Should Have Known Better Page 23

  I had to drain the pasta in a paper towel and he watched me like I was a superhero. He kept saying he couldn’t have done any of “this” and “that” without me and one time he pinched me on the cheek.

  “All right, smooth operator,” I said, handing him the bowl of cooked pasta. “My work here is done. Your turn.”

  “My turn?”

  “Yes. You need to put it all together. It’s your macaroni and cheese.”

  A. J. stepped up like he was being called to battle. He dipped his hand into the butter and spread two war streaks under his eyes.

  “What do I do?” he asked gravely.

  “OK, Rambo, just pour the pasta into the casserole dish,” I said.

  “Oh!”

  I handed him the eggs to crack and a cup of milk. Butter. And salt.

  “Mix it all together,” I instructed.

  He stepped away from our spot at the counter.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “I know I have a drawer with some spoons in it,” he said, opening a drawer. “My mother bought some the last time she was visiting.”

  “A spoon? No. I said mix it up.”

  “I know. I need a spoon.”

  “I meant with your hands.” I grabbed his hand on the knob of one of the drawers and a firecracker sparked in my gut. I couldn’t let go. It was just a touch, but I felt him touch me back. He didn’t move his hand from the drawer until I moved mine.

  “My hands? In that?” He pointed to the clumsy mixture in the casserole dish.

  “Yes. They’re clean, right?”

  He bent over the dish like it was a dead alien.

  “You can’t be serious,” I said. “You’re afraid to put your hands in that?”

  “There are eggs in there,” he said nervously. “And milk.”

  “All of which are things I’m sure you’ve eaten before. You have to mix it with your hands. It’s the best way. That way you know you have everything all mixed in right all the way to the bottom. Trust me.”

  “You sure?” He squinted at the dish.

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s so squishy!”

  “Just put your hands in it!” I pushed his hand into the dish and he felt around for a second. “That’s right. Put them all the way down. Move the eggs around. Break them up.”

  He squinted and squirmed. I pushed his hands in deeper and soon my hands were in the dish, too. We felt around and mixed the concoction together.

  His eyes widened soon and watched.

  “You feel that?” I asked. “Mix the pasta and cheese together like a soup. It should run right through your fingers. It’s soft. Imagine everyone eating it. Enjoying it. You want it to be tasty until the last serving is done.”

  He smiled and looked at me.

  “This is sexy!” he declared. “Cooking is sexy.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said. “You try doing it three times a day and I’ll see what you say then.”

  He hooked pinkies with me in the bottom of the pan and caught my eye when I looked at him to see what was going on.

  “I’ll cook three times a day if you’re there,” he said.

  I snatched my pinky away and giggled.

  “What?” he asked. “Was that another line? Come on! Give a guy a break!”

  After the macaroni and cheese cooled, we sat on the red chaise in our socks and ate half of a second pan we’d made just for us right out of the dish.

  First, A. J. said he had to taste it to approve of my culinary skills. And then I had to taste it to be sure the people at the church wouldn’t laugh him right out of the door.

  “Yeah, you’re wifey material,” he said, taking a spoonful of the top layer into his mouth.

  “Wifey material?”

  “Yeah. Confident. Strong. Beautiful. Can cook. You’re the type who makes a man get down on one knee.”

  “I’m sure you have plenty of options in that area,” I said. “How many women do you know who would die to be here making macaroni and cheese with you?”

  A. J. sat back and pretended to count, as he massaged his chin.

  “Exactly,” I chuckled. “Too many to name.”

  “Sure. There are a lot,” he said. “But a wise man doesn’t take what’s given to him. He wants to know what’s behind door number three.”

  “Hum . . .” I nodded. “That sounds smart. I wish someone had told me that a long time ago.”

  “So what about you? You’re always getting on me. What’s your situation, Miss Lady?”

  My head quickly filled with anxiety. I realized that this was the first time someone I didn’t really know was asking me directly about what was happening in my life. I hadn’t decided yet how I would respond.

  “The situation?” I stalled.

  “Yes, your situation. What you keep saying you’re working through. Your marriage, right?”

  “He’s filed for divorce. He cheated on me.” I dropped my spoon into the dish.

  “Tough break, eh?”

  “It’s definitely tough. But it’s getting easier,” I said. “I can’t believe I said that, but it is getting easier.”

  “He’s the father of your two children?”

  “Yeah. He’s not the worst father, and that’s really been the hardest part—trying to figure out what to do with our children. We’ve been going back and forth about them all summer. They’re back in school in two weeks and we now need to decide if we’re going to enroll them in school in Atlanta or Augusta. It’s a whole big mess.”

  “My parents got a divorce when I was nine,” A. J. said.

  “Really? What was it like?”

  “I think it hurt them more than it hurt me. My dad cheated and when my mother found out, she packed up me and my two older sisters and we moved into a motel. I hated it for a little while—the motel and living in one room with three women—but the older I got, the more I understood what she did. I was proud of her for being so strong. I only wondered why it took her so long to leave.”

  “And what about your dad? What’s your relationship like with him?” I asked.

  “It’s great.” He shrugged his shoulders. “My father was wrong for what he did, but the fact that he did it was just proof that he wasn’t supposed to be with my mother. It didn’t make him less of a father or a bad human being. His relationship with my mother was over, but neither one of them really knew how to let it go. I think maybe that when you lose something that you really liked, you have to consider that maybe you were supposed to lose that thing and stop looking for it so you can find something else.”

  “There you go again,” I said.

  “No, that wasn’t a line!”

  “No. I mean, sometimes you have this way with words—with saying things in a way that makes it sound so simple. Like it was the perfect thing for me to hear at the perfect time. Just what I needed.” I picked my spoon back up and took a huge helping of the macaroni and cheese.

  “Hold up, Cookie Monster,” A. J. said, pretending to karate chop my hand that was holding the fork filled with macaroni and cheese. “Unless you plan to come back here tomorrow morning, I need you to back away from the cheese.”

  He jumped up and snatched the dish.

  “Oh, one more,” I chided, pointing my spoon at him and the dish as I got up to chase him into the kitchen.

  “No! This is mine! Control yourself, woman!”

  He slid through the living room, nearly falling two times before I cornered him in the kitchen.

  “You wouldn’t take food from a poor man . . . would you?” he asked.

  “There’s still another pan,” I said.

  “That pan is for Jesus.”

  “If you don’t give me more food, you’ll see Jesus!” I joked.

  He nervously set the dish on the counter and started laughing as I dug in.

  Soon we were both laughing almost hysterically.

  “You’re fun,” I said to A. J., standing behind him as he dropped the empty pan in the sink.
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br />   “Thank you,” he said. “You’re fun, too.”

  He turned to me.

  “I have a confession,” he said.

  “Oh, no. Here it goes. You need a kidney? You’re part of some freaky Atlanta sex ring? You’re gay?”

  “What?” he asked. “And hell no.”

  “Your confession . . .”

  “Why would it be any of those things?”

  “I don’t know. What is it?”

  He took a deep breath and sighed.

  “I heard you and Sasha fighting at the office,” he said. “I know your husband’s living with her.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, feeling as if I suddenly shrank to a nickel.

  “I didn’t want to say anything. I wasn’t going to say anything. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, but—”

  “So you knew this whole time? Who I’ve been talking about? What I’ve been going through?” I don’t know why, but this, the idea of him knowing something so personal about me, was humiliating. I knew he’d know soon or that it would come out at some point, especially if we were to continue being friends—I mean, he’s Sasha’s coworker. He sees her every day. But I thought I’d have a chance to do it on my own terms.

  “Yeah. CNN isn’t the Pentagon. Those walls are paper thin. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry about what?”

  “That she did that to you. That she took him.”

  “She didn’t take anything from me. And really that’s none of your business,” I said, walking out of the kitchen.

  “Where are you going?” He chased behind me. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I didn’t think it would be this big of a deal.”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have come here.” I bent down and reached under the chaise to get one of my shoes.

  “Wait, Dawn. Let me explain. I wasn’t trying to trick you or whatever you’re thinking. I just wanted to get to know you.”

  “What am I, some kind of charity case? Hum?” I sat on the chaise and put my shoes on. “You felt sorry for me and you wanted to save me? Help me? Have sex with me?”

  “No! No! You’re taking that too far,” he said. “None of that. I’m not like that. I keep telling you. Look, all I wanted to do was get to know you. I knew that the first time I saw you.”

  He sat beside me on the chaise.

  “And I’m supposed to believe that? You wanted to date me, and then you found out my marriage is a disaster and your coworker is having an affair with my husband. And you still thought it was a good idea to date me? Highly unlikely.”

  “I didn’t think of it like that.”

  “So how did you think of it? You wanted to get me into your home so you could romance me? Hum? Get me to cry on your shoulder? Maybe sleep with you? Kiss you? Is that what you wanted? To kiss me? To make out with me like we’re some kind of pubescent teens? Or a—”

  A. J. grabbed my arm, turned me to him, and kissed me. I was still talking, but my words stopped immediately. And as I felt the heat from his lips on mine, I knew this was something I’d have to do again and again. I think my shoes shot right off my feet. Or did I kick them off? Or did he take them off?

  We sat there and kissed forever. And I loved it.

  But I had to stop it. Sex was far from my radar. Feeling that kind of intimacy was probably the last thing I wanted. The kiss was enough.

  I thought A. J. would be annoyed or upset by my limitations, but he just smiled and kissed the palm of my right hand.

  “When you’re ready,” he said, “I’ll be here.”

  A. J. drove me to my mother’s house with the windows down and the music up high. We listened to those old romantic songs they play at night on the radio, sneaking looks at each other and smiling at whatever we saw for no apparent reason.

  It was so late that it was almost early and although I hadn’t been anywhere but to his house, I felt like I had been on a date. And that feeling was exhilarating. I felt new. Or maybe not as old as I had that morning when I woke up. I wanted to go and buy some new perfume. High-heeled shoes. I thought of Mrs. Harris.

  Before we left the house, A. J. explained that he’d always been a sucker for brown skin and when he saw me in Sasha’s office, he’d thought, she’s cute. Then, when I spoke, he’d thought, she’s smart. Then he’d noticed my wedding band and thought, she’s taken. He’d given up the idea of trying to talk to me, but when he got to his office and heard the fight with Sasha, he couldn’t get me out of his mind. The attraction had nothing to do with my being vulnerable, and everything to do with the prospect of me being free.

  “Next week?” A. J. said, pulling in front of the house.

  “What about it?”

  “Can we hang out again next week? Maybe we could make lasagna next time!”

  “Oh, no. Please don’t mention lasagna,” I said, remembering Sasha slipping her recipe into my hand. “And why would I want to come to your house next week to cook? We did that tonight!”

  “I know, but I had so much fun just sitting in the house and talking to you,” A. J. said, rolling up the windows as the breeze we’d gotten while driving had stopped and the late July heat was sneaking into the car. “I get so bored with dating sometimes. It’s like the same old thing. And I never really get to know the women—well, I know what they like to eat.”

  I laughed, but A. J. kept a serious frown.

  “No. Really. I know Lisa likes steak at Chops; Deena likes the anchovies on the salad at Maggianos; Michelle likes the mussels at Après . . . I could go on and on.”

  “It can’t be that bad,” I said.

  “It is. Trust me. Women see me and they think of money and being able to say their man is on television. I’m not stupid. I know if I was any other broke brother out here working at the bus station, 95 percent of the women in my phone wouldn’t call me.”

  “That can’t be true,” I said. “You’re a cool guy. And you have to take the good with the bad. You had to expect that you would be chased by these women when you made your career choice. Just accept it and make the best of it.”

  “You’re right. I do. I just know I have to look for something special,” he said. “And speaking of the job, I don’t know if you know it, but CNN isn’t renewing Sasha’s contract next season. They’re canceling her show.”

  “What?” I looked at him. “I mean, why? Are you serious?”

  “Unfortunately, I am. Ratings are down and she’s not attracting any new groups. It’s a numbers game,” he explained. “Plus, she’s not exactly nice to producers. Always has that chip on her shoulder.”

  “Does she know?”

  “She was pulled into a meeting yesterday. She knows.”

  “Wow. That’s awful. What’s she going to do now?”

  “It’s media, so she’ll probably stumble around for a little while, but she should be OK in the long run,” A. J. predicted.

  “But what about that house? It must be so expensive. How’s she going to pay the bills?”

  “The house? Oh, that’s not her house. She’s renting it,” A. J. said. “You didn’t know that? It belongs to one of the producers. You thought she could afford that on her salary?”

  I remembered the maid, the chandeliers, Sasha walking around the house like a diva in her dark shades.

  “But what about the pool? She has her initials in the bottom of the pool,” I said.

  “What? S.B.? The producer’s name is Scott Barnes.”

  “But it’s pink!”

  “And he’s gay!” A. J. laughed. “What’s the deal with all of the questions and concern? I didn’t think you’d be so mature about this. I kind of thought you’d be happy. You know, with everything she’s done to you.”

  “I think I thought the same thing,” I said. “I know I did. I wished for it. But right now, I’m just in shock. Who’s taking her place? Are they going to create another show?”

  A. J. smiled faintly.

  “I got pulled into a meeting, too. They’re moving me to her slot.”


  “Oh, my God! That’s a good thing. Right?”

  “A very good thing.” A. J.’s smile grew.

  I reached over and hugged him.

  “You must be so excited. I can’t believe you kept that inside all night. Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, pinching his chest playfully.

  “I didn’t want tonight to be about me,” he said. “I wanted to get to know you.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “Today.”

  “And you came all the way to the HHNFH and didn’t tell me?”

  “You were the first person I wanted to see.”

  I was doing the funky chicken dance through my mother’s doorway. I hadn’t been able to feel my excitement about Sasha’s dismissal in the car with A. J.—I’d been stunned and had too many questions—but once I got in the door and he waved before driving off, I felt my arms springing up and my legs kicking out. And somewhere in my head Kool and the Gang were singing “Celebration.” It was a petty party in my body, but I let it loose.

  “What you dancing around down here for?” my mother asked, tiptoeing down the steps to see me walk into the house.

  “Oh, nothing. Just doing what I was told to do in therapy! ‘Celebrate good times, come on!’ ” I sang and pulled my mother into a two step.

  “They told you to dance?” she asked, stepping back from me.

  “They told me to accept my emotions. And right now, I’m glad the wicked witch is going down, so I’m going to dance. ‘Celebrate good times, come on!’ ”

  “You are so crazy, girl,” my mother said, laughing, and I could tell she was a little excited to see me so happy. “I thought this was about that man. You sure it’s not about him?” She grinned and went to sit on the couch.

  “Is that why you’re still up, Mama?” I asked. “About a man.” I stopped dancing and looked at my mother sitting on the couch. It was 3:00 a.m. and she was still fully clothed. Her eyes were wide open. “You’ve been waiting for me? Waiting up for me to come home?”