Falling Hard

Chapter 9: Repaired

It has been exactly three years, six months and fifth-teen days since I last proposed to you for the second time–succeeding, and me, giving up my virginity. You'd graduated with a bachelor degree in photography last month before we decided to flee to LA.

I remember you standing there on stage with smiling eyes, and trembling hands from the nerves shooting through your veins. Everyone clapped, everyone smiled and then you cried.

Why? No one was judging you, no one threw tomatoes at you because you suck; because of your sexuality. There was no boos, no frowning faces: just genuine happiness. And that is when you realize that you will be okay. You can't change every small-minded view about your belief and what you truly love and it's okay.

Tears of joy was leaking from your eyes as you search for mines. I cried proudly, standing up, giving you an standing ovation. Wasn't the loudest claps you could hear but...you heard it, loud and clear. I only know because you told me. I was your center of attention.

Couple of weeks had past and we went on our regular visits to The Diner Miner, catching up with Mrs. Charleston. And you wouldn't believe that she brung her husband this go 'round. Or unless he was visiting her too before he goes off to do what he does.

"The graduation–mm, I'm so proud of you, Bey," she pulled her into an tight embrace, almost pushing the air from her lungs, "I knew you could do it," she says as she pulled away with the biggest smile.

"Thank you, Mrs. C." Beyonce smiled back, matching the same smile as hers.

"And you," she turned to me with a strict look and a pointed finger, "I hope you get yourself together...I need to see yours too...I wanna see when my baby graduate to." She laughs the same laugh she had over the past years.

"Yeah," I replied gleefully but cheerless at the same time, "I wanted to talk to you about that."

Being taken back, I believe she felt a weird vibe from me–or just her mother instinct–because she ask to speak with me alone and took me upstairs to the roof.

"Whats wrong chile'? What do you want to talk about?" She ask, placing that same hand she uses whenever we talked, on my shoulder. I peek down the railing as always. I turn my head to the left, and turned back to her.

Her soften expression never harden or changed for that matter.

"I got excepted to designer school," the corner of her lips tugged some, "But it is in LA." Her smile grew larger and it brighten, most likely blinding me.

"I'm so glad, chile'," she repeated the same embrace she gave Beyonce, and if not, tighter, "As much as I would love to keep you down here, I still want you to explore. I want you to do ya' thang, you know? And who knows, I might make it down there when you graduate," she smiles, though, I can still see a ping of hurt behind her brown eyes.

Beyonce and I call her every now and then, passing her updates on whats been happening. Everything was good for the most part.

"Robyn," she calls for me from the kitchen–that is bigger than our last, and we finally have a bedroom, "Robyn, you have to get ready for school. Today is your first day," she stress, stuffing an item in my lunch bag as I crept up behind her.

"What?" I answered, and she jerks into me, holding her chest. She is such a mom, "I'm sorry, baby." I apologized then place a kiss on her side profile.

"Robyn, you say you're sorry but keep doing it," she gritted out, frustrated, pushing her long brown hair behind her ear, "And I called you–...you're not even dress, Rih!" She semi-yelled, shoving me back some. I chuckle, placing my hand over my stomach.