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 refusedโfucking gutted him when heeven brought it upโto 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 aboutโabout 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 youโbe 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 anythingโ" 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 reasonโwith 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?