Nobody's Girl (4 page)

“This muthafucker crazy,” she said in disbelief as she headed to their bedroom.

“Hold up! Where you going?” Mills panicked. “I ain't mean it like that.” He followed behind her.

“All I'm sayin' is I fucked up. I should've told you the truth, but I knew if I did you'd leave me,” he pleaded as Farrah entered the master bath and slammed the door in his face.

“Farrah, open the door!” Mills turned the knob, only to find it was locked.

“Come on! Open the door!” He knocked. “I'm sorry! Farrah, please open the door!” He knocked again, to no avail.

Afraid of what she might do, Mills pressed his ear up against the door. The sound of her crying so hard she had to gasp for air caused his heart to sink. He never wanted to cause her this much pain. He'd tried everything in his power to avoid it, but he'd fumbled her heart yet again. Distraught, he slid down the wall and sat on the floor. With his knees up to his chest, he listened as Farrah's heart continued to shatter like glass.

What am I gonna do?
he thought. This time he'd pushed her to the brink of no return. There was no way she'd remain his. This one mistake had the potential to ruin everything. No amount of tears or apologies would fix it, but Mills was determined to find a way back into her heart. He'd set up residence there. It was home. She was home. This one thing wouldn't be the cause of their demise. He would say and do anything to win her trust back. Farrah just had to give him the opportunity.

 

 

Hours and hours went by before Mills realized dawn had come and he'd unwillingly fallen asleep. Outside the window before him, the sun was in full view. Groggy and sore from sitting on the hard wooden floor all night, he stretched his arms and legs. But stretching didn't stop his bones from feeling like blocks of cement. No amount of bends or twists would erase the kinks in his body, but all of that was miniscule compared to his drama with Farrah.

Farrah
, he thought as flashbacks from the night before flooded his mind. Swiftly spinning around, Mills shot up on his feet. He naturally assumed that the bathroom door would still be closed and locked, but to his surprise it was wide open and Farrah was nowhere to be found.

“Farrah!” He searched the bathroom and their bedroom frantically, to no avail.

Each second that passed and her angelic face wasn't in his presence, Mills lost his willpower to breathe. She couldn't be gone. He had to find her. His life depended on it. Without her he was lost. His whole existence would add up to nothing. They'd finally begun to get it right. There was no way he could lose her now.

“Farrah!” he yelled, racing into the living area.

There he found her with a duffel bag on her shoulder, about to unlock the door and leave.

“Hold up! Where you going?” Mills's voice cracked as he ran to block her path.

Thankfully, his years of athletic training paid off and he was able to slam the door shut before she could escape.

“Move, Mills.” Farrah cocked her head to the side and rolled her eyes.

“Come on, Bay, you gotta at least let me explain,” Mills pleaded. “After everything we been through, you at least owe me that much.”

No he didn't
, Farrah thought, feeling her heart slice open.

Before Mills knew it she had reared her hand back so far she and Jesus high-fived, then she slapped him so hard his bottom lip began to bleed.

“I don't owe you shit!” Farrah's bottom lip quivered. “Do you have any idea what you've done to me? You have destroyed me! For a year you have sat there and lied to my face over and over again like it ain't nothin'! What—you get some kind of sick-ass pleasure in hurting me?”

“Nah, it ain't even like that,” Mills tried to clarify.

“Shut up!' Farrah slapped him again. “You don't get to talk!”

“Yo don't put yo' hands on me no more,” Mills warned, stepping into her personal space. “I understand you mad, but don't put yo' fuckin' hands on me!”

“Oh, you supposed to be big and bad now! Fuck you! What you gon' do? Have a baby on me! Oh, wait!” Farrah placed her index finger onto her chin and thought.

“You already did that. So tell me?” Farrah stood back on one leg and crossed her arms. “When exactly did you fuck her? Was it while we were together or after we broke up?”

“That ain't even important.” Mills hesitated to tell the truth.

“It's obvious it's not important to you, but it is to me! Come on!” She dropped the duffel bag to the floor and held her hands up, as if to say,
Bring it on
. “You wanted to talk, so let's talk! Be real for once in yo' life! Was it good? Was it everything you wanted it to be?”

“Farrah,” Mills clenched his jaw. “I love you. I swear to god I ain't mean for none of this to happen. I fucked up, but if you'll give me a chance to make it right I put that on everything I will.”

“Are you fuckin' kidding me?” Farrah screwed up her face. “I give you a chance to speak and that's the dumb-ass shit you say! What don't you get? I'm done fuckin' wit you! There will be no second chance! I'm done! Me and you are finished!”

“Stop—you don't mean that.” Mills shook his head.

“Okay, if that's what you wanna believe.” Farrah shrugged her shoulders, then bent down to grab her bag.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Mills lost it and took her into his arms and held her tight. “You ain't going nowhere. You my baby. I love you. We can work this shit out.”

“There is nothin' to work out.” Farrah struggled to break loose. “Now get off of me!”

“Come on, Bay, just calm down.” He tightened his grip on her. “Just breathe. Can we just breathe for a minute?”

“Fuck breathing! Can't you see I'm already dead?” Farrah pushed him with so much force that his back hit the wall.

“I have never loved nobody the way I love you.” She began to cry. “Not even Khalil and look what you've done to me.”

“I'm sorry,” Mills said sincerely.

“Well, this time
sorry
isn't good enough.” Farrah swallowed the tears in her throat and picked up her bag. “I'm done. Don't call me, don't come lookin' for me. Just leave me the fuck alone.” She unlocked the door and left.

Mills wanted to continue to put up a fight, but he knew that the right thing to do at that point was to give Farrah some space. Continuing to push the subject would only make her resent him more. He hated to let her walk out the door. Watching her board the elevator was the most excruciating form of torture he would ever have to bear. However, it had to be done.

He'd pushed her too far this time. At that very moment as the elevator doors closed, Mills's lungs instantly stopped producing air. Farrah was the vital organ that he needed to breathe. He didn't know how long it would take or what he'd have to do, but losing her for good wasn't an option. Mills was determined to get his baby back.

–
Jhené Aiko, “2 Seconds”

 

As Farrah reached the door to her old apartment, she couldn't figure out if the load of her duffel bag or the load in her heart was greater. She hadn't been through anything this traumatic since her breakup with Khalil, Kimye's baby announcement, and that time when she was thirteen and got caught stealing the R&B group Total's cassette tape from GrandPa Pidgeon's. Neither of those experiences or life lessons could compare to this.

She knew eventually she would get over Khalil, Kanye's lapse in judgment, and her short stint as a thief, but what Mills had done to her would forever leave a severe scar etched across her heart. Or had she done this to herself? The day he came to her job, begging for forgiveness, a part of her knew that he was hiding something, but she loved him and wanted her happily-ever-after so much that she willed herself to look past her own woman's intuition.

Now, here she was, paying the ultimate price. Sorrowfully, she unlocked the door and instantly began to cry. In two weeks she was due to be married. She never imagined she would end up back where she started, hurt and alone.

“Farrah, is that you?” London stepped out of the first-floor bathroom with a blush brush in her hand.

On the inside, Farrah responded
yes
, but all she could summon on the outside was a head nod and a loud wail that came from the depth of her soul.

“What's wrong?” London raced over to her dressed in nothing but a black-lace bra and a black, high-waisted, pencil skirt.

Farrah wanted to answer her friend, but all she could do was drop her bag, cover her face, and cry. Worried sick, London wrapped Farrah up in her arms and hugged her tight.

“Farrah, what is it? Is it the wedding?”

“No,” Farrah sobbed.

“Is it Mills? Is he hurt?” London held her at arms length and examined her.

“I just—can't—believe—he—did—this—to—me.” Farrah's chest heaved up and down. “I—loved—him.”

“Who? Khalil?” London said, confused.

“No! Fool!” Farrah snapped, hitting her on the arm.

“My bad.” London massaged her arm. “I'm just trying to figure out what the hell yo' crazy ass is talkin' about.”

“No.” Farrah wiped her nose with the back of her shirt. “It's Mills.” She sat down on the bottom step.

“What he do now?” London stood in front of her.

“He had a baby on me, that's what he did.”

“You say what now?” London said, stunned. “Wit' who?”

“Guess.”

London paused for a brief second, then gasped.

“No.” Her mouth fell open.

“Yep,” Farrah said, nodding. “Jade.”

“I feel like I'ma faint. I gotta sit down.” London slid down the wall and fell to the floor in a heap.

“Now you see how I feel,” Farrah chuckled, wiping the tears from her face.

“What is yo' ass doing here? Why you ain't in jail?”

“I'm too pretty for jail—besides, his punk ass ain't even worth it.” Farrah waved her hand.

“You better than me, 'cause I would be in handcuffs and a straitjacket right about now.” London rolled her neck. “How did you find out? Did he tell you?”

“Hell, naw. A letter came in the mail from DFS,” Farrah explained.

“Get the fuck outta here.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Farrah pursed her lips as Mills called her phone again for the umpteenth time.

“Is that him?”

“Yep.” Farrah sent his call to voice mail.

“Remember yesterday when we were talkin' and I rushed you off the phone?”

London nodded.

“That's when I found out.”

“What did Mills say when you confronted him?”

“That it ain't his. Ooh,” Farrah said excitedly. “The baby is a lil' girl and guess what the bitch named her?”

“What?” London cocked her head to the side and tuned up her face.

“Jaysin . . . Cori . . . Mills. Now, how you like them apples?” Farrah pointed her index finger.

“Bitch, you lyin'?”

“I put that on my new Celine bag.” Farrah held up her right hand as if she was under oath.

“Oh, she tried it,” London stressed. “Jade need to get somewhere and have every seat in Busch Stadium.”

“Right,” Farrah agreed. “The court is ordering Mills to take a paternity test because Jade wants child support. But apparently Mills has been paying her every month for the past year. So something must've happened between them that made her mad. 'Cause why else would she suddenly decide to file papers on him.”

“So who ass you wanna kick first, hers or his? 'Cause all I gotta do is change outta this skirt.”

“Girl, I couldn't fight nobody right now if I tried.” Farrah placed her head down and paused. “I just don't know what to do.” Tears slid down her cheeks.

“I mean, it's obvious that you still love him, 'cause love don't go away in a matter of hours. The question is, Do you love him enough to stay with him, get married, and play stepmama to his demon-seed baby?” London probed.

“I honestly don't know.” Farrah shook her head. “I just can't believe this nigga been lying to me for a year straight like it was nothing. Like all of those times we talked about having another baby and this nigga already got another bitch pregnant! I mean, he sat there and let me look like a complete and utter fool. That's what hurts the most.”

“Do you think the baby is his?”

“Yeah,” Farrah said confidently. “It's obvious that it is. Who would give a chick money for a year for a baby that ain't his and on top of that, go to such great lengths to hide it? But let him tell it ain't his. That's all he keep on sayin'—
it ain't mine
,” she mimicked Mills.

“Idk, friend. And look, I ain't never the one to tell nobody to leave they man, ‘cause I ain't the one laying up wit' you at night. Now, I'll hold your hand in the morning, but that's about all I can do—”

“Will you shut up?” Farrah laughed.

“Seriously, I don't wanna be that friend that be like, Girl fuck him, leave his wack ass alone, but girl, on the real:
Fuck his lying, trifling, bicycle-riding, blockhead ass!
Leave his ass the fuck alone! You don't deserve that shit!”

“I know I don't.” Farrah laughed somberly.

“So it's obvious neither one of us is going in to work today, so what do you wanna do? Lay in the bed and go to sleep, watch a movie or get white-girl wasted?” London shot Farrah a devious grin.

Farrah needed some weed or liquor in her system, because she was about two seconds away from flippin out.

“White-girl wasted!” Farrah jiggled her titties.

“Well, come on then.” London eased her way up from the floor and held out her hand for Farrah.

 

 

It wasn't even 1:00 in the afternoon and Farrah and London had consumed three bottles of peach Cîroc and a bottle of Moët. Rihanna's club hit “Pour It Up” was on and turned up to the highest volume. Stacks of twenty, fifty, and hundred-dollar bills were sprawled all over the floor. Neither London nor Farrah gave a shit if their neighbors had a problem with their midday house party. Farrah needed to relieve some stress and instead of being a weak broad who did nothing but cry into her pillow for hours, she decided to drink her problems away.

It wasn't like she hadn't been here before. This form of heartache was nothing new; only the person who caused it was different. With her glass in hand, Farrah lay on the couch, grooving like she was in her own personal music video. With her hands up in the air she sang, “
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh all I see is signs, all I see is dollah signs. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh money on my mind, money-money on my mind.”

“Farrah!” London yelled from the kitchen, holding a lit blunt between her manicured fingertips.

“
What?
”

“Is that a purple monkey on the balcony?”

Farrah arched her head back and looked.

“No, bitch,” she giggled. “That's a squirrel.”

“Oh,” London replied, stumped.

“Anyway.” She took another toke from the joint before passing it to Farrah.

“I'm telling you. We should throw on some Vaseline, a T-shirt, jogging pants, and some Tims and go see about that nigga.”

“Who, Teddy?” Farrah said, inhaling the smoke into her lungs.

“No, dummy, Mills.”

“Oh.” Farrah slapped her hand up against her face, feeling stupid.

“I'm telling you, girl, right about now I'd beat his ass like Joseline did Stevie J in that therapist's office.” London sparred with the air.

“I ain't tell you, girl! I slapped him . . . twice,” Farrah stated proudly.

“Good. At least you got two licks in on his ass. Oh, my god.” London stopped dead in her tracks.

“What?” Farrah eyed her.

“Turn the music off,” London ordered, frantically.

Farrah quickly put the stereo on pause.

“What is it, girl? You see the purple monkey again?” Farrah turned to her side, alarmed.

“No . . . Whitney Houston is dead. She gone!” London began to cry.

“
Whit-ney
! Why you have to take her, lord,” she yelled, to the ceiling. “She ain't do nothin' to nobody! You could've took Bobby! Nobody would've cared!”

“We love you, Whitney!” Farrah shouted.

“
And I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I will always love you
,” London sang, hugging herself.

“I got his ass.” Farrah drunkenly fell off the couch and began to crawl around the floor in search of her phone.

“Phone,” she whispered. “Phone? Answer me. Where are you?”

“What are we looking for?” London got down on all fours too. “Ooh, I know. We looking for Ciara's career.”

“Friend, have you seen my phone?” Farrah wiped a trickle of spit from the side of her mouth.

“Yeah, it's right here.” London pulled it from her left bra cup. “Here, girl, I ain't want the purple monkey to get it.”

“You know what? You's a real bitch. I would die for you.”

“Awww, that's so sweet.” London poked out her bottom lip.

“If this muthafucka think he gon' cheat on me and get away wit' it, he got another thang coming! I'm about to give his ass a piece of my mind.” Farrah laid on the floor in a fetal position and texted Mills.

Instead of responding back via text, Mills started to call her phone.

“What?” Farrah answered.

“Can we please talk?” Mills pleaded.

“No!” Farrah hung up the phone in his ear and texted him.

A half an hour later, Farrah was knocked out on the floor with her phone firmly clutched in her hand. Hours had gone by and the only thing that made her wake up was the sound of her cell phone ringing. Farrah groggily stared at the screen. It was Mills. She didn't have the energy to slide the bar over to answer, let alone open her mouth to speak. Pissed because her head felt like a block of cement, she dropped the phone to the floor.

She hadn't had a hangover like this since her twenty-fifth birthday party in Vegas. Judging by the darkness of the living room, Farrah could tell it was late into the night.
How long have I been asleep?
she wondered.
And where the hell are my pants?
Thoroughly confused and extremely hungover, Farrah lifted herself and sat up.

“Ughhhhh.” She held her head as a surge of pain rushed through her brain. “I feel like shit.”

“Now I know how Lindsay Lohan feels,” Farrah heard London say from a distance.

“London?”

“Huh?” London answered, sounding out of breath.