Rich Girl Problems (13 page)

T
he wee morning breeze was cool as it blew into Jaise's face and she stared into the new day's darkness.

What the hell am I going to do?

She huffed. Turned from the window and leaned her back against her farmer's sink.

There's nothing left to cook.

Her eyes scanned her kitchen table, which overflowed with the hot and piping feast she'd just completed minutes ago:

Chicken smothered in homemade gravy.

Yellow rice.

Steamed cabbage.

Cheddar cheese grits.

Scrambled eggs.

Maple bacon.

Biscuits.

Boiled apples.

Banana bread.

Cigarettes.

She walked over to the table and reached for her cigarette case, which sat on the edge of the table. She fumbled as she tried to open it.

Why does this always happen?

Jaise tapped the case's clasp on the edge of the table and it popped open with ease. “Nothing?!” A lump filled her throat as she stared at her reflection in the mirrored case.

You don't need any cigarettes any damn way. And you need to stop cooking and eating everything in sight. You've resorted to wearing leggings, wrap dresses, and stretch pencil skirts in a piss-poor effort to avoid seeing the ten pounds you've gained. You are just a fat, miserable ass—!

Stop it!

Jaise closed the case and fixed herself a full plate of food. She sat down on her antique church pew and crossed her legs. The ten pounds she'd gained must've all gone to her thighs; resting her left thigh over her right one was a struggle. She eased her leg down and settled for crossing her ankles.

Jaise sopped a biscuit in the gravy on her plate and took a bite.

All you do is eat, cook, smoke, and sleep, and none of it makes any damn sense. All you're doing is running away. Well, your size-sixteen hips, double D breasts, and those love handles you try and hide will not let you run that fast, and one day, you're going to sprint your chubby ass into a mirrored brick wall right smack into the miserable bitch you really are.

Stop it!

Jaise looked down at her plate and realized that she'd eaten everything on it. She replenished it. Sat back down and sopped her biscuit.

You've always wanted a good man . . . and you had one. One who loved you. And he didn't call you fat, miserable, slap the shit out of you and tell you you deserved it. He loved you just the way you were. You were enough for him and he was exactly who you'd prayed for. But you didn't want a good man. The motherfucker who kicked your ass got more respect than the one who truly loved you.

Stop it!

She reached for another biscuit.

Stop what? Telling yourself the truth? You don't have anything else to cook and no cigarettes left to smoke. There's nothing left to do but listen to your damn thoughts, 'cause nobody knows you like I know you. And I know you may have prayed for a good man, but you have never felt like you deserved him. Because your grown ass is still the same fat-ass little girl who your daddy told you would always be second best. And you believed him. So when a great man came along, you put everything and everyone before him because you couldn't believe that you were actually his top priority. And you couldn't believe that because underneath all of your testimonies of love and light you are a low-down, greedy-ass, emotional liar who will never feel good enough!

Stop it!

It's not true.

It is true and you know it!

She reached for a biscuit. They were all gone. She opted for two pieces of chicken, thought it over for a minute, and reached for a third piece.

Why don't you have your man at home?

“Instead of worrying about who's fucking your son, you'd better worry about who's fucking your husband!”
Journee's voice invaded her head.

Shut up!

Somebody's fucking him!

“Bilal wouldn't do that to me,” Jaise said to no one in particular.

You don't know that. You don't know what he would do. The only thing you knew about your husband was that he would leave you. And he did.

Tears ran from Jaise's eyes and under her chin. She chewed slowly at first, but soon quickened the pace. The iron fist in her throat made it hard to swallow, but she attempted. She failed, and gagged. She reached for a napkin and spit out what was in her mouth. She wanted desperately to stop the tears, but she couldn't. Her chest hurt, her back hurt, her eyes burned, and her cheeks felt deflated. Everything was a blur. She even thought she could see Jabril sneaking a girl out the front door, but she wasn't sure. And she didn't give a damn. She just wanted her thoughts to stop kicking her in the head and shooting the pain down her spine.

She wanted to eat her miseries away in peace. But she couldn't. And here she sat, a bumbling fool, holding her third plate full of food, yet feeling like she was starving to death.

Call him.

I can't.

Why?

I don't deserve him. . . .

You're stupid. So you're just going to give your man away!

No.

Then call him.

What if he doesn't answer?

What if he does?

Call him.

Jaise walked over to the vintage pay phone on her kitchen wall. She reached for the quarter she kept on top of it and dropped it in the upper slot. Instead of dialing, she listened to the dial tone and a few minutes later, a loud busy signal invaded the line and the quarter dropped into the bottom slot.

She reached for the quarter and held it in her hand.

Call him.

She dropped the quarter in the slot and dialed the number quickly. He answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Bilal.”

“Jaise?” She could hear a slight panic in his voice. “Are you okay? What are you doing up this time of the morning?”

“I just called to see what you were doing.”

He hesitated. “I'm in my car. Just getting off work and headed home.”

Hearing him say he was “headed home” felt like someone had pounded her in the lungs and knocked the breath out of her.
Say it.
“I want you to come home,” she said quickly, before her tongue changed its mind.

Silence.

“I love you and I need you. I do. I'm lost. I'm confused. I want to make love to you. I need you. You're my best friend. My everything. And there's nothing left for me to cook and all my cigarettes are gone. And I'm so, so sorry. I just—” Her words turned into inaudible sobs.

“Baby,” he called.

“And I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. Please give us another chance,” she cried.

“Jaise, calm down and listen to me.”

She shuddered and wiped tears. “I'm listening.”

“This time it has to be all or nothing.”

She wiped tears from her eyes. “It is. It's all and everything.”

“No half ass. We're in this marriage and we're committed to it. You and I. That's it.”

“That's it.”

“And I understand that you love your son, but he has to leave. We can't live in the same house. He needs to make it on his own.”

She sighed. “I know.”

“I know you want what's best for Jabril, and I do too, but you're going to have to practice tough love so that he can learn how to be a man.”

“I hear you, Bilal.”

“I want my wife. The woman I fell in love with. I want it to be us.”

“Yes, yes, yes. Just say you'll come home.”

Bilal released a deep sigh. “Open the door, baby. I'm already here.”

S
ummer 1991.

Playground 52.

South Bronx.

R & B singer Aaliyah was hot. Hip-hop artist Ice Cube was even hotter, and his hit “The Wrong Nigga to Fuck Wit” floated like a musical cloud through the air. And while eight-year-old Milan turned double Dutch, ten-year-old Kendu break-danced.

“That is so played out.” Milan smirked as she looked at her friend Sharifa. “Who is that bama?”

Sharifa cheesed. Hard. “That's Kendu. My home skillet. My boo.”

Milan stopped turning, causing the girl who jumped to step on the rope and be called out by the other girls who stood waiting. She completely faced Sharifa and said, “That's who? And he's your what?”

“My home skillet. My boo.”

“Why you lying? Your mama won't even let you talk to a boy. So you know that is not your boo. You probably don't even know him.” Milan twisted her lips.

“So what if I don't know him yet. He's lives down the hall from me with Ms. Lucy. You know—she keeps foster kids and he came last week. Special delivery for me.”

“Whatever. Foster kids are scrubs anyway, and you need to tell him to stop dancing like that. 'Cause it's played out.”

“Milan, would you come on!” yelled the girl holding the opposite end of the rope. “They wanna jump.”

“You'd better slow down!” Milan cocked her neck and yelled back, “I'm coming.” She looked back at Sharifa. “You always like them dirty boys.” She began to turn.

“Wassup?” came from behind them.

Milan dropped the rope and she and Sharifa turned around.

Kendu and his friend stood there. “Wassup?” Kendu repeated.

“Hey, Kendu.” Sharifa grinned. “I live down the hall from you. ”

“Word. ” He nodded, looking Milan up and down. “Who you?”

Milan fought back a blush. “Somebody and that's all you need to know.”

“You real cute, Somebody.”

“I know this.”

“I got a dollar; we can get some ice cream and kick it for a minute.”

Milan looked toward Sharifa, who stood with her mouth hanging open. She handed her the ropes. “Turn. I'll be back.” Milan walked toward the ice cream truck with Kendu. “You'd better have a dollar too.”

“I got you. I promise.”

 

5 a.m.

I should've kept turning and let Sharifa have the ice cream.

Tears filled Milan's eyes as her memory faded and she ran her hands over Kendu's cold and empty side of the bed.

Maybe I should've stayed at Chaunci's a little longer.

I don't believe this.

Believe it.

She glanced at the sitting area in her master suite and her eyes landed on the red leather sectional. Her mind drifted into a memory of sitting there and watching Kendu on
Scoreboard,
his ESPN morning show, feeling privileged to be his wife.

She smiled and her eyes danced to the fireplace mantel where their wedding picture hung. A jagged pain sliced down the center of her chest and tears eased down her cheeks.

Stop crying.

She stirred and turned toward the French patio doors.

You've been crying for way too long.

This wasn't meant to be a fucked up fairy tale.

Well, it is.

I love him so much.

He doesn't appreciate it.

I don't know what to do.

Yes, you do.

Should I leave?

Hell no.

Milan wrestled in the sheets as she turned back toward the double door entrance and saw Kendu, standing there, just arriving from California with his suitcase in hand and his tired eyes locked into hers.

She quickly wiped away the tears that continued to escape down her cheeks.
Breathe.

“We need to talk.” He sat his suitcase on the floor.

“Why?” she answered. “I don't have shit to say to you.”

“Then you need to listen. Now, I love you and I'm sorry that I lied to you about what I was really doing in LA—”

“Oh, so now you want to confess the truth?”

He ignored her comment and continued, “There was no convention—”

“I would've never guessed.”

“And I actually spent the night in West Hollywood—”

“Hollywood?” She felt an invisible fist shoot through her chest. “So you got a famous bitch in addition to the side slore who was at my door? I should slice your fuckin' throat.”

“I went out there because I was given an opportunity to start my own sports network. I wanted to actually purchase it and surprise you with it before I told you. That's why I lied to you. But that other shit about some chick and some baby, I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Here's what I expect: for you not to ever lose your damn mind again, run up on me, and show your ass like that in public!”

“Excuse you?”

“I don't know what is wrong with you! But you'd better get it together.”

“You can't be serious.” Milan hopped out of bed, feeling like she was in Oz. Did he think he was going to waltz in here and she was going to care that she embarrassed him? This motherfucker was crazy. Had to be. “You have lost your mind! Do you really think you're going to apologize and then put this shit on me? You're the one fuckin' bitches, making babies, lying about where you've been. You ain't shit!”

“What baby?! I don't have another damn baby and the only one I'm fuckin' is you!”

“Oh, puhlease! So the whore who was at the Met Gala, the
same
bitch who followed me and the nanny through the park, and the
same
bitch who showed up at our doorstep is what? A figment of my imagination? Spare me. I know and you know that you're a cheatin' motherfucker—”

“I never cheated on you. I
cheated with
you!”

“Whatever. That has nothing to do with that bitch coming to my door telling me how she thought you would've told me about the two of you—”

“What?!”

More tears filled Milan's eyes and streamed down her cheeks. She quickly flung them away. “That damn baby looked just like you!” She pointed into his face.

Kendu shook his head and said more to himself than to Milan, “I'm going to find this bitch and when I do, she's dead.”

“How would you know where to find her if you don't know who I'm talking about? You need to work on telling better lies!”

“What's the bitch's name?” he pressed.

“What? You know her damn name! Don't play dumb!”

“I promise you, if I knew her name and I knew who she was, I would be leaving here right now, going to find her and fucking her up!”

“Whatever!”

“What the fuck is her name!” He clenched his jaw.

“You tell me; you're the one sleeping with the bitch!”

“Do you even know her name?!”

“I don't have to know her name to know you're her baby's daddy!”

“I have two babies: Aiyanna and KJ.”

“That baby looked exactly like you!”

“Did she tell you that was my motherfuckin' baby?!” The veins in his neck stood out and his eyes bulged. “Answer me!”

“She didn't have to say that! I know what the fuck you look like and I know what that damn baby looked like. White chicks are not just floating down the street with black babies unless there's a black daddy attached to their asses! I'm sick of your shit! I've been putting up with it since I was eight and I've had enough!”

“Then maybe you need a damn change! Because I'm tired too. You're accusing me of something I didn't even do behind some bitch I don't even know!”

“You know who she is!”

“I just told you that I didn't!” Kendu walked up so close to Milan that she was forced to take steps backward, stopping when her head hit the wall. “You just let some random chick and her baby come up to you, call my name, and instead of you cussing her out and telling her to get the fuck away from here, you take a plane to come see me and ruin what the fuck we got?!”

“I handled her! And that's right. I got my ass on the plane because I had to handle you!”

“Let me tell you something, Milan. I love you. I would die for you. But I will divorce your ass.”

“What?” Milan gasped. She expected to curse him, dig her way to his core and force him to feel the ache she'd been rocking in her chest since she laid eyes on that trick and that baby, but him threatening to divorce her was never on the agenda. If anything, that was her damn line. Yet, here they stood, locked in an intense stare that felt more like a test of their hearts than of their wills.

Milan sucked in a deep and painful breath, not knowing how she would force it to come out—would she bellow it out of her mouth or would she hold it and pass out? Her marriage flashed before her eyes. More tears slipped out. She wanted to believe him. She needed to believe. But her mind held on to the possibility that none of this was true. Her heart pounded.

She searched for words.

Nothing.

He wiped the stream of tears that covered her cheeks and for a moment they stood in toxic peace.

“I love you,” Kendu whispered, breaking the silence. “But I have to know that you trust me. I have to know that my wife will not believe anyone else over me—”

“Knott.” She called him by the childhood nickname she'd given him.

“I have to know that, Milan. Otherwise we don't have anything.”

“But the cheating—”

“Have I ever cheated on you, Milan? Ever?”

Silence.

He continued, “And, yeah, I had a wife before you, but I was always in love with you—”

“Do you think I liked always being on the fuckin' side?” She pushed him on the shoulder.

“I didn't force that on you! You agreed to it. You played your damn position and that's what the hell you need to do now. Play your damn position as my wife and stop acting like some insecure side jawn.”

“Fuck you!”

Kendu looked Milan over and said, “Fuck me? Is that how you really feel? So we're done here? This is it?”

Fix it. Suppose he's telling the truth.

Suppose he isn't.

“Knott, I just—”

“Milan, I don't want anybody else but you. You gotta know that. I love you. You and my kids are my world. I need you to believe that.”

Trust him.

I can't.

Fix it.

“Knott, I just . . . I just . . . felt like I was losing everything.”

“I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you.” Kendu pressed his forehead into hers, softly kissing her on the lips. “I've never loved anyone the way that I love you.”

She kissed him back, slipping her tongue into his heated mouth.

“I'm sorry, Milan. I won't lie to you again.” He lifted her up and laid her on the bed. “But you gotta know I would never cheat on you.”

I don't know that.

But I want to know that.

Stop thinking.

Milan watched the moonlight slip between the eyes of the electronic miniblinds as Kendu undressed. His beautiful body, highlighted by protruding muscles, deliciously suckable pecks, and a dick so pretty that she grew a new appreciation and admiration every time she saw it. She ran her hands over her nipples and squeezed.

Kendu lifted her gown over her head, pushed her breasts together, and latched on to her chocolate nipples. He gave them one last kiss and pinch before he made his way down to the center of her belly, arriving at her shaved middle, slowly parting it, easing his tongue into it, and tasting her pussy—made butterscotch one tongue stroke at a time.

Milan felt her volcanic mountain preparing to erupt. She opened her eyes and swore she was in heaven. She had to be. Because the ecstasy that cocooned her body and caused her to thrust uncontrollably against Kendu's mouth couldn't have come from any other place.

“I want you to rub it on my face.” Kendu lay on the bed and Milan sat on his face. He dipped his fingers and tongue back into her wetness. Sucking her erotic lips into his mouth, squeezing her clit, and licking the sides of it. Her thighs shook, her pussy pumped, and sweet milk escaped from between her pink lips into his mouth and oozed onto his chin.

“Every time that I'm with you, that I feel you, that I taste you, I know that I'm home,” Kendu said, as he pulled Milan's ass onto his shaft. She arched her back and held her head down and he spoke with every thrust and pound of his never-ending inches. “And don't you ever let anybody”—he yanked her hair—“ever fuck that up.”