The Next Best Thing (9 page)

“Really? And how do you plan on doing that?”

“Come have dinner with me,” he said, his smile reminding me of sunshine breaking through on a cloudy day. “It's nothing fancy but I would really like to have your company.”

As Nelson talked, an image of what he could possibly do to me with those smooth, luscious lips of his, popped into my head.

Bad Tori!
I reprimanded myself.
Baaad Tori!

As horny as I was, I could not entertain thoughts of sexing Nelson because first of all, I have a “Don't shit where you eat” rule, which means neighbors and co-workers are strictly off-limits.

This rule goes all the way back to college days, when I leased my first off-campus apartment.

Shane and I had met at the mailbox bank of our apartment complex. He was a six-foot-four premed major who introduced me to blunts, and taught me the art of French kissing. We would get loaded on Thai weed and spend afternoons in either his or my apartment, philosophizing on life, and making love. On one of these occasions, Shane's
other
girlfriend, whom he neglected to tell me about, showed up on his doorstep unannounced.

Long story short: there was an explosive confrontation, the cops came, and restraining orders were issued all around.

When it was all said and done, Shane ended up choosing the other girl over me, and I had to endure constantly running into the two of them, both at school and around the complex where I lived.

Hence, the DSWYE rule was implemented and has been in effect ever since.

“So, how about it?” Nelson asked, bringing me out of my reverie. “Will you come have dinner with me?”

He extended an arm to welcome me into his condo, and the smells of basil, oregano, and garlic rushed to greet me as I stepped inside.

I am nosy by nature, so I tried not to be a bad guest and do an overt inspection of the place, but overall, nice digs. The living room was surprisingly sparse, but what furniture Nelson did have was contemporary with very clean lines.

He had the usual hi-tech electronic gizmos that men love so much, and there was a black Brunswick pool table in the far corner of the room, which I thought was a nice touch.

The entire wall adjacent to the fireplace had been converted into a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, and the shelves were crammed with mostly hardcover classics by literary greats such as James Baldwin, Gloria Naylor, and Paule Marshall.

The infamous
Sugar Shack
painting by Ernie Barnes hung over the fireplace, which coincidentally is the same spot where
Vintage Grand Canyon Railroad
hangs in my condo.

“These are the most beautiful plants I've ever seen outside of a nursery,” I said, fingering a Boston fern whose lush leaves seemed to go on forever. The fern was one of several house-plants that were all so healthy that there wasn't one brown spot on any of them.

“Thanks, but I can't take full credit,” Nelson said, setting the grocery bag down on the island counter. “Those were Kara's babies, and her secret was Miracle-Gro mixed with used coffee grounds.”

Kara was Nelson's deceased wife. The two of them had only lived in our building for a few months before her appendix suddenly burst, and she died in his arms.

That was almost two years ago.

A pretty, light-skinned woman with freckles and a wild bushel of naturally curly hair, Kara was twenty-eight when she died. We only spoke in passing, but I knew her well enough to know that she was a sweet, spirited woman who loved her career as a pediatric nurse, and that she and Nelson seemed to be perfectly matched.

I followed Nelson into the kitchen where the first thing I noticed was a full set of those Japanese chef's knives that cost a minimum of one-hundred dollars each.

“You have to be a pretty serious cook to have even
one
of these bad boys,” I said, examining a knife so big and sharp I'd be scared to use it, for fear I would lose one of my fingers. “Let alone a full set.”

“I do a little sumthin' sumthin' every now and then,” Nelson said, peeking into the oven to check on dinner.

“Hmmm…” I said, inhaling deeply. “Italian, right?”

“You win the prize!” Nelson looked me over with newfound respect. “I didn't know you were a foodie.”

“Oh, from way back,” I said with an air of casual nonchalance. It wasn't a complete lie. I do love food, but I am nowhere near as hardcore with it as are some of the self-proclaimed foodies who travel across the country just to eat the food of a particular high-end chef, or to dine in certain five-star restaurants. “So what's on the menu?” I asked.

“Oh, just a little Eggplant Parmesan, bruschetta, and Caesar salad,” Nelson said, pouring two glasses of Pinot Noir and handing one to me. “How does that sound?”

“Sounds like my kinda meal,” I said, taking a seat at the granite-topped island. “Italian food just so happens to be my favorite.”

“Good!” Nelson washed his hands and dried them with a paper towel. “Because the whole point is to show you that we aren't all bad.”

“Well I already know that,” I said, taking a sip of wine. “My problem is that the good ones are so few and far between.”

“Right…But like I said, that goes for
both
sexes,” Nelson reiterated.

“Do you realize that's the second time you've made that point?” I asked.

“Yep! and that's because I just can't stress it enough, you know?” He topped thick slices of toasted Italian bread with a mixture of diced tomatoes and Italian herbs. “I just started dating again a few months ago, and man! I've met so many undesirable women that I'm starting to think dating isn't worth the effort.”

Wow. If I could only choose one word to describe the edge in his voice, I would definitely have to go with “bitter.”

“So how did you meet all these trifling women? Did you pick them or did they pick you?” I asked.

“Neither, actually,” he said, starting to assemble the salad. “They were all setups by well-meaning people who insisted it was time for me to stop mourning, and get out there and start dating again.”

“Well, I can definitely relate,” I said. “But you know, for some reason I just can't picture you with anyone besides Kara.”

The expression that came over Nelson's face was so pained, that I instantly regretted having said it.

“Well, every bad dating experience makes me miss her that much more, that's for sure,” he sighed. “But, like my grandmother keeps telling me: ‘You're gonna bounce back from this and get married again, baby, but it ain't gonna happen overnight. You just got to take the time to sort the good ones from the rotten ones.'”

Sounds like the truth, but hell, who has that kind of time?

It took me eleven years of my adult life to find Roland. So if love only comes around once every eleven years for me, then the search for Mr. Wonderful is such a needle in a haystack proposition that I had better put on some comfortable shoes, because it's gonna be a long-ass journey.

Over dinner, which was scrumptious by the way, the conversation was pleasant and flowed easily without too many awkward silences.

Nelson turned out to be a good listener, and seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. We talked about food, music, books, and our favorite films (mine:
Claudine
, his:
Car Wash
).

I told him about my career, and he in turn filled me in on the work he does as food writer and restaurant critic for the
Kansas City Tribune
.

“You get paid good money to eat well, and to travel?” I asked, actually a little jealous. “I'm in the wrong line of business!”

“It's not a big deal,” he said. “Everyone old enough to cut their own meat is a food critic.”

“Maybe, but everyone doesn't get to fly first-class to Spain to cover their annual wine and cheese festival.”

Being the humble guy that he is, Nelson shrugged off my admiration, and opened up another bottle of red wine. “You know, I heard what happened with Roland,” he said, pouring more wine for himself. “I'm sorry things didn't work out for you two.”

“Do
not
be sorry!” I replied cheerfully. “Everything happens for a reason, right?”

I don't really believe that shit, but at least it sounded good.

“Yeah, I guess it does…” Nelson's voice cracked, and it sounded as if he was on the verge of tears.

It was the second awkward moment of the night.

The only thing I could think to do to break the tension, was to raise my glass in a toast. “Hats off to the chef! And to the best home-cooked meal I've had in a really long time.”

Nelson beamed, looking relieved that I changed the subject. “I'm glad you enjoyed it,” he said.

“Did your mom teach you how to cook like that?” I asked.

“Nah, actually I kinda taught her. No disrespect, but my mom can't cook worth a damn.” He laughed. “I started cooking for myself at about nine years old because she was always burning stuff up or making it too sticky, too salty, too bland, or too dry. You remember that song “Rapper's Delight?” Well my mother was the inspiration for that song.”

I laughed out loud recalling the lyrics to the song where a mother ruins dinner by serving soggy macaroni, mushy peas, and chicken that tasted like wood.

“Do you cook?” Nelson asked.

“Actually, I am a better baker than I am a cook, but I do have a few specialties,” I said.

“Like what? And please do not say spaghetti.”

“What's wrong with spaghetti?” I asked.

“Nothing really, but everyone swears they make the best spaghetti in the world, and most of the time that's far from the truth.”

“Well I'm not going to lie,” I said. “Mine is bomb-a-licious! Okay?”

The look on Nelson's face indicated that he didn't believe me. “What do you put in yours?” he asked.

“A mixture of veal, Italian sausage, and ground chuck. Mix that with some portobello mushrooms, red bell pepper, and I make my own marinara sauce—from scratch.”

“Not bad…You might be on to something,” he teased, hating on my skills. “What's another one of your specialties?”

“Hmm…” I said, thinking it over for a minute. “Oh! I make a
banging
seafood enchilada. I serve it up with Spanish rice,
pico de gallo
, refried beans, corn cake—all that.”

“Sounds like you really know your way around the kitchen,” said Nelson, finally giving me my props. “What else can you do well?”

I was pretty buzzed from the wine, and in my state of mind,
What else can you do well?
sounded like a loaded question to me.

“I can show you better than I can tell you,” I replied, and it wasn't too suggestive, but just enough to give him the option to take it however he chose to.

“Yeah,” Nelson said, seeming to take my hint. “You're definitely gonna have to show me one of these days.”

For dessert, Nelson served individual mango-lime tarts that he insisted he made from scratch. I didn't believe him for a second. Those things were so good; I was convinced that he bought them from one of the high-end restaurants in the area.

Once we finished eating, I helped clear the table and load the dishwasher despite Nelson's protests about me being a guest.

I like Nelson's style. Not only is he well-read and well-traveled, but the brother just lives extremely well, period. Everything he does is done with a high degree of style and sophistication, and he knows a helluva lot about food.

Kara was extremely blessed, that's for sure.

“High-rise luxury living within a renovated, historically preserved building” is the line the realtor used to sell us on the place, but Regency Park Place has actually turned out to be more like Peyton Place at worst, and Melrose Place at best.

Things can get wild around here sometimes, but I still love living here despite the drama that can come with a building full of young, hot-blooded professionals with plenty of disposable income.

What I pay to live here is pricey compared to what you can get for the money elsewhere in the city. But here at Regency Park Place, $400,000 will get you an underground parking garage, twenty-four-hour security, a state-of-the-art fitness center, indoor swimming pool, Jacuzzi, sauna, unobstructed bird's eye views of the cityscape, and of course, this gorgeous rooftop deck that gets plenty of use for sunbathing, cookouts, and private parties.

“I didn't know Cuba Gooding Jr. married Tonya Harding,” I said, flipping through the latest
In Style
magazine.

“He didn't,” Nadia said, slathering suntan lotion on her arms and legs, being careful not to get any on the lounge chair, or her teensy-weensy two-piece Juicy Couture bathing suit.

“So who's this frumpy, cross-eyed white chick Cuba's all hugged up with?”

Nadia laughed. “Girl, that's his wife! They've been together since like fifth grade or something like that.”

“Humph!” I took a closer look at the picture. “Well that explains a whole lot, doesn't it?”

Nadia and I were on the rooftop terrace of our condominium building, sharing a bottle of peach-flavored wine. The stuff is cheap as hell, but it actually doesn't taste too bad.

Nadia was living upstairs in 10E when I first moved into the building. I'd gone down to the fitness room one day to get my workout on, and there was this tall, pretty, multiethnic chic who was actually smiling while she went hard on the StairMaster. I don't know about you, but to me it was an indication that she had to be an extreme nutcase. I mean, really. How many folks actually enjoy strenuous exercise? So, I was all set to keep my distance from this kooky broad, but Nadia ended up disarming me with her bubbly, down-to-earth personality. It turns out that she is a bit on the nutty side, but then again, so am I.

We instantly hit it off, and it wasn't long before we were as close as sisters.

“That's all fine and good,” Nadia said after I told her about my dinner with Nelson last night. “But what I really want to know is did you get some?”

“Is your mind always in the gutter?” I asked.

Nadia shrugged. “Pretty much.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint you but Nelson was just being neighborly when he invited me over for dinner, and it wasn't even about trying to hook up or anything like that. He just genuinely wanted to get to know me.”

“So let me get this straight: he's a writer who loves to cook, he reads, he's sweet, sensitive, and he didn't try to hit that? Girl, that brother is gay!”

“Now, there you go. Why can't a guy have all those qualities without his sexuality being questioned?” I asked. “Besides, the man happens to be a widower.”

“
And
? I know plenty of gay guys who happened to be married to women.”

“Nelson is not gay, okay? Trust me on that.”

“Girl, I'm just messing with you,” Nadia said. “So did y'all express interest in dating each other, or what?”

“Not hardly!” I scoffed at the very idea.

“Why the hell not? And please don't tell me it's about that tired ass ‘don't shit where you eat rule' again.”

“That's the main reason,” I said. “But even if I did decide to violate my rule, Nelson has way more baggage than I'm ready to deal with at this point.”

“And you don't?” Nadia said, raising an eyebrow at me.

“Please! You don't see me getting emotional and teary-eyed at the mere mention of Roland's name.”

“No, but is there any reason in particular why you're sporting that ring?” Nadia asked, referring to the five-karat Cartier bridal set that I wore on my left ring finger.

“Oh, this little old thing?” I said, admiring the way the princess-cut diamond caught the sunlight and sparkled brilliantly. “It has no special meaning to me other than the fact that it's beautiful, and it really sets off my French manicure, don't you think?” I wiggled my fingers in Nadia's face so that she could get the full effect.

“Yeah, that sucker is pretty tight,” Nadia said with a trace of envy in her voice. “But why would you even want to wear the ring of a man who disrespected you the way Roland did?
Knowing
what it represents.”

Nadia can be a little slow at times, so I enunciated to make sure she got it this time. “This ring has no sentimental value to me anymore. It is just a ring! I put it on earlier just to look at and admire, I got busy cleaning, and just forgot to take it off.”

“Humph! Well, the way I see it, there are at least three other fingers you could be wearing that thing on. Apparently, Nelson isn't the only one still emotionally attached to the past.”

 

I sighed, wondering how in the hell I had been sucked into discussing any of this stuff in the first place. My intention when I came up here was to read
A Piece of Cake
by Cupcake Brown, and to relax in peace.

But just as I had been settling in, here came Nadia, the Wendy Williams of our building with a stack of fashion magazines, a mini-cooler full of Arbor Mist—oh, and as always, plenty of gossip about the neighbors.

“Oh!” Nadia said excitedly. “You'll never guess who that tramp in 1B is cavorting around with now.”

“Who?” I asked, shifting my weight in the chaise to keep my butt from falling asleep.

“Eddie!”

I peered over the top of my Dior sunglasses to get a better look at Nadia. “You mean, the old-ass security guard that works around here?”

Nadia nodded adamantly. “Girl, yes! I was on my way down to the sauna when that old man came creeping out of 1B, zipping up his fly and sweating so bad I thought he was having a heat stroke.”

Apartment 1B, also known as Ursula Jeffries, is one of the many single women in our building, and someone who Nadia is skeptical of because of the steady stream of male visitors in and out of her condo.

Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

Ursula does have an unusually high amount of male company, but as far as being a real-live ho? I doubt it. More than likely, Nadia is just being catty.

All either of us knows about Ursula for sure, is that she works for the
Kansas City Tribune
, and is what the old folks call “some-timey.” Sometimes she will speak to you, and sometimes she won't.

“Maybe she's doing some kind of research,” I said, trying to give Ursula the benefit of the doubt.

“Yeah, she's doing some
research
all right, and I hope she catches the crabs with her nasty ass!” Nadia said. “Speaking of nasty…”

Nadia's mood soured as Mitchell from 4C walked out, giving the guided tour to a slutty-looking redhead who wore so much makeup she resembled Bozo the Clown.

Fortunately, I don't know all of the gory details, but Nadia and Mitchell dated briefly last summer, which has now resulted in the two of them not being able to occupy the same space at the same time and be civil about it.

“Don't look now, but the cat done drug in something mangy again!” Nadia purposely said that loud enough for Mitchell to hear, which he did, because he immediately came over flashing that lopsided grin he's convinced is so irresistible to women.

Mitchell is one of our building's most eligible bachelors, and I'm not exaggerating when I say that he has boned just about every woman in the building, except for me. Even some of the married ones.

“Tori, you look as gorgeous as always,” Mitchell said.

“Thank you,” I said, graciously allowing him to kiss the back of my hand. “Looks like you have a nice tan going on there.”

“Tina and I vacationed in Cabo last weekend, and we had tons of fun in the sun, didn't we, baby?”

Tina/Bozo giggled, as she and Mitchell proceeded to try and swallow each other's tongues.

I shielded my eyes from the disgusting public display of affection, while Nadia made loud retching noises as if she were vomiting.

“Still haven't gotten a handle on that little drinking problem of yours, huh?” Mitchell asked Nadia, finally acknowledging her presence.

“You know, I gotta give it to you, Mitch,” Nadia replied, looking Tina over with a frown. “You are the only man I know who has this endless supply of blow-up dolls. Cheap ones at that.”

“Tori, do me a favor and tell your friend to get over it.” Mitchell said, then steered Tina back into the building.

“See,” I told Nadia. “That's a perfect example of why you should never shit where you eat.”

“Believe me,” she said. “That's a hard and fast rule for me, from now on.”

 

Twenty minutes later I was once again, deeply engrossed in
A Piece of Cake
.

“I kicked Byron's ass to the curb the other day,” Nadia announced out of the blue. I thought she had fallen asleep while sunbathing, but apparently not.

I kept reading, pretending not to have heard her.

Nadia and my nerves do not always mix. She can be such high drama that you have to be in a certain mood to deal with her, because she will wear you out if you let her.

“I kicked Byron's ass to the curb!” Nadia said again, only this time she shouted close to my ear, making it impossible for me to continue ignoring her.

“What for this time?” I sighed, snapping the book shut.

“Because I warned him that if he didn't show up for my Grandma Lilly's seventy-eighth birthday party, then the two of us are finished. He didn't show up, so that's it. Finito!”

I would be applauding Nadia if Byron were a horrible bastard who treated her badly, but I like him. I think Byron is good for Nadia because he puts her on a pedestal and seems to have mastered the most important factor in dealing with her, which is giving her whatever she wants, and doing it with a smile.

“Nadia, the man's job transferred him to San Diego,” I said. “You can't expect him to drop everything and come to Kansas City just to satisfy one of your whims.”

“No, no, mami. This was not a whim. I told Byron about this months ago and he knew that this was something that meant a lot to me. Besides, he makes special trips to Kansas City whenever he wants to fuck me!”

The words “fuck me!” seemed to bounce off nearby buildings and echo throughout the entire city just as Jan and George, the conservative Republican couple from 4E, came out for a dip in the pool. The appalled expression on their faces was priceless.

Nadia is a mess, straight up and down. If she knew better, she would do better, but sadly she is thirty-one years old and still under the misguided delusion that every man she meets should be thrilled to have the opportunity to spoil her rotten. If not, she dumps the poor chump and moves on to the next unsuspecting sugar daddy, which besides being a massage therapist is how she was able to buy her condo in the first place.

I tell Nadia all the time that she suffers from a chronic case of the “next best thing syndrome.” You know you are afflicted with NBTS when you're involved with someone, and no matter how much of a good thing you have going on, you are still constantly looking around for someone even better to come along.

Men suffer from it because music videos and Jermaine Dupree being with Janet Jackson has given them all hope that no woman is unobtainable. No matter what they themselves may be lacking in the looks department, they too, do not have to settle for anything less than their idea of perfection.

When it comes to women and NBTS, personally I think romance novels are responsible for the unrealistic notions of love and romance that some of us have.

I am really thinking about starting a petition to have those things come with warning labels, like cigarettes.

 

WARNING!
There is a direct link between romance novels and NBTS. If you are not extremely careful, regular consumption may greatly impair your ability to distinguish fantasy from reality.

 

“So who's next in line?” I asked Nadia. “Knowing you, you already have another victim scoped out, and lined up.”

“T. C.” said she, with a glint of mischief in her eyes.

“As in Terrell Cunningham?” I asked in disbelief.

“That's the one,” Nadia confirmed with smug smile.

Terrell “T. C.” Cunningham is the Kansas City Chiefs' premier wide receiver, a six-foot-three-inch bi-racial cutie with a lean, perfectly muscular body, and the smoldering good looks of a young Rick Fox.