I turned around and saw a face from my past. Felt like I'd been injected with pota.s.sium chloride. He was fine as h.e.l.l, dressed in grays and blacks under a leather jacket, hair short and neat.

I said, "Nick?"

Nicolas Coleman. An old A-list lover. A very A-list lover. Always awkward running into somebody you'd been intimate with, especially when you had hoped he wanted more from you.

I made myself smile. "Hey, stranger."

"Didn't recognize you at first." He looked surprised, like he had said my name, but still wasn't sure that it was me. He finally got his words together. "d.a.m.n. You are looking good."

"You too."

Then he moved into my personal s.p.a.ce, touched me, hugged me. I wasn't ready for that. All of a sudden whatever karma we had shared, the energy he had left inside me, tingled to life.

"Look at you," I said, pulling away. "I see your books all over. Big baller shot caller."

"Your locks . . . wow . . . nice. You . . . d.a.m.n." Again, his expression told me that he was surprised I'd lost so much weight, but he didn't know how to phrase his thoughts. "You are looking good."

I gave up a morsel of a nervous laugh. "You just said that."

Our hair let us know how long it had been since we'd seen each other. Last time I saw him his hair was in twisties and my hair was in a bob. Since then, I've cut it all d.a.m.n near to the bone and it's grown back, framed my face and hung down my back and over my shoulders, colored deep brown with golden tips. Back then his hair was longer, hip and bohemian, and now he was clean cut.

I said, "I see a wedding ring."

He smiled.

I asked, "Nicole?"

"Nah." The spark in his eyes dwindled, then came back. "Somebody else."

"Somebody else?"

Back then, his whole world was about this girl Nicole. Always Nick and Nicole.

He got off the subject, asked me how my sisters were doing, yada, yada.

I went back to what was on my mind. "So you and Nicole finally parted ways."

"We did."

There was a moment of silence between us, a slice of quiet so small, yet it was louder than the clatter in this joint. In that silence I thought about that night he was having so many problems. The night he was coming unglued. His family was tripping, his preacher-man father didn't like his work. Nicole was driving him insane. And he called me, needed to talk.

We met for drinks.

Conversation.

Back to my place.

More drinks.

The fourth gla.s.s of Riesling kicked in and I jumped bold, told him to snap the f.u.c.k out of it, that confused, selfish b.i.t.c.h doesn't care about you, then kissed him and risked rejection. Bold enough to kick off my shoes, slap my t.i.tty in his mouth, put my hands in his pants, and lead him into my bed. I straight up offered my body as a salve for his anguish. Or took his to salve my own.

Penetration changed everything, especially amongst friends.

Back then I had a boyfriend. A decent brother that I just couldn't get into, not on the level that I wanted, especially when I wanted somebody else. And I knew Nick was hooked on Nicole. So, Nick probably saw me as . . . Never mind, I'm not even going to go there.

And now he was wearing a wedding ring and I was surfing for prospects out on the Internet.

He asked, "What happened to your book?"

"Well, lots of rejections. Then I got into buying property. Had to help Livvy with her wedding. And Tommie . . ." I shrugged. That simple question about my book, especially coming from him, taunted me. "Did some traveling. Brazil. Amsterdam. Other places. Got sidetracked."

This brother in a black suit appeared down near the end of the bar. He smiled at me. I perked up and changed my body language, moved away from Nick, told him that I thought I saw my date. But when the black suit got closer, he tapped Nick on the shoulder. Both of them laughed then did that one-arm-man-hug thing that men do so people will know they're friends, but won't think they have sugar in their tanks, then they did a handshake, the kind that let you know they were fraternity brothers.

Nick introduced me to his homie, a guy named Andre. Told me he was a comedian. In Hollywood, actors, comedians, and singers came a dime a dozen, half-priced on Wednesday. Everybody was working on a screenplay or a one-person show in between waiting tables.

Andre said, "I was in the back chilling out at the bar. Lot of talent back there."

I said, "Oh, really?"

Talent meant eye candy that was somewhere between an eight and a dime piece.

Andre said, "And you working that dress like a Jamaican with ten jobs. I saw your fine a.s.s walking around here giving brothers whiplash. You got a walk that could put v.i.a.g.r.a out of bid'ness."

"Out of bid'ness?" I repeated, mocking him.

"Out of motherf.u.c.king bid'ness. I was about to slide you my d.a.m.n number, fo' sheezy."

We all laughed. And just like that, I thought Andre was the coolest of the cool.

Nick apologized. "I didn't know there was another room."

Andre said, "That bar is hopping."

"Oh, d.a.m.n," I said. "There's another bar?"

Andre pointed toward a narrow opening that I a.s.sumed was for employees only.

I should've rushed away and looked for my Denzel, but I couldn't leave. Something was anchoring me here with Nick. A strong current with an unbreakable undertow.

"Man, you missed it. This fat, gap-toothed motherf.u.c.ker . . . looked like Yoko Ono with a jacked-up Afro . . ." Andre was on a roll, cracking up, ". . . like Professor Klump in a tight red suit . . . and a green polka-dot bow tie . . . motherf.u.c.ker dressed like a Christmas present to a Muslim. I'm putting that s.h.i.t in my script."

Andre couldn't stop laughing. He fanned himself and told Nick he'd be right back, headed toward the bathroom, left me and my old potential A-list lover by ourselves.

Nick said, "We need to keep in touch."

There was a moment between us, or maybe it was just me. Things we did together, the old pictures and birthday cards I still have in a s...o...b..x, all those thoughts gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling.

My mouth opened to say we should keep in contact, that I missed him, stuff like that.

But I don't know what the h.e.l.l happened; something went wrong . . . went south inside of me.

I said, "Well, I don't think I'd want my husband keeping in touch with women he used to sleep with. And, I'm here with somebody. So that would be disrespectful, don't you think?"

"As friends, that's all I was saying."

There was another moment of silence. Something about the way he said that made me feel so small. Like what had happened between us . . . like it didn't happen.

"We f.u.c.ked, Nick." Those words came out of me so fast that I thought somebody was snapping out my thoughts. It jarred me as much as it did him. "Nick, keep it real, and we can walk away with a little respect. We were never friends. At least you were never mine."

"What? We ran together, we read each other's work-"

"I would've had the decency to tell you I was getting married, or invited you to the wedding. You know how I found out? Was flipping through Ebony, and bam, an article about you-and your wife. Kinda whacked. Even if I didn't invite you, I would've told you."

There it was. What was behind my smile. The resentment. I put it out there, very abrupt, very hard. There was bitterness, some I didn't really know about until now.

That hit him hard. But my own words had left me rattled.

The worst kind of ex was an ex who didn't know he was an ex.

He said, "So, if you saw the article in Ebony . . . then you knew I didn't marry Nicole."

Ooops. And just like that, my little faux pas had risen, and here I was-straight busted. Yeah, I knew about him and the African wife. And yeah, I reminded him about the woman who rejected his a.s.s. Maybe the part of me that was hurting wanted to open up the part of him that used to hurt. d.a.m.n. There I was, being a petty b.i.t.c.h in high heels. An abrupt numbness made me feel two inches tall. For the first time in a long time, I was speechless.

"It's cool." He nodded. "Take care, Frankie."

"Wait. Nick." I opened my purse. "Here's my card. Keep in touch, if you like."

Nick raised his palms; his smile wounded, his eyes vexed, told me that it was nice seeing me again, wished me much success and moonwalked away, left me standing like a statue of rejection and holding my d.a.m.n card in my hand.

d.a.m.ned penetration always changed everything.

n.o.body wanted to be on someone's B- or C-list, especially if they were on your A-list.

The secondary bar was hidden like Bruce Wayne's bat-cave. A larger crowd was back there lounging and flirting. I circled the bar twice, began feeling kind of stupid for being stood up. Stupid for running into Nick and tripping like that. In my head I was rewriting that last friggin' moment, not switching into PMS mode and letting any of that old animosity out. d.a.m.n, on top of that, I'd been stood up, and didn't want to do an about-face and go back out there right now, didn't want to pa.s.s by him.

Then there was a tap on my shoulder.

A smooth, baritone voice said, "Frankie?"

This gap-toothed, nappy headed, Buddha-belly brother in a fire-red suit and polka-dot bow tie was standing in my face holding a dozen yellow roses.

All I could say was, "Uh, yeah?"

"I was getting worried." He chuckled with glee. "I was wondering if you got lost."

"I . . . well . . . I was up front." Everything inside my head started rocking like I was on the Riverboat Queen during a monsoon, no Dramamine in sight. Next thing I knew he had kissed my cheek and flowers were in my hand. "Wow. Thanks for the flowers."

He said, "Just in time. Let's head upstairs before we lose our reservations."

"Upstairs?" s.h.i.t. That meant I had to walk by everybody and be scrutinized by both the gold-diggers and the w.a.n.kstas. Everybody including Mr. A-List. "Oh, yeah. Dinner. Right."

"Follow me. My, my, you are looking lovely."

Yellow roses in hand, I ghost walked through the main area, past all the glam. Nick and Andre were at the bar; too busy talking to see me. Irritation was in Nick's face, enough for that smile to be turned upside down, so I knew he was telling his homie what had happened between us. I had done that with my bitterness. Felt bad, but that was what I was feeling. I pretended that I didn't see them.

"Holy s.h.i.t," somebody mumbled, then chuckled. I looked over and it was Andre looking in my direction, his mouth wide open, laughter creeping up from his chest to his throat.

Nick saw me. Just as much surprise in his eyes. I couldn't look at him. Felt so d.a.m.n foolish.

My date led me to the hostess; she took us upstairs to the area with dim lights and candles. All eyes were on us. I would've been more comfortable walking with a naked white man.

He pulled my chair out first, then squeezed into his seat and said, "You look stunning."

No, I'm just stunned.

He said, "You can put the flowers down."

"Oh. Yeah."

"After all of our late-night conversations and e-mails, I've looked forward to meeting you face-to-face. Nice to see the face that goes with all of those provocative conversations."

I looked at him and remembered what I wanted to forget, thought, oh G.o.d, oh G.o.d. We had cybers.e.x. And I had actually thought about him-well that picture he had sent me-last night while I was lying in my bed, my hand between my legs, double-clicking my mouse, moaning and squirming and letting out sweet curses, and imagining that me and the man in my mind were going at it like rabbits.

"Well, how was your day, Frankie?"

"What?" I cleared my throat. "Oh. Pretty good."

"Outside of property, any good investments?"

We talked about technology stocks, then some blue chip names that weren't doing too bad, mentioned a few old-fashioned stocks, conversation about hot IPOs that were up four hundred percent.

I shook my head. "Keep away from old-fashioned stocks. I'd gamble on Tyco or Bank One."

"Especially Bank One. Very cheap stock."

That's one thing my choices of men and stock have always had in common. Their potential looked great-guess I've been buying low-but their value has always plummeted overnight.

The waiter came back with salads. That broke our discussion. We ate, sipped our wine, started talking about other things, moved to comfortable topics.

His chubby-cheeked smile was infinite. "Hard to believe that I met you on the Internet."

"Thanks, but you don't have to say that so loud."

He was trying to get his flirt on, but I had moved him from the list of romantic wishes over to the buddy-plan-friend list. Those are the brothers a sister calls when she needs help moving furniture. The men that women need to keep in contact with. Especially if the guy owns a truck.

Like I said, the list was short, but not that short.

He said, "Let me make a quick run to the bathroom."