My Sister's Ex (23 page)

None of these very real alternatives would be occurring now. We wouldn’t be having this conversation, and I definitely would have no reason to be signing up with some freaking online dating site. So her question is both pointless … and cruel.

“Marlene, I think you should either shit or get off the pot.”

“Eww.”

“Stop it, girl, get real for once in your life. You get annoyed at me for cussing, yet the guy you’re attracted to also cusses sometimes. Or had you overlooked that part of him? He’s no better than me.”

“Okay, Rachel, you are right. But I guess it’s a little different because he’s a guy, the man I’m attracted to, and you’re—”

“Just your sister? So that automatically gives you the right to be stricter with me than with the guy you’re sleeping with?”

“Please. I get it, okay? I’ll try to be easier on you … Rachel.” She starts vigorously massaging her forehead, and I can sense her weariness. I actually feel sorry for Marlene. But before I give in to the temptation of going to pat her on the back, I remember the awful things she’s said to me lately. How she didn’t care about my feelings when I pleaded with her to leave Jeff alone. Her only priority was Marlene Draper. And I decide then to not let my heart grow soft. Let her suffer a little longer. By ignoring my wishes, she’s invited herself to fully experience any misery that comes with dating your sister’s ex.

“Okay, let me just think a bit,” Marlene speaks up. “It’s been an hour now. No Jeff, no calls. I wonder if something bad has happened. He deals with some shady characters sometimes. His tenants can be hostile. And I know that he’s
angry at a couple of tenants who haven’t paid rent. He wants to evict them. Maybe that’s what he’s doing right now. Trying to make that paper … for me.”

I sit back and listen to Marlene come up with all kinds of excuses, feeble attempts to cover her man’s misconduct. Yep, she really does love him. Maybe it’s my cue to step out of the way. A woman in love is like a blind person walking down the middle of the street. Everyone in the blind person’s path will have to move out of his way.

Alita, London, and I are laughing our asses off. It’s midweek, a few days after I agreed to meet OldSkool214, aka Smoky. He and I swapped dozens of e-mails on Sunday, then chatted on the phone yesterday. And now my girls and I are extra hyped because I told Smoky I’d be happy to meet him in a public place for a cup of coffee. So we agreed upon a Starbucks that’s on Westheimer and Fondren.

The girls are sitting in my car while I sit outdoors at a green metal round table. And when Smoky arrives, I immediately know it’s him. Very few black folks come to this spot. And if they do it’s usually going to be early in the morning, on their way to work. But it’s almost eight at night. And this black guy pulls up in a chocolate-colored Jaguar. Old but classy. Dude takes his time getting out of the car. I can see him looking at himself in his rearview. Eventually, when he emerges, he walks so slow it looks like he’s floating on air. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with white letters that say, “It’s Hard Out Here for a Republican.” And his blue jeans are crisply ironed.

I see his eyes moving around, like he’s looking for the girl he saw in the profile. I wave at him. He sees me, hesitates, waves back.

“Smoky?”

He looks around and behind him even though we’re the only two people in the café area.

“Hello, Smoky.” I rise up and smile.

“Do I know you?”

“We met online.”

He looks confused. “Okay?”

It’s hard not to laugh. “How has your day gone so far?”

He stares at me. I point at the seat next to me. He pulls out the chair, still peering at me, and slowly sits down.

“My day has gone all right.”

The moment is awkward. I feel like getting up and leaving.

But he takes one last look at me and slumps in his seat, pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Holds them toward me. I shake my head. He shrugs and lights up one.

“I didn’t know that you smoked. Your profile said you’re a nonsmoker.”

“Things change.”

I stiffen. Wait for him to talk.

“What did you say your name was again?”

“I’ve never given my name, but my screen name is HoneyBrownTX.”

“Oh, all right,” he says, but there’s no flicker of recognition on his face. He starts inhaling from his cigarette.

“How long have you been on the dating site?” I ask.

“Two years, five months.”

I gasp. “Why so long? Doesn’t that cost a lot of money?”

“It takes that long to find who you’re feeling, and who’s feeling you, you know what I’m saying?”

“I can imagine.”

Soon the smoke from his smoking habit nearly causes me to choke. The air is thick with the stifling smell of marijuana.
I stare at him in disbelief, but he keeps taking a drag on his “cigarette.”

For the next several minutes, I try to ignore the smoke, and I ask him frivolous questions. He politely answers. Even though he’s calm, pleasant, and seems nonthreatening, I can never truly relax. Something about him bothers me.

I cough and clear my throat, glance at my watch. “Well, it’s almost that time.”

“Oh, yeah, you got to go to your second job, right? You watch some kids who live in River Oaks?”

With a frozen smile plastered on my face, I nod emphatically. “You remembered. You have an excellent memory, Smoky.”

I hop up so fast my purse falls to the ground. My leather checkbook falls out, and my driver’s license photo is showing through the clear plastic sleeve.

Smoky says, “Let me get that.” He reaches for my checkbook, glances at the photo, stares at me briefly, then hands it over.

“Well, anyway, like you said, I gotta be going so I can babysit all those kids. Nice meeting you. Good-bye.”

I don’t wait for him to say anything. I just start walking east down Westheimer, never looking back. My cell rings. It’s him. I ignore the call. The cell rings again.

“Hey, Alita. Y’all see me. Come get me. When it comes to this Internet dating stuff, it’s time for me to go back to the drawing board.”

Alita’s car pulls up next to me minutes later, and I climb in the backseat.

“You sure know how to pick ’em—”

“Don’t start, Alita.”

London says, “Now we know why he wants you to call him ‘Smoky.’”

“Yeah,” I say, blushing, “I should have read between the lines. Anyway, he’s definitely coming off my favorites. And I’m blocking him from e-mailing me.”

“You do what you need to do, girl,” Alita says.

I sigh, feeling disappointed. “I know I just got on the site, but if this is how it’s going to be, I’m not sure I’ll ever connect with the right kind of man.”

“Stop stressing,” London says. “You’re there to have fun, but sure, you want to make that love connection, too. You’re bound to go through some undesirables first before you meet the cream-of-the-crop type guys.”

“Hmm, I hope you’re right.”

“Change your search criteria, girl. Don’t settle. Be specific.” Alita lectures me like she is the online dating pro or something.

“But won’t that limit my opportunities?”

“Only one way to find out,” Alita says.

They drop me off at home. Once I get inside and settled in my bedroom, I immediately log on to the Internet. I delete five messages that Smoky has sent me in the past half hour. The fact that he didn’t even comment on my appearance and how I look nothing like my profile photo really shows me he isn’t serious at all. He’ll date anything, anybody, no standards. Well, I don’t wanna be that girl. I am not interested in meeting someone as long as he’s a member of the opposite sex and that’s it. No way.

I remember the day I met Jeff. I remember feeling and looking fantastic. I just got my hair done and had a fresh cut and perm. I sported a pair of my favorite jeans and a Tennessee Titans jersey signed by Vince Young. You could walk into any room in that two-story house and you’d find a stunning looking woman. Half the women were college educated or professionals in their field. I recognized this other distinctive
woman because she’s always appearing in
Houston Style Magazine
touting her successful Cajun restaurant. So even though competition was fierce, that day I just wanted to relax and enjoy myself. I was comfortably seated in the great room on this huge couch that could fit twenty people. The ceilings were fifteen feet high, there was a sixty-five-inch flat-screen television, a wet bar, and plenty of buffalo wings and sauce, chips and dip, cold bottles of beer, and other goodies.

One guy saw me, sat next to me, immediately introduced himself. I felt flattered that he’d single me out. But when a taller, more well-endowed woman entered the room, talking loud and smiling, the guy who made me feel good made me feel bad when he got up and struck up a conversation with the Next Woman. I tried not to let his rejection bother me, but when the couple started dancing and there wasn’t any music playing, I had enough. I quietly excused myself and sought a spot that was less busy. I noticed a room down the hallway with some French doors and decided to go in there. Soothing music played on a radio. I sat on the sofa, soon fell asleep. I woke up when I heard someone talking to me.

“Hey, there, you look so adorable I didn’t want to wake you. But they’re about to serve dessert …”

I opened my eyes and blinked. “Who are you?”

“Jeff. Jeffrey Williams.” He extended his hand. And when I extended mine he shook it but held my fingers tight in his grasp while he continued introducing himself. I felt so at ease with him. I sat up. Listened. Asked questions. Laughed at his jokes. He asked if I minded if he sat. I didn’t. And we talked for an hour, not thinking about dessert or who was winning the football game.

I felt an odd sense of pleasure by the way Jeff’s eyes penetrated mine. His lips were thick and curled when he smiled. He made me feel warm, gooey, and sexy. I flirted with him, too,
knowing full well that it might be the first and last conversation I ever had with this man. But it didn’t matter. I went for it, not making a fool of myself or seeming desperate for attention. I felt fully comfortable being who I was, Rachel Merrell. Not a beauty queen, no college degree, not the owner of a successful business. Just an ordinary girl, with an ordinary life, who wanted to experience good things with genuine people.

By the time the evening ended, Jeff had asked for my phone number, and I was happy that he knew my birthday, favorite color, all-time-favorite movies, restaurants, and a lot about my background. I felt safe with him, an extraordinary thing to realize when you’ve just met someone. And even though, ultimately, our ending turned out worse than our beginning, I want another chance at love. I don’t care how many failed relationships I experience, I hold on to the hope that there’s someone special out there designed just for me. A man who treats me with kindness and respect. Someone who makes me laugh, listens to my troubles, and shares my enthusiasm for life and love. I’ve learned so much in the past month or so. I’m ready for the promise of true love again.

I log back on to the SoulSingles site and start clicking on the criteria, making sure that it will help me to find the exact type of guy I want.

I set up new parameters and do another search. It’s amazing how dozens of profiles pop up. Yayyy me. But as I click through them one by one, discouragement fills my heart. Men who can’t spell (“She must have a
since
of humor”). Shallow guys (“Big booty/dime pieces only”). Or, worst of all, men who refuse to fill out the entire profile. Those guys aren’t serious. They can be compared to people looking for a job but instead of fully completing the application, they simply write: see résumé. Not impressive.

But one profile catches my eye. First, it has a photo of a giant teddy bear sitting behind the wheel of a Cadillac convertible. That makes me smile.
It seems he’s got a sense of humor
. Second, I love that he considers himself a workaholic, doesn’t visit bars, has no kids, and says he’s super confident. His screen name is COCKY247.

I decide to send him a flirt. Tell him I saw his profile. Let him know I think we might get along and should chat sometime. I push back from my desk and decide to chill out in the living room. I am in the mood to watch a good romantic comedy. Marlene is looking stiff and sitting at the dining room table, tapping her hand against her purse. Her eyes look vacant while she stares into space.

“Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”

“Not a whole lot.”

“I hope you aren’t still waiting on him.”

“What? Oh, well, he apologized for the other day.” Marlene was so upset at Jeff for not showing up or calling Sunday afternoon. I had to talk her out of calling him and leaving a nasty voice mail. I told her to just leave it alone. And she did.

“Oh, yeah, when?”

“Monday. He explained that he’s been sick and was under some medication that makes him drowsy. He was knocked out all afternoon and didn’t wake up till two in the morning.”

“Hmm, I remember how when Jeff would get sick he would really be down for the count.”

“That’s kind of how he explained it to me. So I accepted his apology. He said he’ll make it up to me. In a special way.”

“I see,” I tell her. “What’s he gonna do?”

“Wouldn’t say. Like it’s a big surprise.”

“Figures.” I stop and think aloud. “I cannot believe I’m having a conversation with you about my ex and I’m not freaking out like normal.”

“Me, either.” She looks almost apologetic. “Maybe Jeff and I being together is fate. That the reason you’re not so hung up over us anymore is because you two were never meant to be.”

Even though I feel I’m getting over him, her words sting. “Um, I’m not sure about all that. I know he loved me. I loved him. Our partnership was real, even if it didn’t work out.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Anyway, if you don’t mind, I want to pop in a DVD.”

“You’re not bothering me, Rachel.”

Right then, I hear a loud knock on our front door. It’s twilight by now. I go to the door and look through the peephole. But it’s too dark to see clearly what’s happening outside. So I unlock the door and open it. A flicker of light captures my attention. I step out on the balcony. The cool air feels good against my skin. Jeff is standing near the railing, a huge smile on his face. It’s obvious he’s made a table setting for two on our balcony. I notice some empty Olive Garden bags neatly folded on one of the wrought iron chairs. There’s spaghetti and meatballs, Greek salad, a basket of bread sticks, and a bottle of wine with two wineglasses.