When Somebody Loves You Back. Mary B. Morrison

      “Hi, sweetheart” resonated from behind. He’d recognized her soothing voice all of his life. But he wasn’t quite ready to face her.

      Without turning around, Darius opened his eyes and answered, “I forgot something in my car, I’ll be right in.” He’d lied to her, hopefully for the last time.

      Click. Her front door gently closed.

      Bam…He shut his car door. Soft orange and red hues reached to the dark blue sky. The keys dangled from the ignition. He could leave before the break of dawn exposed him, but how long would he run away from his responsibility to her? Gripping the top of his steering wheel, he clung with his forearms to the cherry-wood circle. Both elbows indented his muscular thighs. Teddy Pendergrass’s vocals strummed to the beat of Darius’s heart…it was good loving someone…but how would she know? He’d never unconditionally loved her back.

      “Why me, Lord? Why now? Why this? Just when I was trying to do the right thing and get married, why all the temptations?”

      Sobbing not so sobering tears, Darius knew he hadn’t treated most of the women in his life right, especially his mother, but he was working on it. Didn’t he deserve some credit for trying? Instead he might be dying. What a fucked-up world to live in, when having an orgasm, something that felt so incredible, could mark the beginning of the end his life. Women were definitely more scandalous than men.

      It wasn’t his fault his wife, Ciara, hadn’t signed the divorce papers so Darius had to cancel marrying Fancy; otherwise, he’d become a bigamist. Darius wasn’t going back to jail for nobody, including Fancy. It wasn’t his fault his mother caught her husband cheating again or that his mother’s husband was diagnosed with prostate cancer.

      Karma was a muthafucka.

      Wellington got what he deserved. Who gave a damn if Wellington’s dick didn’t work anymore? Wellington brought that bullshit upon himself fucking that good-for-nothing, got-nothin’-to-lose, trifling-ass ho, Melanie. Nor was it Darius’s fault his stepsister’s newborn baby had died of complications. But if Ashlee’s son was in fact his son, then perhaps he was to blame.

      “Fuck!” Darius yelled, banging his head against his knuckles.

      “Why does this shit always fuckin’ happen to me!”

      Screech.

      Sniffling, then holding his breath, he heard the door reopen. Shifting his eyes to the corners, he exhaled, seeing her slender silhouette through his passenger window. Oh my gosh, he thought, seeing how much weight she’d lost. Ten, maybe fifteen pounds.

      Okay, man. Pull yourself together. She needs you. Lowering his head, leaning into the glove compartment, Darius retrieved a napkin, wiped his face, blew his nose, and then crumbled the tissue into his hand before dropping the white paper to the floor. Turning on his cell phone before slipping it into his pocket, he retraced his footsteps to her front door. Now would be a good time for Fancy to give him a reason to leave.

      “Hi, Mom.” He paused, noticing the swelling barely exposing her hazel eyes. He wanted to say, “Ma, you look terrible,” but instead he whispered, “How are you?”

      Silently, she hugged his waist, resting her head below his chest. Her hugs always comforted him. He towered six feet eleven inches in the air. She held him tight and didn’t let go. Her face clung to his already soaked white button-up shirt, drenching it more. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, his long fingers sprawling about the back of her head in his desire to comfort her.

      Pulling her closer, he whispered with sorrow, “It’s all right. Whateva it is, Ma, it’s gonna be all right. I’m here for you.” And for the first time, in his heart and soul, he meant it.

      She muttered, “Wellington has to have surgery. Soon. Will you stay with me a few days and go with me to the hospital the day of his surgery? Please, baby. I need you.”

      As much as Darius hated the way Wellington misused him and his mother, he said, “Yeah, Ma, sure. Anything for you. I’ll stay until it’s time for his surgery and I’ll go with you to the hospital.” Tears flowed down his face, splattering onto his mother’s head.

      She didn’t care about him messing up her hair. Darius didn’t care either, about Wellington, that is. Darius had his own problems. So while his mother stood in the doorway crying about her husband, Darius cried too, praying the Lord would spare him once more from having HIV.