Forever. (This. Is. Not. Over. Book 3)

by Shannon Dianne

  Rumor has it Danielle makes Malcolm massage her feet, rub her back and read her the funnies every night. Rumor also has it she drinks a glass of pink champagne at least once a week … while she’s pregnant! Having said that, I have a secret. Last month, Dena told me that she was dining in The Bristol Lounge with a sorority sister when she saw Danielle and Marla. (Can you believe that?) Apparently, the two of them were laughing it up in a dark corner eating crab cakes. Dena said that Danielle kept looking around as if she were hiding from someone. And get this: Danielle was drinking pink champagne, which is why she probably looked nervous. Well this was just the last straw. I couldn’t care less if Danielle destroyed her own pathetic life, but her third child by her second husband didn’t deserve that.

  I waited until I thought Danielle was home, then I went to The Coffee Bar Café right across the street from her condo and I called the police from a phone booth. It was about time she was exposed for the wicked mother and human being that she was. (How dare she consider me a bored housewife with nothing to do!) Giving them her address but not her name, I told the police that there was a drunken pregnant woman who looked like she needed immediate attention. I sat at a window table at The Coffee Bar Café enjoying a skinny chai latte sprinkled with cinnamon, my eyes glued to Brookshire Condominiums. But just as the police got out of their squad car, Malcolm happened to be coming home. One of the officers knew him and they got to talking and laughing. Eventually, I saw one of the cops gesturing upstairs to Malcolm’s condo. Malcolm looked at the cop, confused. The cop just shrugged it off, chatted a bit more and then left with his partner. Malcolm then stood for a moment looking around in front of his condo building, but I’m sure he didn’t see me all the way from across the street. That’s our little secret.

  Back to Danielle being an awful human being. Oh! Let’s not talk about her frequent trips out of town and sometimes out of the country sans husbands and children. What type of woman leaves her children behind and goes parading around Europe? A so-called feminist, that’s who. She’s a terrible wife and an atrocious mother, but she always manages to get the good guys and saintly kids. I, on the other hand, can’t seem to catch a break. So that’s what bugs me the most about Danielle. She’s a bitch; she’s a divorcee, and she has three children by two different men, and yet the cops don’t arrest her. Oh! And Father Harper anoints her Virgin Mary.

  And Marlon kicks me out of our condo for taking a picture.

  I did nothing but love Jacob. I waited for him, believed in him and still came out the loser. He married another woman—Winnie. So I devoted all of my energy to Marlon. I loved him, made gourmet meals for him, gave him two daughters, was trying for a boy and was the perfect wife around Boston. Look at me now. Just sad.

  “Alright I’m ready,” Malcolm says as he tilts his head to the side slightly as if he’s aiming to really concentrate on what Nicky is about to say.

  “So, when Jesus was born,” I hear Nicky say, “this is the song He sang out loud from the manger.” Within a moment, I hear Nicky singing “Little Drummer Boy” through the phone. I watch as Malcolm smiles and tries not to laugh throughout the duration of the song. “ … me and my druuum,” Nicky finishes.

  “Excellent,” Malcolm says. “Couldn’t have sung it better myself.”

  “And how was the last note?”

  “Better than ever. You’ve been practicing,” he says as he puts Nicky on speaker and begins to check his cell phone for missed emails. “Shit, I need to call him back,” I hear him say to himself.

  “Mommy said that she liked it but I should sing it like Alicia Keys did and change it to “Little Drummer Girl”. She said that’s what she would like to hear if she was Mary and Jesus was her son. She said we don’t know what the little drummer looked like. It could’ve been Sheila E.”

  “Tell your mother that over my dead body will you sing ‘Little Drummer Girl’,” he says as he takes Nicky off the speaker. “Also, you and I worked on the Ray Charles version and that’s the version Jesus will be singing tomorrow.”

  “Okay, so I’ll sing it again when you get home. Don’t forget to bring home some tea for my throat.”

  “Will do.”

  “And a lemon.”

  “Got it. Would you like some honey as well?”

  “Why not. Okay, I’m about to call Uncle Cadence; he was worried about the bridge.”

  “Alright, well call me back with any updates.”

  “Okay, bye Pop.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  “That damn boy …” Malcolm says as he ends the call and puts his phone in his coat pocket.

  “How sweet,” I scoff. “Love.”

  “Ready?” he says as he looks over at me with that smirk of his.

  “Where are we going?” I cross my arms and look out the front window.

  “Three different places.”

  “Great … do I have a choice?”

  “You do, but I think it’s best if you join me tonight. Three weeks is a long time to be away from your family. I’m really not sure how you do it.”

  “Yeah, well tell Marlon that. He’s the reason why I’m not home yet.”

  “Is he? Have you answered any of his calls yet?”

  “Sure haven’t.”

  “Returned any of his voicemails?”

  “Absolutely not. For all I care, Marlon can burn in hell. I’ve been a good wife to him, Malcolm, so if he can ask me to leave home over a photograph taken years ago, before I barely knew him, then I may just have to pull a Danielle. I’ll find a rich white boy, turn him into my slave, make him support my lifestyle, take my children away from my first husband and start a brand new life while ruining everyone else’s in the process.”

  “Well that’s one way to go,” Malcolm says as he pulls away from the curb. “But there might be an easier way.”

  “Whatever.”

  And we’re off to our first stop.

  Jacob

  (guess. who.)

  “Alright Boston! Let’s meet the next Miss Black Massachusetts contestant; a senior at Boston College, twenty-year-old, Miss Jasmine Harlow!” The audience claps wildly as Jasmine walks onto the stage, dressed in fitness wear and high heels. (I’m not sure if you know this but Jasmine Harlow has a bad and I mean bad ass body.) Her legs are sleek, built to perfection … and then she turns around. Let’s just say Jasmine Harlow has an ass that you’ll forever remember.

  “Damn,” Malcolm whispers as he sits next to me. “Good job, Jake.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I say, not taking my eyes off of Jasmine for even a second.

  Malcolm and I are at Matthews Arena at the Miss Black Massachusetts pageant. Jasmine didn’t invite me. She’s proud to be here, but she still didn’t invite me. That’s normal considering that everyone from her society is here; that would mean Boston’s elite black society: her parents, Attorney and Dr. Rouge, Attorney Carmichael and his wife, and Dr. Burgess and his wife are just a few of the most well-known faces that I recognize.

  Jasmine was beyond ecstatic to be selected as a contestant for Miss Black Massachusetts and damn near tackled me on my bed when she flew up to Yale with her acceptance letter. Right now, her smile is the widest I’ve ever seen. Her dimples are the deepest they’ve ever been. Her hair, a river of jet-black waves, is trailing right between her shoulders. And you better believe she never lets it touch a pillow unless said pillow is satin or silk. I keep a stash of silk pillowcases at Yale just for her, but you’ll still find her sleeping with a hat on (or ‘satin cap’ as she likes to call it) and she never misses a biweekly appointment. The last time her hairdresser rescheduled on her, she asked me for legal advice. She’s beautiful, she knows it, and she takes care of herself because of it. She’s proud to be here. She made me write down all the questions I thought the judges would ask her and put them in my Red Sox hat. I’d randomly pick one out at a time and quiz her. She’s been practicing her answers for months. And though she has no idea what the
real questions will be, she already told me she’ll bring all of her answers back to her college major, Nutrition.

  Jasmine, what do you think is the reason behind the conflict between the United States and the Middle East? I just think everyone’s hungry. Consider what lack of nutrients does to the body and brain and why it will cause aggression and even war. The effects are …

  Jasmine, what do you think about the rise of black men in the US prison system? Well, it’s a proven fact that most crimes are committed on an empty stomach. Even I have to apologize sometimes for things I’ve said while hungry. If you’re hungry and need to feed your family, you’ll do anything, won’t you? I’m sure that’s what’s going on; men wanting to make sure their families eat. Listen to these stats about nutrition and how it’s so important to consume the right food before you commit a crime…

  Jasmine, why do you think feminists abhor these scholarship pageants and still refer to them by the antiquated name of ‘beauty pageants’? Well, I think that the feminists would be fine with these pageants if we just invited them to lunch. I think what they are really worried about is whether we girls are eating. Look how thin women have to become in this country to be considered beautiful. But what’s being beautiful without being healthy? Nutrition is important and let me tell you why...

  Yes, she’s excited, her pageant dress is Chanel, her shoes are Dior, and her father bought her Clive Christian No. 1 perfume for today. She’s excited as hell.

  But still, she didn’t invite me.

  I’m in my second year of law school, the hardest year of schooling I’ve ever endured. I left a weekend of studying just to see Jasmine Harlow become Queen Jasmine. But still … she didn’t invite me.

  “I would just like to say that this beauty pageant has set the female race back a good one-hundred and fifty years,” a girl says from behind me.

  “Danielle, shut your ass up,” another girl says. I turn to Mac, a smile on my face.

  She came.

  This is the real reason why Mac came. I was flying into Boston to watch Jasmine just so I could be here for a day that she was so excited about. (Though I wasn’t invited, I can’t stress that enough.) Mac knew that Danielle would likely be here, but even if she didn’t come, he was happy watching fifty black girls smile, wave and blow kisses. For him, this is just God’s teaser of what heaven is like. If you ask me, Mac coming here tonight was a bold move simply because Danielle has turned feminist. That’s a fact that annoys Jasmine, since she’s now convinced that Danielle judges her based on her traditional views about women and beauty pageants and blowing kisses.

  “I bet she won’t even notice you,” I whisper to Mac.

  “Shut the hell up,” he whispers back. At the same time, Mac and I turn and …

  Red hair.

  It’s her.

  She has on a dress; grey, hits her knees. She also has on a pair of heels that make her an easy six-feet tall. But this is Danielle Rouge—tall heels that are as thin as sewing needles don’t bother her. She’s cruising down the aisle towards the members of Boston’s black society.

  And she has a crew.

  I look at Mac and smile. Danielle’s with another girl and two guys. I wonder which one is Jon. All Jasmine will tell us is that Danielle and Jon go to Xavier University, the only historically black Roman Catholic college in the country. Other than that, she refuses to answer questions about the guy.

  “Danielle, get your little ass in here and hurry up!” Mac and I turn to see Dr. Elise Rouge standing, hurrying along Danielle and her crew.

  “This pageant is against the very essence of who I am.” Danielle says as she heads towards her people, who are about three rows ahead of Mac and me. Danielle breezes past me, conjuring the smiles of those nearby who understand how important she, her family and the society she belongs to is. But this is Danielle Rouge, she never gives anyone direct eye contact because she couldn’t give a shit less about them, and now she’s walking as if she doesn’t even notice that anyone else has arrived. The smell of vanilla lingers after she passes Mac and me, who are sitting closest to the aisle.

  “Damn, she smells good,” I hear Malcolm say to himself.

  “Huh?” I ask him.

  “Nothing.”

  “I heard you.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Hi, baby!” the girl with Danielle says before leaning over to a guy who’s seated and planting a huge kiss on his lips.

  “Move, Rena!” Danielle whispers. “I have to sit down and watch Jasmine degrade herself.”

  “Danielle,” Attorney Jackson Rouge says as he stands, giving his daughter a warning look before giving her a hug.

  “Sir,” one of the guys with Danielle says as he reaches out his hand to shake Attorney Rouge’s hand. Jon. Gotta be. He doesn’t look too excited to be here. Then again, he doesn’t look bothered to be here either. He looks like a laid-back type of guy. Shit, where are we again? Are we at a Miss Black Massachusetts Beauty Pageant? Is this pageant necessary because the majority of black women are unrepresented in the American culture of beauty, and it’s a scientific fact that black girls will choose white dolls over black dolls when asked which one is the prettiest? Yeah? Oh, okay. Just checking. There’s no doubt about it, he’s the polar opposite of Danielle. I watch him as he adjusts his tie, wincing as if in pain. That’s when I look at Mac and see his eyes are narrowed in on Jon with the worst look of contempt on his face that I’ve ever seen.

  “What does she see in that guy?” I lean over and whisper to Malcolm. “I mean, come on. He’s gotta be about 6’5”! Who the hell wants someone that tall?”

  “Fuck you, Jake.”

  “What are you about 6’2”? Hmm … that’s about three inches shorter. Isn’t it? Did I do the math right?”

  “Shut the hell up.” We watch Attorney Rouge shake the hand of another guy standing next to Jon. This one smiles, nods, says hello to everyone around—a Senator Joe Biden of Delaware smile on his face. “She’s wearing the necklace.” Mac says.

  “Huh? Who?”

  “Red. She’s wearing that necklace I bought her.” I look at Danielle who’s now shaking hands with Attorney Carmichael ... and now with Dr. Burgess and his wife. “What now?” Malcolm says, breaking my concentration. I look at him and watch him check his cell phone. Judging from Malcolm’s face, that’s none other than Laura.

  “What happened?” I ask as I look back at the others.

  “Laura,” he says before letting out a deep breath. “She has someone she wants you to meet … a sorority sister … oh, it’s General Yates’ daughter … Gwyneth … I don’t know, call Laura and see what the hell she’s talking about.” He slides his phone back in his pocket and then we both watch Jon and Dr. Elise Rouge hug as Rena takes a seat next to the guy she just tongued down. Danielle has taken a seat next to her father. But who is this guy who’s unaccounted for? Who is this Joe Biden of the group who’s about 6’3” or 6’4” and conjuring up smiles from the other black society members? Who is this guy who’s taking the time to shake all of their hands? Who is this muthafucka?

  “Hmm,” Mac whispers to me as he looks at Joe Biden. “I wonder who that is. Don’t you?”

  Face to face.

  I jump out the cab right in front of the Starbucks on Tremont and there he is trying to catch it before someone else does. He’s just come from work; there’s a briefcase in his left hand, a cup of coffee in the other. And now here we are: face to face.

  I should say something to him. I should. The moment is, to say the least, strange. He knows about his wife and me and yet we’ve never had a conversation about it. I see him walk past my office door during the week, heading straight to Malcolm’s office. Both of them trying to pay this conservative journalist off or at least find some dirt on him to return the blackmail and cancel Jasmine’s debt. Both of them have been working overtime. Malcolm has made it clear that I’m not needed or wanted on this assignment. Jasmine’s husband has asked for Malcolm’s services and his s
ervices alone.

  Marlon wants to be her savior.

  He wants to show her that he can do what I do. He can save things. He can fix things. He can handle things. He’s tough too. Those Blairs aren’t the only ones who can save the fucking day. He wants to be her hero. He wants her to start worshipping him instead of me.

  Can I be honest with you? Marlon is my worst nightmare. He’s a Philly boy who made his own shit happen in Boston. He not only set up his own business (like me), but he went so far as to move away from his family to prove that his success is his alone. And when you pass through Beacon Hill, his success is apparent. Marlon Kyles Real Estate is blasted in Rockwell Block letters along 242 Bowdoin Street. I started Blair and Associates; Marlon started a business where only his name is front and center. A business where he only fucks with the best of the best. He started his business; he married Jasmine Harlow and he gave her his babies. He’s done the shit that I wanted to do. I’d never admit this to another living being but he’s the fucking man. Let’s just face it.

  But Marlon Kyles has one problem. Would you like to know what that problem is? Okay here it is, Marlon’s only problem is that he has no idea that he’s the fucking man. He thinks I’m the fucking man.

  I nod towards the cab, imploring him to take it. Here, go ahead, I’m done with it. It’s yours now. I’m the fucking man.

  “Fuck you,” he says to me before throwing his briefcase inside the backseat. I give him a smile and he gives me his best Philly gritty face. I’m being sardonic; I’m trying to bother him. The truth is that I’m not done with his wife. I will never be done with his wife and his wife will never be done with me. Never. But saying that will surely start an argument. So I turn, head towards Starbucks … and wait for his wife to arrive.

  Jasmine