Two Steps Back Read online

  She shook her head; that’s exactly what she’d gone and done anyway.

  “No…it was,” she admitted quietly. Faraj was standing so close Jaylah could smell his scent, an intoxicating mixture of ylang ylang and sandalwood; she had to stop herself from inhaling. “I just…I wasn’t planning on staying in London,” she stammered. “I…I was only supposed to be here for a few months and I didn’t want to get too involved and then leave.”

  “But now you’re here…” Faraj said, letting the rest of his sentence trail off in a way that signaled he wanted whatever she was willing to give.

  “Yeah…” Jaylah fidgeted like a crackhead again. “I am.”

  He broke their gaze and turned to the painting that had captured her attention in the first place.

  “I painted this about a month after we met. You never called and I still couldn’t get you out of my mind. This is the only thing I could think to do to get over you,” he said meeting her eyes again. “But it didn’t quite work, innit?”

  Her face grew warm, and Jaylah felt a familiar tingling building between her thighs. For the first time since they met, Johnny wasn’t the only man turning her on.

  “So what made you stay in London? A man?” Faraj asked, his eyes hoping for a different answer than the one he offered.

  Jaylah cleared her throat, trying to quell the desire creeping its way through her body. “I got a job,” she spluttered. “With Glamour. I write a column.”

  “Oh really? About sex and love? Girly things?” he said, chuckling.

  She found her voice. If there was one thing Jaylah could talk about without feeling awkward no matter who she was speaking to it was work. “No. I cover lots of different things—theater, restaurants, music, art. Basically if it’s hot in London I want to write about it.”

  “Am I hot enough to be in your column?” he said, dropping his voice a seductive whisper.

  Jaylah resisted the urge to bit her lip. Faraj was hot enough to be anywhere he damn-well pleased. A memory of them making out in the back of a cab flashed before her eyes but she quickly tried to push it out of her her brain. “Well, it looks like you might be. For starters you’re in this show.”

  “So, how can I convince you to write about me? Do I need to take you to dinner?” He smirked.

  “I’d need to see more of your work, hear your backstory. You know the usual,” Jaylah said, trying to keep things strictly business.

  “Okay, come by my studio tomorrow. It’s in Clapham. I’ll show you everything I have.”

  “Tomorrow probably won’t work—“

  “Then come tonight.”

  “Not happening,” she said, enjoying their playful tête-à-tête.

  Faraj laughed and threw up his hands. “I had to give it a shot. How about this. You give me a call when you’re ready for me and we’ll hook up.”

  When you’re ready for me…

  Faraj’s double entendre echoed through her head, but Jaylah ignored it, excited by the idea of breaking a relatively new artist in her column. “Okay. I just need your number again, do you have some paper?”

  He grabbed her phone, which she was still clutching in her hand, and punched in his number. Then Faraj stepped in close and whispered in her ear. “Now you won’t lose it. I’m available,” he said, kissing Jaylah on the cheek again, “whenever you want me.”

  Calling Faraj was as risky as lighting a match in a drought-ridden savannah, but as she watched him saunter away, Jaylah already knew that she would.

  Seventeen

  “I need you to talk me out of something,” Jaylah said, as she walked to the Tube on her way to Faraj’s studio in Clapham. It had been a week since they’d bumped into each other at the 30 Under 30 exhibit and for the last seven days Jaylah had been trying to talk herself out of seeing him again. But when she pitched the idea to her editor, Hillary seemed excited about featuring one of London’s budding artists before he blew up.

  “You could be like Philip Faflick,” Hillary had said when Jaylah mentioned Faraj.

  “Philip who?”

  “The first reporter to write about Basquiat,” she said like it was common knowledge.

  “I doubt Faraj is the next Basquiat, Hillary.” The thought sounded completely ridiculous. Based on his paintings at the exhibit it was clear Faraj was talented, but the next SAMO? Jaylah couldn’t fathom it.

  “Basquiat wasn’t Basquiat back when Faflick wrote about him. He was just some homeless kid from Brooklyn. This could be big for us, Jaylah, especially if he turns out to be really talented.”

  Jaylah knew Hillary had a point, but the thought of being close to Faraj frightened her. Not because he was dangerous, or she thought he would hurt her, but because she was so excited to be near him again.

  “What exactly am I talking you out of?” Jourdan asked, bringing Jaylah back to the present.

  “I’m meeting Faraj in an hour to see his work.”

  “Faraj from the show? Wonderful! But why do you want me to talk you out of it?”

  “Because…it’s Faraj. And I shouldn’t see him, right?” Jaylah sighed, hoping her friend would convince her to skip the appointment. She had reached the train station and was pacing back and forth, weighing her options.

  “I don’t understand. Why shouldn’t you see him?”

  “You don’t remember Faraj?” Jaylah asked.

  “Yes, of course. He was one of the artists from the 30 Under 30 show, yeah?”

  “Well, yes, but—“ Jaylah exhaled, it was clear Jourdan had forgotten all about the man Jaylah danced with the night the women first hung out. It was seven months ago and Jourdan had left them alone to get acquainted and make out with another man across the room. Perhaps she really didn’t remember him.

  Jaylah stood at the entrance of Arsenal Station trying to decide if she should head down the tunnel and get on the train or if she should go back to her flat. Of course she didn’t reveal her tentativeness about meeting Faraj to Johnny. She only mentioned their interview, but left the details of their meeting—and their history—completely out of the conversation. Why complicate things? she told herself, especially when this was only work.

  Still, Jaylah was uncertain she should see Faraj at all and hoped Jourdan would give her a reason to call the whole thing off.

  “Ali Baba,” Jaylah finally said, hoping Jourdan’s off-the-cuff nickname for Faraj would jog her memory of that night. “He’s is Ali Baba, remember?”

  “Shut up!” Jourdan squealed into the phone. “No fucking way!”

  “Yeah.” Jaylah rubbed her temples, thankful she and Jourdan were finally on the same page. “Now you see why I shouldn’t go?”

  “Not really. That was like a million years ago.”

  “Seven months,” Jaylah corrected her.

  “Same thing. Look, I’m sure he’s forgotten all about it by now.”

  Jaylah lowered her voice when she saw the man at the newsstand smiling at her. He’d seen her and Johnny together on several occasions and always commented that he was a lucky man to have such a beautiful girlfriend. Jaylah didn’t need him overhearing her conversation and passing it along to Johnny when he bought the Financial Times on his way to the office.

  “His painting in the show was about me. He said I was his muse,” she said in a hushed tone. “And not for nothing, but he didn’t sound like he was over it when we spoke at the gallery.”

  “Didn’t he notice you’re engaged? I can spot that ring from a mile away.”

  Jaylah peeked at the newspaper man again. “I wasn’t wearing it.”

  “Are you wearing now?” Jourdan quizzed, and Jaylah glanced at her empty finger as if she’d forgotten the ring was still in the box on top of her dresser. She shook her head even though Jourdan couldn’t see her.

  “You need to tell him,” Jourdan said, probably sensing Jaylah’s silence meant she wasn’t wearing the ring. “And you need to tell Johnny that you’re have doubts about getting married.”

  Jaylah suddenly
felt like she had been slapped. Her voice rose higher than she intended.

  “I don’t have doubts,” she objected to Jourdan’s accusation, even though it was true. She did have doubts, about everything. If she’d be a good mother, if she and Johnny would survive his drama, if she was ready to have her life altered in the most jarring of ways—twice.

  “What would you call it then? Because that man thinks you’re engaged and you’re running around without your ring.”

  “I…I…just,” Jaylah stuttered, feeling uncomfortable at the thought of second-guessing her relationship with Johnny. “I just need more time. Everything’s moving so fast. We just need to slow down a little, that’s all.”

  “Then you need to tell him that, Jay. Listen, I know you love him, and I know he loves you, but you can’t keep leading him on.”

  “I’m not leading him on!”

  “Oh yeah? Then when’s the wedding? Because I need to buy a new dress.”

  Jaylah fell silent. What could she say? Everything about her relationship with Johnny felt unsettled. She wouldn’t even dream of setting a wedding date until his divorce was final, and even then, she wasn’t sure she was ready to be a mother and a wife all at once.

  Just like that.

  Her life had gone from completely unexciting to damn-near too much to bear in less than a year; the speed of the shift was utterly terrifying.

  “Look, I need to pop out to meet with a client. But go see Faraj. Keep it professional, and if he tries anything, call me. I’ll straighten him out.”

  Jaylah chucked at her friend’s overprotectiveness. Between her mother, Johnny, and Jourdan, Jaylah had a crew of people who had her back and would run her life if she let them. She was thankful for all of them, but sometimes, especially with Johnny and her mother, their level of concern felt suffocating.

  “Jaylah,” Jourdan said, softening her tone. “You need to talk to Johnny. He deserves to know how you feel and you deserve to be heard.”

  “I know,” Jaylah whispered. Jourdan was right. She had to talk to Johnny, especially if she wanted them to make it as a couple. Jaylah couldn’t let her doubts fester and turn into an incurable cancer that would drag them both down. Even though she wanted to slow things down, she couldn’t comprehend not having him in her life.

  “I love you, sissy.”

  “I know,” Jaylah said, turning to head into the station. Before descending the stairs into the tunnel, she paused, “Love you back.”

  * * *

  As soon as he opened the door wearing a paint-speckled tank top and low-slung jeans, Jaylah knew she was in trouble. Faraj’s smile was wide and welcoming, and his eyes shone like freshly polished mahogany. She followed him up the stairs to his crowded studio that also doubled as his flat, taking note of what looked like dozens of canvases leaning against the walls, which were already bursting with kaleidoscopisc paintings in every hue imaginable. Faraj’s space was almost too much for her heightened senses to take, her attention stolen by one thing then distracted by another.

  “Can I get you something to drink? I have beer, wine, water?” he asked, standing next to her as she spun in a slow circle taking it all in.

  “Water. The colder the better, please.”

  He disappeared into the kitchen and Jaylah walked around the airy living room, which appeared larger because of the row of bay windows facing Kings Avenue. She moved through his flat inspecting exotic-looking knickknacks and trinkets from his travels, then Jaylah paused at the mantle, gazing at a photo of Faraj riding a camel in the middle of the desert. Even though a scarf covered his face and head, she knew, just by looking at the intensity of the person’s eyes, it was Faraj.

  “How old were you here?” she asked when he returned with her water.

  “Twenty.”

  “Why were you so sad?”

  He stepped next to her and their arms touched; a pang of electricity shot through her frame. “What makes you think I was sad?”

  She shrugged. “I can just tell. Your eyes kinda give you away, and I don’t sense a smile.”

  Faraj was silent for a moment, then moved closer to the picture, inspecting it like he needed to get a closer look. “I had just buried my father the day before this was taken. I was feeling lost, like I was a ship without an anchor.” He picked up another photo of a smiling woman who had Faraj’s dark, sparkling eyes. “My mother,” he said, showing Jaylah the picture, “she died when I was 16. So when my dad died, I just felt completely alone.”

  “Oh Faraj, I’m sorry—”

  He waved off her condolences, stopping her mid-sentence. “It’s not your fault.” Faraj put the picture of his mother back on the ledge and seemed to get lost in his memories. Although it would probably make for a juicy backstory—struggling orphaned artist makes good—Jaylah suddenly felt like she was intruding.

  “I think we should change the subject.” She tried to smile even though he wasn’t looking in her direction. “Let’s talk about something else, yeah?”

  “My father was an artist,” Faraj said, ignoring Jaylah’s proposed subject change. “He moved here from Morocco back in the 70s to study engineering at Imperial College. He was a very successful petroleum engineer, but in here,” Faraj pounded his chest, “he was an artist.”

  Jaylah felt like she should be taking notes or recoding Faraj’s history for the article, but she didn’t want to cheapen the moment. Instead, she just listened, transcribing all of the details to her memory.

  “My mother was like the sun—bright, brilliant, sometimes blinding. She was all heart, all passion. She reminded my father of his art, even when he was forced to pursue other things to make money. She was the living, breathing embodiment of his work. My mother was his muse. And when she died…” his voice trailed off and he was silent again.

  As a seasoned interviewer Jaylah knew she couldn’t rush him. Moreover, she wouldn’t step on his recollections, because in truth, the silence made her feel closer to him. Although they had slept together Jaylah didn’t know anything about Faraj, or where he came from. Like the stories of the people who allowed her into their space, it drew her in.

  So she waited, what else could she do?

  After gazing at the photographs for several minutes Faraj opened up once again. “When my mother died, the fire seemed to go out in my father’s eyes. His passion was snuffed out, and soon, he was a zombie—walking around, but not living, innit. I knew it was only a matter of time before he joined her.”

  Faraj picked up the picture of him trekking through the desert and grimaced. “You were right, Jaylah, I was incredibly sad. After my mother passed away, my father said he wanted to be buried next to her back home, so I made sure to carry out his wishes. But when the ceremony was over I felt restless, like I needed to do something but didn’t know what.” He turned to look at her then. “Have you ever felt like that?”

  “Yes,” she said slightly above a whisper. “That’s how I ended up in London.”

  “Then you understand,” he said. “I was born here, you know. I only remember going to Morocco a handful of times. But for some reason I had this overwhelming need to reconnect to the land, to the people, my people. I hired a guide and I rode across the Sahara from Fez to Marrakech, just winding my way across the Merzouga Desert.”

  “Wow, that must have been incredible.”

  “It was.” Faraj smiled for the first time since Jaylah inquired about the picture; she felt relieved. “I watched the sun rise over the sand dunes, and even though they were gone, I felt so connected to my parents. It turned out to be one of the best experiences of my life. That’s when I decided to pursue my art. My father wished he could have, but he felt obligated to my mother and me. But I didn’t have anyone to be responsible for, so I just went for it. That’s sort of how I live my life. I just go for it.”

  “And do you usually get what you want?”

  “Not always,” he said looking into her eyes, “but it never stops me from trying.”

  Fara
j let his words dance in the air, and Jaylah focused all of her energy on keeping her feelings in check. The last thing she needed was to feel something for this man who seemed so willing to let her in to his most private moments, but she couldn’t help it. Something about Faraj’s openness made her want to know more.

  He smiled again, splintering some of the tension between them. “Sorry, I’m supposed to be showing you my work, not telling you my sob story.”

  “No, no. This is great,” she said, trying to sound aloof and professional. “It helps me get inside your head and see what makes you tick.”

  He smirked. “I don’t know if you want to see what’s inside my head.”

  “Of course I do. It’ll help me write a more in depth profile.”

  Jaylah was full of shit and she knew it. She stole a glance at his lips and wondered if they were still as soft as the night they kissed. For the last week, flashes of their passionate evening flickered through her memory, and no matter how hard she tried to forget, Jaylah just couldn’t shake how good his tongue felt all over her skin. She cleared her throat hoping to mask her desire. “People love a good backstory and it sounds like you have a very interesting one. I’m excited about this.”

  “Oh. Me too,” he said, grinning like a sneaky child. “You look really beautiful, by the way. I meant to tell you that when you got here.”

  Jaylah nervously ran her hand over the mop of curls that had multiplied in size since she got off the train and walked the half-mile to Faraj’s flat. The damp afternoon had turned her somewhat tame twist-out into a wild, wavy ‘fro that rivaled Chaka Khan’s. Jaylah wished she’d brought a hair tie to pull it back so she could still look presentable. After ripping through her closet to find something to wear, she decided on a pair of black jeans and an indigo peplum top that hid the beginnings of her baby bump. Jaylah thought she looked good, but not beautiful.

  “Thank you,” she said, blushing as she watched Faraj’s eyes sweep over her again. “So…umm…can I see some of your stuff? It looks like you’re drowning in canvases.”