Falling Again (A BWWM Interracial Romance)

CHAPTER 1

At work, I park my car in the rear of the building, wave at the pizzeria chef from next door and get ready to seize the day. Who knows? Living Life Day Spa may hit an all new customer high today.

Or maybe not...

I started the spa four months ago in Druid Hills, a suburb of Atlanta. In such a classy, up and coming community, I was sure that business would be booming in this part of the city. Unfortunately it’s been slow – extremely slow. It’s so bad, I probably average between three and five customers per day and, since I have one employee, I usually end up paying that money directly to her. The rest goes to lease payments and supplies.

Meanwhile, I’m living off of my saving. I pay my rent from it. I buy groceries, pay utilities and car payments from it. At last check, I only have enough left to carry me for two more months, if that. I can’t tell you the last time I purchased an article of clothing, and forget about an emergency fund. Every dime I have will be gone in a matter of months and then I’ll officially be flat broke and maybe even homeless. Every day of my life is an emergency...

After a few sighs and grunts, I force myself to get out of the car while grabbing my purse from the driver seat. Then, lacking motivation to do anything, I lazily stroll to the door, attempt to unlock it but the keys fall out of my hand. I pick them up and make a second attempt. Ugh. This is horrible. I feel like my energy is zapped. I have no enthusiasm whatsoever and every day I come here, I feel like I’m wasting my time, which is probably why I can’t open the door. But I suck it up and remain hopeful because I have nothing else to hang on to. Nothing but hope.

After finally getting the door open, I walk in to my place of business, being greeted by the scent of lavender and an inquisitive gaze from Stacey.

Well hello, Geneva, Stacey says. She rolls her wrist to check her watch, then looks at me again. Didn’t think you were coming in today.

Why would you think that? I ask, placing my bag on the countertop and pulling sunglasses from my eyes.

Because I called you like twenty times.

I smile, roll my eyes and shake my head. Stacey has been working for me since I opened. I’ve known her since college, but we didn’t attend college together. She worked at a bookstore, part-time, only because she wanted to do something to keep herself occupied. Her husband is a lawyer and she was determined not to become a desperate housewife, which is a good thing for me, because her pay sucks. Teenagers get more allowance than what I’m able to pay her. But, she doesn’t mind it. It’s not like she needed money.

I remember when I first told her of my plans of opening a day spa. She immediately enrolled in a two-year esthetician program, graduated a year ago and told me she was, and I quote, ready to get this party started now that she had her beauty license. The profession suits her. Stacey is a beautiful, brown-toned woman with gorgeous, long, brown hair and a killer physique. She’s one of those talkative people, too – you know the ones who can turn any topic into a nonstop, in-depth conversation. I heard her talking to a client on Saturday about the core differences between Jenny Craig and Weight Watchers. Seems she should’ve been the lawyer instead of her husband.

And she loves to exaggerate because home-girl did not call me twenty times this morning. As a matter of fact, I take my phone from my purse to see that she’d only called me three times. Three.

Well good morning to you, too, Stacey, I said facetiously. I’m doing okay. What about you on this lovely, beautiful, Autumn Monday morning?

Oh, drop the charades. You hate Mondays more than I hate reality TV.

So, if you know I hate Mondays, why do you continue to ambush me with phone calls?

’Cause I didn’t want to be here alone. I was calling to see where you were because I was just about to pack up and get outta here.

Sure you were, I say, smiling. I know she’s bluffing. Stacey likes being here. Did you flip the sign around and unlock the door?

Sure did. And I lit the aromatherapy candles, turned on some soft jazz and swept the floors. We’re ready.

Monday is our slowest day, but I swear, every Monday, I somehow convince myself that it’s going to be different. That today will be the day we’ll make a killing in profits and all will be right with the world, and my bank account.

Hey, I’m going to run across the street and get some Starbucks, Stacey says. You want a cup?

Sure, I say, while checking the appointment book. Most of my clients are walk-ins. There are only two scheduled appointments today – one at 10:00 a.m., the other 3:00 p.m. The thought that I could be potentially open all day only for two clients not only makes me yawn, but it also worries me. I saved and invested so much in this business. When I left Winston-Salem, North Carolina for college and beauty school ten years ago, I had dreams of making it big. I wanted to have spas all over the country. I wanted people to know me. I wanted to make a name for myself and most importantly, I didn’t want to rely on my father to rescue me out of a financial crisis. My plan was to be financially well-off by age thirty. I wanted a five-bedroom house in the Buckhead Atlanta suburb. I wanted a white, Range Rover and a personal chef. I wanted to have enough money to do whatever I wanted to do without having to check my account first.

At twenty-eight, I’m no closer to my dream from when I first started working on it. I live in a studio apartment that’s about the size of a Prius. Okay, I’m exaggerating, a little, but my apartment is small. I drive a black 2013 Kia Sorento and the closest thing I have to a personal chef is my next door neighbor who just so happens to make a plate of food for me every now and again when she cooks too much for herself.

Yep, my dreams are slowly dwindling down the drain.

I look up, stare out of the windows and see Stacey bouncing back across the street with two cups. I begin to think how lucky she is to have a husband who has a well-paying job. She doesn’t have to worry about the things I worry about. She already has a house in Buckhead, a three car garage, luxury vehicles and financial security.

I have a fiancé, but he’s no lawyer. Darnell is a recruiter at a staffing agency that specifies in placing people who have a background in finance with the top corporations in Atlanta. While he gets to meet and place many workers, he’s not what you would call, raking in the dough. Still, I like him and two weeks ago, he asked me to marry him. I said yes.

I sigh, stand and walk to the front door, staring out the glass. The sky is bright. It’s light blue, spotted with cottony clouds, lit up by a bright, dominant sun. It’s September. Autumn arrives this month, but by the looks of things, it seems to have come early. Leaves are falling again from the trees all around, and they are a medley of colors – green, red, orange, brown, fuchsia, burgundy – the beauty of it is perfect. It’s my absolute favorite time of the year.

I love autumn for two reasons. Reason number one is because of what fall symbolizes. The trees are shedding leaves, sort of earth’s own cleansing and renewal process, getting rid of the old and making way for the new. This process gives me hope that if the earth is smart enough to clean house and start over, then so can I? Even if I crash and burn, if my business fails and I have to start completely over from scratch, why should I be ashamed? I’ll be broke and struggling, but I shouldn’t care at all what people had to say about it. I’ll just shed my leaves and keep it moving.

The second reason I relish this season is because it reminds me of when I met Wyatt McDowell during our freshman year of high school. And oddly enough I had a dream about Wyatt last night – a dream that had me waking up in a heated sweat. I haven’t dreamt about him in a while and I never know when I will. And it’s not like I sit around daydreaming about him but, once upon a time, he was special to me. In a way, he sort of still is.

Back in high school, Wyatt was the new student and I was an outcast so almost instinctively we found each other. And after getting to know one another for the four years of high school, we fell in love, and it wasn’t that fly-by-night, high-school-crush kind of love. It was real, so real that we got married right after we graduated. Then, without giving him any sort of warning, I moved away and never looked back. I had my reasons – reasons that I don’t like to talk about, let alone think about. At any rate, that was ten years ago – ten, long years – and I still have dreams about him. Still imagine what he might look like. I wonder if he has a family and the ranch he always dreamed of, and if he’s happy. A few years ago, I got so desperate to find out some things about him that I looked him up on Facebook. He didn’t have a profile, though. Wyatt was never into that kind of stuff.

Anyway, I’ve never forgotten him, and never will as long as autumn continues to roll around every year like clockwork. Wyatt McDowell will always have a special place in my heart, even if I no longer have one in his.

I open the door for Stacey and she says, Here you go, my dear, as she hands me a cup.

Thanks, Stace.

You’re welcome.

Now we’re sitting in the waiting area, in the space where clients should be.

So have you set a date yet? Stacey asks, glancing at my ring.

Nope. Not yet. I haven’t thought about a date. And honestly, I could care less about that right now. I’m more concerned about my business failing. And why do you care whether or not I set a date? You don’t even like Darnell.

Shonuff don’t. She grins.

And why is that, Stacey?

I told you why. She takes a sip of coffee, crosses her legs and shrugs her shoulders. I just don’t get a good vibe from him.

Meaning what?

Meaning he’s emitting some radio waves that interferes with your frequency?

I grin. Meaning what?

Okay...he just seems to be a moocher. The only time he comes around here is to ask you for money.

That’s not true, I say, trying to defend Darnell, but it is true. Last Friday he came by here on his lunch break to take me out to lunch. It wasn’t until after we finished our meal that I found out I had to pay because he cried broke. Now I’m not saying that, as a woman, I’m never supposed to pay for a meal, but if a man asks me out to dinner, then he’s supposed to pay for goodness sakes.

I met Darnell at a charity walk. His company had signed up to do the walk and I went alone because, well, I had no one to go with me. When he saw that I was almost out of breath, he offered me a bottle of water and we walked together the remainder of the three-mile trek. Slowly.

Earth to Geneva, Stacey sings.

I smile. Going down memory lane, thinking about how Darnell and I met makes me realize all the things I do like about him and not focus so much on the things I don’t. Then I began to think about the dream I had this morning – the dream about Wyatt. Why is it that I’ve never had a dream about Darnell like that one?

Geneva?

I’m here, I say, then take a sip of coffee. I was just thinking about something.

About what?

Um...nothing, I say shying away from the subject.

Oh, come on, girl. Spit it out. It’s not like we have anything else to do.

I cross my legs and lean back in the chair and say, Okay...well, do you ever dream about any of your exes?

Wait...do you mean like a daydream or—

No. I mean like a dream, dream. Like you’re passed out sleep and dreaming.

Nah...can’t say that I have. It could be a possibility but I don’t remember most of my dreams. As a matter of fact, it’s scientifically proven that most people don’t remember what they dream about.

How do you know that?

She shrugs. I think I saw it on TV.

Oh. I drink more coffee and think about Wyatt again. Gosh that dream felt so real.

So who are you dreaming about, girl?

Nobody. I was just curious.

Now you know I know you better than that, Geneva Knight.

I laugh at her and hear my cell phone ringing from the back counter where I left it, and since we have no customers, I decide to answer it. I hurry over to grab it, look at the display and see a 336 area code. Immediately I freeze. This is the area code for Winston-Salem, where my father still lives. I’m wondering if it’s him calling me after all these years.

Hello, I answer, reluctantly.

Hi. I’m looking for Geneva Knight.

I frown. I can’t make out the raspy, mature voice, but it does sounds familiar. I’ve definitely heard it before. I know for a fact that it’s not my father’s voice, though. Yes. This is she, I answer.

This is Preston Price, your father’s accountant.

Ah, yes. My father’s accountant. Now I truly remember the voice and am able to connect a face to the name. When I was a teenager, Mr. Price used to come by our home every now and then to talk to