Never Too Soon

by Tamika Christy

  “You can’t just come into the living room while somebody is watching a show and change the channel without even asking them. It’s rude.” Anaya folded her arms.

  “I did ask, and you said no.” Andrew smiled. He was annoying but was still everyone’s favorite. Even when he was being a television hog.

  “Well then, you have your answer.”

  “Anaya, help me get dinner finished and let your brother watch the game,” Anita said. “It will be over soon. Then you can watch your show.”

  “Yes!” Andrew pumped his arm. “Love you, Ma. And Ny, you know you’re my favorite sister.” He blew a kiss across the room, which she ignored.

  “You always pick his side, mom,” Anaya whined, following her mom into the kitchen. “Always.”

  “I’m not picking sides.” Anita pulled some greens from the refrigerator. “Cut these up.”

  Anaya pulled out a cutting board and knife. “But it’s not fair. I finished my homework and my chores before I started watching television. Andrew walks in from practice, probably hasn’t done a lick of homework, and he gets to watch what he wants.”

  Anita sighed. “Life isn’t fair, Anaya, and I don’t want to leave this earth with you thinking that it is. You won’t always get your way, and sometimes you have to give, even when you don’t get anything in return. That’s just the way life is.” Anita walked over and held Anaya’s chin in her hand. “You’re strong and can handle more than most people. You understand? If you just do what you are supposed to do and don’t complain, you will always get ahead in life. Some of us are required to do more and you, my dear, are one of those people. You have to be smarter and stronger than other people, but you will be a better person for it.”

  Anita kissed Anaya on the forehead and released her chin.

  Anaya nodded and turned back to chopping. She didn’t want to be a better person. She wanted to get her way like her siblings always did. It seemed like she was always the one who had to give, and she rarely got anything in return. She had to help her mom cook, do the majority of the chores, and always concede when it came to her siblings. Andrew was the fun favorite and Ava was “sensitive”—whatever that meant. As far as Anaya was concerned, her siblings were spoiled, and being the middle child wasn’t fair.

  The back door that led into the mud room next to the kitchen slammed, and Anaya saw her mom straighten her back and take a deep breath. Her daddy stumbled into the kitchen, the scent of alcohol strong on his body. Anaya kept chopping the vegetables, but also watched the familiar scene, a tight knot of worry in her gut.

  “Hey, my beautiful wife,” Roscoe sang out. He dropped his lunch bag on the floor and tried to kiss Anita, but she turned her head slightly. He moved to sit at the table but knocked one of the chairs over. Anita started a pot of coffee.

  “Hello Roscoe,” Anita said tightly, glancing in Anaya’s direction. Anaya pretended to be focused on the greens. She didn’t want her parents to get divorced, but if Roscoe kept coming home drunk, she didn’t know what her mom would do. Anaya overheard her mom telling Aunt Marie over the phone that she was going to take the kids and move to Atlanta if Roscoe didn’t straighten up. Anaya didn’t know exactly what that meant, but every night, she prayed for Roscoe to straighten up.

  “Smells good in here, Nita,” Roscoe stammered. “You was always a good cook. I knew you was gonna make a good wife and mother.” He leaned forward to try to kiss her again and almost fell out of his chair.

  “Roscoe, drink this coffee.” She set the cup in front of him. Before he could even reach for it, he closed his eyes and passed out, head down on the kitchen table. Anita sighed. “Anaya, help me get his shoes off and get him into the den before your sister and brother see.”

  It wasn’t the first time Anita asked Anaya to help her cover up Roscoe coming home drunk. After Roscoe was snoring on the couch, the phone rang and Andrew yelled, “Anaya, telephone! It’s Sophie!”

  “I hate my parents,” Sophie said as soon as Anaya picked up.

  “What happened?” Anaya said. She listened to Sophie talk for thirty minutes about her parents missing another one of her dance recitals. There was no point mentioning how her daddy had just passed out. It happened all the time. She was strong. She could handle it. She could handle anything.

  The ding of a new email shook Anaya out of the memory, and she twirled her chair to face her computer screen. She squinted when she recognized the sender’s name. Now that’s a blast from the forlorn past.

  She couldn’t wait to tell the girls about this at brunch tomorrow.

  THREE

  “Do you like it?”

  Catie frowned as Antoine fiddled with the change in his pockets. His indifference was exhausting. They had spent two hours looking at cribs, and Catie was ready to make a decision, but Antoine apparently felt it was more important to clink the coins in his pocket. She agreed that most of the beds were white, frilly, and overpriced, but it was about the process. This was for their baby girl, for goodness’ sake. Their first child.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “No, you don’t.” Catie tried to control her irritation, but she was frustrated by what seemed like deliberate unconcern. Antoine knew that choosing a bed was important to her, and instead of being supportive, he was sulking and playing with the stupid change in his stupid pocket.

  “I like it. I just don’t know why you have to pick one that is so expensive,” he said, his voice so low that Catie had to lean in to hear.

  “This is the same crib Princess Charlotte had!”

  Antoine looked around the posh boutique and put his finger to his lips. “Shhh. I don’t care if it’s the same bed King Combs had. It doesn’t make sense to buy a bed that costs so much when the baby will grow out of it in a year.”

  “Don’t shhh me! And yes it does. It’s the best. I want the best for our baby, and you should too!”

  “Fine. Buy it.”

  Catie saw the woman behind the register look over at them, and she turned her back to the snooping sales rep.

  “Are you serious right now?” she hissed. It wasn’t Catie’s fault she could afford a luxury crib and he couldn’t. He should be grateful instead of standing there looking like he was going to puke. He was so ungrateful and contrary. And his constant clinking of coins made her want to scream. “Are you really playing with coins while we are deciding on a bed for our baby?”

  “Deciding? That would include discussion and compromise,” Antoine said with thinly veiled sarcasm. “I suggested Macy’s or Target, but once again you ignored me, and here we are at this hoity-toity furniture store with stuff that costs way too much.” They were losing their battle with discretion.

  “First of all,” she held up a finger, “I’m not buying my baby’s bed from Target. Have you lost your mind?”

  Instead of rising to the fight, Antoine seemed to deflate. “Catie, buy the bed. You want it, so get it. And put your finger down.”

  “We are supposed to do this together.” This was not how she had pictured crib shopping for their child.

  “Together?” he asked.

  “Together,” she repeated.

  “Buy it.” He pulled out his phone.

  Catie raised her eyebrows, spun on her heels, and walked away. “I’m not going to buy it if you’re gonna pout.”

  Antoine caught up to her by the door. “Just get the bed, Catie,” he said.

  “You don’t like anything that I like.” She kept walking, and he groaned and opened the door for her.

  “Have a great afternoon!” the clerk called as the door swung shut.

  Antoine and Catie had differing opinions about family, finances, where to live, what to name the baby, and whether or not to go to church. The additional conflict of choosing a luxury crib was the icing on the cake.

  Catie stared out the car window as they drove home. She was getting sick of Antoine’s indifference or worse, irritation, when she did something he didn’t like. He knew who she was when they got toget
her, and now he was complaining that she paid too much for things and worried too much about the store. She was a boss—literally, with her own clothing company—and that was never going to change.

  Antoine put a hand on her thigh and glanced at her. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I really, really don’t want to have another fight. It seems like that’s all we do lately. If you want to buy the bed, Caitlin, please get the bed. It’s just expensive and you know how I am, but I know you like finer things, so babe, just get it.”

  “It’s fine,” she said, but it wasn’t. She didn’t feel like talking to the man who had ruined her beautiful Saturday morning with nonsense. Antoine knew Target would never be an option for buying a bed. She continued to stare out of the window.

  Antoine sighed.

  Catie and Antoine had met as kids when Antoine’s mom, Wanda, dated Anaya’s uncle Riley. They fell out of touch when Wanda and Riley broke up but reconnected years later through Anaya. Catie had always been attracted to Antoine, and not just because of his model looks and perfect body. Antoine was kind and made up for his mediocre income with his genuineness and thoughtfulness. Once, Catie broke her heel at Anaya’s birthday party, and Antoine had carried her to her car. Neither of them knew their fathers, they both grew up in rough neighborhoods, and loyalty meant everything to them. At first, it seemed unlikely that they would survive as a couple, but two-and-a-half years later Antoine was still the blue-collar yin to Catie’s YSL yang.

  Their differences had started to clash more openly after moving in together last year, and even more since Catie became pregnant.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Catie was never too upset for food, but she wanted him to sweat it out for a while. She eyed him with frosty calm before saying, “Okay.” Then she asked, “Antoine, do you lie?”

  Antoine furrowed his brow. “It’s not my hobby or anything.” He chuckled. “But I’m sure I’ve told a tale or two in my day.”

  She studied his face, unamused. Antoine’s face was like an open book. “A tale or two?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you lie to me?”

  “Nope.”

  “So you always tell me the truth?”

  “What is this about, babe?” he asked.

  “What is what about?”

  “I don’t know. These questions. The attitude. Getting all mad about the bed. I just didn’t expect this today. I thought today was going to be . . .” He didn’t finish his thought and kept his eyes on the road.

  “Well?” Catie narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “Do you tell the truth?”

  “Catie, I do. I always tell you the truth.” He looked at her seriously as he pulled into the parking lot of one of her favorite restaurants.

  She folded her arms across her chest.

  “Do you want to eat here or do you want to get food to go?”

  “To go,” she pouted.

  Antoine got out of the car.

  To distract herself, Catie scrolled through Instagram while she waited for Antoine. Instagram was great for her business—she gained a lot of customers from posting—but she got tired of seeing the same posts over and over from the same overexposed people.

  Look at me in a bathing suit. I look great, don’t I?

  Look at my beautiful children and amazing husband.

  Look at me, I don’t know how to correctly upload photos, but I’m going to flood your timeline anyway.

  Look at me pretending to be happy when I’m utterly miserable and uncomfortable in my own skin.

  Look at me pretending to be empowering and uplifting when I’m indeed a hater.

  She was over it. She checked Kensington Palace’s latest posts. She adored Meghan Markle. Just as she zoomed in on a photo of Meghan and Harry, Antoine’s cell phone buzzed in the cup holder between the front seats. She absently picked it up and looked at the screen.

  When will I see you again? It’s been too long.

  Catie frowned and looked toward the restaurant doors where Antoine had disappeared.

  FOUR

  Sophie pushed her hair out of her face in blissful reverie as Jabari hugged her from behind as they snuggled on her Taiwanese chaise. He had brought Italian take-out, but they hadn’t stopped cuddling and canoodling since he arrived an hour ago.

  “You hot.” He kissed her welcoming lips.

  “So are you.” She ignored the trivial grammatical error that would make her cringe coming from anybody else. She grabbed his face and kissed him again. She was falling for him much faster than expected, even by her impulsive standards. Jabari said all the right things—though not necessarily in the right way—and revived her in places that had been dormant for months. She liked staring into his penetrating brown eyes, which were currently ablaze with desire. He smelled like wheat toast and his leathery hands assured her of what was coming next.

  As he rubbed his finger across Sophie’s cheek, she watched his gaze drop to her voluptuous curves. Sophie had gained a few pounds since leaving rehab, but no one except her mother Carmen would ever consider Sophie overweight. She wore outfits that worked best with her small waist and wide hips. Tonight, her black t-shirt dress shrouded her curves, and she opted for no bra. Her ringlets were pulled into a high ponytail, and she wore nude lipstick.

  It was their tenth date in six weeks. This was a record for Sophie, but she stopped short of picking out a wedding dress. For now at least.

  “You want to eat?”

  “Nah, I actually gotta get outta here pretty soon.”

  Get out of here? He’d only arrived an hour ago, and she hadn’t seen him in over a week. They hadn’t even eaten yet. And they hadn’t really talked.

  “No.” She wrapped her legs around him and squeezed.

  “My aunt been ridin’ me about movin’ that stuff out of her garage.”

  “Can you do it another time? You helped her last week.” It was late and dark. Who moved furniture in the dark?

  “I know. I’m almost finished though. She wants it cleaned out for her birthday party next month.”

  Next month? Surely he could miss one Saturday night.

  She moved closer to him and looked into his enticing long-lashed eyes. “Please stay.” She started kissing him on the neck, and he made a low, throaty sound and pulled her closer.

  “Ooh, girl, you don’t play fair. If you keep kissin’ me like that, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  “I’m not trying to play fair,” she said, kissing him more. “Stay.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Jabari was Sophie’s future husband. He didn’t know it yet, but she did. He was almost what she was looking for. In high school, her requirements for a life partner included a six-foot frame and post-graduate education. He had to be spiritual (not religious), emotionally mature, and commitment-ready with beautiful teeth, no baggage, a Caesar haircut, and no more than three tattoos. However, after countless dates and an equal number of disappointments, she had altered her preferences a bit. Who cared about tattoos? And haircuts—including hair—were now negotiable. And college . . . well, not everybody was college material. So long as he was motivated, Sophie could work with that.

  Jabari didn’t speak the King’s English, and he dressed like a cast member from Love & Hip Hop, but personal style was negotiable. She could work on that later. As long as the essence of him was acceptable, she didn’t worry about the little things. She wanted a garden wedding. No more than fifty guests. Anaya and Catie would be her bridesmaids, and she might even invite her mom. It was going to be perfect.

  They kissed until Jabari slowly reached beneath her shirt. Then Sophie pulled away.

  “Let’s talk.” If they were going to be married, they had a lot to discuss.

  He stiffened and she kissed him on the neck again. Jabari had proven not to be the best at communication, but he wasn’t going to weasel his way out of talking this time.

  “Do you remember that conversation we had last week?”

  He looked confused. D
id he forget or did he not want to talk about it? Probably both. These men and their inability to appreciate profound, emotional dialogue. She’d never get it.

  She looked into his brown eyes and reminded him. “We talked about the equity theory and the importance of reciprocity.”

  “Oh yeah . . . How about we talk about the equity of lovemaking and neck kissing?” He kissed her neck.

  Sophie pulled away again.

  “Okay,” he acquiesced and leaned on his elbow. The chaise was big enough for three people to sleep on comfortably. “We can talk, but let me ask the questions for a change.”

  “Okay,” she said, sitting up. “Shoot.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me who your dad was?” His gaze searched her face.

  She had expected that question at some point. She used the greatest discretion online because she didn’t want guys to know she was Terry Beat’s daughter. Being the child of a famous music producer who was a judge on a primetime talent show always complicated things, and she didn’t want anyone dating her because of her father’s fame. Granted, she should have told Jabari by now, but she hadn’t.

  “I don’t tell anyone that. Not until I’m sure.”

  “Sure about what?”

  “That someone wants to date me, not my dad.”

  “You think guys wanna date your father?” He sat up.

  “You know what I mean.” She sighed. “I don’t want guys trying to date me to get close to my dad.”

  “I feel you,” he said. “But I’ve been to your house like five times. Seems like you would’ve said something. I mean, I see his pictures on your mantel every time I come over, and my aunt watches his show.” He gestured towards the photo of Sophie and Terry in Dubai on a desert safari. “But it’s cool. I hold no grudges.”

  “Okay,” she said. She was used to asking the questions, but this was interesting too.

  “Why don’t you drink?”

  She swallowed a few times. This was tougher than she thought, but she was game. They had to get past these things. “I was in a rehabilitation center for alcohol and cocaine abuse. I’ve been clean and sober for almost four years and I do not and will not ever drink again. I love my sobriety and my sanity and have found other ways to stimulate myself when necessary.” She looked at him expectantly. His questions were hard, but she had put it out there. He could take it or leave it.