Cracked Roots & Roses 21: Putty

We didn’t speak for days after the Dirt Devil fiasco. It sat in that living room for three days in the same spot before I told him to return it. He took it, but I think he gave it to his mom. The thing about us is that we never apologized to each other, and we didn’t talk anything out. I married him without ever meeting his father or even knowing his name. I think I carried this into my adult life. I didn’t ask deep questions—or any questions—because I didn’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable. I was married and couldn’t express myself, which was something I needed most because my emotions were all over the place.

I eventually stopped going to church. I couldn’t hear how great God was because at the time I didn’t agree. I couldn’t stand and lift my hands in praise without even knowing why. Every Sunday, I was flushed with tears—I couldn’t shake them. I needed time to heal. I wish I knew then what I know now. I should’ve stayed in church and fought through it. The next few entries will be intense and disappointing, but it’s part of my story. This is my mud. Buckle up.

Ahmad and I continued as friends, for the most part. He would call me to his office to show me something about the law of Moses to prove his point, and I would pull out my Strong’s Concordance to try and argue mine. We would come to common ground, but neither of us would concede. I loved the debates because he was very intelligent, and my mind was being stimulated.

He challenged me on my political views, my worldview, and even money. He was wise with finances for someone so young. Even then, he owned three rental properties in desirable areas that would appreciate in value—something that wasn’t even on my radar at the time. Even when he sold a car, he was making a connection. Many of his customers returned or stayed in touch with him.

He was someone I looked up to. I had never met a man like him before, so I was enamored. I had been working in the business office a few weeks before Ahmad turned up the heat out of nowhere. One day, I got to work, and there was a bouquet of roses on my desk—no card. I knew they didn’t come from Jeremy, so I didn’t ask him, and I didn’t take them home. I didn’t ask Ahmad either because I knew they came from him but was NOT ready for that conversation. He was not that kind of man, it’s very hard for me to explain. You didn’t tell him no. He was someone who was funny, smart, personable, tall and handsome. The dealership revolved around him, his cars were prepped first. Management got his deals done and bent all kinds of rules for him. He was carrying the store as far as numbers and smashing sales goals. I liked our conversations and respected him but didn’t want to cross any line for obvious reasons. Then one day it happened, he knocked on the back door of the office where my cubicle was and handed me a letter and walked away. I nervously sat down and opened it. I didn’t know what to expect; I hadn’t gotten a letter written by hand since Gino. I unfolded the letter and read it. It was two pages written in cursive, black ink, front and back, of him professing his undying love for me. Sigh.

In it he said he could see us married, with me in a pink bathrobe cooking him breakfast. He said he needed to say this. He knew I was married but had to get it out. He ended the letter by saying he understood if I never spoke to him again. Every forbidden emotion in me swam to the surface. Reality was simultaneously swimming away from me. I didn’t know how to turn these mutual feelings off. I wanted to cook for him. I wanted to sit and talk to him all day, but there was no way. I tore the letter up and walked it to the trash in the break room. I went back to work and tried to forget the contents of the letter, but the image of us living happily ever after was at the forefront of my mind. The pink bathrobe gave the visual. I went home that evening and dreamed about being married to Ahmad while sleeping next to my husband. 

Two days later, the phone in my cubicle rang. It was Ahmad. As soon as I picked it up, he said, “I want to apologize for the letter. I know it’s inappropriate, and I can’t have you, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. At lunch, I felt something between us… maybe I was wrong. I don’t want to lose you as a friend, so I’m sorry.”

I didn’t say anything at first. Then I said, “You did feel something because there is something—but I’m married.”

I heard his smirk through the phone. He had me. He said, “Yeah… there was something.”

I said, “Well, I have to go. Thanks for the apology.”

Another day passed. I went to clock in at the break room clock. While standing there, Ahmad came in, stood close behind me, reached around, and clocked in. He didn’t touch me, but every nerve in my body stood on edge. His hands, his cologne, his bracelet… my eyes took it all in. My heart was beating through my chest. I whipped around and said, “BOY! Get off me!” and laughed a nervous laugh.

He smiled and said, “Oops, I didn’t see you there, girl.”

He knew my married last name was Williams, so that was odd… how did he know my maiden last name? Another sales guy came in right on time and struck up a conversation with him about a car he was holding. I slid out and walked really fast to the business office.

Ahmad was the top salesperson, so as I’ve said he had the run of the place. When he would sell a car, the paperwork would print in the business office, and one of us would grab the deal to ensure everything was signed correctly. He started calling and request me to run his deals, so I began to run all of his deals—and there were many. We would laugh and joke with the buyers, and I would sometimes deliver the cars while he took another sale. This was fine; the day went by quicker.

Until one day.

He needed to transport a car from Tinley Park to Hillside—that was an hour’s drive at best. He asked my manager if I could come with him to grab the jacket from the business office and get the other car. My manager said yes. So, he and I took the drive up to Tinley Park together that next morning.

That was it.

He didn’t say anything inappropriate… he didn’t have to! It was already said in that two-page letter. We just talked, but it was the looks we gave, the stolen glances, the knowing stares… we said nothing but said everything.

He was playful—very playful—which I wasn’t used to. When we got out of the car, he came around and grabbed my hand to walk in. Then he put my hand in the crook of his arm and hummed the wedding song in a playful way. He smiled, winked, and said, “One day,” then mussed my hair.

I was putty.