Afraid to Love (8 page)

The envelope didn't have a return address so I almost didn't open it. I don't like surprises, especially when I don't know who they're from. Tentatively, I opened the envelope and looked inside. I was right, it was a stack of papers. I pulled them out and read the first page.

The Ebony Heartbreak

A story? I arched a brow. There was only one person I knew who was crazy enough to send me a story. I almost threw the pages into the trash, but decided against it. Even if it wasn't as good as his previous novels, it was something to spend the afternoon reading.

I poured myself a glass of sweet tea and settled down into my favorite armchair. As I skimmed through most of the story, I slowly realized that Mark was writing about me, or at least that was my best guess. The book was longer and wordier than his previous work and described even the smallest thing in absolute detail.

“Her lips quivered in suppressed laughter and joy before curving into two lipstick stained crescent moons. A smile! I had achieved it. I longed to caress her soft ebony jawline, to trail my fingers over her inviting flesh, but I knew better. A man does not touch an untamed animal no matter what temptations pulls at his primitive mind.  

“She observed me from under her long lashes, as a lioness watches her prey through the tall grasses of the African savannah. My heart pounded against my ribcage, shaking my soul.

“Laughter bubbled over her crescent moon smile, sending a peculiar sensation through my flesh. I pushed my chair away from the table. The ebony beauty had more in common with a lioness than I had first thought. Her bubbling laughter was her roar. It sounded again, but this time its vibration traveled through the whole room.

“My angry instincts took over and I stood up. What was happening beyond my comprehension at the time, but looking back she was warning me away. She was communicating her downfall and mine.

‘Leave!’ she was saying, ‘Leave! Get away from me! This drought will doom us both.’

“I was thirsty for her kiss and she for a touch she had denied herself like some self-righteous guru. She abstained from what she wanted, but not out of loyalty or devotion. Her fast from the primal longing for a touch of a hand against one's flesh wasn't out of love for herself or a higher being, but out of fear. Fear of existence itself.

“My ebony beauty wasn't much different than the lioness fearing an intruder in her territory. It wasn't arrogance or confidence that sent her chasing off the visiting tom that tried to court her, but fear. What would happen if she gave an inch to this invader? What would he take from her? Was there anything besides her own vessel left to her?

“My body longed to wrap itself around the frightened ebony lioness and fill her well of being with joy, love, and yes, myself. I did not want to tame her. All animals that the creator put on the planet have the right to exist in their own way. Instead, I longed to merge with her for the brief time that our imperfect forms of incarnation would allow, to give to the ebony lioness a gift that would chase away her fear. I wanted to be the full moon and stars above her head, lighting the dark and chasing away the threats, but all my longing was for not. The ebony lioness was happy in the dark.”

I blinked and reread the first few pages. Alyssa, the heroine, had laughed at the hero when he invited her to fly to Paris with him. I would have laughed at him as well, because there's only one type of woman a man takes to Paris when he goes on business. The whore, the Jezebel, the mistress, the friend with benefits.

I read the pages again, focusing this time on his description of sex, or at least I thought he was talking about sex. I laughed as he compared it to the full moon and stars. What did sex have to do with being in the dark? I blinked and continued reading.

“I'm not a whore,” my lioness growled at me.

I forced myself back into my seat. It was difficult to suppress the instinct that made me want to flee her presence now that she had rejected me and all that I would offer. I didn't speak. I hadn't called her a whore. I hadn't asked her to come to Paris with me just so I could sink my loins into her cauldron of creation. Had she forgotten her own dreams or had her answer to my question been a lie?

“You're not even going to answer me?” she growled and pawed at the table.

Her well-manicured fingers transformed into claws and she dug them into the table.

“Do you not remember?” I asked her.

My voice was heavy from the lust and anger that mingled in my soul.

“Remember what?” she spat at me.

Her crescent moons had morphed into an angry snarl and she bared her teeth as she spoke the words. My pride was what she was chewing on.

“Paris,” I whispered.

My words echoed between, even though we were only parted by a twelve inches of air.

“What about it?” she growled again and slapped the table with an angry paw.

“You wanted to go. You told me when we went to the museum. You wanted to go the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower. You wanted to look up at the moon over the water and lose yourself in the moment with a fiery kiss, embraced by all five elements.”

I lay the manuscript aside and stared at the ceiling. Alyssa had said that. It was almost word for word what she told them after their date at the museum. Their conversation was naturally followed by the two falling into bed together. He had “kissed every inch of her ebony skin” and “sank his throbbing desire into her soft cauldron of life,” but what good was that in the long run. Every man had lips and a dick.

“You shouldn't have told him,” I said. “Now he's using it against you.”

I was angry at the man in the story, but I had to find out how it ended.

“I did... but...” the ebony lioness said.

Her words were stifled and I could tell she was unsure of herself. In response, my body tensed in case of another attack, but none came. There was no but me. I shook my head. For six years I had tracked the ebony lioness through her own territory. I had given it every ounce of strength and patience I possessed. I was growing weary of the hunt. What I had at first thought of as a chase had morphed into a different creature entirely. She hadn't wanted me to prove my worth nor my intent. The ebony lioness wanted to be left to the solitude of her life.

I gently touched her face, caressing the soft flesh that was usually hidden by her hateful expression. She pulled away from my touch and tossed her hair. I leaned across the table and brushed my lips against hers before capturing her mouth. My tongue parted her soft lips and danced inside of her mouth for only a second before I broke the kiss, as she had broken me.

I stood and walked away. She called my name, but I didn't look back. It isn't wise to turn your back to a cat of prey, but that's what I did. I left her with nothing but her own hide and life to gnaw on. I tucked my chewed up heart into my blazer pocket and looked up at the night sky. The moon was full and the stars were bright, but I knew the ebony lioness wouldn't see them.

I walked away from the heartbreak of that night and I didn't look back. It wasn't my heart that was broken beyond repair, but hers. She had allowed the dangers of the Savannah to scare her into submission. She wasn't the proud lioness I had mistaken her for, and Paris was waiting for me. The familiar city would pull me out of her embrace and with hands more gentle than claws could ever be mend my heart, sewing every tear and cut, until it was whole and perfect again.

I couldn't believe that Mark chose to end the story there. It was a romance! Romances were supposed to have happy endings! Didn't he know that? How could he just leave her like that? He should have tried harder.

I read the words written in the white space at the bottom of the last page of the manuscript.

“I almost called this story the horse that drowned, but thought better of the symbolism. Goodbye and good luck, my ebony heartbreak.”

I had been right. I was his inspiration for the story. Angry tears ran down my cheeks as I searched the house for my shoes. I was going to tell Mark a thing or two! He didn't know me. He was just guessing at what I felt, and he was wrong!  Just because I didn't want to see him again didn't mean I wanted to be alone! I did want to see him again! I just knew I shouldn't!

I slipped my feet into my sandals and sighed as the cool soles soothed them. Since I started working at the hospital, my feet were always aching. I balled my hands into fists when I realized I was crying. They were doing it to me again! They were keeping me down and out! Had Mark sent the story just to upset me? Just to rub it in? I stuffed the papers back into the envelope and tucked it under my arm.

I drove to his place and banged on the door, but he didn't answer.

“Damn it to hell, Mark!” I cried out in frustration.

Next, I drove downtown to check the coffee shop. I didn't bother parking in the garage. Instead, I just pulled my car to a stop in front of the coffee shop and turned my emergency blinkers on.

A cry of frustration escaped my lips when Mark wasn't inside. Where the hell was he? He was almost always here.

“Do you know where Mark is?” I asked the cashier.

“Who? Does he work here?” she asked while twirling her gum around her finger.

“No, never mind!” I said and stomped outside.

I got outside just in time to see a cop tucking a parking ticket under my windshield wiper. I groaned and snatched it off. I didn't know where else to look for Mark. Where the hell did writers hang out anyway?

I took my car to the garage and walked a block until I found a bench to sit down on. I stomped my feet against the concrete and rested my head in my hands as I tried to get the tears to stop.

“Cynthia?” a familiar voice said.

I looked up and wanted to run. It was Heather. It was weird to see her in something that wasn't scrubs. She was wearing a long blue broom skirt and a pretty green top. Her graying hair was wrapped in its normal bun and her thin lips were stretched into their normal smile.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” she asked, sitting down next to me.

“I'm fine,” I lied.

“Do you need help?” she asked.

I almost told her no, but then remembered Mark's mother used to be a doctor at the hospital. Maybe she would know where to find him, like where his dad lived or something.

“Do you know Mark?” I asked.

“I know a Mark,” she nodded, “I worked with his mother for a long time.”

“She died in a car accident?” I asked to make sure she was talking about the same Mark.

Heather nodded hesitantly. I waited for her to ask how I knew Mark or what the hell would he want with a black woman like me, but she didn't.

“That's my Mark. Do you know where I could find him?” I asked.

“No,” she shook her head.

“Thanks anyway,” I sighed.

“Are you in some sort of trouble?” she asked.

“No,” I shook my head and stood up.

I walked away from her without looking back. I knew she was only trying to be kind, but I had to talk to Mark. I didn't have time to explain things to her that she would understand anyway. I was torn between wanting to slap Mark and wanting to kiss him. I didn't want to be the damn ebony heartbreak, but I felt doomed to the archetype he had introduced me to. I cried as I walked back towards the cafe. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks and made tiny wet blotches on the side walk. I could feel passersby staring at me, but for once I really didn't care what they thought of me.

                                                                      Chapter 10: Mark

I packed the last of my clothes into the suitcase. I paid my rent ahead of time, because Monday morning I was leaving for Germany. I didn't want to stick around the city that now reminded me of Cynthia. She was a lost cause to me and I didn't know what to do about it. I was going to do what came easily. I was going to leave, the same way I did when everyone told me to give up on my writing, the same way I fled when my mother died. I punched the suitcase and looked in the mirror. I always hated times when my only option was to leave, but here I was, ready to leave again. I hadn't told anyone yet and I knew my father wasn't going to be happy about it. I don't know why he cared so much whether I lived in the same city or halfway around the world.

I needed to get a haircut. My blond hair was growing too long and starting to get in my way during the long hours I spent typing away at the computer. My misery provided me with all the inspiration I needed, but I wasn't producing anything worth talking about.

Tomorrow evening I was expected to attend my mother's annual birthday dinner party. I knew it made the others feel better, but to me it only made things worse. Why the hell would you have a dinner party for a dead woman? Why cook all of her favorite foods when she wasn't there to eat them? This year I was more down about it than usual. I had hoped to invite Cynthia to come along, but that had left with the breeze. It was hard to believe that the arrival of my mother's birthday dinner meant that it had almost been a year ago that I met Cynthia. All four seasons had passed in the blink of an eye.

Summer was coming on hard and the temperature was rising. The heat waves reminded me of the ebony lioness's savannah. It had been my intention to write a happy ending for that book, but the lioness hadn't allowed it. She had snarled at me until I gave her the ending she wanted, the ending that made sense, although I didn't realize it until the pages had finished printing. She wanted to be alone.  I scribbled my goodbye to Cynthia and dropped it in the post. Had she read it? If she had, what did she think? Would it make a difference?

No, not to me at least. Europe was calling my name. I needed something to feel the time until the publisher got back to me about
The Ebony Heartbreak
. I couldn't stand another moment trapped in this city of dead things. Dead mother, dead friendships, and most of all, dead hope.