Day and Night Ch. 03

Self-preservation was the only thing that forced him out of the bathroom with a hot bath and willing woman. It had all gone down way too fast, and Day needed to breathe away from Beth's scent.

"What. Just. Happened?" Day groaned, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed and dropping his arms to his knees. He'd gone from helping someone in need to fucking them. That didn't exactly sit right with him. Didn't matter that she made the first move or demanded with that little mouth of hers. There was right and wrong, and Day knew what he'd done was wrong.

Pushing away from the bed and stalking to the walk-in closet, he angrily grabbed his clothes, shoving them on his body. He tried not to think about Shontell and how she would feel and what she would do as he grabbed a pair of leggings and a tank top. But then he went to the dresser, reaching for the bag of lingerie she'd bought but never opened. That was always her bad habit, buying things and then tucking them away and forgetting about them.

It used to drive Day insane when he'd come home and find bags scattered around the bedroom or living room. Impulse buys when her boss was being an ass, or she'd had a particularly hard day at the youth center where she volunteered. Shopping was linked to her emotions: the amount proportional to her inner turmoil.

But there'd been no shopping spree when she'd been diagnosed with cancer. Instead, she'd reminisced over Brian's baby clothes and old college t-shirts. That's all she'd done. Stared at all the things that made up the past, re-lived all the memories. She'd refused—fucking gutted him when heeven brought it up—to live in the present. It was the seventh doctor, halfway across the world when she stopped trying to see her future, past the cancer and the chemo. There was nothing past it. Her present was cancer; her future was death.

Snatching the bag, Day slammed the dresser and threw the clothes onto the chair situated in the corner, next to the window. He dashed at the tears leaking from his eyes, because he didn't have the luxury of breaking down. There were too many plates spinning in the air. One could drop and he'd be fine, his breakdowns caused everything to fall and shatter.

Striding across the bedroom, he gave two sharp raps on the bathroom door. "Clothes are on the chair. I'll be in the kitchen."

Cartoon sounds bounced around the apartment the minute he exited the bedroom, only remembering than that his bedroom had been sound proofed. Shontell had been loud in bed; Beth was too.

No. No Beth. That's already done.

"Brian," Day called as he made his way down the hallway toward the kitchen. "You brush your teeth and wash your face?"

"Morning, Daddy!" his son called brightly. "I did happy birthday."

'Happy Birthday' was the appropriate amount of time to brush one's teeth. Shontell had ingrained that damn song into Brian so that everytime he brushed his teeth or washed his face, he hummed the tune from start to finish.

Day opened his mouth to applaud his son when a knock on the door interrupted him. It was too damn early on a Saturday for knocks. Striding across the living room, Day yanked open the door and tried not to groan out loud. "Good morning, Mrs. Johnson."

"And a good morning to you, David," Mrs. Johnson chirped, eyes darting past him to look into his apartment.

Smiling, he stepped out into the hallway, pushing her back and pulled his door shut. "How can I help you?"

"Oh, well," she dithered, fingers dancing across her perfectly coiffed gray wig and fiddling with the neckline of her floral dress. "I heard you had a guest."

"From who?"

"Joanna's boy." Her voice lowered, eyes darting to the side as if other busybodies were going to pop out of the woodwork to hear the gossip before she got her claws in it. "He said you had a... a white woman inside," she gasped the word, denial and accusation thick. "And you know how I worry about you and Brian. Without Shontell here. Well, you're all skin and bones, just ghosts wandering around. Breaks our hearts to see. Now with this, we're all worried about—about what that young boy might see."

"Who's we?"

"Just the ladies. The mothers."

Shontell had always been better at deflecting Mrs. Johnson and the rest of the harpies whenever they thought to interject their opinions. Once it was the amount of vegetables Brian was eating over meat and how they wondered if the child would know his "culture;" as if fried chicken and bacon were only eaten by Black people. Another time it was a comment on affection, about how Brian might get the wrong idea if Day kissed his damn wife in public. Every one of their comments used Brian as a reasoning, their protection of his son's imaginary purity grating on his nerves and getting under his skin.

But the women were there in a heartbeat if there was an emergency.

That was the rub of it. He allowed the comments, because when he had to go to work earlier than pre-school opened they would take his son. When Shontell died, they'd brought food for a month. There was no way he could live in this neighborhood without that support network, the extra eyes to watch his kid and keep him out of trouble. This was his home. Where he'd been raised, where his people were. No matter the money he made, this would always be where his roots were.

"Brian is fine. I was helping a friend."

"I've never seen that... type of friend."

"What type?"

"The female kind. The white kind." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I know you have needs like any other man, David. But there are plenty of women here who could help you—be a better example for your son. Going out of your race? That's... What would that show, Brian? Our kind just don't mix!"

"Mrs. Johnson," Day gritted, trying to keep his voice neutral. "What I do in the comfort of my own home with my guest is my business. Not yours or anyone else's."

She wrung her hands, taking a step back to look beseechingly up at him. "You're such a good man, David. Best I know. But these white women, they have jungle fever, you know? They want to say they've been with a Black man but don't want anyone to know. And when people find our, they scream rape."

"Let me handle my business, Mrs. Johnson," Day growled, turning back to his door. "You worry about your own."

"David!" she gasped as he slipped inside. "David, don't do anything—" The door was shut before she could get the next word out. Leaning his head against the wood, Day took a second to gather himself and release the tension. These were his roots, yes, but they didn't have space to grow. His home was stilted through systemic oppression. This was generations of distrust on good reason—with the whites, the cops, the schools. If you weren't from here, you didn't belong and you weren't accepted.

"Daddy, I pooped!" Brian proclaimed proudly behind him. "And wiped. Front to back."

A smile slipped over Day's face as he pushed away from the door to see his smiling son sitting on the rug in front of the TV. He laughed softly. "Good job. Couch."

The boy scrambled up, barely breaking eye contact to reposition himself. Shontell had been strict about not watching too much TV, but Day was a much laxer parent. As long as Brian did his reading and outside time, the kid could watch as many cartoons as he wanted. It distracted him enough not to remember his mom was dead, and gave Day a reprieve from the near-constant questions of a five year-old.

Moving away from the front door and putting Mrs. Johnson completely out of his mind, Day made his way to the kitchen. The sparse contents of the fridge glared at him, reminding the man that two weeks with no trip to the grocery story wasn't acceptable. Corner stores might have milk and bread, but they didn't carry the real necessities needed for survival. "What do you want for breakfast, Bry? Cereal or toast?

"I don't want cereal."

"Okay, then—"

"No toast!"

Scrubbing a tired hand over his face, Day skirted the kitchen and walked over to his son. "TV off."

Brian didn't lift his eyes. "Okay, just one more minute."

"Brian!"

His eyes moved from the TV, but his chin tucked into his chest, arms akimbo. "No mean yelling. Mommy didn't like it."

"I wasn't yelling."

"You were too. Just because you don't get loud doesn't mean it's not yelling. Tone," his son drew out, in the exact same voice as his mother.

At five, the kid was smarter than he should be. Damn sponge. It was a wonder since Shontell's drug addled sister had carried Brian. Knocked up by God-knows-who, she'd abstained from the habit long enough to carry her child to term and then five months later she was found on the floor of her apartment with Brian whimpering in his crib. At least that's what CPS and the police had told him and Shontell. Could have been worse.

It hadn't been a hardship to take the baby in. They'd been talking about starting a family now that Day's construction business had finally taken off. Brian fit right in, molding perfectly around them as if he'd always been there.

Crouching down and dragging his fingers over his shaved head, Day tried to balance the single parent-dom he found himself in. They'd had roles: him and Shontell. She was the sympathetic one to kiss his booboos, tuck him in at night, and stroke her hand across his forehead when Brian had a fever. Day was the one to toss a ball, dust him off when he fell, and build his confidence when others tried to strike it down.

He didn't know how to hug without crushing.

"You're right, Brian," Day said softly, squeezing his kid's knee. "I was being mean and I shouldn't have been. I should have spoken calmly. But when I say turn off the TV, Brian, I don't mean in a minute. You know that."

"I know," he agreed quietly. "Sorry, daddy."

Big, puppy dog eyes look up at Day. The kid twisted his heart right up. Slinging an arm around Brian's back, Day pulled his son close, patting the soft curls on his head. "It's okay. Everyone makes mistakes."

They stayed close for another second, one more tight squeeze, before Day drew back. "No toast and no cereal. Let me see what we can make."

Pushing himself up, Day wandered back into the kitchen. He expected the TV to stay on, but it didn't and instead he heard the distinctive scrape of the dining room chair across the floor. "Who was the lady yesterday?"

It was bound to happen sooner or later, but Day had hoped that breakfast would stem that particular conversation. When the fridge once again held no breakfast they wanted with the addition of no answers, Day pulled back and answered, "A friend."

"Why was she sad?"

"Because her heart hurt."

Brian hummed, accepting the answer. "Where did she go?"

"Nowhere. She's here."

"No, she's not. I looked in the little bedroom."

The pantry wasn't any better. How in the hell is it we don't have food? "Uh-huh."

"Is she my new mommy?"

The question made him pause in his quest. "No... "

"But why?"

"Because," Day gritted, knuckles white around the cupboard door. No way he was explaining the concept of a one night stand to a child.

"Because why?" Indignation stamped itself all over the words. "You said. You promised."

The wood creaked under his grip, pain racing up his arm. Brian's tantrums had lessened, but with every new one the pain was more stark. There was nothing Day could do to bring Shontell back and Brian knew it, but it didn't stop the craving. And that's what Brian was doing, craving the intimacy and love he'd shared with his mother, hoping to find it in the only woman Day had brought around his son.

Having Beth over had been a mistake. Just like every single thing he'd done after it. The guest bedroom door stood open with no woman lying in the bed. She wasn't in the living room or in Brian's room, so she must be in the bedroom and only mommies and daddies stayed in the bedroom. Brian knew all these things because Day had taught him. Taught his son that the next woman who went in his room would be it: theirs.

Fuck him for only remembering that now.

In a second he had Brian against his chest, small arms curled around his neck as he sobbed. It broke Day's heart.

"I'm sorry, Son. I messed up."

"You lied." The accusation stung, but Day couldn't rebuke it. "I—I miss mommy."

God damn. Burying his face in Brian's soft curls, Day gave himself a moment. One single moment to feel all the things he kept bottled tight: heartache, loneliness, anger, and sorrow. But then he reigned it back in. Had to. His son needed him.

"I miss her too, kiddo."

In increments, Brian calmed. Fingers releasing their death grip, tears slowing, breath evening. Pulling back slightly, Day used the bottom edge of his t-shirt to wipe away his son's tears and let him blow his snotty nose. It took everything in him not to sigh as he carefully tugged off the offending material and threw it near the laundry closet.

"You cool?" He got an averted gaze and slow nod in return. "Brian?"

"As a cucumber."

The kid wasn't. Not by a long shot. Pulling him close for another crushing squeeze, Day whispered, "Love you, kid. Your mom loved you too. Nothing's gonna change that."

It was times like these when Day really wondered if he was doing it all right. The parenting thing. His own father had done the school-to-prison pipeline early, not shot from the start. Not with drugged out, abusive fifteen year olds as parents. His mother had only been marginally better. She'd been raised by a young, single mother who knew the deal. Abortion had been on the table for a hot second before they'd both gone to the clinic and been bombarded with violent images and vitriol that had scared them away faster that roaches on a health inspectors burger.

Day hadn't really been able to talk to his mother about the choice she made not to get an abortion. The things both she and his grandmother sacrificed to make sure he got his bachelor's and masters. Talking was wasted energy when there was work to do, money to make to put something on the table. That something was usually cheap, fast, and dripping with oil. It hadn't been a shock when, at 40, she had a heart attack on the job and died.

The wake up call had been brutal, not only because he'd lost his grandmother a few years earlier but because it was the same damn thing. Always. When he thought he was breaking the cycle, getting a better job, more education, the patterns were still there.

A week after he buried his mom, him and Shontell got a dietitian, gym membership, set times to be disconnected from technology, and finally planned the honeymoon they should have taken four years earlier.

But now everyone was gone, there was nothing in his fridge, and Day couldn't help but wonder if it was all repeating again.

"Alright, kiddo," Day croaked, finally pulling back and standing up. "Lemme go see what else we got."

But this time when he opened his fridge the meager contents weren't glaring at him. They were shining. "How about french toast?"

"Yes!"

His freezer was even brighter. "With warm peaches."

"Lots of 'em."

Brian's excitement was contagious as Day pulled out the fixings and set them on the counter. He was rummaging through the pots and pans looking for a saucepan and skillet when a throat cleared. "Um, hello there."

That wasn't the tone Day was used to hearing from his guest. Desperate, bossy, pleading. Those he was well acquainted with, but this soft spoken hesitancy was new. "Hey," he responded, spotting the two pans and pulling them out of the disorganized cupboard.

Turning around, he looked at her for the first time since she'd been naked and shivering in his bed. Day remembered creamy, freckled skin, blushed a deep red with wide, light brown areolas, thick thighs, and neatly trimmed, red pubic hair that did a piss poor job of hiding her sopping wet pussy.

"Hi, I'm Brian," his son's voice cut right through his memory, dousing his growing erection with brutal efficiency.

The image got pushed out for the reality as she stood in his wife's old clothes that were just one size too tight. Funny enough, Beth had a bigger ass than Shontell. And the bras must have not fit because she stood there awkwardly, arms crossed over her unbound chest.

It was than Day realized that beth had never been talking to him to begin with. Her gaze was fully focused on his kid. "It's nice to meet you, Brian. My name is Beth."

Brian shook his head. "Daddy says it's not polite to call adults by their first name."

"Oh." Finally, her eyes skipped to him and widened. Mouth dropping as she quickly looked anywhere but at him.

What is—

Right. No shirt. Sighing and setting the pan's down, Day tried to figure out a remedy to the thick blanket of awkwardness over the room. He'd never been in this situation before. Shontell had been his first. And after she'd died he hadn't been in the mood for anything more than her picture and his hand. But now he had a one night stand interacting with his kid over their breakfast, and he had no clue what the proper procedure was. Kick her out? Make her breakfast? Send his kid away so he could kick her out? Fuck her over the counter?

Not the last one.

The choice was taken out of his hands by Brian. "We're having breakfast, Ms. Lady. French toast. Daddy's going to make it, but can you make it instead?"

"Me?"

Brian's voice was a child's whisper, when they thought they were being quiet but they hadn't exactly mastered the art. "Daddy's really bad at cooking and he starts yelling at his phone when he doesn't know."

Beth made a valiant effort not to laugh at his expense and he appreciated it. "Well, I don't yell at phones, but I'm no pro. Are you sure you want me to make it?"

"We'll make it together," he announced, clamouring out of his chair and grabbing her hand. "But I can't break eggs yet."

Condensed sunshine poured from her mouth as she laughed and let his son lead her to the kitchen. To him. "That's okay. I'll teach you."

***

It's been months since his house had been a home. Months of quiet sadness, stilted dialogue, and endless landmines he tiptoed around. But one woman brought it all back.

Some kids station of Disney songs sounded from the TV as Beth hummed along in between guiding Brian to pour in the milk, crack in the eggs, drop in the various teaspoons of vanilla extract, cinnamon, nutmeg, and sugar, then whisk everything together in a blended batter. She moved around his kitchen like she'd always been there, finding frozen butter he hadn't even known about and spices in unlabeled jars that he'd forgotten to throw out.

This was a woman who'd been raised in the kitchen, knowing the inner workings of putting soul into food and teaching the young ones to do the same.

"Where are you from?" Day asked from the kitchen island, sitting comfortably on a stool to watch her work. Brian was in his room doing his morning reading time, giving them some privacy. Sure he could have asked any number of questions, but there was a calm assurance about the woman in front of him that he didn't want to break.

"Mansfield, Indiana." She didn't miss a beat as she continued to stir the peach "compote" and set the timer on the stove. How the woman had found the mixings to make a frittata amazed him. "About an hour from Indianapolis. Closer to Illinois than Ohio."

He got the feeling she was asked exactly where that was often. "What brought you to New York?"

"Opportunity." She shrugged, glancing over her shoulder at him as if to reinforce the obviousness of that statement. "What brings most people I guess."

"It is the City of Dreams."