KIRA+DOMINIC — 03
It wasn’t often that Kira Mosley ventured out of the quieted comforts of Nassau County without adult supervision.
There were times where, after much pleading with her parents for permission, she’d commute into the Manhattan with a few of her classmates.
Those instances, however, were far and few between.
Unlike those previous occurrences of wandering aimlessly through Central Park until sunset or perusing the liveness taking place at Times Square before embarking on the tedious quest to find somewhere to ear, Kira commuted without her usual group of friends to keep her company throughout the prolonged commute. Rather than resorting to hearing the latest gossip pertaining to whose crush was smitten with who, she commuted to Queens by her lonesome and busied herself with listening to the playlist she spent a majority of her morning curating.
The randomly selected sounds of nineties R&B floated through her headphones throughout the entire duration of her train ride and settled her never ending case of nerves as gathered her belongings and exited the train.
As she hurried up the steps of the 169th Street Subway Station, her stare roamed up the length of the individual sporting a familiar reserved grin. His hands had been stuffed into his pockets.
Before uttering a meek ‘hello’ the moment she raced up the last step, Dominic simply removed her earbuds and toyed with the ends of her cornrows.
“I was startin’ to think you weren’t gonna show.”
“I told you I was.”
Dominic shrugged, “You don’t really know me from nowhere.”
“I know you well enough.” Kira murmured. The fullness of his lips contorted into a blatant smirk that disappeared all within a matter of seconds. “And you still came to see if I’d come.”
“...Yeah,” was all he bothered to say. For some reason, his meekness intrigued Kira. Not because of his sudden tamed behavior was appealing in any way, but because she could see that her arrival to the borough was appreciated. It was almost as if the slight gesture was extraordinary.
Remarkable, even.
“Your people know that you’re out here...with me?” Dominic asked as they waited for the opportunity to cross at the intersection.
“No,” she quickly admitted and later revealed that she used her friend Autumn to cover up her actual whereabouts.
“I’on want you getting in trouble ‘cause of me.”
“I won’t.” Kira said with certainty. With her mother currently vacating with old friends from her alma mater and her father stationed at one of the three hospitals within the county that he happened to have affiliations with, Kira was sure she’d dodge facing any trouble from her parents.
Without saying anything else about her parents or the plausible what-ifs that would ultimately land her in a heap of trouble, Dominic guided Kira across the congested intersection of 169th Street and Hillside Avenue.
She smiled inwardly when he took her hand in his.
Though the stint of hand-holding lasted all of but two minutes due to him luring her into a pizzeria, Kira couldn’t disregard the elation momentarily flooding her.
“For what it’s worth, I’d like to remind you that I was honest with you the moment your mother and I found out about this whole fixer upper nonsense. I said you were in over your head then. And, sweetheart, I’m afraid my stance on it still hasn't changed.”
Huffing, Jackson Mosley pulled his daughter into an embrace in which they separated quicker than expected.
The unfavorable news of her failing to put the foreclosed townhome back on the market was a tough pill to swallow for the fifty-six year old man, apparently.
They shuffled from his parked Land Rover Sport that idled the decent-sized driveway, and up the back steps; the path paved evenly with asphalt was about the only task Kira didn’t seek out to reconstruct. She did, however, plan to have contractors completely gut out the kitchen and bathrooms strictly for remodeling renovations. She also wanted the flooring to be taken up and replaced with brand-spanking-new wooden planks.
Using the duplicate set of house keys she had made a month ago, Kira entered the home and groaned from the displeasing stale stench wafting into her nose.
“What’s wrong with your apartment? Are they increasing the rent?”
“No. Nothing’s wrong with the apartment.” Kira muttered. She trudged through the foyer and headed straight for the dated kitchen simply just to look out towards the expansive yard space. At the sliding glass door, her father joined her. “It’s just that...I don’t know. I think I’m beginning to hate living there. Well, it isn’t so much as I think. I know I’m beginning to hate living there.” Kira admitted. “Gosh. I can’t even believe I’m saying this…”
Years ago -- when enduring the expected slump in freelance journalism and conceptualizing ideas for her own forthcoming blog-site -- Kira would have never imagined she’d eventually grow tired of Brooklyn and actually miss the quieted comforts of the suburbs.
She fled to college not only to earn her degree, but to also be catapulted into a new environment. While studying at Howard University she vowed to never move back to Nassau County indefinitely and made sure to occupy all of her summer breaks with internships that required her to frequent places far from her hometown. Kira had made strides in straying far from Hempstead and established residency in Brooklyn right after graduation to make sure she never had to dwell there too long during. Aside from the holidays where her mother would have to beg her to stay for days at a time, or a massive gatherings (that tended to occur far and few between as of late), Kira hardly dwelled there and regarded herself as a proud Brooklyn transplant who tended to stay within the borough.
In her early twenties, she had fallen in love with everything Brooklyn had to offer; the convenience and close proximity trumped every other amenity.
Her best writing happened in Brooklyn.
Her best years were in Brooklyn.
Some of her more memorable sexual encounters happened to be with Brooklynites.
Kira couldn’t believe it was even possible to loathe Brooklyn as much as she had within the last two years. The neighborhood of Williamsburg had become too crowded for her liking.
Sadly, neither the restaurants, bars, lounges, nor the generous coffee shop barista who gave her fresh pastries due to her being a faithful subscriber were not enough to keep Kira residing there any longer.
Now, in an ironic twist of fate, Kira sought out to move back to Nassau County in a timely fashion.
Among the homes she came across while perusing several online real estate sites, was a foreclosed property in Long Island’s town of Oyster Bay. It reminded Kira of her childhood home in Hempstead although the properties differed greatly in acreage.
“Do you really need all this space?” Jackson asked.
“Yes. The space would be a benefit.” Kira defended. No matter how persistent Jackson Mosley was about putting the three-bedroom home back on the market, Kira was certain she’d make use of the space.
He father heaved a hardly audible sigh and ran his hand over his face. “What I’m saying is that having all this square footage may be a bit overwhelming. Realistically speaking, Kira, you are a single woman with no children. What on Earth do you need with all of this space? You’d be better off looking for another apartment.”
“Whether I want the space or intend to utilize every square foot is subjective, daddy.” Kira replied sternly, crossing her arms over her chest. “It was a steal. I purchased this home considerably way cheaper than what the homeowners in this area purchased theirs for.” She further noted. “I’m gonna fix this up and use as much or as little space as I please. It’s mine.”
A contemptuous grin etched across her father’s expression, and faltered the moment he advanced towards the old-fashioned kitchen peninsula. The counter space was made of a material Kira couldn’t bear to look at for too long, due to the previous owner’s poor choice of granite that conflicted with the cherry wood cabinets.
“Have you even made the attempt to contact the contractors your mother referred you to?”
“Yes, and I chose not to give those assholes --”
“Kira,” Jackson warned, “watch your mouth.”
She glanced at her father over her shoulder. “Sorry. It slipped out.”
“Now what were you saying about the contractors? And mind your language this time.”
“They were pulling my leg about requesting a quote for a kitchen and bathroom remodel. It’s safe to say I won’t be using them.”
“Kira if you can’t even find the proper contractors to help you make this place liveable, then perhaps you need to put it back on the market like I’ve advised.”
“I’m not doing that. But I will be looking for a contractor this week. I’ll make sure of it.” Kira insisted, catching her father’s blatant eye-roll as he ambled back towards the front of the home. “You don’t believe that I have any intention of finding suitable contractors, do you?”
Rather than sparing his only daughter of having to hear the harsh admission by allowing a prolonged silence to loom over them, Jackson Mosley simply confirmed Kira’s preconceived suspicion by uttering, “No, I don’t.”
“Well,” she took a step, “if you don’t have faith in me to actually find someone for the job, you must have no faith in me at all.”
Adjusting the strap to the crossbody bag onto her frame, Kira made a beeline for the door and muttered to her father that she had no intention to head back her parents’ home after locking up. Almost immediately, she felt immense regret for opting to commute to Long Island by way of public transportation on account of her having to solely rely on her father.
“Take me back to the transit station, please.”
Back in Brooklyn, Kira busied herself with composing drafted reviews of complimentary cosmetics and hair products she picked up from an expo she attended the previous week.
The event specifically curated to gain exposure for black-owned beauty start-ups provided Kira with new content to publish onto her site. Typically, she uploaded the drafted posts throughout the approaching week in an effort to keep maintain her quota of visitor traffic to her blog. The frequent postings not only fed her loyal audience, but also provided her with a substantial amount of monthly revenue from advertisements and contracted branding partnerships.
While thoroughly delving into personal pros and cons she experienced while using a manuka honey leave-in conditioner one of the business owners provided her with, Kira halted in typing another word onto the document and retreated back to the list of contractor companies the web browser’s search engine had provided.
As she skimmed the lengthy list in search of a company that were either within close proximity of the home in Oyster Bay or advertising their willingness to commute to other towns within the state limits, her apartment door opened; a pair of keys jingled as the individual padded down the narrow hallway.
Besides herself, only two people were provided with a set of keys into the private dwelling. Not even her parents were equipped with manufactured duplicates.
“Autumn?” Kira called out, forming the presumption that her childhood friend and infrequent roomie had decided to pop up without calling in advance.
Teeth smackings emitted from Kira the moment her eyes settled on the short crop of coarse curls belonging to her brother Lawrence.
“Shoes --,” Kira chided, “-- remove them.”
Huffing her brother four years her junior turned swiftly on the soles of his bulky basketball sneakers and retreated back down the dimly lit hallway.
“You could’ve called.”
“Didn’t think I needed to. You know, since I got the keys and all.”
Instead of plopping onto the dull grey couch positioned against the adjacent wall, Lawrence raced into the kitchen, failing to wash his hands before rummaging through the refrigerator. When he returned, vegetable lo mein was served on one of the marble plateware she hardly put to use. Her fingers drummed along the wireless keyboard paired to her iMac.
By then, Lawrence sauntered towards the couch and reclaimed his usual seat on the couch’s far left; his feet propped atop the mirrored coffee table riddled with books and flea market knick knacks.
“Any progress on the new place?”
“No, not yet. I’m still in the process of looking for contractors.”
“You’ve been saying you were looking into contractors since before you took your trip. You’re making the task harder than what it needs to be.”
“I know. I’ve been a bit sidetracked this since I’ve gotten back.”
“Back from Long Island, or back from L.A.?”
“L.A.,” Kira retorted and mussed with her hair. “If I didn’t have to go and check on the property, I would’ve slept the entire day away. I’ve been back for two days, and I’m still I’m a bit jet lagged.”
“Shit. I forgot to ask. How’d the meeting go?”
“Fairly well, considering that all my terms are going to be contractually upheld.”
The trip in which she traveled strictly to negotiate the preliminary stipulations to her pending collaborative venture left Kira jet-lagged, but more so afflicted with procrastination. Well before making the trip to Los Angeles, company bigwigs -- a duo consisting of a marketing strategist and a branding consultant -- were ardent on gaining consumership with women of color. In the wake of teasing the release of a new formulated foundation produced in a broad range of shades, the renown cosmetic company’s marketing specialist specifically sought out to acquire black beauty bloggers and other online beauty content creators to assist in advertising the brand’s forthcoming fall release.
Kira’s site traffic and faithful readership coupled with her previous ventures with a cosmetic startups and well-known brands were three components that happened to land Kira on the strategist’s radar. Over brunch, at some pretentious eatery, the twenty-seven year old pressed for the rather extensive amount of money she sought out to obtain for the collaborative venture. And by dinner the following evening, Kira was mulling over a newly drawn up, non-binding contract that had already been both faxed and emailed to her lawyer.
Given the approval from the lawyer she kept on retainer, Kira happily signed the contract, and prematurely relished in acquiring the approaching lump sum by overindulging in drinks.
And, of course, Omari Grant.
At the mere thought of the retired quarterback and their tryst in his hotel room, Kira shuddered and rubbed her neck.
“I’ll have a number to a contractor by tomorrow. Mark my words.”
“Ai’ight,” Lawrence expressed with great doubt, “I’ma hold you to it.”
Kira’s eyes narrowed, “Hold me to it?”
“For whatever reason, you’re prolonging the process. If you aren’t one-hundred percent invested in this whole remodeling project, then you shouldn’t even be bothered. Either get the ball rollin’ on hiring contractors for the renovations or put the shit back on the market.”
“Alright. That’s enough. I can’t take any more of you lecturing me on what I need to do. You sound like dad.” Kira rushed out. She resumed with perusing the list of established general contracting companies.
At random, she selected Johnson & Parsons Home Improvement. As stated on their website, The New York-based contracting firm offered services throughout the listed cities, including the town in which the foreclosed property was located. “Dad’s fine, by the way. Just in case you were wondering.”
Kira averted her eyes from the desktop’s massive screen and peered over at Lawrence.
The sudden disinterest in the conversation as it pertained to their father was aparrent in his deadpan expression.
“He asked about you this afternoon.”
Her eyes rolled instinctively when recollecting the awkward drive to the train station. Jackson Mosley simply couldn’t take the hint to keep the conversation to a minimum.
Instead of commuting in silence, he turned on the radio, hoping that the songs playing from the Hip-Hop and R&B station would lure Kira out of her momentary irritation. But when that was proven to be unsuccessful the middle-aged man followed the stint of humming along to the catchy instrumentals from yesteryear by asking about Lawrence.
“He’s fine.” She remembered tersely retorting, later mentioned the creative strides her brother was making, as of late.
For some reason, Kira hoped that Lawrence would have perked up the moment that tidbit of information swept past her lips. Sadly, to no avail, her younger brother sported the same look of indifference he often had whenever the topic of conversation reverted to Jackson Mosley.
A deafening silence loomed over them subsequent to Lawrence sticking a fork in the cold helping of leftover takeout. In that discomforting lull, Kira could feel the harbored resentment radiating from her younger brother as he remained silent; the marbled plateware balanced atop the couch’s broad armrest. Lawrence mussed with the hairs sprouting from his chin.
“Call him, Lawrence.”
The agonizing contempt evaded him.
His pursed lips gave way to a smirk of sudden amusement. Laughter escaped him soon afterward.
“What’s so funny?” Kira queried.
“Nothing.”
“No. Tell me. I wanna know.”
“Nothing,” Lawrence fixed his lips to say again before releasing an exasperated sigh, “It’s just funny how you’re advising me to speak to him when you’ve been on the outs with him before, too.” Lawrence spat prior to grasping the fork and stuffing his mouth with noodles. He ate with gusto and hadn’t thought to stop until the plate was bare. “I can recall a time where you and dear old dad weren’t on the best of terms.” Lawrence recounted. “You and mom weren’t so amicable back then, either. In fact, I could vividly remember you went nearly a whole semester without speaking to them.”
“I was a freshman in college --
“ -- I know you not about to cop out with that excuse again.”
“It’s not an excuse.”
“It’s a bullshit excuse. It always was.” Lawrence insisted. “You’re gonna hold onto that, aren’t you? Will you ever be honest and say that you still had that chip on your shoulder from senior year. So much so that you insisted on staying with Autumn and her family during winter break.”
Silence pervaded the room, prompting Lawrence to sigh inwardly.
“I guess not.” He muttered. “Sometimes I believe you only interact with him now because I choose not to. Dad could hardly stomach the fact that you and him were estranged all that time. I couldn’t even imagine how crushed that man would be if both of his children decided to steer clear of having any interaction with him at the same time.”
It wasn’t until Kira jotted down the number to Johnson & Parsons Home Improvement on a nearby post-it note that he muttered, “he should’ve made a better attempt at being a father.”
Lawrence’s statement hung in the air, prompting Kira’s shoulders to visibly contract as she set the ballpoint pen down beside the mouse and it’s respected stark white mousepad; the tension pervading the living room was thick and also somber the longer Kira continued to ponder on not only her underlying grievances with her father, but her brother’s as well.
The children of Jackson Mosley idled within the confines of Kira’s Williamsburg apartment, failing to utter anything to each other.
The weight of their father’s disastrous approach to parenting evident as time progressed.
