Love Is Overdue

Love Is Overdue

Copyright
2013 by
Natalie Myrie

All rights reserved, including the
right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Without limiting the right under
copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form by means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise),without the prior written
permission of the copyright owner.

Smashwords Edition

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are either the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events,
or locales, is entirely coincidental.

About the Author

Natalie Myrie is a single mother of one and has been
writing for over two decades. She is an avid reader and in her
spare time enjoys music, art and cooking.
Love Is Overdue
is her first novel. She lives in Winnipeg, Manitoba,
Canada
.

This book is
dedicated to the ones who suffered through my OCD writing frenzies
and never once smashed me over the head with my lap top.

Thank you S & J

Love Is
Overdue

“
Now who’s gonna
hold and squeeze me tight

Now that she’s
gone out of my life

Who’s gonna make
me feel the way she used to do

Now that my love
is overdue

I’m all alone in
the wilderness

Searching to
find some peace and rest

Although she
wasn’t the best girl

But she brought
happiness into my world

And now I’m a
prisoner of loneliness

I said I’m a
prisoner of loneliness.

(That’s what I
am)

Now who’s voice
is gonna say goodnight

Now that she’s
gone out of my sight

Who’s gonna tell
me lies and make me think they’re true

Now that my love
is overdue.

Can you see
right now

That I don’t
know just what to do

Now who’s voice
is gonna say goodnight

Now that she’s
gone out of my sight

Who’s gonna tell
me lies and let me think they’re true

Now that my love
is overdue.

Now that my love
is overdue.”

-“The Cool
Ruler” Mr. Gregory Isaacs

Prologue

“
You drown not by
falling into a river, but by staying submerged in it.”

When I was a
child, it was my mother’s way of telling me there is always light
at the end of the tunnel – you just have to make sure you look for
it, if you are to have any hope of finding it. They were her famous
two-minute pep talks. If I was wallowing in self-pity over any
number of things – mean girls who were teasing me on the
playground, a failing grade, a boy I liked that refused to
acknowledge my existence – my mother’s stolen quote by one of the
most famous Brazilian authors of all time, Paul Coelho, was her way
of snapping me back into reality and out of my depressive
funk.

Thinking back, I don’t think she even owned any of his novels.
It was only after I got older, when I spent my evenings and
weekends tending to her increasingly failing health, that my lack
of a social life convinced me to pick up
The Alchemist
and I
read it front to back in one weekend. As the core theme and message
of Mr. Coelho’s book states, “If you want something bad enough, the
entire universe conspires to help you achieve it.”

I remember
setting the book down on my night stand at 2:30 am, just as a loud
crash rings out from down the hall. Dishes. Shards of dinner plates
scattered all over the kitchen floor? Tea cups? Ahhh, yes. The
kettle had sounded. For some reason I refuse to acknowledge the
fact that my mother is up in the middle of the night attempting to
brew a cup of tea, an act that under any other normal circumstance
would have me intervene upon it immediately. But I had really been
into that book.

I sigh, rub my
eyes, and get out of bed, padding down the hall in my bare feet and
night shirt to go help my mother back into bed and clean up
whatever mess is waiting for me. I can’t think of anything in the
world I want more than to have a healthy, able-bodied mother, whom
I can visit on the weekends, like any other
twenty-something-year-old woman can do, without the fear of finding
her sprawled out dead on the kitchen floor among a pile of broken
dishes. There is nothing in this universe that I hate more than
cleaning up broken fucking dishes. Unfortunately, I also know the
universe isn’t planning to do a damn thing about it.

Chapter
One

I
remember the first time I saw him like it was yesterday. I’d been
working for
Commercial
Travel
for about a week and the
delicious aromas and soft island music floating out of the
Caribbean restaurant next door had finally had its effect on me.
The temptation was just too much. I decided to take my lunch break
a little early.

The
Rock
, as it was simply named, was
also simply but sleekly decorated, as well as furnished. It wasn’t
over-the-top and busting with red, gold and green paraphernalia
like most Caribbean restaurants in the city. The tables and
banquets along the walls were made of wood, with matching chairs.
The pictures on the walls were all black and white photographs –
the Jamaican countryside, bustling outdoor markets, children
playing soccer... They were all candid shots but somehow all
together they had a haunting feel, like they were much more than
just random snap-shots displayed by some interior decorator to
occupy wall-space.

As I had
learned from my new co-workers, this place had a reputation for
amazing Fusion-Island food. The menu had all the traditional
favourites – jerk chicken, oxtail, red snapper, rice and peas – but
it also steered away from the traditional, adding some Latin
favourites – chilli, fish tacos...curry-chicken tamales and
Jamaican enchiladas?

I was intrigued. I had
beaten the lunch rush. It was only a quarter past
eleven.

I stopped in front of the
counter, deciding to take my first meal to go. I didn’t feel like
eating alone in an empty restaurant. I heard some sizzling and
clanging of pots and pans through the window to the kitchen in the
back. It had a semi-open concept running between the restaurant and
the kitchen and I caught a glimpse of some heads.

A pretty girl with a light
brown complexion, deep black eyes and a thick Afro tied back with a
purple scarf, emerged from behind the swinging doors.

“
Hi... Didn’t
hear you come in, sorry.” She smiled. She was quite attractive,
with a wide bright smile. “We not quite set for lunch yet – we open
at eleven-thirty.”

“
Oh! Sorry, I
didn’t know...” I should have checked the hours, I thought,
realizing for the first time that the place was basically an
abandoned ghost town. Completely empty.

“
It’s cool,” she
said then. “I’ll check with the chef.” She turned and held open one
of the swinging doors. “Hey Ben – how we doing?” she
called.

That’s when I caught a
glimpse of the back of his head through the window. A thick head of
black dreadlocks tied back in a messy knot.

“
We good...” I
heard him call back with a slight Jamaican accent.

She turned back to me. “It’s
all good then. Eat in or take out?”

“
Ahhh...to
go.”

“
Do you need a
minute?” She gestured to the menu done in chalk on the blackboard
behind the counter.

I did. She told me she’d be
right back and then slipped back though the swinging doors. I
turned my attention to my choices on the menu above me, but I
didn’t have much time, though, because a moment later the doors
swung open again and the chef emerged carrying a piping hot tray of
Jamaican patties.

Our eyes locked for a moment
and then he gave me a quick up and down glance and smiled. “Hey
whassup...”

My heart was suddenly in my
throat. He was absolutely gorgeous. Tall, athletic, dark chocolate
complexion, goatee, piercing brown eyes and the nicest, fullest,
sexiest lips I had ever seen on a man. He was dressed simply in a
navy blue t-shirt that showed off his strong, toned arms and a pair
of old, faded jeans – not too loose, not too tight – resting low on
his hips, exactly the way a man with that kind of body was made to
wear them.

I recovered myself as
quickly as I could. “Hi – sorry, I should have checked your hours
before busting in here...” My face was on fire.

He smiled again. “It’s all
good...” He opened the doors to the hot-cart counter and slid the
tray of patties onto the top shelf. “Ya first time
here?”

I nodded. “I work next door
– just started actually, so...”

“
Oh yeah? Where
at?”

I nodded toward our
adjoining wall. “Travel agency.”

He raised his eyebrows.
Fuck, he was so sexy. “Nice...so maybe I got myself a new regular.”
That smile again. He grabbed the dish towel that was draped over
his shoulder and wiped his hands. “I’m Ben.” He extended his
hand.

“
Gabriela.” I
reached out and shook his hand, hoping mine wasn’t shaking enough
for him to notice, but of course, knowing me, it was most
definitely trembling.

“
Well, make
yaself at home...” He nodded toward the empty room of tables. “Lena
be right back out – ya want a drink while you wait?”

“
Uh...sure.” I
recovered myself yet again. What was wrong with me? “Water is
good.”

“
All right,
cool...” Again that smile. I was going to pass out soon if he kept
smiling at me like that. “Might have to give me a few minutes
though – dependin’ on what ya want.”

“
Oh...right.” I
glanced up again briefly, remembering I was supposed to be ordering
lunch.

And with that, Lena
reappeared and Ben disappeared back through the swinging
doors.

I ended up ordering the
Jamaican enchiladas and a tossed salad to go and sat on one of the
benches sipping on an ice-water with lemon while I waited for my
order. I didn’t see him again, but even long after I’d paid for my
food and got back to my desk at the office - savouring every last
delicious bite of his food - my heart did not stop
racing.

Ω

I
had to physically stop myself from getting take-out from
The Rock
every single day after that. And although the food was
absolutely delicious, it was the chef that prepared it that made my
mouth water even more. I managed to limit myself to three times a
week, four at the the most. But after that first day, I adhered to
their regular business hours so I was never the only customer in
the joint again.

The restaurant was actually
an incredibly popular lunch spot on the Drive and the atmosphere
was always warm and welcoming. I didn’t see Ben very often since he
was always in the kitchen cooking, but the few times I did he
always acknowledged me with a smile, a hello, or a lingering stare
that made my heart race a mile a minute without fail every time.
One time he even touched my arm as he moved past me in the line at
the front counter.

“
How you
doing...?” It was a brief passing comment, accompanied by his
death-wish of a smile, but it was all for me and my heart sank to
the pit of my belly.

I eventually learned through
Jeannine, my co-worker, that not only was he head chef but he was
actually the owner of the restaurant, so I knew his smiles and his
friendly hellos were most likely just good business practices on
his part, but I secretly couldn’t help hoping that maybe it was
more than that.