Page 86 of False Start
On the way to what I hope isn’t a dilapidated home, Leslie chatters about. He talks about everything from the club he works at during the week as a performer to his friends at the club. Leslie loves a little drama.
When we arrive at his place, he lets us inside. His vibe is eclectic with a lot of animal prints and shaggy covered chairs. I have no idea how a man of his height and size can sit in the dainty chairs without them breaking. We walk through the living room into a large kitchen with an island in the middle.
Leslie opens a drawer, reaches inside, and produces a key. “I used to help care for the old tenant. She was elderly. Still have the key.”
“Are we not supposed to be in the home?”
“The place isn’t on the market, Suga. The former tenant passed, and her son asked that I only show it to those who would be a good fit. Mrs. Brownstone didn’t want just anyone living in her home.”
The large man leads me to a door that leads to a courtyard. On the other side is the townhome of the lady he once cared for. Inside the air is stale and musty from sitting vacant.
“How long has it been empty?” I ask.
“Mrs. Brownstone has been gone just over a year.”
I can tell from the hitch in his voice that he loves the woman, and he misses her dearly.
I explore the home with him, going upstairs to check out the three bedrooms, and downstairs for the master bedroom and bath, kitchen, and dens. There’s a sunroom off the kitchen where I can curl up and read a book as I bask in the rays. I can see myself here. I can see Leslie being my neighbor, and I don’t take it lightly that he showed me Mrs. Brownstone’s home.
“I love it.”
“You do?” he asks in disbelief.
“Yes. The floors need to be redone and the carpet ripped up. The cabinets in the kitchen and the tile in the bathrooms need updating. It needs a lot of paint, more love, and elbow grease, but I’m in love with it. If you think I’m a good fit, I’d love to have it inspected to make sure the bones are solid.”
Leslie, a man I don’t think often smirks, smirks at me. I imagine it must be lonely living next to a vacant home where a friend lived while she was alive. “Suga, I think you need this as much as I do.”
IT TAKES A FEW weeks for the inspection to come back. Mrs. Brownstone’s townhome has good bones, but needs updated electrical and plumbing, something I suspected before the inspection was complete. It’s an old place. The former owner’s son flies in to complete the sale a few weeks later, and I begin moving my things inside the townhome the next day.
I manage to have a bed delivered for my first night and Leslie insists we go shopping the next day for furniture. By day he’s an interior designer. He’s actually quite sought after in the area, so I gladly accept his help to fill my home with furniture and decor. I decide on a French Country style for the house, and we hit markets and stores for weeks until every room is brimming with the pieces it needs to make it comfy and homey.
And when the house is decorated and full, I have nothing else to focus on. On a Friday night when my new neighbor and friend is working at his night job, I climb the stairs to the second floor. I stand in the hall, looking into each of the perfectly arranged rooms, and I feel empty inside. I feel all alone in this world. I miss Bryant. I miss our love and our relationship. This house should be full of him and children.
There’s no one to hear me cry as I silently hit my knees and sob for all I’ve lost. It feels like I need to rip him from my soul to finally get away from him, but I don’t know how. I don’t know how to separate him from me because he was a part of me for so long. I’m not sure how long I sit on my knees and cry, but I eventually calm myself to a sniffle before I take the stairs back down to my room and climb under the covers to hide from the world.
“ZHANNA!” LESLIE AND ZINA both yell.
“I’m coming in!” Leslie shouts, and the two of them pop inside my room moments later.
I really need to get the key back from Leslie.
“Suga, we’ve been calling. Something wrong with your phone?” he asks as he dials my number on his phone, and I only know it’s my number he dials because it dances and rings on my nightstand. “Mmmhmm. I see. Well, it’s time for an intervention. You stink. You’re not answering your calls, and my beautiful ass should never be ignored. It makes me gassy.”
I cover my head with the duvet and groan.
Zina rips the covers off. “Leslie is right. You have to do something other than sleep all day.”
It’s been a few months since I moved in, and I haven’t handled the breakup all that well. I’m trying, but every morning when I wake I find I’d rather stay in bed, so I do. “I’m tired.”
“No, Suga, you’ve got the blues,” Leslie singsongs.
“Otto’s on the way over. Says he needs to talk.”
“I don’t feel good,” I say. “Tell him to come back tomorrow.”
Leslie puts his tough face on, slings his dreads behind his head, and shakes his finger at me. “You a sad sack of shit. You want to be a sad sack of shit for the rest of your life?”
I frown at him and whine. “No?”
