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CHAPTER 1
Syreeta
I SAT ON THE BLACK leather bench behind the baby grand piano in the far corner of the living room. It was one of my first purchases after I moved into my house in South Fulton, a highly sought-after community in Atlanta. My fingers danced across the black and whites — tickling ivories, as they called it — playing the first few bars to Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen. It was the first song I learned when I started taking piano lessons — unwillingly at first — from Ms. Ilene Bethea, a music teacher from the local high school, and the spouse of my father's best friend. I stopped and took another sip from the wine glass I poured full a few moments before, and then placed it back on the black and white monogrammed coaster to the right side of the piano. The first two glasses of Chenin Blanc were supposed to help me wrap my mind around the absurdity I heard two hours earlier, but, so far, it had only taken me closer to a dazed feeling that caused me to confuse some of the notes in the otherwise simple song; I should've been able to play it with my eyes closed. There were many things I couldn't do under the influence, and I had just added playing the piano to that growing list.
I knew my father, Reid Mercer, thought he was the boss of everyone who bore a portion of his DNA but to think he would stoop to that level in his attempt to continue his dictatorship was incomprehensible. I missed out on a few things because of my desire to please my father, and I subjected myself to even more because of what he thought was most important, even though I knew better.
My father always had his way whenever he meddled in affairs. Of course, the relationships he stuck his nose in, giving his two cents when it usually wasn't solicited, were those of my sister, Danita, and my brother, Jonas. My father loved us, but to him, love meant to control. I witnessed what pleasing my father did to those who obliged. Jonas was still married to Audria, the woman he couldn't trust any further than he could throw her, even after five years of marriage, two kids, a white picket fence, and a dog they named Pooch. Danita was bought, sold, and bought again; giving up the one child God blessed her with, and now had nothing but the deepest hatred for the man who made her sick to her stomach. She hated to even set her mouth to call him 'Daddy'. Yes, Reid loved us, but what he loved most was the control we allowed him to have over us.
"How dare you?" I asked in a quiet whisper and then took another sip from the almost empty wine glass.
Thanks to my father's unrequested advice to give him a chance, Elijah Bynes happened. I stood at the front door of my parents' house and watched Elijah walk out of my life, just like I had asked him to do, after only spending a few hours with him. Elijah was crowned the man I could fall in love with as if there wasn't the slightest possibility that the same truths — or lies — that existed in those men who preceded Elijah didn't exist in him. I guess Father knew best. So the evening I saw Elijah again in the third car on the Red Line train after a long day in the office, I agreed, with some reluctance, to do what my father suggested. He was heading to Thunder Grill, an eatery on the street level in the main hall of Union Station, to celebrate a major acquisition. He looked as if celebrating was the last thing on his mind, since his demeanor was void of anything akin to a jubilant mood.
Over frozen margaritas and quesadillas, Elijah answered questions I had only thought about asking. He was a native of New Jersey. He still owned a home there but lived three days out of the week — usually Tuesday through Thursday — in his apartment in upper Northwest, D.C. He was the middle of four children, never been divorced — or married, for that matter — currently unattached, and thought chivalry still had a few breaths left.
After our fifth date, he caught me with that one line.
"Just put your heart in my hand, baby," he said.
The beam in his eyes made me trust him. The synchronized beat of his heart and mine made me love him. A year after our second first date, Elijah and I were sharing more than the Happy Hour specials at Thunder Grill. His sheets caressed my inner thighs as I laid there and admired the parts of him that were exposed as he made his way into his bathroom after we made love. I tried to find breaths he took away, and I found myself offering silent prayers because I wanted to believe this could be real.
In the midst of it all, I forgot to ask Elijah one important question: What did he plan to do with my heart once it was his? It wasn't long before the sweet harmless persona he presented proved to be just a disguise. I disregarded whispers that illuminated his misguided temperament. I ignored the warnings from girlfriends bold enough to tell me what they thought happened behind closed doors. I portrayed perfectly to save face when I should've just acknowledged the truth. I should've known he would only expose my heart to the elements of hurt, disappointments, and his anger, and I resented him for that.
I didn't look like someone who would allow herself to be some man's punching bag, but that's exactly what I was. Behind closed doors, my face met the palm and the back of his right hand whenever I questioned him about his late nights. I often found myself apologizing for things I didn't even do. It wasn't like I was out pressing my palms against the hood of his company-owned BMW to see how long he'd been home on the few occasions he did make it home before me. I loved him enough to stay, but I fell asleep at night with my face throbbing. I wondered when I was going to love myself enough to leave. I kept telling myself, Next week things will be better as if that was the lifespan of the pain he inflicted. I dreamed of a life without makeup to hide scars, and one with a man who handled me with care, and not just when it was convenient for him. When was I finally going to have enough of bracing my face for one of his assaults? I dreaded the darkness I lived in with him and because of him; still, leaving took forever and a day.
"I meant everything I said to you," he said, removing his remaining possessions from the house. I was confused. I wasn't sure if he was talking about the few moments he told me he loved me and that I meant the world to him, or if he was referring to the degrading words and phrases that followed each slap to my face. I was everything except the name my mother gave me, and he expected the hurt I felt to be wiped away with an apology I knew meant nothing to him. Elijah Bynes was beautiful on the outside, but his inside was ugly beyond words.
I pounded another key on the piano as thoughts of Elijah slowly dissipated. I was still dressed in my whitewash skinny jeans, platform sandals, and sleeveless polka-dot blouse that exposed long arms that were firmer than they were last summer, thanks to my time in the gym with my trainer, Grant. I'd already tossed the fitted white blazer in a corner chair. If Grant didn't resemble Elijah, I probably would've given him that one date he asked for after our first workout. His resemblance to Elijah was the only thing they had in common, and that made for a good trainer-trainee relationship.
It was Friday evening. It had been a warm and rainy summer — especially July and August — and although September started out just as wet, the sun and heat eventually came back roaring. I had taken the day off from work to attend the reading of my father's will. I hadn't heard from my mother since I ran out of Attorney Clayton Montero's office. I couldn't believe she sat there and listened to the foolishness written on the pages that the attorney held loosely in his hands, and then had the audacity to ask me where I thought I was going as I gathered my purse and keys to leave. I didn't think Reid was in his right mind when he put his fingers to the keyboard to write that crap, but if he wasn't then, I was sure now he was damn near crazy to even believe I was going to consider fulfilling his last wishes.
CHAPTER 2
Jelani
"I LOVE YOU, JELANI Brennon Graybourne," she spoke. She held the sides of my face gently between the palms of her soft, cocoa-scented hands. When a woman uses 'love' and 'you' in the same sentence without hesitation and looks at you with eyes that say, 'I don't want to even know what life would be like without you', you have to take her seriously. For a very long time, I did. That woman was Peyton Ashmore, my ex-girlfriend, twice removed.
Her moist, silky lips tickled the left side of my mouth as she planted another kiss. This time, her lips lingered longer than the first one she placed on the right. She tilted my head back and stared into my eyes.
"You've loved me perfectly since the day I met you, and when I'm away from you, I can't stop thinking about you," she said. Her voice had a sweet melody that sent tears down my face. She was close, exactly where I wanted her to be. "You were the love I thought I deserved, but everyone before you made me think that kind of love didn't exist. I love you, but I can't be with you. I hope I will find you again. I hope you will be waiting for me."
I sat on the blanket, in the dark, where earlier her fingers intertwined with mine, her heart pulsed rhythmically in my ear, and my heart rose and fell with every breath that entered her beautiful body. I watched her image disappear into moments of darkness and reappeared again in occasions of light as she walked away and out of my life.
I opened my eyes as Peyton's voice faded into that distance that now existed between us. My heart skipped a beat, just as it had that late summer evening after she spoke her last words. I never professed to have a penchant for consuming alcohol, but the Jack on the rocks I threw back to chase the shots of Kamikaze was just what I needed when I couldn't just wish my love away, or drown out the sound of her voice. I closed my eyes and inhaled. I relished the scent she left behind as if she were recently here. It was vanilla and jasmine on her neck after a long bath, a few inches below her ear. It was bold purple plum and purple lilac that idled long after she closed the door behind her. I wanted more of her then, and since time and Samantha hadn't quenched my undying thirst for Peyton, I yearned for more of her still. I had flashbacks every time I passed someone who smelled like her, or whenever I saw someone who had the slightest resemblance.
Christians had their sanctuary. On Sunday mornings, they listened to captivating words that rolled from the tongue of an electrifying preacher. They gave yells of 'Amen' and 'Hallelujah' whenever the word touched them. They urged him to preach because his words were the gospel they needed to hear. They had their noses buried in Bibles as they dissected scriptures on Wednesday nights. My haven was Friday evening in my living room. I surrounded myself with intentional darkness, with my palms around a glass of a brown concoction. I fought back fears of a reality that was still difficult to acknowledge, but it was the one I lived the day in and day out, the one that no longer included her.
Love was supposed to have been the antidote to the time I devoted to my clients, for my hard work in the courtroom, and the late nights in my home office. For the past few years, love eluded me. It was either hard to find, or ... hell, it was hard to find, at least the kind I had been looking for was; the kind I once had. I hoped the three-strikes-you're-out rule only happened in baseball, because I already had two strikes — not my fault, though some would disagree — and I was growing impatient, waiting for my next at-bat.
My name is Jelani Brennon Graybourne. My friends called me J.B., the women called me "the one who got away," and to other lawyers, I was the "best damn defense attorney we've seen since Leffler or Young." I'm thirty-four years old, Stanford educated, and still, lonely won't leave me alone. My parents are Stanley and Janice Graybourne. I dropped 'adopted' from their title when I was ten years old, three years after they revealed that tightly held secret. I no longer corrected people when they assumed I got my good looks from the Graybournes. I had to have gotten them from someone, and the Graybournes were the only persons they or I knew. If my last name sounds familiar, I should probably mention that I'm partner at the prestigious D.C. firm, Emanuel, Sullivan,, and Graybourne. My father retired from the same position and had set his sights on the Virginia United States Senate seat as the Republican challenger. My mother, Janice Graybourne, is the Chief/Director of Cardiology at Washington Hospital Center.
I didn't ask too many questions about the woman who gave birth to me, and I had no reason to believe that wasn't exactly how she wanted it. I knew her name as Germayne Declerque. Unfortunately, that was the extent of my knowledge about her or anyone close to her. To say anything about my birth father would be like taking a shot in the dark at a moving target. For a while, even though Stanley was there, I imagined the face of this stranger and wondered which of my features I had taken directly from him. In the dark, just before bed, I wondered if the butterfly-shaped birthmark on the right side of my back, just below my shoulder, was his gifted brand. I've heard people say your father is what you become as you grow old, and I wanted to see if I was destined to keep my handsome looks that someone had blessed me with, except I didn't know who this person was. I was a kid who secretly wanted his real father there. Eventually, I gave in and focused on the one who was.
The only thing I knew about any brothers or sisters was that I had one of each, both younger. I never went searching for them. Clearly, there wasn't any frantic search to find me, either. Warren Graybourne was the only brother I knew. He was five years my junior and came as a surprise to my parents after my mother was told for years she couldn't conceive. He was doing a lot better than me; at least he appeared to be the last time we spoke. Unlike me, tonight he was probably home with his family, dog included, watching an On Demand movie. Here I was with my hands wrapped around the neck of a fifth of Jack, ready to pour another glass, thinking about when love was going to stop counting me out.
I ignored a second phone call from my mother, and a third from my father, my attempt to hide the side of me I never intended for them to see, let alone hear. What did they think kept my company most nights when I couldn't discuss my clients with anyone else? I knew my mother well. Every now and then, she got into her Iyanla-fix-my-life mode, and too often, my life was the one she focused on trying to fix. Unlike my father, who was usually satisfied with a bullshit response that I somehow managed to make sound convincing, my mother would drag the truth out of me, without much effort. I was never good at lying, especially not to her, so avoiding her was the next best thing. She would know I was drinking too as if the scent made its way through the airwaves, and she had gotten a whiff of its potency. I learned my limits, so after pouring only my second glass full, I was at least two more glasses away from reaching it.
"Why do nights like these always bring me back to thoughts of her?" I whispered, and then took my first swig of my refill.
I tilted my head and exhaled. It's ironic that when you tell yourself not think about someone, that was the moment the 'we used to ...' came rushing back. You find yourself quickstepping down that lane called Memory, even though you tried to avoid that painful trip. You pause and stare at moments you thought would never end. Again, you try to answer questions that eluded you then, still, 'Where did we go wrong?' is the million-dollar question that lingers, and not even a third glass brought you any closer to an answer. You tried not to think about the moments you and she sang in the rain and danced under the stars, because you knew you would never have those times with her again, and what you've been through since hasn't led you to believe you would ever have them with anyone else.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "One Day You Will"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Kristofer Clarke.
Excerpted by permission of Prodigy Gold Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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