Carry-on Baggage: Our Nonstop Flight Read online

  My questioning started to chip away at her ice block exterior – it didn’t last long, though. Our conversation was cut short when my always-running-a-few-minutes-behind, late-ass friend arrived. I’d hoped he’d never show, but now there was no more stalling. Hours had passed since I picked Cynthia up from the airport; the gig was up and it was time to drop her off. I wasn’t familiar with the part of town where Boris and Nicole lived so we got lost along the way. When we finally arrived, my high moment with Cynthia hit a brick wall. I remember looking at the outside of their home and feeling like it was a place that signified where I had been and desperately wanted to get back to.

  I was sleeping in the guest room of my parents’ place – a spot I’d not been since graduating from high school. Just two years before moving in with my folks, I’d worked hard with my ex to build our dream home and walked away from it when we separated. It was just as beautiful as the house that was in front of me. That picturesque mansion with perfect landscaping slapped me in the face with the reality of how much work I needed to do to reclaim my Peter Thomas swagger. Walking Cynthia to the front door was like a rite of passage. I felt more focused than ever on elevating my hustle.

  It was four hours roundtrip to drop Cynthia off, drive to my parents’ place, change clothes and get back to pick her up. She had no idea the distance I was driving or the hoops I was jumping through to be at her disposal that weekend. Getting ready for Melrose’s dinner, I’d grown jittery and stupid tense. I was never uneasy around any woman, but I felt an interest and compatibility with Cynthia that was even greater than what I’d felt for my ex. She was Latina and we didn’t speak the same language (figuratively or literally). She and her family could’ve been in the same room ripping me a new asshole, and I would’ve thought they were singing me “Happy Birthday.”

  I was an international lover who dated beautiful women, regardless of their race. Cynthia and I had nice parallels – with her being African American and me being of West Indian descent. She knew what I was saying, and I knew what the fuck she was saying. I loved that we were of the same pigment, age and background. She had the goods to make me want to get my life in order with the quickness. I was forty-six years old, living back at home and in that moment – wiping down buckets of nervous sweat – but on the inside I felt brand new. I was headed to take Cynthia Bailey to dinner.

  She looked incredible when I returned to pick her up. I can’t recall what she was wearing because I couldn’t really focus on anything outside of her face. I was trying to find faults, but there were none. At the restaurant, we found two cozy seats at the bar to wait for the rest of our party. The continuance of my interrogation was disturbed by two ladies seated nearby who kept staring and pointing. One finally approached us and asked my stunning date if she was Cynthia Bailey, the model. Cynthia humbly confirmed her suspicion. “I thought you were! My friends and I were just admiring how beautiful you are,” the lady shrilled with a sort of tripped-out stare at Cynthia.

  The woman was JaQuitta Williams, an Atlanta news anchor. I was blown away by her exchange with Cynthia. How the fuck did this local newswoman recognize a New York-based supermodel? Cynthia really was some kind of celebrity! JaQuitta gestured for her friends to come over, who also greeted Cynthia and asked for pictures. Guess who was the damn photographer for their impromptu photo shoot? It was cool, though. I understood they were admiring her, just as I was.

  Melrose’s eventual arrival at dinner was a non-factor. She’d picked up on how much I liked Cynthia and started feeling me for all the wrong reasons. She was unhappy in a deteriorating relationship and constantly needed my ear. I limited my role to that of a big brother. She was like the little sister who always managed to put herself in a predicament that called for me to bail her out. Even though she was an attractive woman, I didn’t feel anything sexual toward her. We’d never kissed or dated, and only went out on a strictly platonic tip. One of our wee-morning outings had even ended with her staying overnight in a guestroom at my parents’ house. There were countless times something physical could have jumped off, but I wouldn’t allow it.

  It was amusing to see how Cynthia brought out Melrose’s competitive edge. She arrived at her birthday dinner looking extra fancy. Granted she was a real pretty girl, but that night she knew she’d be in the company of a thoroughbred, and it was clear she came to run in the same race. As our party was being seated for dinner, we walked directly past a girl I’d slept with a few months back. She was a young tenderoni who really liked me. I admired her ambition, but we were too far apart in age for anything serious to jump off. I was praying the hostess wouldn’t seat us at the available table beside her. The hostess obviously sucked at mindreading, because she did the exact damn opposite of what I was thinking and sat us right on the bull’s-eye.

  I looked over and noticed honey was giving me a couple of real deep cuts with her eyes. They were sharp, slicing wounds. If looks could really cut, I would’ve needed two blood transfusions that night. Melrose knew the deal between me and the girl and enjoyed the hell out of her silent ambush. Knowing Melrose, she probably wanted the shit to end in a train wreck. It wasn’t happening!

  Number one, I was still a man who knew how to handle his business. Number two, my single focus for the evening was on one woman. Cynthia. Bailey. There could’ve been a head-on collision coming my way and I wouldn’t have noticed. Even before Cynthia’s visit to Atlanta, I’d started the process of shutting females down and ripping names from my Little Black Book. Homegirl seated next to us was on one of those torn pages. There was only one course of action to keep the night flowing. I cut and pasted Razor Eyes from the dining room, ordered a couple bottles of wine and a big, juicy steak. End scene.

  Cynthia’s Voluntary Layover

  Following Melrose’s birthday dinner and some serious cocktails, I made it back to Boris and Nicole’s around one in the morning. And before noon that day, I was sitting back in my truck’s passenger seat next to Peter. It was Saturday and he’d volunteered to chauffeur me to Melrose’s place since she lived nearly an hour away. Peter was so hyped to show off Atlanta and be my personal tour guide for the day. He still did most of the talking, while my mind wandered and second-guessed my actions over the past twenty-four hours. What the hell was I really doing?

  I was mad at myself for getting too tipsy the night before. I should’ve at least had appetizers before drinking, especially after such a long afternoon of sightseeing with Peter (if that’s what you want to call it). I tried to discern what I was feeling and why I had so many emotions flowing through me. It felt like I’d taken over someone else’s body – or life for that matter. From the time I’d landed in Atlanta the day before, my every action had been totally uncharacteristic.

  I also knew I needed to process the weird energy I’d picked up from Melrose at her birthday dinner. I couldn’t quite figure out if she was feeling Peter, but I knew for sure she wasn’t checking for him to be checking for me. To be completely 100, I felt caught in the middle of some strange chemistry between the two of them. I forced my brain to focus on the task at hand and not go in too deep on whatever side thang they had going on. Bottom line, I was in Atlanta to sell my truck, not peddle drama.

  Melrose and her young daughter were living with her sister outside of Atlanta. Her life was far from the stellar days of New York and Paris. She seemed to be starting over from go, and I felt like she was looking for Peter to be her knight in shining armor. At best, the one who would rescue her from life’s circumstances.

  Knowing him like I do now, I can attest to how Peter instinctively goes into relationships (whether romantic or platonic) with a built-in mindset of enhancing them. He’s a man’s-man who naturally wants to improve situations. It gives him a high knowing he’s aided in turning around someone’s life. He’s the Dalai Lama of analyzing things that are broken and knowing how to elevate them to the next level. Peter was accustomed to being the architect who mapped
the path that pushed the women in his life toward greatness. In some of his most significant relationships, he spearheaded his counterpart’s success. I could easily see those standout qualities being Peter’s Achilles’ heel in his friendship with a woman like Melrose.

  It made me sad to see Melrose’s life idling in the same place. Starting out, we had the same opportunities, but a different drive and hustle. I could have married any millionaire and had instant financial security, but I took pride in working my ass off for every luxury in my life. I wasn’t a star or necessarily a household name, but my shit was together. I had no complaints about my life.

  I lived in a spacious apartment on the Upper East Side, my daughter was in a great school and I had access to just about any available bachelor. One thing was for sure, I certainly didn’t need a prince to sweep me off my feet with a pair of glass slippers and the promise of a fairy-tale ending. Anyone who came into my life could only enrich what was already near-perfect in my eyes. I was completely happy, with sound peace of mind and was by all measures, successful.

  Since Melrose lived quite a distance out, Peter hung around while I visited with her for a few hours. Witnessing her new life in Atlanta was tough for me, but the last thing I wanted to do was make her uncomfortable. There were no conversations about going shopping at Louis Vuitton or having a fancy dinner at The St. Regis. I played myself down to the point where I almost felt like I was acting. In no way did I get off on seeing how things had turned for Melrose. It truly made me sad to see how she’d landed.

  On the drive back, I was pretty silent and didn’t find it appropriate to discuss Melrose or ask Peter what was going on with her. Though I was taken aback by her living situation, it all appeared normal to Peter and Melrose. I didn’t read anything from either that conveyed they viewed her living situation as abnormal. If they didn’t have a problem with her state of affairs, why the hell would I?

  Peter dropped me back at the Kodjoes’ house so I could prepare for another night of dinner with him. I’d told him my favorite food on the planet was Japanese, so he offered to take me to Geisha House. Geisha was known for its talented international chefs, fantastic selection of Japanese food and delicious sushi. I was secretly thrilled to spend another evening in Peter’s company. He rushed home to shower and change for dinner, and when he returned to pick me up it was like no time had passed. I was getting accustomed to being his wing-woman in the passenger seat. With each tour of the town, my anticipation to be with him grew stronger.

  At Geisha, we again met up with Melrose and another group of friends. I noticed Peter was acting differently – edgy and out of sorts. He was walking really fast like a crackhead and stayed in front of me instead of beside me. I could tell he was in his head and something had him distracted. When we were seated, I sat on one side of Peter and Melrose flanked the other. My heart was very much softened by my visit to Melrose’s home, and I did my best to be aware of her presence and give her most of my attention. She seemed to be having a good time and her energy was more balanced than the night before.

  Aside from Peter’s weird streak, dinner at Geisha felt like our real first date. There was a moment in the evening when he laid his hand on my lap. It felt good, and I returned the gesture by placing my hand over his. It was so hard for me to accept that I liked this guy. I wasn’t prepared to fall for him like that. I was a control freak who typically hated surprises. Being in such a situation with a man I’d spent less than twenty-four hours with, infringed on my sense of control. Shit, the act of even placing my hand on his could have been mistaken as a green light for him to move in for the kill.

  Once he’d touched me, I noticed a surge in Peter’s confidence and his fretfulness completely disappeared. He seemed less awkward and more at ease. He was definitely interested in me, and it was all I needed to know. In my mind, all questions were resolved about him…and about him and Melrose. I decided to let go and take a chance on what the weekend would bring.

  After dinner, Peter decided our next move would be to his friend’s nightclub. It was the first time in a while that I’d partied outside of New York. Atlanta was entertaining and filled with warm people, but it was no New York! It wasn’t as exclusive. Wristbands and hand stamps seemed to be a central nightlife theme, making it feel more like a venture to Six Flags. Living in New York created a standard where you go through the world comparing everything to it. I’d experienced the best of everything in New York: best Japanese food, best shopping and the best clubs. It seemed everything I’d ever tried always placed second best to New York. Peter was becoming an obvious exception.

  Peter must’ve felt like a pimp that whole night. Melrose and I had sat on either side of him at dinner, and he’d entered the club with Melrose in one hand and me in the other. We accessed the club through a rear, VIP entrance where Cee Lo Green was standing. I could have sworn he did a double take as I walked past, but I never big-dealed a man’s overt attention toward me, especially when I was dressed to slay.

  Inside, the night was fueled with drinking, dancing and grown-folks fun. The group of friends who’d met us for dinner at Geisha also joined us at the club. Peter was in alpha-male form buying shots for everyone. The club was packed wall-to-wall, and I needed a break from the crowded dance floor. I was sitting in an upstairs window ledge, one of the only available seats in the house, when Peter walked up and started dancing beside me. He was like a watchdog marking his terrain in a crowded field of pit bulls. I sat there amused, taking in his every antic.

  When he knelt down in front of me, I leaned forward, assuming he was trying to speak over the loud music. My lean was intercepted by a gentle, wet peck on the lips. I was shocked by his boldness, but I went with the flow since I didn’t detect any halitosis. The kiss was not too aggressive and just enough.

  I appreciated a man who was skilled at taking his time. The one-small-step-a-day approach turned me on. I knew Peter wanted to jump in and tear me apart like a rabid dog, which drew me into him even more. I looked to see if anyone, particularly Melrose, observed our kiss. Everyone in our clique appeared to be on their own agenda, showing no interest in either of us. I found it sexy knowing we’d kissed in a crowded room of people and not a soul noticed. Secrets always made things more stimulating for me.

  Well into the early hours of Sunday morning, we started our descent back to Boris’ house. I was very tipsy again. On the ride, I kicked off my shoes, reclined the seat and elevated my legs on the dashboard. Though comfort played a part in my decision to rest my legs on the dash, it was also a little test of Peter’s strength. I was wearing a short skirt and when I put my legs up I was borderline exposed. My panties covered the goodies, though.

  I was exhausted and slept the entire ride. He allowed me to rest and didn’t wake me until we reached the house. I put my shoes on, pulled my skirt down and headed straight for the front door. I didn’t even pause to give him a goodnight smack on the lips. I was proud of him for not taking my bait to go fishing.

  First thing Sunday morning, my cell phone rang. It was Peter, of course. Eyeballing the alarm, I saw that it was just after eight o’clock. He had to be kidding! I was hung over and still very sleepy. He said he’d made brunch reservations for us at The Ritz-Carlton and was calling to see what time he could scoop me up. Two hours later I was dressed, packed for the airport and waiting to hear Peter pull into the driveway. I must have not been as sleepy as I thought.

  At the Ritz, the maître d’ addressed us as Mr. and Mrs. Thomas. That normally would’ve freaked me out, but I thought, “Okay, I can be Mrs. Thomas for this one brunch.” After all, nothing else that whole weekend had been normal or my typical behavior, so why start adding rules to the playbook in the last quarter? As with every conversation between us that weekend, our talk at brunch peeled back more layers. We had mad chemistry, and I was sure we were at the beginning of something. I still knew barely anything about him, but I very much liked what I was finding ou
t about the sensual Jamaican man.

  I’d secretly hoped Peter would take the longest way possible to the airport, but part of me was also anxious to get there, play back and process my last two days in Atlanta. I was tripping like crazy and asking myself a trillion schoolgirl questions in my head. Was he going to kiss me when I got out? What would he think about me after dropping me off? As he pulled into the airport, he asked that I call him once I got through security. I liked his authority and initiative, and I was more than happy to honor his request.

  I gathered my things and hurried inside. No kiss this time either, just a lingering hug. Walking away, I figured his eyes would be on my butt, so I hit him with an extra sexy runway walk. It was five seconds of my life that Naomi Campbell didn’t have nothing on me. I’d made the trip to Atlanta with the intent of selling my Range Rover, but we never mentioned the purchase once. Yes, it was official. I had lost my damn mind.

  Peter’s Voluntary Layover

  Operating on only a few hours of sleep, I felt like I could run a marathon when I took Cynthia to Melrose’s that Saturday morning. Maximizing every minute with her was my primary focus, so I always managed to create detours on our drives. That morning, I took her through one of Atlanta’s most beautiful and affluent neighborhoods. We had great conversation about our ambitions, and the drive was another opportunity for me to inquire about how rooted she was in the North. I asked if she would ever leave New York. She said she wouldn’t be opposed to the idea, depending on the right circumstances. Twenty-four hours was all the time I had left with her. How could I lock her down before Sunday? My thoughts were all over the place.