Afraid to Love (2 page)

My dad stood on the other side of the street. He was yelling something I couldn't hear, but it made me panic. Something wasn't right. Suddenly, two large white men approached me and lifted me off my feet. I struggled against them, but they were too strong. They dragged me into the backseat of a police car and sped off. My father chased behind the car, but soon was unable to keep up.

Shocked, I sat in the back seat as the car moved. The drive seemed to last for hours and I shivered as the sun sat and darkness consumed the world around me. Suddenly, the car screeched to a halt and one of the men opened the door and wrapped my weave around his hand, jerking me from the car. He shoved me hard and I landed face down on the concrete. My knees ached and I felt blood pooling around them.  Looking around, I realized the police officers had brought me back to the street where I had grown up.

“Keep your black ass in the ghetto!” one of them laughed as the car drove away.

The high pitched squeal of my alarm clock pulled me out of the dream, but my whole body still trembled. I lay still and tried to calm my nerves, but the screaming alarm clock made my heart race faster. I sprinted across the room and tried to make the noise stop, but it was too dark to see the buttons. I fumbled with them for a second before the room was submerged in sweet silence.

I slid down the wall and took a deep breath. I had to pull myself together. In less than two hours, I would be greeting my first patient of the day and if I didn't get it together they'd eat me alive. After taking a few moments to gather my wits, I forced myself to stand. My knees popped and my feet still ached from yesterday.

I flipped on the light and headed into the bathroom. I quickly covered my hair with a shower cap and stepped into the shower, shivering as I waited for the water to warm up. I washed quickly, not taking time to enjoy the soapy loofah gliding across my skin like I normally would. I rinsed and turned off the water. I grabbed for my towel only to realize I had forgotten to grab it out of the dryer.

“Shit!” I hissed when I realized I had forgotten to switch my laundry over the night before.

“Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!” I cursed as I sprinted down the stairs.

My wet feet slipped and slid on the hardwood of the stairs, but somehow I managed not to fall. I grabbed my towel from the dryer and restarted the washing machine. I dried as I walked back to the upstairs bathroom. I had the time, but lacked the patience to pull off anything spectacular with my hair. I brushed it out with styling gel and wrapped it into a bun. It didn't look great, but it would work until I found a salon that knew what to do with a weave.

I slipped into a pink pair of scrub pants and a floral patterned scrub top. The colors complemented my dark chocolate complexion and the contrast made me smile at my reflection. I spun around and looked at how the scrubs fit tightly against my ass. They didn't look bad. I had tried on three different sizes of scrubs when I went shopping, but this was the only one that fit correctly. The next size up fell from my small waist if I walked too quickly.

I popped two pieces of bread into the toaster and scrambled an egg. I ate slowly, killing time, because I had gotten ready in far less time than I thought it would take me. After I ate, I brushed my teeth and did my makeup. I usually didn't wear it, but it helped kill time.

“You show 'em, baby!” my father's voice echoed around my skull.

Sometimes I found it hard to believe it had only been two years since he lost his battle with cancer. He had been diagnosed when I was only twelve and had battled it for eleven years before he finally drifted off to sleep and didn't wake up.

I bit my lip and shook my head. I couldn't allow today to be another day of mourning. I had to get out there and fight my own battle, and every day was a battle. My father had told me that again and again. As I lined my lips, I thought of my makeup as war paint, something to disguise how miserable my new job was making me.

My second day wasn't much better than my first. I was thrown up on twice by the same ill child and had an old man yell at me for pronouncing his foreign last name wrong. Fortunately, Heather loaned me the extra top she always kept in her locker. It was a navy blue and it didn't suit my skin color, but at least it wasn’t covered in chucks of what smelled to be a child's meal from a fast food restaurant.

When I clocked out, I decided to drop by the coffee shop again to see if I could return the borrowed umbrella. Besides, I could do with some conversation, friendly or otherwise.

                                                                      Chapter 2: Mark

Normally, I used my time at the coffee shop to find inspiration and make notes, but today I was hidden behind my laptop. Inspiration had finally struck and I was in a hurry to get the words down before they drifted away. Yesterday, inspiration wrapped her velvet fingers around my soul and was yet to release me. It had come to me in the form of a beautiful ebony woman. There was something unique about her. There was something more and I wanted to know what that something more was.

She wore hospital scrubs, but even they couldn't hide her beauty. Her dark brown eyes avoided mine, but she had noticed me watching her. I was a little embarrassed that I had allowed myself to stare but couldn’t look away. She was like a song that I heard briefly on the radio that played again and again through my thoughts, because I never heard the ending.

When our eyes finally met, I could tell that she was having a bad day. No, it was more than that. She looked sad. Maybe it was because of her bad day or the storm that was moving in, but whatever it was, I wanted to fix it. I wanted to see her smile, but more than that I wanted to be the one who made her smile. The best I could do was convince her to take my umbrella. I was taking a taxi home, so I didn't need it.

I stayed up late last night, writing until my fingers cramped from their tap dance performance on the keyboard. When sleep finally claimed me, I dreamed of her and kicked myself for not asking her name. Even in my dreams, the mysterious ebony beauty didn't smile.

I usually spent Tuesdays at the library doing research and wandering the shelves looking for anything that might stoke my creative mind, but today I waited at the coffee shop. I had already spent over fifty dollars on tall raspberry mochas, but it didn't matter. I'd stay here until they closed up if I had to. I had to see her again. I had to know her name and be the one to make her smile.

I tried to describe her time and again as I wrote, but failed miserably at describing the woman who had only sat tables away from me. My friends would laugh at me if they saw how caught up I was after only a brief encounter, not that I planned to tell them about it. I knew nothing was likely to come of it, but I have never been able to deny myself a flight of fancy if it meant staying inspired.

Writing has been my obsession for as long as I can remember. I published my first book under a pen name at eighteen and have since published seven more. They were all self-published and most of them were science fiction and fantasy, but I had grown tired of the genre. I wanted to try my hand at something different. I wanted to take a shot in the dark at writing about real life, but more than that I wanted to be recognized for the talent I possessed. I wanted a publisher to read my work and beg for more. A childish sentiment, but it's what I've always dreamed of.

The bell above the door chimed, bringing my thoughts back to the present. I glanced up from the screen and smiled. The ebony beauty had arrived! She was wearing navy blue today and it suited her well. It made her brown eyes seem deeper and more mysterious. She smiled at me and my heart skipped a beat. She began to approach my table and I quickly gathered my papers, shoving them hastily back into my folder.

“I don't mean to interrupt you, but I wanted to return your umbrella,” she said holding it out.

“Thank you,” I grinned, “Hopefully it kept you dry.”

“It did its job. Unfortunately I didn't stay dry.”

I arched an eyebrow, but didn't ask what happened.

“A carload of teenagers thought it would be funny to see how high a puddle could splash,” she said.

“I'm sorry,” I frowned.

Her voice was even, but her eyes told me just how upset the incident had made her. 

“It wasn't your fault,” she shrugged, “I'll let you get back to your work.”

It took her turning to leave to make me quit being a coward. I didn't want to let an opportunity to become better acquainted with her pass me by.

“Wait!” I called after her, “Would you like to join me for a drink?”

“I really don't want to be a bother,” she said.

“It's no bother,” I smiled, “I'm done writing for today. I was just powering down.”

It was a lie. I could have written all night and wouldn't have finished my story, but I wanted to talk to her, so I was finished for the moment. I closed my laptop before it had a chance to finish shutting off and looked up at her with hopeful eyes.

“I was just going to grab a coffee to go,” she said, “but I guess I could spare a few minutes.”

“I'm Mark,” I said standing up and holding out my hand.

She just looked at it for a moment and eventually accepted the hand shake. Her skin was much darker than mine, despite the fact I held a tan pretty well. I allowed myself a few seconds to study the contrasting colors so that they were committed to memory. This was life. Some people spend all their time searching out souls that are similar to them, but to truly experience life I believe we have to search out those who are different. Those who can share their experiences with us and broaden our perspective.

“Cynthia,” she introduced herself.

“That's a beautiful name,” I said and pulled out her chair.

“Thank you,” she replied.

We made small talk over coffee and I could tell she was holding back. She mostly listened to me talk about my writing and my books. She looked interested in what I was saying, but I wanted to know more about her and I was running out of interesting things to say.

“So you work at the hospital?” I asked.

“Yea,” she said, “It's not as great as it sounds though.”

“My mother was a doctor,” I told her, “It takes a good heart and lots of patience.”

“That it does. I'm not sure I have the patience part down.” She let out a short laugh. “You said your mother was a doctor, what made her quit?”

“She died in a car accident three years ago,” I told her.

“Oh!” she said looking a little embarrassed, “I'm so sorry.”

“She was a great woman,” I replied, “I know a lot of people miss her. Dad and I still get invited to all the events the hospital hosts. He doesn't go anymore so I seem to end up attending them alone, even when I don't plan on it. It's more to honor my mother's memory than anything else.”

I left out the part that I had been traveling around Europe when she died and hadn't been able to make it home in time for her funeral. The part how I felt guilty every day about it. I’d examined the theme again and again in my writings; in manuscripts meant for my eyes only. 

“I became a nurse, because I lost my father to cancer two years ago,” Cynthia said.

As she spoke she avoided looking at me. Having lost a parent myself, I understood how hard it was to talk about it.

“He was diagnosed when I was twelve,” she continued. “He was in and out of remission for almost eleven years before he died. The thing is the doctor had just given us hope that he would live for at least another five years, then one night he went to sleep and didn't wake up.”

I took a deep breath and fought the urge to touch her hand. I didn't know her well enough to be affectionate and most women would take it as trying to use their vulnerability to get laid, even if that wasn't your intent. So I decided against the comforting touch because I didn't want to screw up my chances before we even went on a real date.

“I'm sorry,” I said and meant it.

Cynthia nodded and blinked away the hint of tears before she thought I saw them.

“I have to go,” she said suddenly, standing up and slinging her purse over one shoulder.

“Can I see you again?” I asked.

“I don't know,” she shrugged, “maybe.”

Cynthia left without looking back. I knew she was upset and our conversation wasn't a pleasant one. I hoped she would be willing to see me again. I shoved my laptop into its case and followed it with the folders. I needed to move. I was frustrated with the way things had turned out and wasn't sure whether or not it was time to throw in the towel. I had been told on more than one occasion I didn't know when to give up, but I thought everyone else gave up too easily. I wasn't look for a hookup or even a relationship, but I still wanted to know more about Cynthia.

I walked the rapidly emptying streets before I sat by a fountain. A photographer was taking advantage of the quiet sunset to take a few last minute shots of a model who was wearing a wedding dress. I wondered for a moment if it was hers or if it was just to promote a designer. I hoped it was hers. I wanted it to be hers, because I wanted to be able to latch onto a small beacon of hope.

I finished the walk home and settled down into bed with my laptop. It was going to be another evening where my computer and my words were my only company. I finished the chapter I was working on and shut the computer off for the night. I picked up my e-reader and flipped through the new releases, but nothing caught my attention. I considered flipping on the television, but then again, I never really watched it. I hated it more than I liked it. I hated to be told how to see characters. When I read a book, I love to let my mind sketch them out for me. They always seemed so much more real than the people on TV.

I fell asleep with the light on, thinking about how so many people wasted their lives seeing what others told them to. It applied to more than just fiction. In the last moments before I fell asleep, I made a fictional college class where I could help people see the world for themselves, where I could teach them to shape their own lives free from the influence of what others thought they should be. Hadn't I been living that way since I came of age? I would be the perfect teacher for it.