“Yea,” I smiled as I began to grind against his erection. “I left Dame. I moved out.”
I was so proud of my place, but I hadn’t acquired it the way I had told Dame I had. My mother hadn’t left me any money. Her life insurance had only covered her funeral and some expenses she’d left behind. For the past few months, I had been skimming off Dame's stash because I knew I was ready to leave him to be with G. I had spent most of the money renting and furnishing this house. I knew G would take care of me as long as I needed because he had told me he would as soon as I was free of Dame.
Staring up at me, G blinked slowly. “You did what? Why?”
I smiled bashfully. “What do you mean?”
“Why did you break up with your man?”
I cringed. I hated when he called Dame my man. In my eyes, G was my man; he owned this pussy.
“Because, babe…” I leaned into him, softly tracing the folds of his neck with my tongue and tasting his salty sweetness. “I want to be all yours.”
Suddenly, he gripped my sides and pushed me back. He looked into my eyes with furrowed brows. “You what?”
My happiness faded when I saw the frustration in G’s face. “I left him. It was over anyway. It's been over for years. Besides, I want you, baby. Only you. I love you.”
My hands went up to cup his beard, but his disgusted expression shocked me, so I halted, staring at his disgust with sheer surprise.
He chuckled dryly. “I don’t love you.”
My false mink lashes blinked rapidly. “Huh?”
He even laughed as he scooted over, lightly knocking me off of his lap. “I don’t love you.” He scooted away, far on the other end of the couch.
I watched him, not only in pure disbelief of his words, but of his sudden irritation as well. “You told me that you did. Many times.”
G shook his head and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, causing his two chains and their medallions to swing in front of him. “We both say a lot of stuff while having sex. I didn’t think we were supposed to mean it.”
I couldn’t breathe, so I forced out, “What? But I’m pregnant.”
“What?” Instantly, his bright, banana coated skin turned red. He was no longer laughing.
“I’m pregnant.”
Shaking his head vigorously, he stared at me as if I was an utter fool. “Maya, I don’t want to be in a relationship, nor do I want a child with you.” Then his laughter returned, only now, it was quite sarcastic and offensive.
The smile on his face was sickening. He actually thought all of this was funny.
“But you’ve been in a relationship with me for the last year.”
His chuckle was so heartbreaking. “No, I haven’t.”
My heart pounded hard and fast as anger and fear started to build. “What do you call the last year?”
“A very long booty call.” He was still smiling, and that was such a violent smack in my face.
I hadn’t been making up the last year with G. He had been whispering sweet nothings in my ear, telling me that he wanted this pussy to be his, that he loved me, that he wanted to wake up to me every morning.
“G…” I shook my head, giggling because clearly, G was just joking. “Stop playing.”
However, his hazel orbs had turned so cold as he looked at me. “I’m not playing. Have I ever asked you to be with me?”
“No, but—”
“No buts,” he snapped, standing to his feet. “Ain’t no buts!”
“Can you please be quiet?” I recoiled, embarrassment seeping into my spirit. “My kids are sleeping.”
“That’s what's wrong with women,” he went on. “You’ve been listening to your heart, instead of seeing this situation for what the fuck it is. Don’t you think if I wanted to be in a relationship, I would be in one?”
I stared, stuck, in pure disbelief as he walked towards the front door. G had indeed been single for a very long time. He had told me of his life as a bachelor for most of his adulthood. However, I felt like things were different between us. Clearly, I was far off the mark.
He stood in the entry to the foyer, shaking his head with that same condescending look on his face. “I don’t have any kids, and I am a successful man, who has never been married. You think if I wanted a woman, I would settle down with a woman with three kids, who's been cheating on their father for the last year?” He laughed again, to dig the knife even deeper. “Nah, baby girl.”
He started to walk into the foyer, towards the front door, and I panicked. “G!” I whispered hastily as I jumped to my feet.
“Don’t call after me. Call your man and get that nigga back.”
I was so floored that I was paralyzed with shock, unable to go after him as he walked out of my house. I plopped down on the couch, tears burning my slanted, brown eyes. I was ashamed, embarrassed, and heartbroken. The sounds of G’s Timberlands descending the porch resembled the sound of my happily ever after walking away from me as well.
I stared into space, wondering had I been so naive that I had just left my forever for a careless and very temporary moment.
Damien Coleman
The moment I walked into my mother’s house and saw that Que had the nerve to still be there, as if my mother hadn’t warned him that I was coming, sent my rage into overdrive. With his back towards me, he was standing at the island that separated the open concept kitchen and living room. My long, thick legs stepped over and around everything in my path as I stormed towards him. Just as he had turned to face me, I drew my arm back and drove my large fist into his face, attempting to cave that motherfucker in. His head flew back as his body flung in the same direction, causing glasses and plates that were on the island to crash against the tile floor. His hands rose to grasp his nose that was now leaking blood onto his white tee. His eyes were squeezed shut as the pain from my blow deepened. Therefore, he couldn’t see as I hovered over him, landing blow after blow amongst his defenseless frame.
I assumed that the deafening crashes and thuds were what had made my mother and sister aware of what was happening. I soon heard my sister’s gasps and cries behind me.
“Dame, stop! That’s enough!”
I knew my mother had nothing to say. She knew what was going to happen to him when she had called me over there.
Hearing Nimah’s voice had given him some courage. He started to attempt to fight back.
His fight only looked like struggle as my fist bore into his body. With each blow, I heard something crack against my knuckles.
Admittedly, I wasn’t even that upset that he had put his hands on my sister. I’d seen this shit coming. I had told Nimah for some time that his punk ass wasn’t right for her, but she insisted on running after this nothing-ass nigga anyway. I was more so pissed at his audacity to put his hands on her, knowing that she was my sister, as if he had the nerve to be fearless of my wrath; that and that I had lost my family. I imagined not being in the house with my girls enough to keep them away from niggas like Que, to ensure that Joziah didn’t turn out to be the same punk ass bitch. That thought only gave my blows more power, as I attempted to drive them through Que’s body.
The smell of our sweat started to mix with the familiar smell of my childhood home.
Even though it was obvious that he was delirious at this point, I gripped the collar of his white tee, the slight rasp of the material ripping accompanied my threatening slurs. “You put your fucking hands on my sister, nigga?”
“Dame, please?!” Nimah’s cries were annoying the fuck out of me.
One last blow sent his neck flying backwards. Suddenly, I heard my mother yelp. “Oh, God! Dame, that’s enough!”
I let him go, causing his body to slump to the ground. He was still holding his face as I turned to face my mother and sister.
Nimah was in tears as she rushed around me to comfort that punk.
My mother just stood there, but I could see the appreciation of my presence in her eyes.
Then, sudde
nly, Nimah gasped and yelled, “No, Que!”
I spun around to meet a gun in my face. Behind it, I could see Que’s threatening eyes that had already started to swell.
I could feel my mother’s tiny hands gripping my arm, pulling me back as I cracked a smile at Que, asking him, “You know what to do with that, lil’ nigga?”
“C’mon, Que. Let’s just go,” Nimah begged him.
I looked at her in disbelief, noticing the red marks embedded in her neck, flawing her chocolate brown skin.
Holding the gun tight, Que bit his lip angrily as his nostrils flared.
My smile widened. “You bet’ not miss, nigga.”
“Dame, would you shut up?!” Nimah shrieked. Then she began to beg Que, “Baby, please. Let’s just go.”
I watched as Nimah pulled him out of the house, hand in hand. Out of respect for my mother’s request for me to stop, I didn’t fold his ass up for having the audacity to pull a gun on me.
The moment the door closed, my mother sighed with relief. Staring at the chaos of broken glass around her, she shook her head, sighing, “Lord.”
“You asked me to come over here,” I reminded her with a nonchalant shrug.
“I know.”
“What happened?”
My mother, Luella, leaned against the wall, running her hand through her salt and pepper curls in frustration. “I heard them arguing while I was upstairs in my room. Then I heard her scream. I came downstairs and saw them tussling. I ran upstairs for my phone. After I called you, Nimah was mad at me for doing so because she was the one that started it.”
The thought of it made me shake my head. My twenty-five-year-old sister’s life had more dramatics than a fucking reality show. She loved chaos. It was like she chased it. Que was her most recent boyfriend. I hadn't gotten to know him too well because I knew he wouldn't last long, like the others.
“That don’t matter. I don't care if she hit him first; he shouldn’t put his hands on her.”
“I agree. I thought you would rough him up, not try to kill him, though. What’s wrong with you?” I shied away from her maternal psychic abilities.
She was my mama, the only woman I had a sweet spot for, besides my daughters. So, when she asked me that, I gave in to my pain and leaned back against the island, which was now smeared with Que’s blood. I stuck my hands in the pockets of my jeans as my shoulders sank from the weight of the world being on them.
“Maya left.”
I heard my mother scoff and then giggle a bit. “She always leaves.”
She then waved her hand dismissively as she grabbed the broom.
I wasn't offended by her dismissal. Maya had left me a few times over the years. She was always mad about something lately. She always came back, however, because the arguments were so trivial.
This time felt different, though.
“She’s for real this time, mama. She took the kids and got her own place.”
My mama froze, broom in mid sweep as she looked up at me.
“She said she’s tired.”
“Her mama just died—”
“She used that as a reason, but I don’t think it has anything to do with that, though. If anything, her mother’s death only gave her the courage to finally do what she’s been wanting to do.”
My mother forced a smile. “She’ll be back.”
“I don’t know if I want her to.” Answering my mother’s glance of disbelief, I told her, “I don’t know how I will live without my kids being in my house every day, but why should I keep pulling somebody back that keeps trying to leave? And she stole from me.”
My mother’s eyes widened.
I nodded to confirm my accusation. “Yea. I noticed it a few days ago. She’s been taking money out of my stash. Why she gotta steal from me when I have given her everything for fifteen years?”
She began to sweep, nodding in agreement. “You’re a good man, Dame. You don’t have to beg not nan’ soul on this earth to be with you. You don’t have to chase nobody. If they want to leave, let them. Hell, hold the door open for ’em.”
Then my mother stared into my eyes. Like only a mother would, she noticed the sadness behind the detached expression that I was trying to keep in order to maintain my own ego. Her shoulders slumped, as sympathy for me weighed on her shoulders. She walked towards me. She stood on her tiptoes to allow her tiny five-foot frame to reach my 6 ‘3” height. Even on her tiptoes, she wasn’t tall enough, so I bent down to assist her. She then cupped my face, the curly, shiny black hairs of my beard intertwining amongst her fingertips. When she kissed me on the cheek so softly, I felt something I had only felt since the last time she had done that, since the last time my children had embraced me. It was pure, genuine, and unconditional love. Even though I missed my family dearly, I knew that was what was missing between me and Maya. It had been for years… It possibly never existed.
Chapter 3
Tempest Murphy
Defeat weighed down my shoulders as I attempted to raise them in order to ring the doorbell of my mother’s home.
It had been three days since Derrick and I broke up. I had hidden away from the world for long enough. I had finally emerged from my home to come to this godforsaken monthly family dinner that my mother insisted on having.
Over the past few days, Derrick and I had talked, but only because he wanted to reiterate the fact that we were over and that I could keep the ring.
I fought back the heartache of our breakup while fixing my long, natural hair. In addition to my skin, I worked hard at everything about me being at its very best because I couldn’t hide my flaws as easily as others could. I always felt like everything else about my appearance and personality had to be perfect. Therefore, I had been growing out my hair for ten years with peppermint, black seed, and African black castor oil, and a few other natural oils that I experimented with over the years. When straightened, it was nearly to my waist. I clocked in at the gym five days a week, just like my nine-to-five. I worked mercilessly on having a stunning physique. I took after my aunts on my father’s side, who had wide hips that gave the perfect illusion of a Coke bottle.
I also took after my mother, who had big, perky breasts, even at forty-five years old. My skin was dark chocolate, and fortunately, the scars on my face were not raised, so they could be hidden with concealer and foundation.
I always presented myself as impeccably as I could. I wore the labels that I could afford. For those that I couldn’t afford, I had found a supplier in China who had unrecognizable replicas.
However, when at this house, I felt even more of an obsession to be perfect.
I finger-combed my blown-out wrap. I made sure that my pencil skirt was straight, and the long sleeves of the top were pulled all the way down to hide the scars on my arms that reached my wrists.
As I heard the latches turning on the door, I inhaled deeply, breathing in that cool March evening air. I then forced a fake smile just as the door opened.
Yet, the smile forcibly dancing on my lips faded as soon as I saw that it was Nneka on the other side of the door.
“Oh, it’s you,” she spoke dryly before turning on her red-bottomed heels and strutting away from the door.
“Who else did you think was coming to the family dinner, Nneka?”
She ignored my snarky comeback and kept walking, prancing in her pumps towards the den.
I groaned under my breath as I stepped over the threshold into my mother’s home.
I followed the smell of oxtails to the kitchen. A big, curly afro atop a killer figure for a nearly fifty-year-old woman met my eyes as my mother stood at the stove, stirring mac and cheese.
My stomach growled with anticipation as I announced my presence. “Hey, mommy.”
She spun around happily. “Hey, baby! I didn’t even know you were here.”
“Nneka let me in. She didn’t tell you?”
“No.” My mother was obviously hiding some disdain as she forced a smile. “It's good to see
you. Help me set the table.”
I obeyed. As we set the table for four, my mom and I caught up on my life. I told her about some tiring interviews I had been conducting over the past few days, then I told her about a new body scrub I had created that I wanted her to try. Aside from myself, my mother and sorority sisters were my Guinea pigs. Everyone called me when it came to skincare.
I could make anyone’s skin flawless, except my own.
I purposely left out me and Derrick’s break up because she had no idea I was even in a relationship.
As my mother and I set the table buffet style, heavy footsteps entered the kitchen. My skin crawled as I forced my eyes to stay focused on what I was doing, placing the settings strategically to avoid him.
“Tempest,” he greeted shortly.
When it took me too long to acknowledge him, my mother lightly cleared her throat.
So, I discreetly sighed, looked up, forced a smile and greeted my mother’s husband. “Hi. How are you?”
“Hungry,” he replied shortly as he sat at the table.
“Good, because dinner is ready,” my mother spoke past me and her husband’s tension.
“Nneka, come on!” Amaechi bellowed. “It's time to eat.”
Misery filled me. I felt my mother giving me begging eyes as I sat at the far end of the table, away from Amaechi, my mother’s husband, and where I knew his daughter, Nneka would sit.
My mother married Amaechi three years after my father died. Amaechi and I had a strained relationship the moment he moved my mother and I into his home. He was never overtly loving towards me. He never went over and beyond to be a father figure. He had known my mother and father before he married my mother. Amaechi’s mother lived on the same block as we did back then. Therefore, when he visited, he had seen my mother often. He always admired her and despised the young, American thug she chose to devote herself to. Amaechi would flirt with my mother, despite knowing that she was with my father. She always shut him down. He felt that being a rich, Nigerian, he was offering her a much better life and never could understand why she refused him. When he and my mother finally started dating, Amaechi and I would bump heads because he felt the distance that I put between he and I. I was and would forever be my daddy’s girl, and I could tell that he would have preferred if a daily reminder of my father’s love for my mother wasn’t a constant presence in their home. I had one father, and he had died tragically in that fire. In my eyes, no man could replace him. However, my mother missed companionship. In addition to being there for my mother, Amaechi was a successful real estate tycoon. Most of his properties were in his homeland of Nigeria, and others were sprinkled around the world. He even owned some homes in Dubai. The moment he married my mother, her life changed. She no longer had to work. She never struggled. I saw the happiness return to her eyes that had been wiped away when my father died. However, I could tell, and she would admit, that that joy would never be close to what my father gave her.
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