Chapter 8: | runaway 18-wheeler-2

"What do you mean 'it's done?' What did you do?" It sickens me to my stomach to find out I'm last to know what's in his heart. How did I get downgraded so quickly? Like I no longer matter? "Don't worry about it," he says. All thoughts of love fly out the window. He's gone. Emotionally, he's abandoned the building. He's not the first person to do this to me. The lump in my throat grows larger by the second. They're all staring at me. His face blurs as salty water fills my eyelids and the sting of tears fills my nostrils. Looking around the Duvalls' great room at the unfamiliar faces staring back at me, there are faint chuckles and whispers. I can't believe it. They look at me as if this whole ordeal is a form of entertainment for them. Like it's something to be watched. Some smile. Others point. They all seem to agree; my welcome has expired. The room closes in on me and an unnerving feeling overshadows everything else. I can't place it. It's as if I've stumbled into an Alt-Right, pure Aryan blood, Hitler-hailing, Second Amendment touting, conceal and carry, country club fundraiser. I'm the outsider. The target is on my back. It's weird, for sure. Especially since most everyone here is a shade of brown, just like me. Granted, they're lighter than most, but they're brown, nonetheless. Where is Mr. Duvall? He wouldn't stand for this. As I search the crowd for him, the strangest thing pops out at me. I didn't notice it before and now that I see it, I don't know how I could have ever missed it. Hanging among a collage of framed photos on the wall is an old, sepia-tinged portrait. In it, is what looks to be a plantation-style home. Standing proudly on the porch is a light-skinned, well-groomed man, dressed in a suit of that time, next to a fair-skinned woman and little girl, wearing puffy, Gone with the Wind gowns. The little girl has thick side braids draped over her ears, tucked into a bun. The mother has her hair parted in the middle with an updo in back and curls framing her face. The father has short, wavy hair, parted on one side and a thick mustache. Are they passing for white? Standing on the ground, in front of the porch in a hoard, are two women, one man, and several children. They stand there in stark contrast to the distinguished-looking family on the porch. The women and little girls have their hair tied back in white headwraps. The man has kinky-curly hair as do the little boys. Their skin is rich and dark, their clothes look paltry in comparison to the family, and their expressions are worn. Is that what I think it is? It's all starting to make sense now. These are the kind of black people that, from the looks of it, owned black slaves. The kind that would turn their nose up at people in the ghetto, rather than extend a hand. They're more likely to conveniently ignore homeless people, rather than help. Their discrimination lives on many levels. Money, but also color. They are kindred spirits only with the "right" kind of black. They embody the principles of Willie Lynch. White skin and light skin are the right skin. It makes my heart heavy to see real live people like this, up close. They're all screwed up in the head and they don't even know it. If not for the conceit and arrogance wafting from them like a stubborn odor, I would pity them but they've earned their irony. Money rich, culture poor. They've been robbed of everything that matters—who they are. They're hollow inside. I glance across the great room, Sebastian's mother has a disgusting smirk plastered on her wrinkled, prematurely aging face. Whoever said black don't crack, obviously never met this woman. What a shame, controlling her son with money! Is this why he chose me? To rebel against her? To avoid his fate of becoming like her? Because it's clear, she has no soul. None of them do. And now, I'm seeing for the first time, neither does he. "Get out!" He shoves me again, closer to the front door. Still no one, not even his father steps in. Of all the people in the room, I thought he would've stopped this madness. He wasn't like the rest of them. At least it seemed that way before all this. "I said. LEAVE!" Sebastian yells. Slowly the chuckles turn to outright laughter. Wild, riotous, wicked laughter that intensifies with each painful shove, as he carelessly herds me to the front door. "Get." He shoves me. "The Fuck." He shoves me again. "Outta Here!" He cruelly shoves me one last time before a woman I've never met steps in. "Enough!" She wraps her arms around my shoulders and whispers in my ear. "Come on, girl. You've got to get yourself together. Don't ever let them see you like that," she warns as she walks with me. It's over. The ground comes rushing towards me and I land hard. I'm broken to pieces. The vultures are circling me now. They've come to feed. She ushers me out the front door, away from it all. I came. I saw. I did not conquer. I lost. Big time. If only there was a hole in the ground I could crawl into and never come out of. Through a stream of tears, I run, getting as far away, as fast as I can. I'm horrified. I can't believe this happened to me. It feels like I'm watching somebody else's life unfold in a series of unfortunate events. I'm watching and just thanking God that it's not happening to me but it is and I can't undo what's been done! I can't rewind and erase this! I can't walk away as if it never took place because it did and it stings like hell. The embarrassment. The humiliation. I can't get away from it! I'm shaking all over. I dart around the corner to the old faithful. Fumbling for my keys, I desperately open the door and collapse into the safety of my car. I take one look at myself in the mirror. I'm a hot mess. My makeup is all over the place but I can't stop crying. My heart is broken. My ego is deflated. I'm half the person I was before walking through that door. Everything looks as if it's painted in runny watercolors. Street lanes become blurred lines as I pull away from the curb but that doesn't matter. I'm heading to the lakefront. It's my one safe place. Where I can think and breathe. My phone rings, startling me. It's my boss, Nick. After clearing my throat, I answer, pretending everything is fine. That quintessential New York accent always puts me at ease. "Hey Ari, baby girl, make a stop by the club. You won't believe what I got for you." He beams. I cough, trying to hide the sadness in my voice. "What is it, Nick? I'm kind of tied up right now." "Trust me, you'll want to see this. I'll be here for the next hour. I promise, you won't regret it, doll." The enthusiasm in his voice makes me curious. "OK. OK." I sniffle. "Give me twenty minutes? I'll be there." I pull over to the side of the road, swallow my sorrow and wipe my mascara-stained face with wet wipes. Don't let what he did, ruin you.