At least now I know what to do if it ever happens again. My search emphasized that the most important thing is to stay calm. Easier said than done.
After today, I’m positive everything John said about his son was a lie. It’s a relief that Jamal doesn’t hate me and didn’t create a rift in my family, but that makes me a villain right alongside John. Gullibly, I believed every lie about Jamal, eager to blame someone else.
John financially abandoned his responsibilities to Jamal and fabricated hateful things Jamal had said. I played the willing victim to Jamal, the bad guy.
I’ll make sure he gets home safely so I won’t worry. It would be too weird to text him.
This is payback for him following me home. I’m returning the favor. That sounds much more reasonable than stalking.
Traffic isn’t bad, and I’ve gotten used to the drive in and out of the city to New Jersey. It’s fascinating to me, wondering what all these people could be doing driving around in the middle of the day. The city legitimately never sleeps.
I’m all turned around once we cross the bridge to Manhattan. The city is surrounded by a maze of boroughs, and I have to choose between following Jamal and reading the signs. If I get lost, I’ll use my map app to get home.
Jamal parallel parks in three seconds, and I wait to see which building he enters. Parking is going to be an issue for me. My car isn’t made for the city. I drive around for ten minutes, then it takes me three attempts to fit into the spot.
The rational part of my brain is launching a valid argument that I’m crazy. Jamal doesn’t want to see me, and forcing myself on him isn’t the answer.
I told myself I would leave, but I’m still here. The man is an adult capable of getting to his apartment.
I’ll have a quick convo and leave.
Really.
I don’t believe it.
I jog up to Jamal’s building. There’s no security,andhis last name is on a mailbox, giving away his apartment number. Doesn’t he know he’s famous? This is batshit crazy.
Jamal doesn’t answer his door even though I bang hard enough for the neighbor to appear.
“He’s not home,” says a lanky Black man in sweatpants and a thick gold chain.
“I’ll wait.” I sit on the floor in front of Jamal’s door.
The man shakes his head and calls into his apartment, “It’s some white dude who looks like he stepped out of a fashion magazine.”
“Oh, is it the sweetie who couldn’t keep his hands off you?” I recognize Jada’s voice from the phone last night and saunter into the apartment uninvited. “It is sweetie. What’s your name again? Thad?” Her hands are in Jamal’s hair, and I’m irrationally mad about it.
“Theo,” I say, and Jamal’s lost expression stops me in my tracks a couple of feet inside the door. The entryway has three large paintings with similar colors, as if part of a set. But the subjects are very different—a woman, half in oranges, reds, and yellows and half in black and white. The next is abstract shapes, and the last, a man praying.
The walls are a neutral beige. There’s a gray couch with colorful accent pillows, and a throw rug under a glass coffee table.
“Jada,” she says as if I could forget. Winking, she shows off her thick rainbow lashes.
“Does it live up to your standards?” Jamal asks sarcastically.
“Don’t take your frustration out on him. He did an outstanding job of getting the gum out of your hair. I figured I’d have to do damage control, but you’re all good.” She swats him.
Jamal sits on a high-back stool, and Jada has hair supplies all over the kitchen island.
“Tyrone, get the man a drink. What do you like, sweetie? Beer, coke, water, ice tea?” She waves her arms, and Tyrone opens the fridge. She’s clearly in charge.
My manners finally kick in. “I’m not staying. Came to check on Jamal, but he’s in good hands,” I reply, but my feet won’t move.
Jada grins as if she knows I don’t want to leave. “You sit right there and distract J while I rebraid his hair.” She points a comb at the chair next to Jamal, and when I don’t move, she motions again, so I obey.
“What kind of hockey player are you?” she asks as she combs Jamal’s loose hair.
“What?” I have no idea what she means, but I guess. “I’m a defender.”
