Jeremy Goes to Rae’s House
He was supposed to be at my place at 7pm. My doorbell rang at 7:19.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. Please forgive me.”
“Jeremy, you’re here. That’s all that matters.”
He was tall and sturdy, like a woodsman. My words failed me. I raised my arms as though asking permission to hug him. He came at me with the biggest bear hug. His pheromone game was strong; even though he wore a t-shirt and sweats, he smelled like a well-dressed man.
“I hope you don’t mind taking off your shoes,” I said.
He didn’t mind. I pointed to the tall wicker basket beside the door. “There are socks in there if you need them.” He didn’t need to borrow socks from the wicker basket; he was wearing a suitable pair.
Watching the shoe removal techniques people choose at this juncture is interesting. Some intuitively sit on the loveseat beside the shoe rack. Others stand doing a clumsy balancing act. Jeremy did neither. He used the ball-of-foot-to-heel technique to take off his sneakers, then picked up his shoes, placed them on the shoe rack, and turned to me, grinning as if awaiting further instructions.
I showed him to the beverage cart. “I have water, milk, fruit juices, a variety of teas, spirits, beer, and Pepsi. I read you like Pepsi. Is that true?”
“Is it true that I like Pepsi? Or is it true that you read that?”
Oh God, I’m so stupid.
“I’m messing with you. I love Pepsi, but I’ll start with a glass of water, please.”
After confirming he’d take it without ice, I poured his glass. Our hands grazed each other when I handed it to him, and I hoped he didn’t hear my soft squeal.
While we sat together on the living room sofa, I confessed, “I’m guessing you hear this all the time, but it really is surreal to have you here. I have loved and admired you for so long. And now you’re really here. And it’s not like you got lost or something. You came here to see me.”
I laughed. Thankfully, he did, too.
“It’s my pleasure to get to know you, believe me. I hope I don’t disappoint you.” He took a swig from his glass and looked around. “Your home is beautiful.”
“That’s very kind of you to say. I’m sure it’s small-time compared to yours.”
“You’d be surprised. I’m a humble man.” He took another swig. “I’m curious, but I don’t want to be rude. Stop me if I’m being rude.”
“Ask me anything.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“By “living,” you mean money?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t do anything for money. Not yet. I hope my films will make money, but that hasn’t happened yet.” I could tell he was still curious but was too polite to ask the question. “You want to know how I afford this house.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but this is a pretty nice house for someone who doesn’t do anything for money.”
“My father was in real estate. He bought houses in southern California back in the ’60s and ’70s when you could get a nice place for under $70,000. They were worth millions when he passed away a few years ago. Some of my family members begged me not to sell them. You know, generational wealth and all that, but I’d rather bet on myself than on the market, so I took the money and launched my film production company and indie studio.”
Jeremy didn’t say anything, but he seemed impressed. I was unsure if that was my wishful thinking, so I changed the subject. “What would you like to eat? I’m a pretty good home cook. Or we can order in if you prefer.”
He was in the mood for his favorite pizza and followed me to the den, where we ordered it online. While we waited for the delivery, he examined the title of every book in my bookcases. Sometimes he’d say, “Good one,” affirming he’d also read the book and liked it. Mostly, he just grunted as though fascinated by my literary choices.
“You can borrow anything you like,” I genuinely offered but perhaps with an ulterior motive: If he brought it back, I’d get to see him again.
“Thank you. You know, you can learn a lot about a person from the books they read. Heck, just the fact that they read at all.”
“Yeah? What have you learned about me by perusing my bookshelves?”
“You’re serious about filmmaking. You also like arts and crafts and the sciences. Some of these look like textbooks. Where did you go to college?”
“Howard.”
“Cool. What did you study?”
“I have a doctorate in Mass Media.”
He looked at me like black women with PhDs were mythological creatures, but before he spoke, the pizza arrived. He took out his wallet to tip the driver, and I told him he could put his money away because I’d already taken care of the tip online.
“How much do I owe you?”
“I am the one in your debt.”
* * *
Over dinner, the conversation got deep. I was surprised by the depth of his inquiries. He wanted to know more about my family, the places I’d lived, past relationships, and my career aspirations. I don’t know if he was really interested in me or just digging for truths he could use in his work. I don’t mean that in a bad way; all writers do that. He probed so deeply into my life that I didn’t have a chance to ask about his.
After dinner, he wanted to watch a movie. My movie. He asked to see Spirit’s Rise. I felt, I believe the word is glee. As we watched, I kicked myself for not putting a love scene in the film. I write a love scene in almost everything, but when it’s date night with Jeremy Franklin, my movie doesn’t have a love scene.
When the end credits finished rolling, I waited for his commentary.
“Well done.”
There’s that glee again.
“I’m very impressed. I was expecting a happier ending, though. Don’t get me wrong. It was a good and satisfying ending. I just expected, I don’t know, my spirit to rise,” he grinned.
“I don’t write happy endings. I write what I know.”
I could tell he wanted me to explain that, but I changed the subject and talked about making the film. I became so enthralled in my recounting that I didn’t even realize I had straddled his lap and bounced on it like a small girl enthusiastically sharing the sights and sounds of her first day of kindergarten. Actually, he didn’t seem to mind that part, but once I became aware of what I was doing, I was so embarrassed. I started to slide onto the couch, but he put his arm around my waist and pulled me back onto his lap. Then his hands found my hips, and he dragged them into him. My heat could feel his heat. Neither one of us said a word. We just sat there affirming each other with our eyes.
I have had good hugs before–hugs so good I couldn’t feel the ground beneath my feet. But this was the first time a kiss made me feel weightless. As we kissed, he pulled me into him like he wanted to feel my breasts against his chest. I was happy to oblige. I let my head fall to the side as he caressed my spine up and down to my tailbone.
In a daring move, I asked, “Would you like to take this upstairs?”