Feeling Some Type of Way Page 6

“No, because he’ll be persistent in tracking me down and I’m sure he wants his car back.” I tied up my curly locks into a messy bun. I only wore my yoga pants and a tank top. Fuck it. I’m not trying to impress him anymore so why in the hell did I care what I looked like.

  I opened the door and found Ian looking rather remorseful and quite honestly, pathetic. I’m sure Daddy Warbucks sent him to retrieve the car so I’ll make this short. “Here,” I reached into my purse and removed the car keys from my key chain. I’m sure you’re here for this so I’ll make it easier on you.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want the car. I want to talk to you. He looked behind me and I assumed by the worried look in his eyes, he saw Michelle and Helen shooting daggers with theirs. “Preferably alone.”

  “I’m not getting dressed. We can go outside on the balcony.” I pointed.

  “That’s fine. I just want to talk to you.” He eyeballed my outfit. “You should put on a sweater. You might get cold.”

  “Here you go,” Helen handed me a hoodie and narrowed her eyes at Ian. “We’ll be right here on that couch.” She pointed to her right.

  “Yes, this couch right here.” Michelle repeated and opened the blinds so they could see Ian and I talking on the balcony.

  “And let me get my candles and knives going,” Helen rushed to the kitchen and retrieved matches and a butcher knife. “I might be in the mood to stab someone in a few minutes before I burn them.”

  Helen might be dramatic AF but she’ll go to bat for a girl any day of the week. “Let’s talk,” I led Ian outside to the balcony and closed the glass door. We sat down on the chairs that surrounded a small circular table. “So what’s going on?”

  “I wanted to apologize for how much of an absolute dick my brother was. He had no right treating you like that and he deserved everything.” Ian broke out into the familiar, warm smile I’m used to. Too bad I can’t see past the asshole. “I wish I was there when it happened. I’ve been told the entire Gallery heard his screeching.”

  “I don’t feel good about what had happened. I wish it never did.” I gathered my legs up to my chest. “But I don’t regret it.”

  “It was a long time coming.” Ian took out his cell phone and keys and placed them on the table. He studied his items on the table for a long while before he looked up at the starry sky. “Ever since our mother died, he’s always taken this familial, no bullshit role.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your mother,” I replied.

  “She died many years ago when I was 18. Gerald was probably 15. We were here for several years prior to that. Our father wanted to open a museum here so we moved in support. Our mother wanted to stay in London and New York. She never smoked, barely drank. She just didn’t like the smell of alcohol no matter what it was. She never even used cooking wine.” Ian softly smiled. “She was a champion for women’s rights. She was an avid art collector and boasted a rather prestigious collection. All female artists, with not one male in the bunch. Back then, her and my father hung out with a lot of artists. They partied like anyone back then. The New York art scene was crazy. You think it’s crazy now but back then in the 70’s, 80’s, and 90’s? It was totally fresh and unique. They both became friends with many artists who are no longer around. We have some of their original artwork in the Gallery. We’ll never sell it.

  “She was on her way home from the grocery store and some twenty-year-old punk with no care for life, just careened into her. She died on impact. We saw the wreckage and there was no way she could’ve survived the accident. The car was unrecognizable. His alcohol blood level was three times the legal limit. The guy ended up getting a max of six years. Six years. He destroyed our family and all he gets is six years.

  “We all moved on the best way we knew how. My father remarried and divorced a few times. He’s on wife number four now. Losing our mother turned me off from relationships and Gerald…I guess he was tired of me and our father’s shenanigans and really missing our mother, just became this serious executive. He’s married with a family of his own now. Three children – two boys and a girl and I spoil them often.

  “Every year on December 13th, we get together and honor our mother the best way we know how. We throw a holiday party in her honor inside the room named after her, Lula Jean. It was her birthday and she loved celebrating birthdays.” Ian finally turned to me. “I don’t expect you to take what I said and instantly forgive. I’m sure you’re not going to return to the Ferguson after today and I don’t blame you. But I wanted to personally apologize to you and share a little family history while I did it. How Gerald treated you today was cruel and unfair and trust me when I say my father had a stern talk with him. My father would also like to extend you a return to the Gallery if you want it. If not, no harm no foul.”

  I don’t know what to think. It also explains why Ian acted the way when he saw me drunk at his bar. He probably didn’t want me walking into traffic. He literally saved my life in so many ways. “What about the car, the tuition, and money?”

  “All of that was yours and still is. We’re not in the business of taking stuff back after the fact. You wanted it, it’s yours.” He reassured.

  “Helen is talking to me about getting a position with MOCA. She said her wee—” I had to correct myself. “Her really good friend works there and could line me up with a position.”

  Ian stiffened. Uh-oh. Apparently, I just said the phrase that steals money and guests from the Fergusons. “How much are they offering?”

  “A lot!” Helen shouted from the inside.

  Ian slowly turned around and saw Helen and Michelle with drinking glasses against the sliding glass door. They heard everything. I love my girls.

  “Whatever they offer you, because they will extend an offer, we’re going to double it.” Ian insisted. “I don’t want you working for anyone else but me.”

  I don’t want you working for anyone else but me. Fixed that for you, Ian.

  “When do you expect me back at the Ferguson?” I cautiously asked.

  “Tuesday. Take the rest of the week off.”

  “And your brother?” I cautiously asked. “If I’m not wanted there, there’s not point of returning.”

  “I’ll handle Gerald. I want you back at work come Tuesday.” He stood up and grabbed his items. “Take care of yourself, Domi.”

  It was the first time someone has ever shortened Dominique. I wasn’t supposed to like it yet I loved it. It felt personal. It felt special.

  It was all Ian.

  I would soon realize I would only prefer Ian to call me that, as if that was his personal stamp on me and no one could replicate it.

  I have a feeling this is the start of a very interesting relationship between us.

  Nine

  Thanksgiving at my family’s home was always an event.

  From my uncle’s oxtails to my auntie’s creamy macaroni and cheese to my cousin’s best sweet potato pie that would put Patti Labelle to shame, it was always a guarantee that whenever I went there for Thanksgiving, I was going to wake up the next morning with two bigger jean sizes around my middle.

  I can’t cook worth shit.

  Yeah, I just can’t. I’m sure if I wanted to, I could throw down in the kitchen. I often see those memes men post online with a girl who twerks on the left and a girl cooking a meal on the right saying, ‘Get you a girl who could do both.’

  Heh. I’ll microwave the shit out of a Lean Cuisine while I’ll make my booty clap. Is that good enough?

  I parked the Audi around the corner and brought my staple of Duncan Hines cake along with me. Hey, I said I couldn’t cook. I can definitely bake.

  I walked up to the door and rang the bell as I adjusted my stance in these new Gianvito Rossi boots. They’re surprisingly comfortable despite the monstrous price tag. I didn’t want to get them but Adrienne was insistent. It’s his money, not yours she kept repeating.

  Yeah, but I still have work off that debt that was to be seen.

&nbs
p; Still, I couldn’t worry about that now. I had a stomach anxious for some sweet potato pie.

  The door opens and my Fertile Myrtle cousin, Angie, greets me. Four babies in three years; the youngest two are twins. She’s the only black Mormon I know so it makes sense she’s breeding like it’s about to go out of style.

  We differ on a lot of things. She’s very We Are the World and Kumbaya while I’m trying very hard to tone down my inner Shirley Chisholm. But we’re as close as sisters.

  “Sister!” She gives a big hug and we exchange air kisses. “How are you?”

  “I’m doing great!” I glanced down to see if she’s pregnant – again. Nope, no baby but a flat stomach only tons of crunches can produce. “How are Jake and the babies?”

  “They’re fine!” She led me inside the home where I put the cake down on the side table. “They’re outside playing.”

  “Oh great!” I took off my jacket and dropped it on a nearby sofa.

  “Um…” Angie pulled me aside and looked around before she spoke. “You dad and Candy are here.”

  I already knew they were. I would be lying if I said I didn’t hesitate when I saw the large white Mercedes SUV parked in the driveway. It was Sam’s gift to Candy for her birthday, replacing the Escalade he purchased for her a year prior.

  But yeah…he wanted me to find my way, remember? “I know.”

  “I’m sad Adrienne didn’t come! I was looking forward to seeing him. I mean her. Her!” She corrected.

  “It’s okay. Maybe next year.” I already knew what Adrienne was doing. She was spending it on vacation with one of her sponsors. I wanted to ask her what sponsor spends Thanksgiving with her and she changed the subject to something else. I wonder if the sponsor is really a new boyfriend.

  I made my way throughout the home and greeted everyone before I went back to the living room where my jacket was. I deliberately avoided Candy and Sam and just pretended I didn’t see them. Honestly, I couldn’t stand to see either of them. They both looked like they just won the lottery and literally wore the winnings. Must be nice to be financially afloat while you let your child suffer.

  I sat down and went through my tumblr feed, hoping to be distracted enough so no one would bother me. Yeah, I went over to Thanksgiving just to avoid family; makes total sense, right?

  My peace and quiet wasn’t very long as Sam came to join me. “I missed you coming in!” He proudly boasted. My father with his bald head, penchant for dressing like either a pimp or a preacher (sometimes I confuse the two), and Jekyll and Hyde demeanor. He’s in a good mood because he’s around other family.

  “Hi Sam!” I smiled at him and gave him a hug. It was the very least I could do.

  He promptly sat before me and I felt my body froze in tension. Obviously he wants to have a conversation about Lord knows what right now. For some reason I must have an invisible sign tattooed on my forehead that welcomes asshole men to confront me when I’m in a good mood. It was clear Gerald saw it before.

  Sam sighed and sucked something out of his teeth. I think it’s a tick because I don’t understand what he could’ve ate to do that. “How’s your brother?”

  “My sister is fine,” I corrected, not looking up from my phone.

  Sam sighed again and I sense I’m going to lose my appetite before dinner starts. This is going to be one short-ass Thanksgiving. “Where is Adrian?”

  “Adrienne is on vacation.” I replied.

  “Vacation?” Sam scoffed. “Where and with who?”

  “Puerto Rico and with her boyfriend.” I answered, immediately regretting I gave too much information.

  “He’s dating a faggot?” Sam laughed.

  I rolled my eyes and put my phone away. “If you’re here to badge me what Adrienne is doing, we can end this conversation right now. I’m not going to have you badmouth my sister because you disagree with her life.”

  Sam held up his hands in defense and promptly dropped it. “How’s school?”

  “School is great! I scored an internship. Actually, two but I might drop the last one.”

  “Where?” He asked.

  “The Ferguson Gallery and MOCA.” I replied.

  “What are you going to do there?” He asked, this time with a bit curiosity.

  “At the Ferguson, I’ll be under Ian Ferguson, acting as his personal assistant.” I wonder how Ian’s Thanksgiving was going. I hoped it was much better than mine. “Under MOCA, I’m not sure what I’ll do there yet.”

  “The Fergusons,” Sam nodded as he processed the information, “they’re rich, aren’t they?”

  Of course, the conversation turned to money. It’s all Sam cared about. I asked him one time if the world was blind, would he still be stuntin’ in front of everyone and he had the most blank look face ever. “Yes, they are.”

  “How much are they paying you there?” He asked.

  The truth was my salary – if one could call it that – was free until I proved my way. That remained to be seen. “It’s an internship. It’s free. I’m doing it for the experience.”

  Sam nodded and shrugged. It was a sign he was never quite impressed with whatever I did. Gotta love parents who project their own issues and insecurities onto their children. I’m never sure if this was a part of his mourning process or he really was an asshole and I just never saw it before my mom’s death.

  Gosh, I wish my mom were here.

  “Genesis!” Candy called before she came into the room. She’s never called me Sister and I can’t say I’m upset about that. A dishwater blonde woman with a penchant for the red lippy to showcase the numerous cosmetic procedures on her face. If I try hard enough, I can count at least five. She has a curious accent from a place I’m not sure even exists.

  I stood up to give her the complimentary ‘everyone gets one’ hug before I sat back down. She took her place on my father’s lap and cradled her arms around him. It was so sweet to see. A golddigger with her sugar daddy. This has Hallmark written all over it.

  “How’s school coming along?” Candy asked.

  I tightened my lips. She was the reason why I almost dropped out of school. On second thought, she was also the reason why I met Ian. Hmm…maybe I should thank her, after all. “It’s going great.”

  “Are you still on track for graduation?” She asked as she lazily bounced a leg.

  “Yes,” I replied, annoyed by her swinging leg. You know how when you don’t like someone, you don’t like everything? Yeah, I’m there. “I’ll be graduating this May.”

  “And then what are your plans?” She asked. “You have any jobs lined up? Going to grad school?”

  No plans, no jobs, and I had enough school to last me a lifetime. “Not yet, but I will.”

  “Good for you!” Candy smiled and pointed at me. “I know you could do it.”

  As long as I didn’t interfere with your spending money like water habit, I’m sure it was a breeze. “Uh-huh.”

  After a Thanksgiving feast for the ages, I drove back to my apartment with three plates of leftovers to last me a couple of days and my jeans size still intact. I had a busy day of waking up early and going online shopping so I needed all of my energy. Maybe if I was crazy enough, I’ll hit the mall later.

  I was alone in my apartment for the rest of the weekend and relished in it. I get to walk around half-naked. I could play my music as loud as I wanted and I didn’t have to answer to any roommate. It was heavenly.

  As I laid in bed, flipping through a good book to read on my e-reader, I wondered how Ian’s Thanksgiving was. I wondered what type of food billionaires eat on Thanksgiving, if they even celebrate it.

  My phone suddenly rang with the answer waiting for me at the other end. “Hello?” I cautiously answered.

  “Thanksgiving is overrated.” Ian’s accent boomed over the phone line. “What are you doing?”

  “Thanksgiving is not overrated.” Hearing his voice relaxed me and I stretched out in bed. “You’re just not having enough fun.”

&n
bsp; “What’s so fun about mashed potatoes and dry turkey?” He asked.

  “Eww. Gross.” I pretended to gag.

  “You don’t eat that on Thanksgiving?”

  “No. I eat collard greens, oxtails, baked macaroni and cheese, gumbo on the side, with maybe a little of hot water cornbread somewhere on my plate. I don’t have room for the upside down cake or sweet potato pie so they’re on a separate plate.” Even talking about it made me want to go back and get another plate.

  “That sounds heavenly,” he purred.

  “It is,” I sighed, “you should have some.”

  “Is that an invitation?” He asked.

  “I don’t know, is it?” I countered. In the case Ian wasn’t joking, I decided to up the ante. “If you want to come over for a slice, you know where I live.”