Forever. (This. Is. Not. Over. Book 3) (15 page)

             
“Unfortunately,” Gay Guy, or Dustiny, as his name tag claims he’s named, turns to get Malcolm’s fries, switching on his way to the fry bin. Malcolm looks over to me, shakes his head and then slowly exhales.

“
Men
,” he whispers.

“Yoo-hoo … your money
,” Dustiny says to Malcolm.

             
“Oh, thanks.” I turn my head to snicker privately.

             
“Here, the fries are on me.” I look and see Malcolm get his bag and the ten-dollar bill back.

             
“Thanks,” Malcolm says. “Appreciate that.”

             
“Uh-huh. Would you like ketchup, Polynesian sauce?”

             
“No, I’m good. Thanks, have a—”

             
“That wife of yours is pretty.”

             
“Yeah, I think so too.”

“You two know what you’re having?”

              “A girl,” Malcolm says with a smile. I turn around and notice a line forming but if there’s one thing that anyone knows it’s that a Chick-fil-A parent is much too poised to beep her horn in frustration. That would be the McDonald parent way.

             
“Got any names picked out?”

             
“Actually we just have one. Sunday Simone.”

             
“Sunday Simone Blair! Cah-yute!”

             
“Yeah, we’ll call her Sunny.”

             
“Oh, I hope she’s a redhead!”

             
“You and me both.” Malcolm gives a small wave as he pulls off.

“Come back, Attorney Malcolm!” Dustiny says as we drift off.

              “I’m sure Sunday’s name will be in the news next week,” Malcolm says as he merges into street traffic.

             
“Sunday, huh?” I say as I watch Malcolm loosen his tie. “Danielle didn’t tell me you two had a name picked out. This, of course, is just another way for her to try to hurt me. Befriending Jacob’s wife was the first. Your wife is a terrible human being and is possibly the devil reincarnate with all of that red hair of hers. And I know how you like to defend her, so I hope you don’t take offense to that. I can only imagine how that comment just hurt you.”

             
“Well, we always knew we wanted to name our next baby Sunny,” Malcolm says as he slows down to make a left hand turn. “We just hadn’t come up with a legitimate first name.”

             
“Why Sunny?”

“From the Frank Sinatra song
,” he says as he stops at a red light and looks at me. “Simone is from Nina Simone.”

             
“I had no idea that Danielle liked Nina Simone.”

“Years ago, we had Nicky in the car and we were getting gelato and
“Sunny” came on that Siriusly Sinatra station. From that day forward, we started talking about that being the next name we use when we had a girl. One Sunday night, after Roman was born, we were all coming back from getting gelato and Nina Simone’s
Feeling Good
came on. I said we should name our first daughter Sunday Simone. So there you have it.” He begins to ease off as the stoplight turns green.

             
“She still could have told me,” I mutter as I settle in for the ride to the Blair’s house.

And as I sit back and enjoy the rest of the ride, I have to admit something. I know it sounds bad, but being here without my kids, without Marlon and just sitting next to a guy who talks about something other than Pearl and Tiffany and property is a relief. Malcolm Blair is sitting next to me and we’re just in the moment. He’s turned on some Wale (Marlon’s favorite rapper) and is occasionally whispering the words to
Flower Bomb
, an old-school song, as he slightly moves his head to the beat. Actually, Jacob and I would label this ‘Romantic Old School Rap’, our favorite kind of music.

             
Malcolm and I are just … chilling. He’s letting me enjoy the ride, not pushing me to talk, not telling me to go home. I’ve told him some heavy stuff, some embarrassing stuff. He could be trying to shame me right now for saying that I didn’t want to go home. He could be driving me to a loony bin right now for almost walking in front of traffic. He could have shaken his head at me as I talked about loving Jacob. But he didn’t. Tonight, without judgment, Malcolm Blair is letting me be me. Whether I’m behaving admirably or despicably, he’s letting me find my own way here.

“I can see why Danielle married you
,” I say as I look at him.

             
“Why’s that?”

             
“You probably let her be who she wants to be.”

             
“I do.”

             
“I bet she considers me pushy.” He says nothing, just grins. Yeah, she’s been talking about me like a dog to him. “When Marlon asked me to leave, it felt like he was judging me. I think that’s why I’m so mad. He didn’t give me a chance to tell him what happened. He just looked at that picture, came to his own conclusion and considered me intolerable.”

             
“People do that often,” he says as he makes a right hand turn.

Yeah … I guess they do.

“You wanna hear something stupid?” I ask.

“I’m listening.”

“This is going to be about Jacob, just to let you know. You’re the only person in the world I can talk to about him so I’ll probably drive you crazy tonight.”

“That’s fine.”

“But, I guess I don’t see him for the horrible person he obviously tries to be. It’s funny, he was apparently this vile and disgusting human being but in college I used to call him ‘Sweetie’. I’m pretty dumb, huh?”

“Not at all. Sometimes for kicks, I like to call Red,
‘Angel’. Irony, whether intentional or not, is a part of relationships. No big deal. It’s nothing to feel stupid about.”

“Thanks.” God, I feel so relieved to have Malcolm with me right now.
I look him over: dark hair that’s cropped close, eyes the color of milk chocolate, thick lashes that cover them, a Roman nose, a square jaw. I have to admit, he’s really turned into a handsome guy. He’s always been nice looking but for some reason, a wife, kids and that platinum band on his finger really spruced him up. Not to mention that a girl can get drunk off of his smell. I wonder what cologne he uses. I look over to him and see him rubbing his hand over his face, his five o’clock shadow is starting to come in. “Your face was smooth earlier tonight and now it’s full of shadow,” I say with a smile, remembering that Jacob’s face does the same thing.

“Yeah baby, I’ve got testosterone running through my veins.” He looks at me and winks. I laugh as I start looking out of the passenger window.

“Tonight I’ve felt freer than I have in a long time. I’m just cruising through the city, watching the Christmas lights, listening to romantic rap.”

“Are these songs romantic?” He lets out a light laugh.

“Yep. Jacob and I used to listen to this kind of music. We called this ‘Romantic Old-School Rap’.” I inhale deeply. “Danielle’s lucky.”

             
“Take your glasses off.”

             
“What? She is.”

             
“Jasmine, if you were my wife, right now we’d be talking about the bridge to Nicky’s song and how I need to rub your feet for a minimum of twenty minutes apiece instead of ten. You’d be mentioning, for the thousandth time, how you don’t want Lola to attend The Royal After-The-Play brunch tomorrow at my parents’ home and if she comes then you’ll just go home. That would be before you mentioned how you need to stop immediately to head to a restroom and that I’d better not mention that we just stopped because you have a human inside of you and those are the breaks.” He makes a left hand turn. “I’d mention that I have a shitload of clients who need immediate attention. This, of course, would be my subtle way of saying that I need to work overtime in the home office this week. This is also a way of asking for permission to be totally distant and completely unavailable this upcoming week, which would mean the brunt of the boys would land on you.” Now that I think about it, Malcolm may be driving me around the city but let’s face it, he’s at work right now. It’s 10 o’clock on a Friday night and Malcolm is working. “I’d be asking why you stopped making corned beef when you know that’s one of my favorite recipes of yours. That would be a passive-aggressive way of asking you to make it next week. I’d also mention that I need you to pick up a bottle of my cologne for me during your lunch break. This, of course, has to happen next week. And after you asked why I couldn’t pick it up myself, I’d remind you about that shitload of clients. I would therefore be asking for a lot of favors for someone who plans to be detached and remote next week. And most importantly, we wouldn’t be listening to this romantic old school rap because you wouldn’t be a rap fan. We’d have on Coldplay or Adele and maybe, just maybe, Kanye West. But you aren’t my wife, so that means that you and I can sit here and listen to
romantic rap
and cruise through the streets of Boston.” He looks at me and smiles. “But don’t tell Red I said any of that.”  I smile and look out into the Boston night, enjoying the light show around me. Yeah, Danny’s lucky.

“Can I ask you something?” I ask as
You Got Me
comes on.

             
“Of course.”

             
“And you can say no, I totally get it. Because you definitely don’t owe me anything and I know I have no right to ask you this since I’ve kinda been mean to you for so long. And, let’s just be honest, I’ve been downright rude because I hated you. So I know that I don’t have a right to ask you this but—”

             
“If you ever need to get away, just call me,” he says.

             
“You sure?”

             
“I am.”

             
And then it feels like a Christmas miracle has happened. The dredge of my life has been lifted not only from my spirit but also from my eyes. The sepia tint that once clouded them, which made Boston murky and dim, has now faded away. All of the colors and lights of the city streets are a little brighter, as vivid and vibrant as farm fresh fruit at the height of summer. The lights strung throughout the city are like twinkling red apples, orange tangerines, indigo blueberries, purple blackberries, green watermelons, and yellow pineapples. I’ve got that good feeling, that fresh feeling, as I sit here with Malcolm.

“Can I ask another favor?” I ask him.

              “What’s up?”

“Can we put our windows down and crank the heat up?”

Without saying a word, Malcolm blasts the heat in the car and then points to the controller that operates my seat warmer. He then lowers his window and mine. And now, once again, I’m cruising through the city of Boston, the wind blowing against me. I’m at peace with the person I’m with, I’m downright happy with my freedom. And the good thing is, I’m doing this with my best friend’s guy so it’s totally safe, it’s completely innocent.

“Thanks, Malcolm
,” I say as I close my eyes and feel the relaxing blend of heat and cold.

             
“No problem,” he says as the next song comes on. Yet another old-school jam; Outcast’s, “Prototype.”

Jasmine

(
sisters
.)

“What a beautiful home.” I say to Malcolm as he uses his key to open the front door, the Chick
-fil-A bag in his hand. As expected there are dozens of secret service agents around and while Malcolm didn’t have to be cleared to walk to his parents’ front door, I most certainly did. They frisked me, made me touch some handheld device to record my fingerprints, then entered my social security number into the device and waited for the results like was I was some kind of criminal. How exciting! “It’s like I’ve stepped into war time Boston!” I said as I linked my arm in Malcolm’s. “I thought they were going to ask me if I was a Patriot or a Loyalist and whether I support the British taxation on tea. And your parents’ home! Just look at it!”

The thing about owning a home in the heart of the city is that you can have a bucket load of money but your home will never upstage the house next to it. Even Danielle’s childhood home, as beautiful as it is, is just as fabulous as the home next to it. So though the Blairs have tons of money, they live in
a Colonial Revival home with white siding and black shutters. It’s more nostalgic than it is grand.

“I can just imagine a fireplace lit inside and tea brewing in a glass tea kettle. And I’m sure your mother has some fresh scones on the table and a framed painting of our Founding Fathers somewhere in a mahogany wood frame. I’m even imagining there may be some secret meeting going on inside that the Brits don’t know about. And your parents are living double lives as residents of both the UK and America, the home of the free and the brave. Oh God, your parents are probably American spies posing as ambassadors! At any moment, they could be assassinated in the UK because of it, shot right in the back of the head while dining on fish and chips … and this is Danielle’s family. God, she is so lucky.”