Fool and Her Honey (9781622860791) (5 page)

Other people started adding to the thread, making it more challenging for me to respond directly to SeanMichael's comments, so I went back to his wall, clicked on MESSAGE, and in-boxed him.

I was impressed with SeanMichael's response, and we carried on with our in-box messages for the rest of the evening. He shared with me how he'd been in love with a young lady who was very materialistic and measured love by what he could or could not give her. They'd had a baby together, but the mother was on drugs, unbeknownst to him, and it led to the baby's early birth and unfortunate demise. In one of his messages to me he said, “See, that wasn't love, because what she did was selfish. She didn't consider my feelings or our baby's health when she was out in the street, doing crack. Love is not selfish.” His insights got me to thinking about what I was looking for from Russell and whether I loved him. I felt like I did. I sure as hell was patient and kind.

I also found out that SeanMichael was thirty-two, single, went to church every Sunday, worked for Exxon, and loved music. It was too bad he lived all the way on the other side of the United States of America. If he didn't, I would have been trying to meet up with him. There were a lot of miles between Phoenix, Arizona, and Baltimore, Maryland. Oh well, online friendships were always good.

The next day, when I logged into my Facebook account, there was a message from SeanMichael in my in-box.

After that, SeanMichael and I communicated every day in some form or fashion. After a series of in-box messages, we exchanged phone numbers, and I became accustomed to hearing from him every morning, at the start of my day. I found his energy refreshing and loved that he was too far from me for our friendship to be anything other than platonic.

“I don't know about Bertrand,” I'd said to Celeste and Candis during one of our lunch outings several months ago, when he'd first proposed.

“Why? What's wrong with him?” Candis had asked.

“That's the thing. Nothing is wrong with him. He's, like, the perfect guy.” I shrugged.

“So what's your problem?” Candis stretched her eyes at me. “He's not abusive, he's not a womanizer, he works, and he's straight.”

“And he got money,” Celeste threw in.

Even with all the great things Bertrand brought to the table, I just didn't feel that thing a woman's heart felt when she really loved someone. And I didn't know why I didn't feel it. On paper, he was everything I wanted in a man. And he wanted to marry me. How could I say no to a man who always treated me the way I wanted a man to treat me, who had his life together, and who was handsome to boot? I couldn't think of a single reason on God's green and blue earth why I should reject him. Except I didn't love him, and I was mad at myself about that. I wanted to love him because he was so good to me. I'd tried to make myself love him, but I couldn't just magically create what wasn't there.

He didn't make my heart go pitter-patter or give me butterflies. Nonetheless, I was convinced that with some time, I would grow to really love him. Like people who were set up in arranged marriages had to do. Didn't they eventually fall in love with each other? Maybe after a baby or something? I was certain that once we were married and he became the center of my day—the same spot I'd given to my dog of an ex-husband, Cameron—the butterflies and the pitter-patters would come.

“I know all that, but . . . I don't know. Maybe he is just too perfect.” It was the best thing I could come up with.

“What the hell do you mean?” Celeste asked, wrinkling up her nose like the garbage truck had just emptied a load of foul rubbish in the room. “I've never heard of somebody not wanting to be with someone because he's too perfect. That just sounds crazy.”

“I can't exactly put my finger on it,” I lied.

“Well, I don't know what you're trippin' about. Look at that great big Kobe Bryant–sized ring on your finger,” Candis added, grabbing my hand, glancing at the ring, then slinging my hand away just as quickly. “Girl, you would be a fool not to marry that man.”

At that point, I decided to shut up about it. They were making me feel silly for not being more excited about marrying Bertrand, but the fact was, I just didn't love him.

So why did I accept his proposal in the first place? Well, I'd never admit this to Celeste or Candis, because it sounded so fickle and callous, but security was one of the main reasons. That and sex, which was consistently mind blowing. Yep. It was.

Bertrand could put it down in the bedroom, but I was spiritually uncomfortable with having sex outside of marriage. Bertrand didn't share my moral convictions, but every time we did it, which was a lot, I was scared that I was going to run into some impending doom as punishment for sleeping with a man who wasn't my husband. And whispering a silent prayer of repentance after every session made me feel like I was taking God's mercy, grace, and forgiveness for granted. It was hard trying to enjoy sex with your man when you thought Jesus might crack the sky at any moment and send you straight to hell.

I felt like such a hypocrite on Sunday mornings, trying to raise my hands for worship, knowing that I'd just gotten out of Bertrand's bed or he'd just gotten out of mine. The Bible said it was better to marry than to burn, so I decided to marry, because for as long as we'd been sexually involved, I just couldn't see myself suddenly cutting that part of our relationship off. Bertrand wouldn't get it; he would probably think I was giving the goodies to someone else if I stopped giving them to him, so I
had
to get married.

I liked Bertrand alot. He was kind, warm, sensitive, and he treated me well. He had a good job working for the state of Arizona, in the zoning department, which he'd been in for ten years. He didn't have a criminal record, and there were no baby mamas lurking in the wings, although he did have an ex-wife, but they had long ago gone their separate ways. Bertrand was honest, loved his parents, owned a home, wasn't on drugs, and wasn't gay, not that I knew about, anyway. And then add to that, he had money in the bank and was all into financial investments, portfolios, and planning for retirement. I, on the other hand, was trying to come up with a plan to keep my bills paid for another month. Business at the shop had been slow. People weren't getting their hair done as often as they used to, which really rocked my budget and made my money super tight. I wasn't looking for a financial savior, but I knew Bertrand could take care of me. For once in my life I wouldn't have to live paycheck to paycheck.

Bertrand and I lived separately, in our own homes. Shacking up definitely wasn't my style, pending nuptials or not. I had my house; he had his. I had my bills; he had his. I had my money.... Well, actually, I had none, but he had his. I did, by the grace of God, manage to keep a roof over my head, but almost every bill I had was delinquent. My phone rang constantly, with people looking for me and wanting their money. When I compared my financial situation to Bertrand's, along with taking into consideration the fact that he treated me so well and seemed to have his life together, I knew marrying him was a no-brainer. He was a good man and what woman doesn't want that? I knew too many females who fell in love first and still weren't in the best of relationships, so really... love wasn't all that important. It could come later.

Bertrand had no idea about me being so behind on my bills, because I had too much pride to tell him. I didn't want him thinking I expected him to pay my bills, even though we were engaged. Sometimes he made me feel like he just wanted to be engaged and nothing more, because every time I'd proposed a wedding date, he'd come up with a reason why the date wouldn't work. January was his birthday month, and he didn't want to share it with a wedding anniversary. February, Valentine's Day. March, his mom's birthday. Before he could tell me he didn't want our anniversary competing with April Fools' Day, I cut him off.

“Bertrand, there's something going on every month of every year. That's really not a reason not to set a date.” I was a tiny bit anxious to stop living a sinful lifestyle and stop struggling with bills. And I did feel
something
for Bertrand. I just wasn't sure it was love, but in the words of Tina Turner, “What's love got to do, got to do with it?”

“Well, let me think about it,” he'd said. He always said that when he wanted to avoid making a decision or giving an answer.

It was such an awful feeling, trying to push someone into actually marrying me. I mean, he did propose, so did he want to marry me or not? Instead of letting myself get frustrated, I figured I'd let things fall into place at a natural and unforced pace. I just didn't foresee it taking this long. I thought he would have married me (and financially rescued me) by now. Guess I had to wait it out.

Other than that, Bertrand was a sweetheart. He spoiled me ridiculously; there was nothing that I wanted that he wouldn't give me. The strange thing was, it seemed to apply only to material things, not financial things, and that made me confused. I liked blingy gifts as much as the next woman, but last month, when my cell phone got cut off for nonpayment, I would have rather he'd paid the bill for me than given me that sparkly Pandora-style charm bracelet. And groceries would have been nice over dinners out. Hell, I could cook. I didn't complain about it, because I didn't want to seem ungrateful, but he had to know that I needed help with bills. He had to know that I was strapped for cash, since my phone was off. How else would I be, given that I had a dwindling clientele and had time to meet him for lunch almost every day? It just didn't make sense to me when he didn't offer to get my phone put back on. It was like he really didn't want to help.

Just last week he was at my house and overheard me on the phone with a bill collector. Granted he could hear only my half of the conversation, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what was going on when I was saying stuff like, “I'm sorry. I just don't have the money to make the payment right now. I'm not sure, but I will try to bring it current as soon as I can.” I hadn't wanted to take the call in front of him, but then I thought it would be a good way for him to see indirectly that I was struggling financially, without having to actually tell him . . . or ask for money. I hung up the phone and let out a sigh.

“Who was that?” he asked.

I shook my head with a sigh. “Bill collector.”

“Oh.”

That was his answer. “Oh.” There was no probing to find out which bill it was, how much money I needed, nothing like that. Just “oh.” Maybe I should have gotten off the phone, looked directly at him, and asked for a thousand dollars. That was just too close to begging to me, and as my fiancé, I expected him to be more attentive and naturally responsive to my needs. They say the squeaky wheel gets the oil and closed mouths don't get fed, but if you saw the wheel was on the verge of falling off the damn wagon, did it really need to start squeaking? Maybe I just expected too much. After all, it was my financial mess, not his. I just couldn't believe he'd sit back and watch me flounder, though. Especially when he was telling me he loved me all the time. But love doesn't pay the bills, though, huh?

The other thing about Bertrand was, he was super clingy and expected me to spend every moment of my day with him. If for some reason I couldn't do that, he needed an hourly update on where I was and what I was doing, and he had to know if I was okay. He wanted me to call him when I left the house in the morning for work; once I arrived at my job, to let him know I'd gotten there safely; at least three times during my workday, so that he would know that I was thinking of him; and then once more when I left work and was on my way home. It was sweet at first just knowing that someone cared about me enough to want to hear from me all the time, but after a while, that mess got old. That was way too much calling in my day. Don't let me mess around and be too busy to answer my phone. He'd have an attitude for at least a day.

 

 

After spinning my last client out of the door, I dialed Bertrand's number as I tidied up my workstation for the day.

“Hey, babe. I'm running a little bit late. I'll be home in about thirty minutes, so give me about forty-five or so.” He was picking me up for a dinner and movie date.

Once I got home, I rushed in the house, took a quick shower, and stepped into a silk asymmetrical handkerchief halter dress that he'd bought me. I'd worn it only once before, and it got me compliments from everyone I came across that day. I stepped into a pair of smoky blue stilettos just as Bertrand tapped on the door.

As he soaked in my appearance, his eyes and his smile confirmed how amazing I looked, and then his commentary added to it.

“Look at you looking like a million bucks.” He nodded. “I like that, baby. You look good!”

“Thanks. It's just a little something from the back of my closet that my man picked for me,” I teased.

“Your man has good taste. What else you got in your closet?” he asked, thinking about the night before.

The hanging rack in my closet had somehow pulled away from the wall, dumping all my clothes on the floor. Bertrand had made an assessment, had gone home to get a few tools, had come back, and then repaired it for me. As he helped me move my clothes from my bed, where I'd placed them temporarily while he fixed the rack, our bodies kept brushing, until it turned into a game of fondling.

Standing behind me, he slid a single hand beneath my T-shirt, tracing a path up my back. With almost no effort he unhooked my bra, then circled both his hands around to my breasts while he planted kisses on my neck. His throbbing manhood pressed against my behind as he let out a slow moan. I turned in his arms, and our lips collided in lustful passion. While he groped my body, I groped the wall for the light switch, then reached for and closed the door, immersing us in complete darkness. In minutes, we stripped each other of clothes and caressed each other's flesh.

“Look how you have me,” he said, taking one of my hands and giving me his hardness.

I massaged him for a few minutes, and there, in the darkness, I took him in my mouth. Bertrand gasped for breath and held it for a few seconds while I slowly worked my tongue along his length.

“Ahhhhh,” he moaned, encouraging me to continue. “Baby, yes!” he cried out, gently placing his hands in my hair, then pumping his hips slightly forward, showing me what he wanted. I loved to hear him express his pleasure, and I met his request, becoming more aggressive with my movements and listening to his moans grow louder.

After a few minutes, he pulled away and dropped to the floor, guiding me to lie back. He trailed kisses from my neck to the center of my Tootsie Pop, then worked some tongue magic on me that was out of this world. When Bertrand finished with me, I barely knew my own name. Knowing that he'd satisfied me, he eased his way back on top of me and pushed his stiffness into my moistness, and together, in a series of heated breaths, pants, and chants, we took each other to ecstasy. Then we lay there on the floor, caressing each other, trying to recoup.

“Why don't you just come on and move in with me?” Bertrand whispered, sucking on my breasts.

“Because we're not married yet, babe. I'm not exactly comfortable with that.”

“So what are you going to do about your bills? You just can't let them keep getting behind,” he said, drawing circles on my arm with his finger.