Follow the journey of Abby and Tony as they navigate the highs and lows of a complicated relationship in this heartfelt a real look into love without labels.
It was Christmas Eve in 2011, the night the unexpected happened-my last week in Florida before relocating to Washington, D.C., for my first real job. Jacksonville's holiday club scene was in full swing, packed with college students home for the break, ready for a night of drinking and dancing.
I had been at the club, sipping on Crown Royal with my friends, when I spotted her. Abby. She wore a stunning purple skintight dress that complemented her flawless coffee-colored skin. Her long, dark hair framed her beautiful face, which featured captivating brown eyes that hit you like Roy Williams; for the record, that's attractive to a Dallas Cowboy fan. She was skinny, not skinny as in boney but skinny as in slim with shape, she will be perfect after a baby or two. But what struck me most was her aura, a resting bitch face that seemed to be her essence, a defense mechanism against the unwanted attention of eager suitors.
My attempts at making eye contact with her were futile, she sidestepped me like Tom Brady in the pocket. Yet, this only piqued my curiosity. Something was alluring about a woman who eluded my advances. I relished the thrill of the chase, and if my pursuit were a rating on Madden, it would be a solid 95.
I was a little tipsy and feeling myself after a long night of popping Crown Royal bottles with the homies before I left for DC. Summoning the courage, I left the VIP section and approached her at the bar. "You're kind of cute," I ventured, trying to catch the bartender's attention. She laughed, sipping her drink, while Drake's "The Motto" played in the background, filling the air with its catchy beat. (everyday, everyday) "Kinda," she replied playfully.
"Where are you from?" I asked, attempting to maintain eye contact, although she continued to avoid it. "Here," she answered simply, surprising me. I felt like I knew every attractive woman in Jacksonville, but she was a newcomer to my radar. "Wow, I've never seen you before," I remarked. "I've seen you," she admitted, still evading my gaze. "Tally. You went to FAMU, right? You hang with my cousin sometimes." I nodded, recognizing the connection. "Did you go to FAMU?" "Nope, I went to FSU," she proudly declared.
Now, she had my full attention. FSU was where I had done my best work. I'd never dated women from my own school because I didn't want to complicate things on campus. My father's words echoed in my mind: "Never shit where you sleep." She finally looked me in the eyes and surprised me once again. "Let me buy you a drink," she offered, signaling the bartender. I was taken aback; it wasn't common for women to buy drinks for men. My curiosity had turned into fascination. "No, let me buy you a drink." "You look like you drink Hennessy," she observed with a sly grin, waving to the bartender. She had a good sense of humor, knowing that saying that to a Black man from Jacksonville was both an insult and a compliment.
As I realized that I hadn't even gotten her name, I excused myself and headed to the bathroom, phone in hand. Checking my texts, I found messages from Jessica and Craig. The excitement of my upcoming move to D.C. was evident in Jessica's text:
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Josh, on the other hand, was waiting for me at the door.
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Back in our section, I found Abby laughing with our friend. "Antonio," she said, holding a bottle of Hennessy. "Yo, chill with the government name; everyone calls me Tony." "What's your name?" I inquired. "Abby."
We continued talking throughout the night, shouting over the booming music. Our fascination with each other grew with every exchanged glance and shouted conversation.
Love you like a brother, Treat you like a friend. Respect you like a lover Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh When a girl says this is my song and it's a slow jam this your opportunity and I took it. I gave her that tap on my favorite part of a women's body. I don't know what its called but its where the hip meets the ass. Imma call it side ass. I tapped her on the sideass. Then sled behind her put my hand on her hips. We bumped and grinded on to another planet. In the dimly lit club, we were in our own world, moving to the rhythm and feeling an undeniable connection. When the song ended, we looked at each other, and I mustered the courage to ask for her number. But she dropped a bombshell, "I have a boyfriend." It was then that I remembered I had a girlfriend waiting for me in D.C. A guilty wave washed over me.
"Well, I have a girlfriend," I confessed. "Let's have a great time tonight and leave it all here," she suggested.
I loved her off jump.
The night continued, and Abby and I danced, laughed, and shared stories like we'd known each other for years. It was as if the world around us faded into the background, and the club became our private sanctuary. As the hours passed, the initial guilt I felt about my girlfriend in D.C. began to dissipate, overshadowed by the magnetic pull of this chance encounter with Abby. The music pulsed through us, and we swayed together in perfect harmony, lost in the rhythm and the electricity of the moment. Abby leaned in close, her lips grazing my ear as she shouted to be heard over the music. "Let's get some fresh air," she suggested.
I nodded, and we made our way through the crowded club, finally emerging into the cool night air. The contrast was striking - from the dimly lit, pulsating world inside to the serene, starlit night outside. We found a quiet corner of the club's outdoor patio and settled into a couple of chairs. The night sky spread out above us, a canvas of twinkling stars that seemed to echo the glint in Abby's eyes.
"So, Tony," she said with a sly smile, "tell me about your life in D.C."
I retrieved a cigar from my pocket and commenced the ritual of lighting it. As the flame flickered to life, I found myself opening up, sharing the innermost corners of my soul-my dreams, my aspirations, and the electric anticipation coursing through me about my impending job in Washington, D.C. The blend of coffee and almond danced tantalizingly on my taste buds.
Abby, her gaze unwavering, listened with a focused intensity that seemed to drink in every word. With a deliberate grace, she reached for my cigar, bringing it to her lips and drawing in a slow, measured puff. "This is a good cigar," she remarked.
It was as if she possessed a unique talent for delving into the deepest recesses of my being, coaxing out facets of myself I hadn't even fully explored-like an enigmatic puzzle I was eager, almost compelled, to decipher.
In turn, she shared her own aspirations, her love for art, and her desire to make a mark on the world. Her passion was infectious, and I was drawn even further into her world. As the night wore on, our connection deepened. We exchanged stories of love, heartbreak, and the winding paths that had brought us to this moment. Abby had a way of making me forget about the boundaries and responsibilities waiting for me in D.C., and for the first time in a long time, I felt truly alive.
But the night had a way of slipping through our fingers, and soon, the club began to empty out as patrons headed home. Abby and I stood up, both reluctant to let go of the magical evening we had shared.
"I should get going," I said, the weight of my obligations returning to my conscience. Abby nodded, her expression tinged with a hint of sadness. "I understand. Duty calls."
As I made the long drive to my parent's house in the countryside, thoughts of Abby swirled in my mind.
