Man of Her Dreams Page 3

  Trevor glanced at his computer, waiting for an email response from a client.

  “Other than dodging chicks, everything cool with you?” Reid asked.

  “Yeah. I just closed on the new place.”

  “Congratulations, man. So, you’re actually moving out of Uptown.”

  “I have to. I’m looking for a simpler lifestyle, and I’ve found it in the form of a three bedroom flat.”

  “What side of town?”

  “Elizabeth, right on North Laurel Avenue.”

  “Off of Randolph Road…nice area. I don’t know how simple that’s going to be for you, though. Leaving that nice high-rise where you have a doorman and cleaning service for a house where you have to cut your own grass and keep up maintenance sounds like more work to me.”

  “I’m looking forward to the challenge,” Trevor said.

  “Sure you are.” Reid stood up and stretched. “Let me get out of here. Hey, keep me up-to-date with loch ness.”

  Trevor could only shake his head.

  “When is the date?”

  “I told you, it’s not a date. Basically, the plan is to be at Baconville this Saturday. Priscilla is going to convince Elsie to come out to breakfast and I’m supposed to figure out a way to ask her out. I’m not sure how it’s going to go down yet, but her friend assures me she’ll say no.”

  “I’ma throw a wrench in here. What if Elsie doesn’t say no? I mean really, who says no to pretty boy Myerson?”

  Trevor chuckled. “Well, I’m counting on her to say no. When I took myself off the market, I had no intention of coming back a year later and especially not with a blind date situation.”

  “You’re still holding fast to this celibacy thing, huh?”

  “I’m not calling it celibacy. It’s a leave of absence from women.”

  “In other words, torture.”

  “Nah. The alone time has given me more time to figure out what I want.”

  “If you say so. Anyway, when you do meet Elsie, call me. I can’t wait to find out how this goes.”

  “Yeah. I can’t wait to get it over with.”

  “Alright, later man.”

  “Yep.” Trevor returned to checking his emails. He thought about what Reid had said. What if Elsie agreed to a date? He couldn’t have that. For one, he didn’t have time to date. The year he’d taken a leave of absence from women had given him time to reflect and focus on himself. To make goals and meet those goals. And he swore off love after Rachel left him for another man a few days before they were to tie the knot.

  Rachel…

  They’d dated for a year and for the last six months out of that year, she practically begged him to marry her. Then, one day after he swore he’d never do such a thing, he asked for her hand in marriage – the worst mistake of his life. He still hadn’t brought himself to tell his parents that the wedding was off. Although they’d never met Rachel, they knew of the engagement and his mother had spoken with her several times over the phone. Now, what was he supposed to do? Tell them it was over? He didn’t want to go down that path with his parents. They’d want to know what happened and when they found out, wouldn’t that make him look bad? His woman leaving him for someone else she deemed better? That was a blow to any man’s ego whether they wanted to admit it or not. It certainly had taken a toll on his. And so that’s why he chose the single life – to focus on himself. His career. His new house. Just when he thought he was in the midst of getting his mind right, Priscilla was rocking his foundation with her experiment.

  Chapter 3

  Elsie

  After spending my Friday night and early Saturday morning listening to my neighbor’s headboard banging against my wall – the downside of apartment living – I’m in the kitchen sipping on a marshmallow-topped hot cocoa deciding what time I’ll attempt to get back to sleep. To make up for precious lost time. When my phone rings, I don’t bother looking at the display when I answer, “Good morning, Mrs. Priss,” because I know it’s my friend, Priscilla calling.

  Priscilla is the total opposite of me – an extrovert (yuck) – and since opposites attract, we became the best of friends since our freshman year at UNC-Charlotte. I have no idea how our friendship has lasted so long. She works my nerves on a weekly basis with her free-spirited, beautiful, extracurricular behind. She’s one of those annoying friends you want to punch in the face and yet still have drinks with every now and then.

  “Whattup, Elz?” she asks.

  I roll my eyes at her latest attempt of hacking up my name. Elz? Really? I’ve noticed since she married a white man, she’s been trying harder to act black like she’s afraid she’s losing her identity somehow. You wouldn’t catch her saying ‘whattup Elz’ in the presence of Billie Dorsey. That’s for sure.

  “Hey, Priscilla. What’s up?”

  “Do you want to do brunch?”

  No is my automatic answer to everything so that’s what I go with. “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  Simple. Doing brunch means I’ll have to get dressed and look presentable. I’d much rather the robe, wild hair, no makeup look this morning. People like her can hop out of bed Revlon beautiful. Me, I need construction equipment to look decent enough to leave the house.

  “Come on,” she drawls out in a whiny spoiled-brat kinda way. She’s accustomed to my propensity to decline every invite initially (which is why I can’t understand why she keeps extending me all of these unwanted invitations) and so she commences with begging. “Please, Elsie. I don’t want to go all by my lonely...”

  I can see her pouty lips poking out now. “You’re married. Go with Billie-boy!” I tell her, watching marshmallows melt in my cocoa. I stir my chocolatey drink with my index finger and taste the deliciousness. Why do I need to leave the house? I’ve got heaven in a cup right here in front of me.

  “I can’t go with Billie. He’s at a conference this weekend.”

  “So, I’m being punished ‘cause you can’t keep your man at home? If he was there, you wouldn’t be bothering me right now, whining about some stupid brunch. And since when did you start using terms like brunch? It’s either breakfast or it’s lunch. Simple as that, neither of which I plan on leaving the house for.”

  “Come on, Elsie. Be a team player.”

  I chuckle. “Team player? You’re really hitting me with the team player nonsense because I’ve never been a team player. I had to lie on my resume about being an outstanding team player just to get my current job. And what’s the point? Why does a mailroom clerk have to be a team player? To do some other lazy bastard’s job when, as it stands, I’m not being paid enough for the job they hired me for? No thanks.”

  “Look, I don’t know the politics of mail people. What I do know is, Baconville has breakfast and piping hot coffee. And, us single gals have to stick together.”

  “I wonder if Billie knows how loosely you’re tossing around the word single for the weekend?”

  “I’m sure Billie doesn’t give a flying flip what I do while he’s gone making that money, honey. Now, crawl your tail up out of that bed and let’s brunch it out at Baconville.”

  “I’m not in bed, thank you very much.”

  “Well, that’s a miracle in itself.”

  I laugh. She knows the relationship I have with my bed, but it’s hard to sleep listening to someone screaming all night. And since I didn’t get any sleep, I don’t feel like doing anything but lying around the house. I’m not washing clothes, cleaning, cooking. Nothing. My Saturday plan is to be a lazy bum and I am not about to let Priscilla ruin this for me.

  “Seriously, Priscilla, listen woman…I’ve had a long night—”

  Before I could finish, she erupts in laughter. “Elsie, my sweet Elsie, you don’t know what a long night is, girlfriend.”

  And with a man like Billie, neither do you. Ooh I want to say that so bad, but I don’t want to hurt her feelings so I ask, “Why does everything have to be about sex? I’m not talking about a long night with a guy. I�
�m talking about the fact that my next door neighbor was getting it on at 1:00 a.m. and I couldn’t sleep through banging, screaming and the misuse of God’s name.”

  Priscilla laughed harder. “See. Sex.”

  “My point is, I’m tired and I don’t want to go to Sausageville—”

  “It’s Baconville,” she says, correcting me.

  “Whatever ville. I ain’t going.”

  “You are going. Be dressed and ready to go in four minutes, chica. I’m already on the way.”

  “Priscilla—”

  “Buh-bye.”

  She hangs up the phone, and my life is over. I stomp to the bedroom, find a pair of jeans on the floor and a red sweater – a clean red one – then I rush to the bathroom to take a quick wash up – a sink bath that Priscilla refers to as a hoe bath. I’m washing my bottom using the warm water in the sink bowl, a washcloth and antibacterial pump hand soap (don’t judge me) then I find my most comfortable panties – some big ol’ undies – and put them on before wiggling into my jeans.

  Priscilla is ringing the doorbell now, back-to-back like a crazed delivery person and I have one boob in my bra like it’s a struggle to get these little things in a bra. I quickly slide into my sweater, then brush my hair back in a wild-looking chignon bun. After I cover my bare feet with a pair of brown Uggs that I’ve had the last four winters, I grab my army green purse and run to the front door to make the ringing stop.

  She offers up an evil smile. “Ready?”

  “Yeah. Ready to whip your tail. I told you about tearing up my doorbell, Priscilla,” I say putting on my coat. I don’t opt for my hat. Hopefully, I’ll catch the flu and die before we make it to this place.

  I lock the door then wiggle the knob to make sure it’s locked securely. Then we head down a flight of stairs since my apartment is on the second level.

  “I had to get you out of that apartment one way or another. You’re not a freakin’ cave woman. You need to get out and feel the sun on your skin.”

  “The sun? It’s overcast today, and I’m black enough already.”

  “Well, you need to feel the—the air.” She pulls in a deep breath and releases it slowly, mimicking some meditation technique. “Let the air wake you up and open your senses.”

  “The hot chocolate I was sipping before I was so rudely disturbed was doing a much better job of opening my senses than this frigid wind chill.”

  “When we get to Baconville, I’ll be sure to order you another hot beverage,” she says.

  Every step I take toward the ground is a step I want to take back up to my apartment. I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready for anything involving being in public unnecessarily, but here I am, going against my will for Priscilla yet again.

  When I sit down in the car, I look at her. She’s always been perfect in my opinion – perfect size eight body, pretty, long hair…even her nails are beautiful and they’re not acrylic. They’re hers. And then there’s me – a size twelve hot mess. I have long, black hair, but I keep it balled up in a bun and out of my way. Who had time for hair to be flying all around in their face when trying to deliver packages? Not me.

  Priscilla starts the engine and looks at me. She shakes her head.

  “What?” I ask. I’m already irritated. She’s making it worse.

  “I don’t understand you,” she says. “You’re always yapping about the man of your dreams, yet you stay locked up in your apartment like you’re in solitary confinement.”

  “I’m not locked up. I just happen to love being at home.”

  “You have to get out here in this world and shake a tail feather, girl. It’s time to live a little. How are you going to meet the man of your dreams in your apartment?”

  “That’s the thing, Priscilla—the man of my dreams is just a saying.”

  “No, it’s not. You’ve been talking about this man for years. You have all of his physical characteristics carved in stone. Stop daydreaming about him, girl and start looking for him.”

  I frown while digging around in my purse for my scratched up sunglasses. Start living – easy for her to say. It’s easy to live when you look as good as she does. When you’re carefree and not shy – not afraid of everything like me. I slide on the sunglasses right over my real glasses and respond, “Fine. Let’s go to Baconville and live it up. I’m sure grits and waffles are going to change my life drastically and give me that extra umph I need to be able to talk to a man without stuttering or making a complete fool of myself.”

  “Hey, stranger things have happened,” she sings. Usually, when she sings her words, she’s up to no good. I don’t have the fortitude to figure out what it is she’s up to this time.

  So we pull up at Baconville...

  The place is jumping like a nightclub. I’ve never seen so many people waiting around for food at any restaurant. Maybe if I got out more, I would have. But I don’t get out, so whatever.

  The bald headed chick with a septum ring tells us that there’s a thirty-minute wait and I literally feel my brain spasming. Thirty flippin’ minutes! What are we supposed to do for thirty minutes?

  “Gee. I didn’t know this place was going to be this crowded,” Priscilla says, watching a little girl walk past us, holding a dirty-faced, nappy-headed white baby doll (that’s something you don’t see every day) and she has a thumb in her mouth. She’s staring at Priscilla until Priscilla brightens her eyes at the little girl.

  I grin. “You better stop being mean to people’s kids.”

  “What? The little fart wouldn’t stop staring at me.”

  “Maybe she’s staring because you’re pretty.”

  “Hmm…maybe,” she says, then flips her hair.

  “What made you want to come to this place, anyway? We could’ve been munching on a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit by now.”

  “Look—I told you I wanted to get you out of the house. Now, stop your whining.”

  Stop your whining, I mouth in silent protest.

  “Priscilla, party of two,” bald head girl says.

  “Ooh, that’s us.” Priscilla stands up. “See. That wasn’t even thirty minutes. More like ten.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Let’s just sit down.”

  “Let’s.”

  When we’re seated, Priscilla looks around our immediate area to see who’s sitting close to us. Me, I don’t give a crap. I look at the menu to find something to order as soon as our waitress decides to make an appearance.

  “We should probably get the sampler,” I suggest to Priscilla. “Can’t go wrong with a little bit of everything, right?” I ask.

  “Look at you, high roller. I ain’t mad at you, girl.”

  I lift a brow. Her husband’s the millionaire and she’s calling me a high roller. “Priscilla, the sampler is $8.95. I’m on a budget and even I can afford that.”

  “Good, because it’s your turn to pay.”

  “Unbelievable. You literally drag me out of bed against my will and I have to pay?”

  “Yeah. I paid last time, remember? Taco Bell? Ding, ding, ding...ring any bells?”

  I laugh and shake my head. She’s got me. She did pay last, even though all I had was a Gordita Crunch with one packet of Fire sauce with an expression printed on it that read: Of all those sauce packets, why me, why now? (Don’t ask me how I remember that.)

  When the waitress bounces over to our table again, we both order the breakfast sampler and coffee. I take a decaf and Priscilla orders a regular, although, judging by her level of alertness, she should’ve ordered the decaf and I should’ve went with the regular.

  Our waitress scoops up our sticky menus and Priscilla looks across the table at me. Smiles.

  I narrow my eyes trying to figure her out. She’s usually on her cell phone when we’re out, nodding aimlessly like she hears what I’m saying while watching stupid videos and updating her Twitter feed every time anything happens in her life, but today, this dull winter morning, she’s all in my grill.

  My eyes seem to n
arrow automatically. “What are you up to, Priscilla?”

  “Boys,” she says. “Let’s...talk...boys.”

  She should tell I’m not game by my eye roll, but in case she doesn’t, I say, “Let’s not.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “I don’t want to talk boys. And why are you calling them boys and not men.”

  “Girl, puhleese. The only boys to men I know are Wanya, Nathan, Shawn and Michael.”

  I giggle after she calls out the name of the actual Boyz II Men group members. The waitress is lowering our coffee mugs to the table and I instantly wrap my fingers around mine.

  “Men are all boys if you ask me.” Priscilla rips open three packets of sugar at the same time and sprinkles them into her coffee. “Anyway, I think it’s time for you to get your toes wet in this dating game. I really do.”

  “My toes are just fine, thank you very much. What you need to do is worry about your own stanky toes, and by all means, stop painting your toenails black. Jeez.”

  Priscilla chuckles. “Nice try Elz, but I’m serious. You can’t keep hiding in your apartment acting all vampy because you’re afraid of guys.”

  “I’m not afraid of guys, Priscilla. I just…um…I—”

  “You’re what?”

  “Not interested right now. And how are you going to call me vampy when you’re the one with black toenails.”

  “Okay. Fine. Forget about my toenails. Tell me why you’re taking love off the table.”

  “I never said that. I—” I sigh and take a sip of coffee. “Okay, I don’t know how to talk to men. I can’t read the signs like you. I’m a complete basket case when it comes to dealing with men.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I am. Need I remind you of the elevator incident?”

  “Oh, right. How can I forget about you trying to hit on the guy after he told you he had a girlfriend?” She laughs openly at me, right to my face.

  “Exactly.”

  “Okay, but that was one incident. Not all hope is lost, sugar booger.”

  “It may as well be. Besides the fact that I turn into a stuttering, brain-farting machine in the presence of the male species, there hasn’t been one who meets the physical attributes of the man of my dreams. I have never met a black man with—”