All That Matters Read online

  Also by Tracy J. Cass

  Labor of Love

  Praise for Labor of Love

  “In her debut novel, T. Cass has shown us the ups and downs, the joys and sorrows that being in love puts us through. This read was enjoyable and true to life. I look forward to reading the future works of this up and coming novelist.”

  ~Reviewed by Renee Williams for The RAWSISTAZ Reviewers

  “New author T. Cass immediately distinguishes herself from others in this realistic and frank look at the labor of love...a well written and enjoyable read. I look forward to reading more from this author.”

  ~Reviewed by Toni for O.O.S.A. Online Book Club

  “I could not believe this was a debut novel. I was compelled by the storyline and drawn in by the characters. The author writes with such realism and simplicity, it is easy to have a love affair with each page.”

  ~Pierce Publishing Company

  “A charming, funny look at love and the many obstacles we face when we’ve found it.”

  ~J. Monique Gambles, author of When the Drama has Ceased

  All That Matters

  Tracy J. Cass

  NINE TWELVE Publishing

  Fort Worth, Texas

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright ©2021 by Tracy J. Cass

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For Information address:

  NINE TWELVE Publishing

  P.O. Box 6643 Fort Worth, TX. 76115

  ISBN: 978-0-9764634-2-9

  ISBN: 978-0-9764634-6-7 (eBook)

  Published by NINE TWELVE Publishing

  P.O. Box 6643

  Fort Worth, TX 76115

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021923557

  Cover Concept: Tracy J. Cass

  Cover Design & Logo: Kiosha Collins

  Printed in the United States

  Love forgives a multitude of sins. ~The Bibleish

  Contents

  Part One Break Up to Make Up

  Chapter 1 Jaslyn Just My Fuckin’ Luck

  Chapter 2 Sampson Get Out

  Chapter 3 Jaslyn A Heavy Heart

  Chapter 4 Sampson Making Things Right

  Chapter 5 Jaslyn Butter on Burnt Toast

  Chapter 6 Sampson What Did I Do?

  Chapter 7 Jaslyn Decisions, Decisions

  Chapter 8 Sampson Sam To the Rescue?

  Chapter 9 Jaslyn Dreams About Fish

  Chapter 10 Man’s Biggest Downfall Sampson

  Chapter 11 Sampson Just the Beginning

  Chapter 12 Jaslyn The Gambler

  Chapter 13 Sampson So You’re Having My Baby

  Chapter 14 Jaslyn Girl Talk “What’s up, chick?”

  Chapter 15 Sampson Like Father, Like Son

  Chapter 16 Jaslyn Let’s Talk About Sex

  Part Two Family Affairs

  Chapter 17 Sampson Doctor’s Orders

  Chapter 18 Sampson Promises, Promises

  Chapter 19 Jaslyn My Worst Enemy

  Chapter 20 Sampson Moving On

  Chapter 21 Jaslyn Bees with Honey

  Chapter 22 Sampson What Happens in Vegas

  Chapter 23 Jaslyn Co-Parenting for Dummies

  Chapter 24 Sampson No More Drama

  Chapter 25 Jaslyn Labor and Delivery

  Chapter 26 Sampson What the Fuck Happened?

  Chapter 27 Jaslyn Believe Black Women

  Chapter 28 Sampson Weird-Ass Family

  Chapter 29 Jaslyn One year later

  Chapter 30 Sampson Doing Life

  Acknowledgements

  Part One

  Break Up to Make Up

  Chapter 1

  Jaslyn

  Just My Fuckin’ Luck

  How is it that you can spend an entire lifetime not having known someone, but the minute you meet, you see them everywhere you go? Especially when it’s someone you’d give your last dollar never to see again?

  That’s the way I feel about my ex-boyfriend, Sampson Tate. I can’t lie; I still have feelings for him, but he hurt me too bad to even entertain that nonsense. You see, the problem is that he was cheating on me. I caught him locked in an embrace with an old sweetheart, Alicia Matthews. You can call that trivial if you want, but a man never gets over his first love, and Alicia was his.

  It’s ironic that Sampson and I spent our lives growing up in Texas together but never managed to meet. We were both raised in Fort Worth, a big city with small town ways. Everybody knew each other, knew of each other, or knew someone that knew you. Imagine having a conversation with someone and incidentally mentioning a name, say for example, Raynelle Watson. All of a sudden, some stranger next to you gets excited and interrupts your conversation. “Excuse me, do you know Raynelle?” You say, “Yes, ma’am. I do. She’s my brother-in-law’s step-daddy’s cousin.” Then they say, “Girl, that’s my cousin, too! We almost kin!” To an outsider, this exchange would definitely be considered a country conversation, but this is what we loved about our city. The diverse cultural settings of art galleries, concert halls, restaurants, and bookstores surrounded by neighborhoods like mine which were mixed with the flavor of a hometown appeal made black and white alike proud to call Fort Worth home. Even the hood was a place of pride, or should I say, especially the hood. The effort to overcome poverty and crime drew you and your neighbors in so tight that you developed a distinct homage to that way of life and to the area in which you grew up.

  I grew up on the Southside. Sam was reared about ten minutes away on the Eastside town in a neighborhood called Stop Six. We even knew some of the same people. I went to college with his brother, Solomon, and his best friend, Jawaan, married my cousin, Tamika. Our paths just never crossed until we met at their wedding. Then we fell in love, and then, we broke up. Now that I never want to see him again, I see him all the fuckin’ time! What’s up with that?

  If I don’t see him, then I’m constantly running into someone that knows him and who is more than willing to offer tidbits of information about how well he’s doing. I graciously grin and bear it. Say the obligatory, “Well, good for him,” bit and try to move on, but truthfully, that shit grates on my nerves. What’s a girl to do? Be rude and tell the bearer of Sampson News that I really don’t want to hear that shit. I think not. I was never one to let others see that they were getting the best of me even though it may have been true.

  Anyway, every time I turned around, Sam was there—at church, the grocery store, parties I attended for old friends. He was even at a conference I attended a while back. It was given to new entrepreneurs.by the chamber of commerce. A year had passed since our break-up. I no longer wanted to sit around feeling sorry for myself, and the demise of our relationship was the motivation I needed to get me started on opening a shelter for battered women. My job as a therapist paid well, but there were issues that I wanted to address with battered women that I felt my center didn’t really make a priority, especially for minority women. Women stay in abusive relationships because they may not have anywhere to go. Any shelter satisfied that need, but I wanted to address the holistic needs of abused women. In addition to providing housing, Davenport House (Yes, named after yours truly. A little vanity never hurt anyone!) would also provide economic and job training seminars, spiritual counseling from the religion of their choice, as well as, the standard self-esteem and self-love workshops. The shelter would focus on self-actualization because what good would all of those workshops be if it did nothing to help the women make their dreams and goals reality? Each woman would also be required to participate in physical fitness and self-defense classes four days a week. So, the next time any man, or person for that matter, wanted to physically abuse them they could open up a can of whoop ass to make sure it didn’t happen again. My philosophy: Treat the whole woman so they could begin to make better life choices; not just relationship choices. Nothing ingenious about it, but still, I wanted it to be my own program.

  I went to the conference to get some much-needed information on writing business plans, finding financing options, and creating an effective brand for my business. It never entered my mind that Sampson would be there. He owned an advertising firm, and if not considered a huge success, it was at least profitable. Well, now I really am being petty…his shit was the bomb, and he knew it. So did everyone else.

  When I entered the hotel where the conference was being held, I walked up to the registration table in the center of the lobby to sign-in and pick up my conference materials. After I checked in, I looked in the conference brochure to locate my classes. As I skimmed the pages, whose name did I see? It was like I had bionic vision. My eyes skipped all the other names and zeroed in on his:

  November 3, 2004

  Breakout Session #8: Branding Your Business

  Speaker: Sampson TateCompany: Tate & Associates

  Time: 9:30 a.m.-11:30 a.m.

  Location: Conference Rm. 215

  I looked at my registration, and sure enough, I was registered for Breakout Session #8 at 9:30 a.m. in room 215. Just my fuckin’ luck, I thought. I was turning around to leave when I hit a wall. You guessed it, Sampson’s chest.

  “Hello, Jaslyn. You’re looking lovely this morning,” he spat through a jaw that was locked tighter than the Federal Re
serve.

  I didn’t feel lovely, I felt like trash. Veiled as a compliment, Sam’s icy greeting was clearly a dis.

  If it weren’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all. “Shit,” I mumbled.

  “What was that?” His eyes were hard and cold.

  “Nothing.” I lied to keep from looking like the fool that I was, and then I added my own version of the veiled compliment, “You’re not looking too bad yourself.” First off, my jab didn’t sound nearly as insulting and antagonizing as his; it actually sounded like I meant it. I have got to bone up on the bitterness, I thought. Really, I should have gotten the award for understatement of the year. He always did look good, and that day was no different. He was draped in a navy, three-button suit and white shirt. From the looks of it, he must have been best friends with Hugo Boss. The suit clung to his body. Not too tight but close enough to show off his solid build. I had to do a pussy check to make sure my girl wasn’t reacting. She bounced around a little bit, but the panties were still dry; she hadn’t betrayed me yet. I was still holding it together. Thank God. I squared my shoulders and tilted my head in an effort to appear collected.

  He smirked at me. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  “No. Actually, I was just going to the ladies’ room before the session started.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t want you to leave because you’re uncomfortable around me. That would be a terrible waste of the $350 you paid to be here.”

  “Thanks for the concern, but I have no reason to be uncomfortable around you. Your presence here doesn’t faze me in the least.” I lied but continued the game he started. He wanted to upset me. It was working, but I refused to let him see that so I added, “Furthermore, I’m here to learn, not worry about you.”

  “I apologize. You just seemed to be surprised when you saw me.”

  “Well, yes, that’s true. But weren’t you surprised when you saw me? Besides, I didn’t see your name on the web site when I registered.”

  He shrugged. “Last minute addition. The original speaker canceled three days ago. I hope that’s not a problem for you?”

  “Of course not.” I lied again. Can he see my nose growing? I decided to leave before I started writing my own version of Pinocchio. “People are starting to come in. I’d better hurry up and go to the ladies’ room so I won’t be late. You go on ahead. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “Okay. See you in a few.” He went into the conference room, and instead of leaving like I originally planned, I headed for the restroom. I used this as an opportunity to check my appearance. No one wants to get caught by their ex-boyfriend not looking their absolute best. It gives the appearance that you couldn’t make it without them. Tell the truth, whenever you see an old flame who looks like he has no job and was thrown out with yesterday’s garbage, you’re secretly delighted. Relishing a brief moment of self-satisfaction, thinking, Ah ha! That’s what his dumb ass gets. I knew he couldn’t keep his shit together! I clearly didn’t want to give Sampson the impression that I was suffering without him.

  I walked into the restroom, confident that I could allay any fears of physical inadequacy. However, when I looked in the mirror, I was horrified. It was the middle of November, so I was dressed in a pair of black wool slacks, a matching sweater, and a waist-length, black leather jacket. I was always pleased with my image in black. It made me look sexy, that wasn’t the problem. The ensemble fit nicely. I loved to workout, especially riding my bike; so, I was pleased with the athletic, size-ten physique I managed to maintain. That wasn’t the problem. My hair had recently been streaked with highlights and fashioned with a new pixie cut. It glistened with the care my stylist lovingly gave it. That wasn’t the problem. My make-up was flawless. Not too much. Powder, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, lip-gloss. Just enough to give that “fresh face” look. That wasn’t the problem. I looked up and to my chagrin…I was wearing my glasses! My many nights as a child spent reading by the closet light when I should have been in bed, along with the years of computer use in college, and the detailed reading of case files as a therapist had caused undue stress on my sensitive eyes. On my last trip to the optometrist a few months ago, the diagnosis was that if I didn’t want to go blind by the time I was sixty then I needed a pair of reading glasses. It wasn’t that severe, but I still needed the glasses. I could have gone with contacts; however, I knew I would either lose them or blind myself trying to put them on. So, I chose the glasses thinking I would only pull them out when necessary as was the case this morning. I hastily put them on to read my registration information. Stunned by the revelation that Sampson was my teacher, I forgot to take them off. I was pissed, I hated those damned glasses. Only a few people even knew I wore them—my secretary who liked to barge in my office unannounced and my two best friends, Shellie and Lisa. They were my girls, and I knew they didn’t give a damn about me in a pair of bifocals. So, whenever I was relaxing at home while reading a book and they happened to stop by, I never worried about taking them off.

  Maybe that’s why he was staring at me so hard. He wasn’t mad. He just wasn’t used to me in those damn glasses. Who was I kidding? He was livid. Although he cheated on me and not the other way around, Sam was definitely pissed. Hell, he probably didn’t even notice the glasses.

  I sighed, pulled off the Ralph Lauren tortoise shell frames and threw them in my purse. I drew another deep breath to pull myself together. I had to hide my exasperation and nervousness.

  Satisfied that I looked good and was now the picture of indifference, I started toward the workshop, making a mental note to sit in the middle of the conference room. Sitting in the back would seem too obvious that I was trying to avoid him, and sitting in the front would be too close for comfort. Unfortunately, I had lingered a moment too long in the ladies’ room. The conference room was packed, and I had to sit in the first seat in the front row…directly in front of the speaker. Damn!

  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

  Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket, flipped it open as if he was checking the time, slammed it shut, and then said snarkily, “Come on in, Ms. Davenport. It’s not too late for you to join us. We’re just getting started.”

  This wasn’t going to be bad. It was going to be awful. This Negro had the nerve to call me out for being late!

  I sat down, pulled my notepad out from my briefcase, crossed my legs, and prepared to take notes. I refused to put my glasses back on. I’d just have to do the best that I could. I promised myself to schedule an appointment to get contacts or Lasik eye surgery as soon as possible.

  I said a silent prayer, determined to concentrate on the information provided and make the session go by as quickly as possible. I wasn’t that successful. I spent the next two hours daydreaming and reminiscing about me and Sam making love. I kept licking my lips, crossing and uncrossing my legs. The pussy checks weren’t working anymore. As a matter of fact, I stopped doing them. I was doing all that I could to pretend that I was actually paying attention to the workshop. I just prayed that it would be over soon.

  At 11:15, Sam started taking questions from the participants. I wasn’t one of them. I wanted to ask one question just to show that I wasn’t in the least bit put off by the “teacher,” but I couldn’t remember a single thing he’d said. Not one. I tried to fake it by nodding my head at the questions the other participants had, like Oh, yeah! That’s exactly what I was thinking too! Didn’t work.

  “No questions, Ms. Davenport?”

  I couldn’t even pull together a good one this time. I just wanted this session, and my torment, to be over with.

  “None. Thank you,” I snapped. This Negro is picking on me. I hope he knows that I will cuss his ass out. I was fuming. There was a deafening silence. The other participants looked around sensing there was tension, but not quite sure why since I hadn’t so much as uttered one word since the beginning of class.

  Finally, Sampson offered, “Ladies and gentlemen if there are no more questions, that ends this session.”

  I jumped out of my seat and gathered my belongings to leave for my next class. Before I left, I noticed that a bevy of women had cornered Sam to ask individual questions or, which was more than likely, hit on him. Next to his honey-colored skin, he still kept his mustache and goatee well-trimmed. Couple that with the fact that he was bowlegged and fine as hell, Sampson drew women like bees to honey. I couldn’t blame them, but I knew what came along with the good looks and success. Heartache.