He was spending the weekend with me at my parents while they were down the shore. I d gone to the store with our three-year-old daughter, Kelisha, to get milk and all I can do is imagine how he made his discovery.
He d probably decided to make the bed and while he was tucking the sheets in between the mattress and box spring, his hand hit what felt like a book my journal, filled with scraps of paper. I would hope that once he pulled it out from its hiding place he hesitated in opening it. I would like to believe that he initially thought to himself, This must be her personal journal; I can t read this.
He knew writing was important to me, whether it was poems that I wrote to him confessing my love, or journal entries of my hopes of one day becoming an author. I m guessing, though, that his curiosity to learn more about my inner thoughts proved too strong, leaving him no choice but to open the pages to my life and begin reading thoughts that I d dare not tell anybody but myself.
I can see him sitting there where I found him, reading about how much I loved him and how badly I wanted our relationship to work out. I d written about how hurt I was that he had another girlfriend with whom he was spending most of his time. But something tells me he ignored that, and probably passed over my accounts of how I had tried to understand his abusive nature from the first time he pushed me over the bed to the punches and chokeholds I d learned to endure.
No, something tells me he focused on how I d written about the man who d become my confidant, who I would talk to when I came to work battered from his anger, the man who refused to believe those bruises were from a slammed door or playing on the floor with my daughter. He was the man who encouraged me to leave and the man who d taken me in his arms one afternoon in a dirty vacant office at our workplace.
I had written: I wanted to see you and kiss you, he said smiling. So we stood there, me in a white dress and him pressed against me in his dirty work clothes.
With his arms firmly wrapped around me, he slowly moved his hands around my waist and under my dress. His tongue was deep in my mouth, while his fingers made their way under my panties. Had it not been for where we were, I might ve let him have his way.
Reaching the top of the stairs, I first hear the rustle of papers. My heart stops and starts again. My mouth is dry and I force my legs to move toward the back bedroom. Bracing myself, I step through the bedroom doorway.
Russell, please don t read those. They're personal.
He doesn t answer.
I hold out my hand, Please, can t you just give them to me?
Hell no! he says, his voice a low rumble.
But Russell they, his sharp glare cuts off my words.
Knowing I can t simply snatch away from him what belongs to me, I feel the need to quickly busy myself in order to come to terms with what s happening. I snap into autopilot and figure that by focusing on breakfast I can pretend that what I know is about to happen might be delayed if only for the seven minutes it takes to fry bacon and scramble eggs. --Phillywriter.com
Since self-publishing
Threesome in 2001, Thomas's literary skills and unique perspective have caught the attention of major media outlets. Whether it s TV or print, she isn't one to shy away from giving her opinion. After working as a personal assistant to an NBA athlete, Thomas became an expert on their culture, later appearing on CNN, NBC's
Dateline, and
Entertainment Tonight, to name a few. Since then she has penned three best-selling novels,
Fourplay, The Velvet Rope and Every Woman's Got a Secret, as well as two anthologies
Four Degrees of Heat and
Kiss The Year Goodbye. Brenda lives in her hometown of Philadelphia, where she is surrounded my family and friends.
