“What do you mean, hand them over?” I was in complete disbelief. I sat back in my seat and looked around the restaurant. Everyone seemed to be having such a great time. There was the couple in the corner cooing at each other, and the sister with long blond dreadlocks feeding her baby sticky rice. Everyone, even the damn waitress who couldn’t speak a word of English, seemed happy, except for me…and I was sitting across from the man I loved.
“What did I do to deserve this?” I looked back at Julian, feeling as desperate as I sounded. I could feel my heartbeat change from fury and shock to just plain sadness. I was fighting a losing battle and I knew it. Even the waitress, who was now standing next to Julian with our bill, looked like she was about to bend down and give me one of those big church-mother hugs. “What did I do?”
“See, I knew you would try to make this about you. Everything revolves around you, doesn’t it? No one else can dream or speak unless it fits into your little script of what life is supposed to be about.” He paused and handed the waitress his black AmEx card before she walked away. “I just can’t take it anymore. You’re just too spoiled.”
“Why are you being so cold? How could you treat me like this?” I asked, wondering how the waitress got back to the table so fast with the card. Without answering me, Julian signed the check and handed it back to her. He leaned toward me, smiled sweetly, and reached across the table for my hand. Was he playing with me? Was he about to propose marriage? I wiped my tears and gave him my left hand. He squeezed it—clenched it like he was Dr. Phil and nodded his head in this therapy-ish way he could have learned only in medical school.
“Look, just put the keys in the mail,” he said as coolly as if he was setting up our next date. He kissed me on the forehead and smiled. “I’ve really got to go, darling.”
Just then, as he turned his back on me, the clock struck 3 p.m., his pager went off and my Prince Charming walked out of our favorite sushi bar and into the streets of New York—alone.
So that’s how my sad situation started. Walking out of that restaurant that Wednesday afternoon with every eye fixed on me, I was sick and nearly suicidal. It’s funny how losing your man, more than any of the other things in your life, can make you like a woman on her deathbed. You feel like you’ll never see the sun rise over Manhattan again.
I felt like I was on some silly candid-camera show. While Julian and I definitely went through our share of “I need space” drama, that didn’t separate me from any other woman who was dealing with any other man—especially a successful man. I never would’ve thought that he would really split up with me—not for real, for real. Inside, I couldn’t even believe he was serious this time. He was just as feisty and nervous about commitment as all of my other friends’ boyfriends-turned-husbands, and everyone had assured me that if I stuck it out, he’d come around and realize that he was supposed to be with me. So what the heck was happening? As I said, Julian was one of the good guys. The man visits his ailing grandmother every Thursday night. He’s no heartbreaker. Julian was just heaven-sent—at least that was the way it had seemed when we met just over a year ago at the bookstore at NYU.
It was definitely an unlikely meeting. It was the beginning of my second semester at NYU Law and I was there to pick up a book…and maybe even a man if one crossed my path. I spotted Julian as soon as he walked in because he looked like a lost mountain man. His beard was completely overgrown, his shirt was all crooked and crumpled, and his hair was in desperate need of a cut. Before I got a good look at him, I thought that he’d just escaped from the city jail, but the closer he got, the more I knew this wasn’t the case. Even a lesbian had to admit that beneath the rough edges, there was a fine-ass black man.
Looking at his calm hazel eyes and roasted-pecan skin, I just wanted to have his babies and play in his thick, jet black hair for the rest of my life. While I was sure he wasn’t a good fit for me socially (seeing as how he was an escaped convict), within the two seconds it took for me to squeeze past him in the doorway, I rationalized that we could live off of my salary after I graduated from law school and settle down in one of my father’s properties in downtown Brooklyn. I could clean him up a bit, show him the high-society ropes, and help him get back on his feet. Squeezing by only made my interest grow. My hazel-eyed, ex-con/future-husband smelled like a cloud and his stomach was completely solid when I stood on my tippy toes and brushed my bootie up against it—don’t be jealous, I said excuse me.
When I turned to put my school bag in one of the free lockers, I decided to drop my book and prayed he would notice. He’d pick it up, I’d smile and say, “Thank you. Let’s go home now, fine-ass man.” I thought it was a pretty solid plan. I pulled my torts book from my bag and looked toward him to make sure he would notice the drop and have no choice but to acquiesce.
That’s when I saw the scrubs. The blue freakin’ scrubs. My heart started racing. I felt sweat beads forming on my forehead. I reached for my compact; I needed to check my makeup. I reached for my two-way pager; I needed to text my girls. I reached for my phone; I needed to call my mother. A doctor, I thought, feeling my Gucci bag fall to the floor. He’s a doctor. Did I say that aloud?
“Yes, I’m a doctor,” Hazel Eyes said, looking at me. “Can I help you?” He reached down and picked up my bag.
Dumb ass, dumb ass, dumb ass. I silently cursed myself for letting “doctor” slip out. Now I was looking like a gold digger—thank God I don’t fall for that label. Seems like every time a sister reveals that she’s trying to have a successful man by her already successful side, folks start calling her a gold digger. I say it’s bull. I’m not a gold digger. I’m a gold sharer; I have mine and my man had better have his own.
“Are you okay, sis?” Hazel Eyes asked. I couldn’t say anything. I was stunned. My future son’s father was a door-opening panhandler when I first walked into the store and now he was a doctor. I needed time to work it all out in my head. I needed a new plan.
“I’m sorry. I was just trying to remember my professor’s name,” I managed to say. Good catch. Good catch.
“Oh, I thought you were talking to me,” he said. “I was wondering how you knew I was a doctor.” He smiled and I do believe I witnessed the cutest white teeth I’d ever seen. I couldn’t help but to return the favor. By the time he handed me my purse, we were exchanging names and numbers. It’s amazing what a smile and a growing concern over the irregular heart palpitations I only experience in bed will do. Hey, I just needed some advice.
A week later, while walking through Central Park, Julian would tell me that he knew I was lying about not knowing he was a doctor, but he thought it was cute that I was so fast on my feet. He was doing his residency at NYU Medical Center and that day he’d stopped by the bookstore to pick up a book for a new recruit. He was glad he did. He’d noticed me as soon as he entered the bookstore. He said my skin that was just a few shades darker than the sweetest vanilla bean ice cream was striking. Right away he noticed the thin spray of light brown freckles that swept across my nose from cheek to cheek—a genetic gift from my mother I was always trying to hide with makeup—and thought he’d like to kiss each one of them as he made his way to look into my dark brown eyes. Plus, he’d always had a thing for sisters with a little extra shape to their derrières, and mine was looking like a perfect size ten in my fitted black slacks. I was definitely his type and he was trying to find a way to introduce himself when he heard me say “doctor.” It was music to his ears. And listening to this description of me as we walked through Central Park with snow falling all around us and kids laughing and playing was certainly music to mine. I do believe I was already falling in love with Julian.
With a romantic beginning like that, who ever would have thought that we’d end up breaking up over sushi? I kept asking myself that question over and over as I drove home from Shimizu. That was just not how love stories went—not in any of the romantic movies, fairy tales, books, songs, poems, or limericks I’d ever laid eyes on. It was supposed
to be happily ever after like it was for Cinderella and that green girl in Shrek. It was supposed to be a happy ending. For once, it was supposed to be my happy ending.
But it wasn’t, and after spending the rest of the day and the entire night crying and thinking about where in the world I’d gone wrong, I was feeling down and I was definitely out. Locked up in my apartment for almost twenty-nine hours straight, I was feeling like the loneliest person in the world as Wednesday had washed away into Thursday. Although I was used to being alone on Thursdays while Julian visited his grandmother in Queens, it didn’t feel the same. There was no one waiting to see me, no one I was waiting to see. Just me and Pookie, the damn dog I picked out, locked up alone in my apartment. I was now a single dog parent, a neglectful one, and there was only one thing I could do to stop myself from completely losing my mind and swallowing a bottle of Ambien. Call my girls.
Meet the 3Ts: Troy, Tasha, and Tamia
While there are some things I absolutely hate about being a woman (crippling cramps and bad hair days being at the top of the list), the one thing that makes up for all of the drama is having girlfriends. They know your dirt, they keep your dirt a secret, and when called upon they’re usually willing to do your dirt.
I just happen to have the best dirt-doing girlfriends in the whole world—Tamia Lovebird and Tasha Lovestrong. No, those aren’t their real last names; we all chose best friends’ last names when we formed our ultimate girlfriend supper club during our sophomore year at Howard University. Swearing off all other girlfriends, we held hands around a bucket of KFC in my dorm room, took on last names that all began with the word “Love” (mine being Troy Lovesong), and named our alliance “The 3Ts.” After that faithful, finger-lickin’ night, we were stuck together like Krazy Glue and it’s been that way for the last six years. Hands down, while they can be a little crazy, my girls are my rocks, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
It had been twenty-nine hours, about twenty-nine thousand tears, and twenty-nine million doubts after my breakup with Julian when I finally picked up the phone to call on the other 2Ts. While inside I just wanted to barricade myself in my bedroom and cry for the rest of my life, I was sure that little plan wouldn’t work, because my father would stop paying my rent at some point. So it was time to face the girls and talk it out. Wasn’t that supposed to make things better?
“Hey, T, I’m about to meet my study group at the library. Can I call you back?” Tamia asked, answering my call on the first ring. She always picked up on the first ring, and no matter what time of day I was calling, she’d sound as if she was wide awake, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, studying, studying, studying. That was just her thing, though. I guess you could say she was the nerdy friend. Tamia got straight A’s all through Howard U. and she was now in the top 1 percent of our law school class. Yes, she was the 3Ts resident Einstein, but Tamia’s brains weren’t to be mistaken for a lack of beauty. She definitely wasn’t the kind of girl you’d introduce as simply being “nice.” While she preferred less social circles than the ones Tasha and I frequented in undergrad, Tamia was the envy of the campus. Crowned Ms. Howard University twice (yes, twice), Tamia complemented her brains with a beauty most of the women on campus found unattainable and the men found irresistible. Her flawless deep mocha complexion played second fiddle only to her near black, brown eyes that seemed to always be looking at something beautiful. Her lips were perfectly round and puckered in a perpetual kiss that needed not a dab of lip gloss.
“Okay,” I said, trying not to sound too sad. I guess the Mary J. playing in the background gave me away.
“What’s wrong?” Tamia pried. “Is that Mary you’re listening to? You okay? Everyone okay?”
“I’m fine.” I burst into tears for what had to have been the billionth time. Even the idea of saying what went down with Julian the day before made me break down again. What a mess. “You can call me back when you get done at the library,” I rattled off.
“Well, you don’t sound fine,” she said, now whispering as if she was in the library. “What is it? Tell me. I have a minute.”
“We broke up, T,” I managed, blowing my nose on a napkin from the huge box of Kleenex I had stashed next to my bed.
“What happened?”
“He just said he needs…” Another breakdown was coming. “space…”
Pookie looked up at me sitting on the bed. Even his huge Chihuahua eyes looked sad after hearing my words. I wondered if he understood what was going on: that his human daddy was gone and never ever coming back. Never ever ever.
“Oh, Troy,” Tamia said, “I’m sorry to hear that. When did it happen? What did he say?”
“Well, we had lunch at Shimizu yesterday and he just said it there. He said he’s too stressed to deal with me right now and that’s just it. That’s just all he said…all he said…”
“Slow down; you don’t have to go on.” She stopped me. “I can’t believe this. I never thought he’d do this. Are you sure it’s not just one of his things? You know he gets stressed and starts acting crazy. Maybe you just need to give him some space. I mean, you’re going to need the same thing when we graduate.”
“No, I’m sure this is it this time, Tamia. I could see it in his eyes.” I threw the box of Kleenex to the floor. Pookie jumped up and ran out of the room. I could hear Tamia whispering to someone on the other end of the phone. “Tamia?” I called frantically for no apparent reason. I just needed a little attention. Comfort. I mean, my entire world was only literally ablaze. Who gave a damn what was going on in that godforsaken library?
“Yeah, I’m here.” Tamia groaned into the phone. “Look, I’m so sorry, but my study group is here, so I have to get off of the phone.”
“Okay,” I said.
“But I’ll be done soon. Have you told Tasha yet?”
“No.” I started crying again at the thought of having to repeat my sad saga. With all of this crying it would be a wonder if I was able to open my eyes in the morning.
“Well, don’t worry about telling her. I’ll call her when I get out of my meeting. Do you want to meet tonight? You know, for the party?”
I took a deep breath and looked up at the dust-ridden ceiling fan above my bed. I felt the unmistakable air of reluctance building in my chest.
“My breakup party?” I asked sadly, half questioning and affirming Tamia’s suggestion. This was because the party she’d mentioned, my breakup party, was the first thing each 3T did when she broke up with a man. It was a tradition we started back at Howard. Whenever one of us broke up with someone, we’d forgo the usual girl grieving stage of hiding underneath the sheets and avoiding all public appearances, by making an official announcement to the other 2Ts, putting on our most slut-alicious dresses, and stepping out for a night on the town. We called it “the Breakup Party.” It sounded crazy to most people, but it worked. At its best, the party gets the man off your mind for a few hours. At the very least, it gets you out of the house.
“Yeah, tonight is fine for the party,” I muttered uneasily between tears.
“Good. So I’ll call Tasha and we’ll meet at Justin’s at 8,” Tamia said.
“Okay.”
“And, Troy, keep your head up,” Tamia added. “Remember, the first 3T rule of breaking up is having the ‘face of grace.’”
“I know. I know,” I answered. My girl was right. We all agreed that the most important thing a girl had to do after a breakup was present herself as if she was together even if she was all apart inside. She had to face the world with grace no matter what. A brighter day would come, although I wasn’t so sure I believed that after Julian.
“Good. I love you,” Tamia said.
“I love you, too.” I sniffled and buried myself back under the covers.
The Goodbye Girl: The 3T Breakup Party Guide
So it’s over and Mr. Right turned out to be Mr. All Wrong. Don’t sit around all day and cry about it. No, this is a time to celebrate your new “player-ific” lifestyle wi
th your girls. Plan a breakup party and say goodbye to yesterday.
Must Haves: A picture of your new ex, a hot outfit no man can say “no” to, huge shades in case your eyes look droopy from crying (don’t be embarrassed; people will think you’re a celebrity), and fabulous friends to celebrate with.
Instructions: Make an announcement to your closest friends via e-mail or telephone—this will eliminate any unnecessary gossip. Just put it all out there and invite your girls out to your party. The location must be someplace really cool where you’re guaranteed to be seen in all of your glory. Arrive late and hand the picture of your ex to your girls so your bitter memory can be torn to shreds. Then let the games begin.
Do’s: Cry if you want to, dance until your feet hurt, wear a dress so skanky you can’t wear underwear, have your friends pretend you’re a celebrity, smile at every man you see, and let everyone and their mama know you’re a free agent.
Don’ts: Party at a place special to you and your ex (bad memories), drink too much and pass out singing “End of the Road” by Boyz II Men, or call your ex…ever, ever, ever.
The Babbling Bourgeois Baboon vs. the Democrat Octoroon
In the car on the way to Justin’s, I couldn’t stop thinking about Julian and trying to figure out where our thing fell apart. How did we even get to the “Troy, I need a break” breaking point? Being honest with myself, I had to admit that the relationship was no cakewalk. Julian and I had shared some hard times and disagreements. Most notable, of course, was the time Julian invited my parents to meet his parents. (Note: Why in the hell would this man want our parents to meet if I wasn’t his “girlfriend”? And he says I was the confused one….) Anyway, though I was excited about the parental union (seeing as how it usually led to other unions), I should’ve seen that train wreck coming down the tracks from a mile away.
Take Her Man Page 2
