The Art of Endings Page 4

  When he’d come clean with Shay about Alicia, she’d disappeared on him for about twelve hours. Trey spent the entire day at work calling her, and getting no response, alternately wanting to go home to see her and telling himself he was being ridiculous. But when he got home that evening and found the house dark, he knew immediately that she was gone. Even letting himself into the basement apartment, where she’d been living at the time, and finding what looked like all her clothes had been no reassurance.

  Up until that point their relationship had been marked by concealment from each other and from everyone else for that matter, so it wasn’t inconceivable that she might leave without a word, abandoning everything she owned, and him as well. The panic, the ache had taken him by surprise.

  A few more hours of calls unanswered and unreturned had finally, thankfully, ended when she called him. Shayla turned out to be at her parents’ house in southern Virginia and after a long conversation, they’d agreed. No matter what, there would be no more secrets. Even if the truth was ugly, even if it hurt, they would keep nothing from each other.

  Despite that, Alicia would always be a sore spot, so he kept that situation—and Alicia herself—at arm’s length. And if the baby turned out to be his, hell, that was a bridge they would cross if they had to. But if this was true, that Shayla hadn’t shared this important piece of information with him, maybe he was the only one committed to changing.

  Trey turned and looked directly at Shayla and her eyes met his. He thought they were done with this and that they could move forward. Here he was, thinking about marriage. And she was still keeping secrets.

  Chapter Three

  For most people the forecast of about a foot of snow meant a few days off work sitting home with family and kids. For Darren it meant a few days off work as well—unless he was called in—but alone. He would watch some bowl games on TV, eat take-out from the Chinese place around the corner that never closed, and barely manage not to lose his mind going stir-crazy. Of course, he could always head over to Largo and Trey’s house where he was always welcome. He could hang out over there and get snowed in with them, or there was always . . .

  No. He wouldn’t even think about it.

  To call Paige back now would only compound his mistake. He had to let it go for awhile more, and maybe in a few weeks, he could give her a buzz and the whole damn thing would have blown over.

  For the first week after his slip-up, she’d called him at least once a day. And now the calls had dwindled to nothing, which was just as well. He was neither what she needed nor deserved so a few weeks of hard feelings would be the only price to pay, and he had no doubt that when it blew over, they would go back to being friends. And if he now had a real life picture in his head of a scenario he’d only imagined in the past? Paige as a girl had been one thing, but thinking about what she was like now, as a woman . . .well, that would have to be his burden to bear.

  Wandering into the kitchen, Darren grabbed a beer and sat at the butcher block counter, reaching for the phone. It had been awhile since he’d reached out to Devon. His younger brother was a junior at Penn State, a kid so different from him that it constantly amazed Darren to think they had emerged from the same womb. But the womb was the least of it. They were brothers by blood, but their childhoods, their lives had been as different as night and day.

  By the time Devon was born that bastard had been gone awhile, and unlike Darren’s, his formative years were not marred by fights and crying, screaming, shouting and endless acrimony. By then, their mother had kicked their father’s ass out—not for good, and not completely, but at least he was out of the house. Of course, by then it was too late for Darren.

  After only a couple of rings, Devon answered.

  “What’s up, man?”

  “The usual,” Devon said. “Trying to get these classes squared away. Can’t get into the right History seminar . . . the usual bullshit.”

  Devon was toying with the idea of becoming an art historian. An art historian. Every time he thought about it Darren smiled. Only today, in the age of Obama could a Black man make so esoteric a career choice. At first their mother asked Darren to talk him out of it, but he refused, taking pride in the fact that his brother could unselfconsciously choose a path so seldom blazed by men of color.

  “You calling to tell me you’re going to make it up for the show?” Devon asked.

  “Ah . . . I wish I . . .”

  “Nah, that’s a’ight,” Devon said too quickly. “I know you got lots goin’ on.”

  His brother, in addition to studying the history of art, was quite the artist in his own right, occasionally scoring a show in local galleries and at the university. Darren had never been to one.

  “Maybe,” he said finally. “Maybe I’ll make it for this one. Remind me when it is?”

  “Next weekend.”

  Devon sounded excited and Darren felt his heart quake thinking about his handsome and optimistic baby brother. He was a good kid, an innocent who would have a good, clean life. With Devon there’d been none of that crazy growing pains shit that Trey had gone through with Tessa.

  Trey’s mistake with Tessa was that at first he’d been too distant. As long as Tessa was clothed, fed, housed and went to school, he was sure he was doing right by her. Darren had been there with his friend, watching the slow drift into attention-seeking behavior as Tessa grew older, culminating in a frenzy of drug use and God-only-knew-what other bad choices.

  But finally, Trey had figured it out with her, opening himself up a little and letting her in, realizing that it was okay to let her know she was loved, and that in some ways, it was just as important as making sure she had clean jeans, a hot meal for dinner and a roof over her head.

  “It would mean a lot to me if you came though,” Devon was saying now. “I mean, you never even seen the stuff I’ve done since high school.”

  “I’ve seen your stuff. I look at every single piece you post online,” Darren insisted.

  “It’s not the same, man. You have to see it in person. When you sent me to Italy last summer and I saw the Sistine Chapel . . .” Devon let out a low whistle. “Let’s just say, there was no comparison to what I thought I knew about it from looking at it on my computer’s high-res monitor.”

  This year he was saving to send Devon to Paris in June. Penn State wasn’t exactly known for its Arts program, so each summer since he was in university, Darren had paid for his brother to go with a specialized program from Vassar College that took college students on two-month art tours in Europe. The exposure when he was a freshman had given Devon a new interest in languages and now he was studying advanced French and had gained some fluency in Italian as well.

  “Not that I’m comparing anything I ever did to the Sistine Chapel,” Devon said when Darren hadn’t spoken after a moment.

  Darren laughed. “Well, I’m sure your stuff is still pretty damn impressive.”

  “So come see for yourself,” Devon said. “Next Saturday.”

  Just as Darren opened his mouth to respond, he heard a knock on his front door and ambled over to get it, grabbing his wallet as he went.

  “Lemme call you back in a minute,” he said. “Chinese food delivery.”

  “Call me this evening instead,” Devon suggested. “I’m about to call Ma, see whether she’ll make it Saturday. We can make a family reunion out of it.”

  Oh shit. Even with the most lukewarm of possibilities that he might make it to the show, the kid was all excited and making plans now. Finding a way to weasel out of this one wasn’t going to be easy.

  “Okay, later then.”

  Darren ended the call and opened the door simultaneously, so his brain was still focused on Devon, when he realized that standing before him was the one person he’d been trying to avoid for the past two weeks.

  Paige was wearing jeans and a snug long-sleeved lavender shirt that complemented her cool, brown complexion. Over her arm was a camel pea coat and in the other hand a bag that bore the logo of Manchu House, the Chinese restaurant from which he’d ordered his food.

  “I ran into the delivery guy just outside your door before he knocked,” Paige explained as she walked past him and headed for his kitchen.

  Darren still hadn’t thought of a single thing to say before she began opening cabinets and taking down dishes. Then she was looking in his refrigerator and grabbing a bottle of beer. Her back was still to him as she fussed with the take-out cartons and Darren still hadn’t spoken.

  “You want to grab some cutlery?” she asked.

  This was becoming a habit, him becoming tongue-tied in her presence. But she was definitely a sight for sore eyes. Seeing her here, in the flesh made it more difficult to shove into the back of his mind the details of that night. Paige with her mouth pressed against his ear making soft mewing noises and groaning out his name as he drove into her. The harder he went, the more she gave, opening herself wide for him, then grabbing his buttocks, pulling him deeper and locking her legs about his hips.

  “How’d you know I wasn’t working?” Darren asked, finally recovering the power of speech. He opened one of the drawers and pulled out knives and forks for them both.

  “I didn’t. I thought I’d take a chance.”

  And before she could continue, his cell phone rang and he picked up. It was Devon again.

  “Ma said she’s in,” he said. “So we can all go out to dinner or something after the show.”

  “Yeah, but Devon, you know my work . . . if something comes up . . .”

  “I know, I know. But just pencil us in. Me, you and Ma next Saturday.”

  “A’ight. We’ll see,” Darren hedged.

  “Yup. Later, man.”

  “Wow. So your phone does work,” Paige said once he ended t
he call. “Funny how it never seems to function when I call it.”

  “I’ve been meaning to . . .”

  “No,” Paige turned to face him. “No, you haven’t been meaning to call me.”

  “Fine. You’re right. I wasn’t going to call you,” Darren admitted. “I was going to wait a good, long while. A long enough while until we’re able to get that stupid mistake out of our heads.”

  Paige was looking directly at him now, her gaze steady and unaffected by his harsh words.

  “So you haven’t been able to get it out of your head either?”

  “Paige,” Darren shook his head and broke her gaze.

  “Last week was the anniversary. Of Clint’s passing. I would have liked to spend that time with you,” she said. She was no longer smiling.

  “Spend it doing what? Honoring his memory by fucking?”

  “Maybe you and I will get around to fucking sooner or later,” Paige said evenly. “But that’s not what we did that night, and you know it.”

  “Why are you here, Paige?” Darren asked, still not looking at her.

  “To reclaim a friend,” she said simply.

  Aw damn.

  “You don’t have to recl . . .” Darren sighed and moved toward her. When they were inches apart, he put a hand at the back of her neck and pulled her against his chest. “I’m always going to be your friend, Paige. But I just can’t offer you anything more than that.”

  Paige pushed back against his chest and looked up at him, saying nothing. Her lips parted slightly as though she was about to speak and Darren could see her throat bob as she swallowed. Her chest heaved.

  “I’m not asking you for anything more than that,” she said finally.

  But her eyes said otherwise. And pressed against her like this, his body said otherwise as well. It was almost involuntary, what came next; his leaning in, her head falling back, his mouth on hers. They were kissing and he pushed her hard against the kitchen counters, his lips punishing hers. But within moments, kissing wasn’t enough and Paige’s hands crept under the hem of Darren’s shirt, moving over his abs, up to his chest and around to his back, pulling him even closer toward her. Her breath came in short, fast gasps and she tugged at his shirt, trying to pull it over his head.

  “Paige,” Darren said, trying to slow her down. “Paige . . .”

  “What?” she said, still trying to remove his shirt.

  “Look, maybe we shouldn’t . . .” He couldn’t fucking think. With her hands on him, he couldn’t form a coherent thought, much speak less a coherent sentence.

  “Yes,” she said. And her mouth was on his again. “Yes, we should.”

  This was the second time Darren felt like he’d lost control of the situation and let Paige direct the action. And he was most definitely not the kind of man to let a woman take charge. Deciding to abandon the niceties, Darren tugged at her jeans and Paige reached down to help him, yanking it apart at the waist so the button popped open. Then he was pushing them down over her hips, crouching as he did. When they were at her feet, she stepped out of her flats and kicked them aside. She was wearing white underwear, cotton with tiny eyelets all over it through which he could see flecks of her golden brown skin.

  As Paige’s chest heaved, Darren heard her trembling breaths and felt the shivering in her thighs, whether from the chill in the air or her excitement, he wasn’t sure. One hand on each leg, at her knees, Darren pressed them apart so she was almost squatting. Pulling her panties aside, he saw the dew of her excitement and leaned in to taste her. Paige let out a loud gasp and grabbed his head, trying to pull him into her.

  Holding her tightly by the wrists, Darren moved at a pace of his choosing, stroking her slowly, keeping her as still as he could. The feel of her against his tongue, the silky, wet smoothness, and the way she tasted were all intoxicating. But if they were doing this, they would do it his goddamn way. Only when she gave in, submitting herself completely to him, letting him lead, did he loosen his hold on her hips and stand once again.

  Darren shoved his sweats down over his hips, not even having the patience to get them completely off. Hoisting Paige up so she was on the edge of the kitchen counter, he looked at her, directly in the eyes. And in that moment, a wordless agreement passed between them.

  They were going to do this.

  They were going to do this until one or the other of them stopped it, because it was much too strenuous pretending that he didn’t want to.

  Paige’s lips parted. “Yes, Darren,” she said. “Yes.”

  And so he closed his eyes and buried himself deep inside her.

  __________

  Just outside the living room window, the snow had begun to fall, sheets of white blanketing the cars parked at the curb. Drowsily, Darren glanced into the kitchen where Paige was wearing yellow rubber gloves, working on the countertop with sanitized wipes. He laughed out loud and she looked up at him.

  “It’s not funny, Darren.”

  “Too bad. I kind of like the idea of seeing your butt print there day after day.”

  “That’s disgusting,” she mumbled.

  Paige still hadn’t gotten completely dressed, and instead had gone to his room and grabbed a shirt. Darren barely managed to pull his boxer briefs back up and his sweats were somewhere, he couldn’t recall where. Watching Paige return the cleaning supplies to their place under his kitchen sink, exposing her naked rear as she bent at the waist, Darren forced back a momentary stab of guilt.

  “The food is cold,” Paige observed.

  “I don’t care. I’m even hungrier now, so let’s eat.”

  “I’ll nuke it first.”

  He watched as she plated their food and found a tray. Outside, the snow had begun to fall in earnest. There was no way she was leaving tonight. After what they’d just done, there was no way he was going to let her leave even if it wasn’t snowing.

  “I feel like wine,” Paige said as she set the tray on the coffee table in front of him. “Do you have any?”

  But before she could walk away again, Darren grabbed her arm and pulled her onto his lap. She smoothed a hand over his hairless chest, blushing at the unexpected attention.

  “Does this mean I won’t have to force myself on you from now on?” she asked.

  Darren shook his head. “Like you didn’t know I was always just barely holding it together when you were around,” he said.

  Paige’s face became serious for a moment. “No, I didn’t know that, actually,” she said. “You always kept your distance just fine.”

  “Not always,” he said.

  Paige smiled at him and for a moment they were both in another place and time.

  “Anyway,” Darren said, breaking through the heaviness in the air between them. “You’re here now. And from the looks of all that . . .” he inclined his head toward the picture window through which they could see that it was beginning to get dark, “. . . you might not be going anywhere for awhile.”

  He ran a hand under the t-shirt and up to her chest. Under his touch, her nipples hardened and there was a slight stirring between his legs.

  Paige seemed to read his mind and laughed. “I think we should eat, don’t you?”

  Pulling his hand from beneath the shirt she pushed herself up from his lap, and headed back into the kitchen. She returned with a bottle of merlot and two glasses, pouring for them before settling next to Darren on the sofa.

  As Paige extended her legs across his lap and dug into her food, Darren reached for the remote and turned on the television, hoping to catch the tail-end of the game he’d been planning to watch before she showed up.

  When they were done eating, Paige took their dishes into the kitchen and began washing up. From his vantage point on the sofa, Darren found that his eyes intermittently drifted in her direction. And when he wasn’t looking at her, he instead listened to the sound of cutlery against dishes, running water, cabinets being opened and shut. Domestic sounds. Comforting sounds. Before he knew what was happening, the rhythm of it had lulled him to sleep.

  __________

  “So your girl’s lookin’ real good lately. You tappin’ that?”

  Darren turned at the sound of Clint’s voice. Clint was New England prep school trying to be South Bronx, but Darren liked him anyway.