Afraid to Love Read online

  She wore hospital scrubs, but even they couldn't hide her beauty. Her dark brown eyes avoided mine, but she had noticed me watching her. I was a little embarrassed that I had allowed myself to stare but couldn’t look away. She was like a song that I heard briefly on the radio that played again and again through my thoughts, because I never heard the ending.

  When our eyes finally met, I could tell that she was having a bad day. No, it was more than that. She looked sad. Maybe it was because of her bad day or the storm that was moving in, but whatever it was, I wanted to fix it. I wanted to see her smile, but more than that I wanted to be the one who made her smile. The best I could do was convince her to take my umbrella. I was taking a taxi home, so I didn't need it.

  I stayed up late last night, writing until my fingers cramped from their tap dance performance on the keyboard. When sleep finally claimed me, I dreamed of her and kicked myself for not asking her name. Even in my dreams, the mysterious ebony beauty didn't smile.

  I usually spent Tuesdays at the library doing research and wandering the shelves looking for anything that might stoke my creative mind, but today I waited at the coffee shop. I had already spent over fifty dollars on tall raspberry mochas, but it didn't matter. I'd stay here until they closed up if I had to. I had to see her again. I had to know her name and be the one to make her smile.

  I tried to describe her time and again as I wrote, but failed miserably at describing the woman who had only sat tables away from me. My friends would laugh at me if they saw how caught up I was after only a brief encounter, not that I planned to tell them about it. I knew nothing was likely to come of it, but I have never been able to deny myself a flight of fancy if it meant staying inspired.

  Writing has been my obsession for as long as I can remember. I published my first book under a pen name at eighteen and have since published seven more. They were all self-published and most of them were science fiction and fantasy, but I had grown tired of the genre. I wanted to try my hand at something different. I wanted to take a shot in the dark at writing about real life, but more than that I wanted to be recognized for the talent I possessed. I wanted a publisher to read my work and beg for more. A childish sentiment, but it's what I've always dreamed of.

  The bell above the door chimed, bringing my thoughts back to the present. I glanced up from the screen and smiled. The ebony beauty had arrived! She was wearing navy blue today and it suited her well. It made her brown eyes seem deeper and more mysterious. She smiled at me and my heart skipped a beat. She began to approach my table and I quickly gathered my papers, shoving them hastily back into my folder.

  “I don't mean to interrupt you, but I wanted to return your umbrella,” she said holding it out.

  “Thank you,” I grinned, “Hopefully it kept you dry.”

  “It did its job. Unfortunately I didn't stay dry.”

  I arched an eyebrow, but didn't ask what happened.

  “A carload of teenagers thought it would be funny to see how high a puddle could splash,” she said.

  “I'm sorry,” I frowned.

  Her voice was even, but her eyes told me just how upset the incident had made her.

  “It wasn't your fault,” she shrugged, “I'll let you get back to your work.”

  It took her turning to leave to make me quit being a coward. I didn't want to let an opportunity to become better acquainted with her pass me by.

  “Wait!” I called after her, “Would you like to join me for a drink?”

  “I really don't want to be a bother,” she said.

  “It's no bother,” I smiled, “I'm done writing for today. I was just powering down.”

  It was a lie. I could have written all night and wouldn't have finished my story, but I wanted to talk to her, so I was finished for the moment. I closed my laptop before it had a chance to finish shutting off and looked up at her with hopeful eyes.

  “I was just going to grab a coffee to go,” she said, “but I guess I could spare a few minutes.”

  “I'm Mark,” I said standing up and holding out my hand.

  She just looked at it for a moment and eventually accepted the hand shake. Her skin was much darker than mine, despite the fact I held a tan pretty well. I allowed myself a few seconds to study the contrasting colors so that they were committed to memory. This was life. Some people spend all their time searching out souls that are similar to them, but to truly experience life I believe we have to search out those who are different. Those who can share their experiences with us and broaden our perspective.

  “Cynthia,” she introduced herself.

  “That's a beautiful name,” I said and pulled out her chair.

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  We made small talk over coffee and I could tell she was holding back. She mostly listened to me talk about my writing and my books. She looked interested in what I was saying, but I wanted to know more about her and I was running out of interesting things to say.

  “So you work at the hospital?” I asked.

  “Yea,” she said, “It's not as great as it sounds though.”

  “My mother was a doctor,” I told her, “It takes a good heart and lots of patience.”

  “That it does. I'm not sure I have the patience part down.” She let out a short laugh. “You said your mother was a doctor, what made her quit?”

  “She died in a car accident three years ago,” I told her.

  “Oh!” she said looking a little embarrassed, “I'm so sorry.”

  “She was a great woman,” I replied, “I know a lot of people miss her. Dad and I still get invited to all the events the hospital hosts. He doesn't go anymore so I seem to end up attending them alone, even when I don't plan on it. It's more to honor my mother's memory than anything else.”

  I left out the part that I had been traveling around Europe when she died and hadn't been able to make it home in time for her funeral. The part how I felt guilty every day about it. I’d examined the theme again and again in my writings; in manuscripts meant for my eyes only.

  “I became a nurse, because I lost my father to cancer two years ago,” Cynthia said.

  As she spoke she avoided looking at me. Having lost a parent myself, I understood how hard it was to talk about it.

  “He was diagnosed when I was twelve,” she continued. “He was in and out of remission for almost eleven years before he died. The thing is the doctor had just given us hope that he would live for at least another five years, then one night he went to sleep and didn't wake up.”

  I took a deep breath and fought the urge to touch her hand. I didn't know her well enough to be affectionate and most women would take it as trying to use their vulnerability to get laid, even if that wasn't your intent. So I decided against the comforting touch because I didn't want to screw up my chances before we even went on a real date.

  “I'm sorry,” I said and meant it.

  Cynthia nodded and blinked away the hint of tears before she thought I saw them.

  “I have to go,” she said suddenly, standing up and slinging her purse over one shoulder.

  “Can I see you again?” I asked.

  “I don't know,” she shrugged, “maybe.”

  Cynthia left without looking back. I knew she was upset and our conversation wasn't a pleasant one. I hoped she would be willing to see me again. I shoved my laptop into its case and followed it with the folders. I needed to move. I was frustrated with the way things had turned out and wasn't sure whether or not it was time to throw in the towel. I had been told on more than one occasion I didn't know when to give up, but I thought everyone else gave up too easily. I wasn't look for a hookup or even a relationship, but I still wanted to know more about Cynthia.

  I walked the rapidly emptying streets before I sat by a fountain. A photographer was taking advantage of the quiet sunset to take a few last minute shots of a model who was wearing a wedding dress. I wondered for a moment if it was hers or if it was just to promote a designer. I hoped it was hers. I
wanted it to be hers, because I wanted to be able to latch onto a small beacon of hope.

  I finished the walk home and settled down into bed with my laptop. It was going to be another evening where my computer and my words were my only company. I finished the chapter I was working on and shut the computer off for the night. I picked up my e-reader and flipped through the new releases, but nothing caught my attention. I considered flipping on the television, but then again, I never really watched it. I hated it more than I liked it. I hated to be told how to see characters. When I read a book, I love to let my mind sketch them out for me. They always seemed so much more real than the people on TV.

  I fell asleep with the light on, thinking about how so many people wasted their lives seeing what others told them to. It applied to more than just fiction. In the last moments before I fell asleep, I made a fictional college class where I could help people see the world for themselves, where I could teach them to shape their own lives free from the influence of what others thought they should be. Hadn't I been living that way since I came of age? I would be the perfect teacher for it.

  Chapter 3: Cynthia

  I didn't know what the hell had come over me at the coffee shop. I never discussed the finer points of my father's illness with anyone. Not even Sasha knew the details of the false hope the doctor had given him. I suspected that the doctor knew my father was going to die soon, but wanted to put his mind at ease to make his death easier. Maybe he thought my father wasn't strong enough for the truth, but he could have at least told me to be prepared. But would that really have been enough? Could I have smiled at my father, knowing he was going to die soon?

  I shook my head to clear the thoughts from my mind. The doctor did what he thought was best. He had been good to my father and helped him win the fight for many years. I missed him, but we all have to go sometime. It was something my father had told me when he was first diagnosed. It was what we did with our lives that mattered, not when or how they ended.

  My hands shook as I cooked dinner. I wasn't hungry, but knew it was time to eat. I didn't want to wake up in the middle of the night with my stomach growling. I paced the floor as I waited for the water to boil.

  I had been on my own for the last two years and had done fine. I got up every day and faced the world. I hadn't allowed anyone to keep me down, no matter how hard they tried. I made my father's dream come true, too. I wasn't living in the ghetto and I was working at a respectable job. I should be happy, so why wasn't I? I knew the answer to my question, but quickly dismissed it from my thoughts. I was too alone to be happy.

  I ate dinner and settled down in front of the television. I watched a medical drama that was supposed to be funny, but it only reminded me of how crappy my first week of work had begun. I turned the television off and decided to go for a run. Before college I had never been one for exercise, but Sasha had gotten me into running with her. I never thought of it as something a black woman would do, but apparently that thought never occurred to her.

  I changed into my running clothes and pulled on my sneakers. It felt good to feel my feet hitting the pavement again. My mind raced as I jogged. Memories of my father hit hard, and I ran faster. I felt if I ran fast enough I would outrun the memories that chased me. I could outrun the way everyone thought I shouldn't succeed because I was a black woman, a double minority. I know white women can have it rough because they're women, but being both seems to paint a target on your back that even your own gender can't resist taking aim at.

  My heart thumped against my chest and I panted for air, but I pushed my sore muscles harder. I didn't want to quit running until I felt better, but that might have meant running forever and my legs weren't going to put up with that shit. I stopped and leaned back against a building. I was panting hard and sweating, but the physical sensations I felt were overriding my mental confusion and misery. After resting for a few minutes, I continued my run. I only ran about two more blocks before I turned back and headed home.

  I kicked off my shoes at the door and headed into the shower. I decided that I'd style my weave tonight before I went to bed. I had never been much of a morning person, so I knew it was now or never. I scrubbed my body, enjoying the soapy lather on my skin. I ran my fingers over my slippery body enjoying the powerful muscles moving under my hands. My build was lean for the most part, but I was proud of the work I did to stay in shape. My ass was still round and out there, but that was genetics, not the aftermath of fried chicken and cornbread.

  After my shower, I wrapped up in a towel and got to work on my hair. I took my time styling it perfectly and then wrapped it for the night. By the time I crawled into bed, I was exhausted and sore. I didn't want the next morning to come because I didn't want to spend another day at the hospital, but I knew it was inevitable. Everything I dreaded in life seemed to be inevitable.

  The next morning, I started my day on autopilot. I went through the motions of getting ready without giving it much thought. I wanted to distance myself from what I had to survive at work, but when I walked through the door I knew it wasn't going to be possible. Heather greeted me with her normal smile, but there was something different about it.

  The day passed and several of my coworkers went silent whenever I entered the room. Their rudeness kept me aware that I was the new kid on the playground and I didn't look like them. I didn't act like them. Put plainly, I wasn't one of them. During lunch break, I met another black nurse.

  “How long did it take them to get used to you?” I asked her.

  “What do you mean?” she arched a brow.

  “I mean how long did it take the white people to accept you?” I asked.

  “You’re crazy,” she laughed.

  “You haven't noticed how they talk about us?” I asked.

  “You're crazy,” she shook her head, “they aren't talking about me. They're talking about you, because from what I've heard you walk around here thinking you're still in the damn ghetto. Cut the attitude!”

  She shook her head and walked out of the room. I crossed my arms and followed her.

  “What the hell do you mean?” I shouted after her.

  “What you're doing right now, honey,” she said shaking her head.

  The bitch didn't even look back at me as she walked away. I wanted to chase after her and tell her what a traitor to her own she was. I wanted to tell her to cut the high and mighty crap. She could act like she was one of them, but at the end of the day she was just another black woman that the world tolerated. They may act friendly to her face, but I knew they talked about her behind her back. White people always did that shit.

  I lied to Heather and told her I had the beginnings of a migraine. I think the older woman knew I wasn't telling the truth, but she let me leave early anyway. I drove around town for a while fuming at that bitch's remarks. Acting like I was from the ghetto? Please bitch, I am from the ghetto and I'm damn proud of it. I worked my ass off to get through nursing school. No one helped me. Not my parents, not my friends, hell I didn't even take help from the damn government.

  My stomach growled and I considered going to the coffee shop, but I didn't want to see Mark again. I had already told him too much, given him too much leverage over me. I thought about trying to explain the situation at work to him, but it made me laugh. He'd be just like everyone else. He'd tell me to change myself to fit into what they wanted. I rolled my eyes as I pulled into the drive way. I decided I'd call Sasha. She was the only person in the world who might understand what I was going through.

  I searched my purse for my phone, but it wasn't there. I searched the entire car before deciding I must have left it at work. I was getting ready to drive back to the hospital when I saw Mark walking up. He waved to me and held something up. It was my phone! How did he get it? Sighing, I realized I must have forgotten at the coffee shop the evening before.

  “Hey,” he called.

  “Hi.” I frowned at my own stupidity.

  “You left this yesterday,” he said
and handed me my phone through the window.

  “Wait a minute,” I said, “How did you know where I lived?”

  “I called around to the numbers in the phone until Sasha finally told me your address. Nice girl. Said I should tell you to call her,” he chuckled.

  “Sounds just like Sasha,” I said and rolled my eyes.

  “Sorry, if I offended you,” Mark said, “I just wanted to make sure you got your phone back.”

  “No, thank you,” I sighed, “I'm sorry I caused you so much trouble.”

  “It's not a problem,” he smiled.

  “I was just on my way to the coffee shop,” I lied, “would you like to join me?”

  “Sure,” Mark grinned.

  His blue eyes lit up as he sprinted around the car and slid into the passenger's seat. He was grinning like a fool. I had to fight the urge to shake my head and tell him he hadn't won that many brownie points.

  On the drive downtown, I told Mark that I had left work early because I had a disagreement with a coworker. It wasn't a lie, but I wasn't about to tell him what that wretched woman said. He wouldn't understand it anyway.

  “I'm a writer and my curiosity always gets me into trouble, but I'm going to ask you anyway,” he chuckled. “What was it about?”

  “Nothing you'd understand,” I said as I pulled into the parking garage.

  “Try me,” he said and arched a blond brow.

  “Fine,” I sighed as I found a parking spot.

  I told him what the other nurse had said and he listened quietly.

  “Maybe they're not talking about you at all,” he said.

  I nearly missed a step, because it wasn't what I had expected him to say.

  “Maybe they're talking about personal issues with people they know well,” he shrugged, “or they're talking about a cute doctor. Women who work at hospitals love to gossip, I would know. My mother and her friends from the hospital were always clucking about one thing or another.”