The Lies: The Lies We Tell About Love, Life, and Everything in Between

by Christina C Jones

  I shrugged, then pushed out a sigh. “Aiight. Can’t blame a man for trying, right?”

  “With a face like mine? Nope. I’d think there was a problem if you didn’t try.”

  I threw my head back, laughing at her little display of cockiness. “You know what… I can’t even play you about that, cause you’re right. Still homies?”

  She raised that eyebrow again. “Were we homies before?”

  “Damn,” I chuckled. “I would think after last night… before the kitchen cleaning started… we would qualify. My bad.”

  “No,” she giggled. “I guess you’re right. We can be homies.”

  “Homies… with benefits?” I asked, extending my fist in her direction.

  She shoved my hand away as she laughed. “See? There you go, already about to make me change my mind.”

  “I’m messing with you,” I assured her, holding out my hand again. This time, she returned the gesture, and I grabbed her hand before she pulled it back, kissing her fingers as she laughed again.

  I really was just playing with her. If she wanted to keep it on a friendly flirting level, I was cool with that. Behind that shit with Audrey… I wasn’t interested in anything beyond that anyway.

  {three} her lies

  I didn’t want to open my eyes.

  Some days, it was just like that.

  I would’ve liked nothing better than to just remain in bed, and do nothing. Not talk, not dream, not think, not move. Only because it was keeping me alive did I have any desire to breathe.

  Zion was already up, and I could hear him. The open and close of the refrigerator as he made himself breakfast. The sound of the water from the hallway bathroom as he brushed his teeth. The screech of the ironing board, his stilted words as he rapped along with Chance in his headphones while he got himself ready for school.

  We’d raised him this way, me and my parents. To be able to care for his own basic needs, to get used to doing these things so he wouldn’t grow up to be some bum that had to be coddled and coached through every little thing.

  My self-sufficient baby. My world. My everything.

  “Mama, are you up yet?! The iron won’t get hot!”

  I took a deep inhale through my nose, then pushed it out through my mouth. He needed me. I had to breathe.

  Zion was a superhero. He saved my life, over and over.

  “Did you reset the outlet?” I called as I forced my eyes open, and pushed the covers back. The extra fifteen minutes I’d spent languishing in bed this morning were fifteen minutes I would have to make up elsewhere. I caught a glimpse of myself in the vanity mirror, and sent up a silent “thank you” to God that my scarf had stayed on overnight. With my short hair, I could get away with leaving it slicked down, at least until I got to the shop.

  Maybe I can find time after my first appointment?

  “Yes ma’am! It’s still not working!”

  This time, Zion’s voice was right outside my door. I moved from the vanity to open it to his handsome face, and gave my thank yous to God again that my baby looked more like my family than his father’s. “You sure it’s turned up?” I asked, and he nodded. “Okay. I’ll come look in a second.”

  With my door closed again, I quickly got dressed, in simple skinny jeans, black combat boots, and a black tee shirt. I threw on silver hoops and a few bangles, then went to the bathroom, where I tucked a towel in the front of my shirt to avoid toothpaste splashes from brushing my teeth.

  One hand controlled the electric brush while I pushed it around my mouth, and I went into the living room to find Zion bopping around to whatever was playing in his headphones. With my free hand, I messed with the iron for a couple of minutes, trying to figure out the problem before I finally shook my head, and went to rinse out my mouth.

  “Did you get it fixed?” Zion asked, peeking his head around the door.

  “I guess it just burned out baby, sorry. I’ll get a new one this afternoon.”

  His mouth dropped, and he pushed his headphones back. “But what do I do this morning? I need to get ready for school.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Uh… you put on some clothes? Just do some jeans and a hoodie, that way you don’t even need the iron.”

  “But today is Jess’s birthday mama! I can’t wear a hoodie, I’ve gotta look fly!”

  It was a struggle not to roll my eyes, but I managed. This time last week, it had been, “It’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow mama! I can’t just get her bear from the convenience store, it’s gotta be fly.”

  “Why do you have to look fly on her birthday?” I asked, turning on the hot water and grabbing a fresh towel for my face. “Isn’t she supposed to be the one dressing up?”

  “She did, so I can’t look busted,” he explained, pushing his cell phone in my face. I let out a huff, but took the phone to look at the screen.

  Jess was a pretty little girl, with deep cocoa skin and voluminous hair that her mother had obviously let her straighten for the occasion. It fell around the shoulders of her black sweatshirt, with #TEENAGER printed across the front in silver. She’d paired it with mint-colored skinny jeans and black converse, and today’s glasses – I’d noticed she had a little collection – were a mint color that matched her jeans. Her mouth glittered with braces as she grinned at the camera.

  “Okay, so I guess I see her little just-turned-thirteen slay,” I admitted, handing him back the phone. “But we don’t have time to go get a new iron before school, nor do we have time to get you to your grandmother’s to iron over there. I’m sorry sweetie.”

  “It’s okay. Thank you for trying to fix it.” His shoulders drooped as he turned away from the door, and I really did feel sorry for him.

  “What are you trying to wear anyway?” I asked, stepping into the hall.

  “My black button up, jeans, Jordans,” he listed off, turning back to face me.

  I nodded. “Okay… didn’t you iron your gray one to go to church with your grandmother last Sunday, then changed your mind and wore a sweater? Did you hang it up?”

  His eyes lit up. “I did! Thanks mama!”

  Shaking my head, I turned back into the bathroom, looking into the mirror to wash my face. Kids never looked for shit, apparently.

  He definitely still needed his mama.

  &

  Once I got Zion off to school, I headed in to the salon. My first appointment was at 8:15, and I wanted a few minutes to get set up before hand, so that my stuff didn’t eat into her appointment time. It was something my clients had grown to value about me – the fact that I valued their time – and I didn’t want to get out of the habit.

  I spoke to the few people who were already inside, and headed straight to the back, to my locker. I was just pushing the key in when Gina, the owner, peeked her head around the corner.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said, flipping a handful of her long extensions over her shoulder.

  My hands stilled as I reached to hang my purse up, but I quickly caught my composure. “I have an appointment in like twenty minutes,” I said evenly, not wanting to drop a clue that she was making me nervous.

  Gina wasn’t exactly icy, but she was serious about her business. She didn’t dish out nonsense, so she wouldn’t take it either, and with her flawless hair, flawless nails, flawless skin, flawless brows, and affinity for red-bottomed shoes, she was the flyest woman I knew in real life. She also owned the flyest, most upscale black salon in the city. I’d only been here two years, and my biggest opportunities, most loyal clients, and best education had come from being here, at Studio G.

  I hoped this wasn’t the end of my road.

  “It’ll only take a few minutes,” she said, in a tone that made it clear this wasn’t up for debate.

  I nodded, and she walked off, heels clicking against the polished floor as she went. I pushed out a deep breath, then pushed my supply cart out to my station, where I left it before heading back to the office. On the way, I caught a glimpse of myself in the long mirror.


  Ugh. Of all the days to not have my hair done.

  My quick makeup job – liner, mascara, BB cream – would have to get me through.

  I knocked on the closed door, and was immediately beckoned inside. My eyes went first to Gina, leaning against the edge of her desk in the large, elegantly decorated office, and then to her husband, Larry, leaning against the edge of his desk, which faced hers.

  Their whole business encompassed two spaces – Studio G, the salon space, where I spent my time, and then the barbershop next door, StudioCuts, which Larry ran. I never had a reason to go over there – I cut Zion’s hair myself, as good as any other barber – which is probably why I didn’t recognize the wide-shouldered piece of chocolate that turned to look at me as the door closed at my heels.

  I stopped in my tracks.

  Dark skin, dark eyes, dark locs. Similarly tall frame, thick torso, sculpted jaw.

  Alternate universe Kyle.

  “Brandi, this is our newest senior barber, Marshall. Marshall, this is our newest senior stylist, Brandi,” Gina said, and Marshall’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. Probably because my hair wasn’t done. He looked away from me, turning, to Larry and Gina, who were smiling hard. Gina pushed away from her desk, and clapped her hands. “Surprise!”

  It occurred to me then that she’d referred to me a “senior” stylist, when my official title had been just “stylist” since I started. My eyes got big then, as I realized what was happening.

  “Wait a minute,” I said, putting a hand to my chest. “I’m getting promoted?”

  Stepping to the middle of the room, Larry nodded. “You both are. It’s just simpler to tell you both at once, since your new responsibilities – and benefits – are similar. You’ll be able to charge more for your services now, and you’ll have your bookings and appointments handled for you. And, you may be chosen to come along to assist when we’re booked for celebrity clients.”

  “Are you serious?” I whispered, as immediate tears sprang to my eyes. Gina and Larry both nodded.

  “The two of you have shown a level of skill that surpasses the title you held before,” Gina explained. “Larry and I discussed this long and hard – neither of you have been with us the five years that we customarily use as threshold, but quite frankly, we need you. You’re both professional, your clients love you, you never cause trouble, or drama. We’re being offered more and more work with exclusive clientele, and we need people that can deliver the level of excellence they’re paying for. That’s the two of you.”

  I was speechless.

  I’d often noticed Gina watching me in the salon, but I thought she was doing that with everybody. It didn’t bother me, because I knew my shit was tight. Proper sanitation, flawless technique. I kept up with my trainings, got new certifications when they came out. I was on it.

  And she’d noticed.

  “Thank you,” Marshall said, speaking for the first time. His voice was deep, and smooth as butter. His stride was confident as he closed the distance between himself and the owners, to shake their hands. I shook off my momentary admiration of him long enough to follow suit, with gushed “thank yous” for both of them, and hugs.

  After that, Marshall and I turned to each other, more by reflex than actual intention. There was an awkward moment where neither of us knew what to do, but then he smiled – a gorgeous smile – and pulled me into a hug that was warmer than expected.

  “Congratulations,” he said, and I swallowed hard and tried not to inhale, but he smelled so damn good I couldn’t help it.

  “Congratulations to you too,” I responded as I pulled back, hooking my thumbs in the belt loops of my jeans to control the urge to fan myself. That hug had kinda set me on fire.

  “Well, that’s it for now,” Gina said, with a little smile that made my spidey senses tingle as she looked back and forth between Marshall and I. “I know you two have clients to get to, but maybe some other time, the two of you can get together and celebrate.”

  Yep.

  There it was.

  “Simpler” to tell us both at once my ass.

  “Uh, yeah, maybe,” I said, not looking in Marshall’s direction. “I have to go set up for my appointment, but thank you again. So, so much.”

  After that, I got my behind back out to my station.

  While I couldn’t be certain, I was pretty sure I’d just escaped an attempt to get fixed up. I didn’t doubt that we both deserved to be promoted, but there was no other real reason for breaking the news to us at the same time.

  I didn’t have time to dwell on it though. I rushed to have my station set up by the time the hostess brought my client out to me, and went right to work. As soon as she got into my chair I was on autopilot, braiding her hair down, and then installing her sew-in on top. I could feel my phone buzzing in my back pocket, but I ignored it. I had it set to actually ring if there was an emergency – meaning, if I was getting a call from my mother, Zion, or Zion’s school.

  When my client stood up from my chair, she was wearing a huge smile – another happy customer. She agreed to let me snap a picture for my Instagram page, so I pulled the phone from my pocket, frowning when I saw that I had two missed calls and several texts from the same person. I cleared the notifications and took the picture so my client could leave, and then I went to actually look at the messages.

  “Brandi, could you please pick up the phone? We need to talk. – Scott.”

  “Our son needs to see his parents handling ourselves with some maturity. You said that, and I agree. Ignoring me… isn’t that. Pick up the phone, please. – Scott.”

  I kissed my teeth. This dude had a world of nerve, implying immaturity on my part as if he had been in my son’s life more than the three years he had. He’d never held Zion as a baby, never played hide’n’seek with him as a toddler, hadn’t taught him to tie a pair of shoes. Hadn’t bought a diaper, paid a month of daycare, had never cut grapes in half for his lunch. Yet, he wanted to come in and just integrate himself like he’d been there the whole time.

  I could barely stand his ass.

  Since I had a little time before my next appointment, I went into the breakroom to call him back, growing more annoyed by every ring that passed without him picking up. He finally did, after the sixth one, and my response to his rushed “hello?” was a snappy, “What do you want?”

  “Damn,” he replied, with a low whistle. “Did I catch you at a bad time or something?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Unless you’re calling about our son, it’s always a bad time.” I heard the heavy sigh he let out, but refused to feel bad. We were in this place by his doing.

  “It could be argued that this is about Zion,” he said, and I shook my head.

  “So what you’re saying is, it’s really not.”

  “No, it is,” he insisted. “I’d appreciate it if you and I could sit down to talk… maybe over lunch. I’m free today, if you are.”

  “To talk about what?”

  Another sigh.

  “Brandi… I know I’m not your favorite person in the world—”

  I busted out laughing. “That’s one way to put it.”

  “But… I really just want us to be able to get along. I see people all the time, going to their kid’s recitals, and practices, and games together, even after they’re divorced, broken up, whatever. They’re able to talk, and laugh, and just… be in each other’s presence, without it being contentious. I want to talk about how we can get to that point.”

  I laughed again. “You’ll need a time machine for that, Scott. Go back to the point where I came to you, scared and in love and cautiously optimistic because I’d found out I had your baby growing inside of me. Do you remember what you said to me?”

  “Brandi, we were young—”

  “You gotta get rid of that,” I spat bitterly into the phone, as tears welled in my eyes. “That’s what you had the nerve to say to me, after you talked me into not using condoms. What, you didn’t remember rubbing my back, dayd
reaming with me about how it would go if I got pregnant. Me being scared not to use protection, but giving in because you promised my gullible ass you’d take care of me?”

  “Please, if you—”

  “You didn’t take care of shit,” I growled. “Your bitch of a mother had the nerve to come to my house after they shipped you off to go be a little Talented Tenth frat boy, and imply that I wasn’t good enough for you. I was nineteen years old, with shredded nipples from trying to breastfeed, with my parents picking up extra shifts to pay for diapers while you wrecked luxury cars cause you drank too much in your designer clothes. But I was the undesirable one?! Fuck her, Scott. And fuck you. Your son was ten years old before you ever picked up a goddamn phone, and don’t you dare blame that on your mother.”

  There was quiet on his end, before he cleared his throat. “I fucked up, Brandi. I know that.”

  “So then if you know that, you shouldn’t have to wonder why I have no desire to get along with your spoiled, selfish, immature, lying ass. I would urge you to find whatever satisfaction you can in the fact that your son even knows your name. Consider it a blessing that I let you have contact with him at all. This other shit you’re talking about? You can hang it up. Just like I’m about to do with this phone.”

  I was shaking when I brought the phone down from my ear and pressed the button to end the call. I didn’t wait for a response because I didn’t care to hear it.

  Nothing he could say would be good enough.

  It was easy for other people – my friends and family, namely – to think maybe I was being too harsh. Teenagers are stupid, people change. Sure, maybe so. But that didn’t change the fact that he’d hurt me to the core, and I wasn’t really sure my heart had ever recovered. It didn’t change the fact that he and his family had pressured, almost threatened me to have an abortion, and that they’d essentially ghosted me when it was clear I had no intention of getting one.

  Not to mention, it took him ten years to ever acknowledge Zion.

  Teenagers may be stupid sometimes, sure, but he hadn’t been that in a long time. As far as I was concerned, he had no excuses. And honestly? It was fine. Zion had an excellent Uncle and Grandfather, plus enough family friends to have a great male presence in his life. We’d done just fine by him without Scott, and I’d been adamant – maybe stupidly, but anger and pride won that battle – about never asking him for a dime.