes into this internal battle I’ve engaged in while I beg for sleep to come, I
feel my ducts fill with tears. I knew they’d arrived before they poured because dealing with Stenton for the past seven years acquainted me with the act of crying, something I don’t recall doing much of before him. My chest heaves from the heaviness my heart bears and my lungs fill with the pain of what I’ve become. Then the tears. This is exactly why I didn’t want to extend the evening with Jordan’s dad in the first place.

And so here it is, another night of haunted memories, trying to figure out where I went wrong years ago. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Then

June 2006                                                                                                            
~
Zoey
~

“Girl, aren’t you pumped?
Yeeeeeeeah, baby!” Angela shouted with one hand on the steering wheel and the other, holding a cup of WaWa coffee.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah.” I yawned. “Just ecstatic.
Wooohooo,” I pushed out wryly.

“
Zo, you have no idea what you’re in for! And I’ll never forget my favorite cousin, who took the journey with me to get my husband! We’re going to have so much fun these six weeks! I can feel it!” Angela was so beside herself with glee, she literally exclaimed each sentence.

“How long before we’re there?” I asked, yawning again. It was around 5:30 a.m. and I was completely exhausted.

“Not long at all,” she answered as we rode in her 2000 Ford Taurus.

She
had come to pick me up since Princeton is en route to Moorestown, NJ where we were spending the greater part of our summer.

“Girl, you are going to thank me as soon as you see those tall, rich and fine basketball players! I heard at least six
76’ers
are going to be there and possibly two from the
Knicks
. Zo, we got the best assignment!” Teasingly, she nudged me in the arm as she laughed.

Angela and I had been tight since I moved to New Jersey from South Carolina in seventh grade. We had known each other prior to my move, but when I arrived we became best friends. There were no secrets between us. We shared everything and every detail of our lives.

Angela stole glances in the rearview mirror, assessing her makeup. She was beyond excited about this excursion. Her almond skin came from her mother, though her beautifully carved facial features were all from her dad. Angela and I were fairly the same average 5’5” height. Even with the whopping fifteen pounds she’d put on her last few months of college, she still had a killer body, only now, her figure seemed more mature. And believe me when I tell you she knew how to work her weight, no matter how much or little.

My complexion was less than a shade darker than hers. Some referred to me as light skinned and others brown. I was thin, never
being more than a size five, if I was lucky. I’d wished for that surprise fifteen pounds myself, but wasn’t so lucky. Most of my weight came from my wild hair. Angela’s hair was far more manageable than my own. She was lucky there. 

The common thread for Angela and me was that we both struggled to break the mold of the traditional religious restrictions our family put on us. I didn’t want to live mundane
; go to school, marry right away, have babies, and perpetuate the perception that there was nothing to explore outside the walls of the sanctuary. I wanted to live, to travel and discover what else was out there. I didn’t want tradition; I wanted to paint the path
I
created. The one never toured. My first start was school. I would get my degree, secure my family and take off somewhere—anywhere. But I wouldn’t be held back by condemnation for wanting more.

Angela endeavored to break
away from the same outmoded lifestyle, but her approach was more rebellious. She was a bright student, always having maintained at least a 3.0 grade point average. I always argued that she could do better if she applied herself and went beyond just getting by. However, Angela would always counter that I could work for my 3.8 average alone; her efforts would be made finding a millionaire to seduce. I never understood the long-term accomplishment in that, but admired her boldness and veracity.

I liked a bit of rock and roll; she lived for hip-hop. I appreciated understated beauty;
Ang was the cleavage and camel-toe revealer. I studied to improve; she studied to pass. I liked art, appreciated variety; my cousin enjoyed attempting sensual art with her body. We girls had different agendas, but our goals were the same. We wanted to chart our own paths, ones very different from those our parents traveled.  

The only thing that could have
had Angela up and live at this hour was a man. Although I was enrolled at Princeton University and she was at Rutgers University, the New Brunswick campus, we both applied for the
Working Toward the Stars
program. It was a unique opportunity for participating universities in New Jersey. The program selected top performing students to take on non-paying jobs that put them in the room with top professionals. Our options were theater, music, engineering, baseball, football, basketball, opera, NASCAR, culinary arts and several more. Angela talked me into applying because she had the biggest crush on Stenton Rogers.

Stenton Rogers:
NBA shooting guard for the Philadelphia 76’ers, from Newark, NJ, was the number two overall Draft Pick, three-time MVP Awardee, and four-time Champion.
Oh, and his jersey was number seven
. I knew things about this man that were of no consequence to me. I knew nothing about sports, much less basketball. I was simply happy to be spending much of the summer with my closest cousin.

Secretly, I had no idea what she want
ed with a man like Stenton Rogers. He stayed in the headlines for his reckless behavior. Either fighting with paparazzi, or losing his cool on the courts, or taking nude pictures with models; Stenton Rogers was a topic at every dinner table in America at some point. Two years earlier, the news, blogs and all things Internet were buzzing with the leaked pictures of Stenton and an unknown woman doing things my untainted mind couldn’t conceive. It was the time in American culture when the world finally discovered how far down his tattoos reached.

Again,
I didn’t follow basketball, but my father and every other man I knew were fanatics of the sport, and almost invariably during each man-talk exchange there would be mention of Stenton Rogers. Mainly, the discussion would be led by his dominance on the courts, but more often than not, his wild and lewd behavior with random women would be the subtopic.

And then there was
the two minute clip of a sex tape that was released. Now, that one was stripped from every blogger’s site within two days of being leaked. Stenton was under fire by the league and almost let go. According to my dad, he was suspended for the remainder of the season behind that one. My dad also said if Stenton wasn’t the premiere player of not just the Philadelphia 76’ers, but also the league, he would have been fired without a second thought.

That incident
, mixed with the bar fight he’d engaged in just the night before that video was leaked, had women everywhere in a lustful frenzy over Stenton Rogers. Fawning over him became vogue. I didn’t get it. What dignified woman would want a man whose body so many women across the world were acquainted with?

My cousin, Angela.

“Holy mother of Joseph! I’m gonna have his dribbling babies!” Angela’s screaming roused me from my daze. “I gave Timmy a parting screw yesterday. All I kept thinking about was how the next man between my legs will be Stenton Rogers! I’ve been so excited these last few weeks that my cycle has been knocked off.” She slapped the steering wheel.

Ahhhh
… Timmy.
I had mixed feelings about Timmy’s mention. He’d recently cheated on Angela with a coworker, Regina. Angela turned volatile at that discovery; showed up to his job physically threatening the both of them, egg-bombed his car and slashed two of his tires. I was surprised there was a recovery period for those two that included sex.

“Oh, my god…my first question for him will be how many tattoos he has. Ooh, Zoey, they’re from his neck, all the way down to his waist…even on his knuckles! I can’t wait to see each and every one of them.” She giggled in delight. “And I’ve been told he has a potty mouth. Mmmmmm! I can’t wait to put mine
on
him,” she mused aloud. “Umph…here we go!” she sang as we pulled into the circular driveway of
Moorestown Creek
private country club.

A white gloved valet jogged to
the driver’s side and courteously asked our reason for being there. Angela airily explained our enrollment in the
Working Toward the Stars
program. Her lengthy words and perfect enunciations were entirely unnecessary, and was all for him to explain that we needed to park our own car in the back lot where all employees did. That didn’t pump the brakes on her enthusiasm, though. Ang was ready to lay eyes on her future husband. I, on the other hand, was ready to get through my first day so I could crawl back in the bed to catch a few
Zs
before my night class.

We checked in with the program coordinator,
Jeffery, an employee of the facility. He offered us options for the role we’d play for the summer. We could either be courtside bartenders and serve non-alcoholic beverages or collect the balls the players would use to practice their shots. I didn’t want to be in too close proximity to them, so I was relieved when Angela enthusiastically opted for the
ball fetcher
role.

We took off for the gym. Along the way, I noticed the prestige of the place. Plush carpeting,
stark white walls with built-in frames, real greenery on gold stands against the walls, and the all-white gloved staff.

After a brief orientation
of the beverage stand, I was left alone in the corner of a massive gym. There were no bleachers, just a massive court with seats dispersed around the center floor. By 7:00 a.m. tall figures with tight faces had begun strolling in. I’d guessed although this was their normal training time, it was still their vacation period and they weren’t so inspired.

From the second lanky figure that walked through one set of doors, I wondered
where was Angela’s
Stenton Rogers
. I’d seen him on television over the years here and there, but again, I didn’t follow sports and his lewd behavior had calmed over the last couple of years, so I hadn’t caught a glimpse of him on the newsstands at my local grocery store in a while. And from the considerable distance, he could be the man at the other end of the colossal room, holding the industrial mop.

I spied
Angela from across the court and her eyes were already on me, beaming with anxious enthusiasm. I’d wished there was a way I could ask her where was
her
guy. I thought to send a text, but quickly retracted that idea, as we weren’t allowed to use our phones in the gym. By ten minutes after seven, there were nearly fifteen people in the gym; perhaps four women, but mostly men.

It eventually became clear to me who was who. Most of the basketball players
were amazons with the exception of this one spirited and loquacious short man. He was short, and I don’t mean NBA short, but even layman short. He could be no more than 5’ 7”, but he was fast! I mean, he moved with extreme speed when passing and shooting. Those giants moved like zombies compared to him. And between each successful play he’d have a loud and often brash comment to follow it up.