Heavy Love(2)

She started calling me ‘Jelly' when that damn song Bootylicious came  out. Her favorite line was "I don't think you're ready for this Jelly … "  Heck, her family's maid started calling me that too, when her parents  weren't around. And it went viral. Only, I just don't like the way  Carlton says it. Then Carlton looks up, his fleshy face smoothes into a  smile. "You chewed me out after you brought all the groceries in the  house and I'd gotten off the phone with Scully. I apologized, you know  I'm a bonehead when one of my clients keeps asking the same question.  Are we friends?"         

     



 

"And I accepted, Carlton. Yes, we're friends."

"Good. So what are you making?"

"Eggplant lasagna." I finally return his grin. Once we've redirected his  thought process from having to go "halfsies" – a word I made up just for  him – all the time, we are going to work on his lack of attention when it  comes to that damn cell phone.

"Should you be eating all those carbs?" He asks. Then his eyebrows  crinkle in confusion as he realizes my kindness momentarily wavers.  Though I've only counseled professionally for three years, I've taken  countless sessions on body language. Can't show aversion while in  session. But this isn't a session. This is the man that I want to marry;  he just needs to grow more in the sensitivity department.

Carlton's head cocks to the side, slightly, "What did I say, Angelique?"

"C'mon, Carlton, don't forget what we've talked about as far as having  compassion for the human race. And just so you know, I'm not using real  noodles." I hold up the sliced eggplant placed on a baking sheet, and  add, "The eggplant has replaced it."

"Awesome, Jelly. See, I can play nice. Now don't use too much ricotta."  He smiles at me for emphasis and once again typing engulfs my ears. For a  while I'm content just being in the company of my man. I could do the  married life. My career is taking off. We'll have a long engagement. As  Carlton works, I start to set the table in the dining room and open the  bottle of Chardonnay that I bought from Trader Joes.

"Carlton, are you ready to eat?" I ask, grabbing two Cristal glasses from the display shelf.

"Just a sec." He calls from the kitchen.

Happy that I could do something nice for my boyfriend, I finish off the  table with lighting the tapered candles then take a seat.

"It's smelling good in here," Carlton pats his belly. He undoes his  diamond crusted cufflinks, taking off his suit jacket in a debonair  manner that makes me sigh. I just love a big, sexy man that can handle  all my curves.

I silently pray for our food, as he begins to dig in.

"Mmmmm, Angelique, this tastes so good, that I might just propose to  you," he says. Carlton is not afraid to talk about marriage. He's asked  me the style of ring I'd like before. I promptly told him anything would  make me smile.

"Glad you like it," I can't stop grinning. I'll probably eat a few more  bites of food. But what makes me happy is feeding the love of my life,  and making this relationship we have work for a lifetime.

Then his demeanor changes as he tastes the wine. Being a connoisseur  after a few wine tasting trips with his buddies in Napa Valley, I have a  feeling that my wine choice hasn't met his standards.

"This Chardonnay would've better paired with subdued tomatoes," he  reprimands. "Go get the Barbera wine, Jelly. It's the best choice. I was  waiting for a special occasion. Besides, the brand is a bit pricey..."

"How about I pay you for half?" I shrug, standing up.

"That will work," he nods, smile returning as if this is the smartest thing I've said all day.

Hand on hip, I take a deep breath. "Carlton, I just brought over dinner and wine." Let it sink in.

An awkward handful of seconds pass before he blinks his response. Then  he busts up laughing. "Angelique, I was just kidding. Sit, sit, baby  girl, you cooked. Let me go get the wine. I'll be back shortly."

He kisses my cheek and mentions how much he's in love with me before  walking out of the room. I stand there, eyes closed momentarily. He's an  intelligent Black man from a two-parent household. So what Carlton  lacks in sensitivity, is fixable. This is what I want. Carlton is  everything I've ever wanted. He's got flaws. I can fix him …





Chapter 2


Franco de León, Manhattan, New York (Hours earlier)



SOFT, SENSUAL, SWEET, the peach rose to my lips, sending a hush across  the Food Network Star stadium in Manhattan, New York. The amphitheater  was hushed, with a sea of guests. All eyes are on me, Chef Franco de  León. I can feel their thoughts. Even with the anger coursing through my  burning veins, I play upon that, their desire. I take a deep breath of  the saccharine fragrance, imagining the most gorgeous part of a woman's  body. Her blossoming before me, sweet folds moist, yet velvety soft.

This is my world – outwardly. In front of the fucking cameras, I am on  point. Internally, that's another story. I am done with the bullshit.  Yet, the million pairs of eyes on me, with the two to three second  broadcast delay, still view me as the epitome of erotic, as my teeth  sink into the velvety flesh, no doubt sending female viewers across the  nation into an orgasmic state.         

     



 

"Yummy," my throat vibrates with each syllable, Spanish accent mellowed  out like warm brown sugar for the Sweet and Savory segment. They've  compared me to a new age Spaniard, Antonio Banderas, in inflection,  poise, and intensity. Some of the tabloids even say William Levy is my  long lost twin. Olive green v neck, brown slacks, loafers, nothing  overly done, nor out of place, as I stand in the state-of-the-art  kitchen, which is the ambience of my native Spain. I have many  television shows. Women love my sweets segments, while males identify  with my cocky on-air persona during cook-offs or tournaments. This  Spaniard has more than four television shows on Food Network Channel and  at least two in rotation during any given season.

My brand has solidified for over ten years, but at this very moment, I realize that nothing can ever be the same.

The segment has just begun, 22 minutes of on air time for a 30-minute  show. And I'm less than a minute in. I can perform in my sleep, cook,  compel, mend  …  broken  …  hearts. I slammed into this game, with the  mindset of being on top.

While trying to psyche myself out, and honestly force myself to believe  in cooking, I stand, legs planted wide. Picking up the paring knife, the  hidden staging cameras frame the view of me cutting the perfect peach. I  continue, with, "So this peach," I sigh the words for emphasis, while  bringing the sweet, sticky slice to my mouth and nose. After a deep  inhale, I finish, "this is the perfect season for making my famous..."

All lights on me, I'm blinded to the audience before me; but highly  aware that the crowd is awaiting my next move, still tangible,  malleable, ripe, and ready to eat each and every word I speak. My glance  roams around perceiving nothing in particular – because the audience is  gone to me. In my mind's eye, nobody is there. Damn, I have the fucking  ability to send people into a tailspin over my food, as a chef and  entertainer. Yet, at this very moment, I feel nothing. My teeth tug  softly on the flesh of my bottom lip, which still has the capability to  sway the audience. I can't be done. Taking a paced breath, I try once  more, "This..."

I am done. The recipe disappears from my mind.

A producer begins to cuss within the tiny bud in my ear, "Come-the-fuck-on, de León. Don't do this! de León, don't fucking..."

" …  You're blowing it over some bitch?" Those words were so faint, as I  snatch the bud out and toss it onto the glossy counter top.

I can fucking feel the audience. Their thoughts. Their confusion. Though  silence ensues as I turn around and start from the stage. The only  sound was from my Italian loafers.

Six foot four, and 235 pounds of lean muscle. Every time my size 11  paces before the other, it is with purpose. Like a panther, I dominate  the stage then step toward the large Food Network Channel emblem that is  smack dab in the center of the backdrop to the stage.

My best friend and manager, a smidge less than a foot shorter than I am,  and Jewish with a curly fro, Edward, is like an annoying fly once I've  made it to the back. I glare down at him, shaking my head. He knows the  fucking deal. This morning, I texted him at two a.m. that I was done. He  was at my Manhattan loft by four with two cups of coffee. I don't blame  him for the pep talk. I should have been a man about my shit, but that  was a few hours ago.

He's talking. I keep walking. Cold steel meets my hands as I press hard  on the double doors. They swooshed open so quickly that a tech on the  other side has to jump back. Her messy blond bun flopped, cute  pink-rimmed prescription glasses tottering.