Motown Throwdown (27 page)

“Yes?” I squeak out.

“Are you alright?”

“He loves me,” I whisper clutching the paper like a life line.

“I’m sorry?” she says.

“Yes,” I say folding it up. “I’ll be out shortly.”

That night after my shift, I came back and read next to my lantern. His letters began when he was a cocky nineteen year old baller adjusting to prison but letter by letter, I watched him grow into a man with his words. Not a single day went by that I wasn’t thought of, worried about or missed. I read each of them three times, memorizing as much as I could. By the time I reached his last letter again, I was emotionally drained. The last letter also had an additional eight pages filled with quotes from many of my favorite books, reasons why he loved me and memories of us. The good memories, a lot of good memories that, I had buried.

Not only had he heard me when I mentioned my favorite books, but he’d spent ten years reading them too. Rome was able to remember the good times, maybe it was time I did too.

Flipping the top of the box over, I look at the post mark. Three weeks it took to reach me. Depression was replaced with determination and running from my tent back to the administration tent, I tell the doctor in charge simply, “I’m ready to go home.”

I’d find out the next morning I wasn’t going anywhere.

“You know the game,” I tell her while she fills her tray with food.

“My family is big on football,” she says trying to move away.

“Most chicks don’t give a fuck about the game,” I point out.

Turning and stopping she sets her tray down putting a hand on her gorgeous hip. “I’m not most chicks,” she snaps. “I had hoped you’d have figured that out by now, but alas…” she says rolling her eyes.

“Okay, smart ass,” I say getting in her space. “If you could apply any football lingo to me what would it be? Come on, Teach, I’m giving you a free pass here.”

“You don’t want me to do this, Roman,” she says backing up. “You won’t like it. I mean, I will, but you don’t handle my jokes well.”

“Because they’re always at my expense,” I point out.

“True,” she smiles. “But you set yourself up by pushing me past my point of giving a shit.”

Taking her tray, I steer her to an empty table in the corner and cross my arms over my chest. “Give it to me,” I tell her. “I can take it.”

“When I see you lumbering around with your crew acting a fool I think, too many men in the huddle. Seriously, can any of you think apart from the pack?” she says with her hands. “When I hear you hitting on girls and then see they actually buy your brand of shit, I think, ineligible man down field because you suck at flirting. When you fuck with me I call taunting. When you hurt me purposefully to save your image I think unsportsmanlike conduct. When you back me into corners, you’re roughing the passer. Then there’s times where I feel like we’ve got something no one else could possibly understand and some slut walks by and I want to scream pass interference.” Then she gets quiet and lowers her eyes. “Then when it’s just us and our heads are close together, I think helmet to helmet. But then a flag is thrown and I realize I was playing a game I’d never win. Let’s face it Roman, football is your game, not mine.”

From that day on, I never asked her about football again. Turns out she was wrong, I didn’t know shit about the game.

My grandma swore life handed you opportunities just as easily as it took them away. When I was playing ball, I didn’t pay it much mind but right now as I was sitting behind my own desk, I sure as hell did. Losing it all wasn’t easy, guilty or not guilty, doesn’t matter. Losing anything fucking sucks. I lost ten years of my life, my freedom and any shot I had at playing pro ball over a jealous bitch. I remember Michelle begging for my cock, reducing herself to a whore to get it. I also remember telling her she would never be the one I wanted and to get even with me she cried rape.

Michelle Porter took from me what I wasn’t offering freely and essentially raped me. Thank fuck I don’t remember her doing it but all my bullshit lead up to that night. I set myself up to fall. I used people, I knowingly hurt Kandace.

But while I plug in my printer and fill it with paper I couldn’t call up the anger about those years. The fact was I had to lose it all to be where I was right now. To stay sane, after she left I started running again. I needed a way to clear my head, focus and fight the anger I carried around. Stopping to catch my breath, I look up at this slick building on 8 Mile that said
Second Chances
. Since we found each other again we realized the importance of second chances. Pushing the door open, I walked in having no clue what this joint was about.

A guy came out and introduced himself and welcomed me. I told him I wasn’t staying, that I was curious nothing more. Looking at me he saw something and started asking questions. Three hours later, we were in his office sharing life stories. If I thought I’d seen some shit, this guy was a close second and I trusted him immediately. Every day at noon I came back to Second Chances until I had to be at the club. Then I met his woman, who was intimidating for someone so tiny, and liked her too. I believed in this place, what it stood for and when he asked me to be a permanent part of it, I said fuck yes.

Meeting Rio wasn’t an accident.

So here I am, filling my office with motivational posters and chairs after finally finding my purpose. My schedule was already full with appointments, people needing their second chance too. Mentoring, I found, was what I enjoyed most. Once a week I meet with a group of young guys that have potential but are fighting the pull of the streets. Every time I share my story, I see it when it clicks with someone. Losing it all to keep others from making the same mistakes was okay with me. I didn’t mind being the lesson anymore.

Which, of course, brings me back to her.

We both knew about second chances. We knew we were each other’s. The problem was, falling in love with her all over again was cut short because I found the opportunity to hurt her and took it. Every day I come here wanting to be a better man for both of us. Working with Rio, listening to his advice and watching him protect his second chance with Bet taught me things no movie ever could.

I saw Kandace and me like I see them. Solid, united, unbreakable. A fortress no man could penetrate. Being without her was brutal but I had to have faith that the opportunity to do things right would happen for me. For us. Bishop asked me if I wanted a re-do, to get my life back to the way it was meant to be. The answer is still no because my life was meant to be tied to hers and if I could re-do anything, it would have been to lean on her instead of destroy her.

She’s my motivation, salvation. She always has been.

At night when I struggle to sleep I feel her voice inside of me. It’s so God damn vivid that I memorized the words and looked it up online. The song existed, I didn’t make it up. The fact that I even know this solidifies that even with half the world between us, she’s still with me. I feel her touching me with phantom hands, showing me she loves me. I can picture her running her fingers over her wrist while she whispers my number. Fuck, I could feel her missing me too.

She begged me to let my past go, to move forward and to trust her. When she needed me to do that most, it wasn’t she that failed me. It was me that failed her. Kandace has never failed me and she never would.

Kandace healed me.

Now it was up to me to do the same for her.

I had this idea spinning around in my stomach. I was nervous because I was pretty sure he’d laugh and say no but I figured there was no harm in asking. Most students spent their Saturday’s working, recovering or studying. I spent mine volunteering. While he was getting his notes in order for me to quiz him I decided to throw it out there. I had to do it. Since we’ve established this on again off again friendship I wanted to show him a part of me no one else sees.

Did I want him to think highly of me? Absolutely. But more than that, I wanted him to know that yes, I am the definition of nerdy and also that I wouldn’t change it for the world. I liked reading, musicals, theatre, comics and even football. I believed in helping others, the greater good and in him. Roman had trust issues and I wanted him to know that he was safe with me, always.

“Are you busy Saturday morning?” I throw out.

“Depends.”

“Okay,” I mumble losing my nerve. “If I asked you to spend Saturday morning with me, would you?”

“Depends.”

“On what?” I ask getting frustrated.

“If we’ll be naked or not.”

“Forget it,” I say reaching for my own notes.

“I was joking, relax,” he says flipping my hand over and running his thumb over my wrist. “You have the softest skin,” he says absently. Noticing my uncertainty, he lets go and leans back in his chair. “Ask,” he says crossing his arms.

“I was wondering if you----“

“Sure, what time?” he says cutting me off.

“But you don’t know what I was going to say!”

“Doesn’t matter, just tell me what time.” I gave him the time to meet me and on Saturday morning he was waiting out in front of the library with an extra coffee for me.

Driving over to the hospital, I sign us in, get him a name tag and grab the elevator to the children’s ward. Checking in at reception, the attending nurse asks me to wait in the room across the hall, and that someone would be with us shortly. This was new, normally I checked in and went to see Nicky without any challenges. Letting him look around the room I opted for pacing.

“You alright, Teach?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say looking at the door. “This just isn’t routine.”

“You got a thing about routines,” he says smirking at me. I gave him one back because it was true, I did. When the door opened and a staff member walked in I knew before he spoke. Hearing the words certainly made it official but these were words I never expected to hear. Children aren’t supposed to die. Handing me a note and walking out of the room to give us privacy, I fell into a chair and opened it. It was a picture of me made by the hands of an eight year old with the box of crayons I bought him. With my image wearing a stethoscope and a big smile it said #1 Doctor with, Love Nicky underneath it.

Roman was right there pulling me into a hug. He let me cry on his wrinkled shirt until I was done. Then he drove me home, tucked me in and walked back to his side of campus alone. He was there for me the first time I was faced with real loss. He pulled through for me when I needed him most.

Today with the smell of death clinging to me, I cried out for Rome. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t hear me, that he didn’t know, I just knew that I needed him. Past bullshit didn’t matter to me. Not even the harsh things he said in the waiting room did. The few times I needed him to shield me he’d always been there and the reality that he wasn’t here now hurt. The moment I saw my name in his handwriting, I let the past go, fully.

If we stood a chance at moving past this rift between us, I wanted that chance. But I couldn’t even think that far ahead when I haven’t been granted clearance to go home. God, I wanted to go home. I wanted his cologne and his breath to replace the stench here. I wanted his arms around me when I cried myself to sleep. Memories of him coming to my aide when he thought I needed it flooded me. Roman Peterson always had my back when it was vulnerable. Bad dates, Sydney cheating, my broken ankle, losing Nicky, just to name a few. He made me laugh when I wanted to be angry. He lashed out at me when he feared his toxic crew would zero in on me. He wanted me to hate him as much as he wanted me to love him.

Rome tried in his own twisted way to save me from him but it would never work. I’ve loved him since I was eighteen years old and I always would. Closing my eyes and singing like I did every night to calm myself, I ran my finger over his number and wished he could hear me, feel me. Drifting off to sleep, I dreamt of him, good dreams, sweet dreams.