The Vow

by Denene Millner

  “That’s because I don’t move, my dear,” I explain, “I sashay.”

  “Well, whatever the hell you do, get to it because we’re supposed to be down in the lobby in twenty minutes.”

  “I’m about to do my makeup and put on my dress right now,” I sigh. “Hope I look as good as you, hot mama.” The violet satin gown, while not my first choice for color, had a sexy fitted bodice that flattered all of our figures.

  “Hmph,” she says brushing off my compliment like she always does. “Well, at least your hair is done. If there’s one thing I can always count on it’s Amaya having her hair done. But weren’t you ’sposed to do it up like the rest of us?” she asks, smoothing the back of her own French knot.

  “Now, you know I’ve never been one to follow a crowd,” I answer as I return to the bathroom to finish applying my makeup. “Um, can you please tell me again why it is you felt the need to bring your big ass down here and harass me?”

  “Whatever,” she says dismissively. “You know you need me to keep your slow behind on track. Besides, I want to catch up on that last audition.”

  With every intention of becoming the next Halle Berry, I’ve been working on my big break for what seemed like forever. But life in Los Angeles is hard. Thankfully, my mama ain’t raise neither a fool nor an ugly girl. There are countless men with money willing to pay to be in the company of a beautiful woman.

  My first unofficial hustle was Clarence Tillman—my agent (despite my repeated requests to Trista, who said she couldn’t represent me because I wasn’t big enough for The Agency yet). Turns out he has semi-decent connections, and a thing for black women, so if I flirted with him a little and occasionally gave in to a little NC-17 foreplay; he tended to forget to take his percentage out of my meager checks. (Luckily, his triple bypass surgery last year had limited me to mostly hand jobs and letting him fondle my breasts.) The bottom line is that you need a killer agent to make it in this Hollywood game. Granted, there are times when I feel terrible about the way I’m living my life. But at the end of the day, that’ll be for a therapist to sort out; right now I have to be willing to do whatever it takes to succeed. Clarence has pulled together a couple of print campaigns, local commercials here and there, as well as a few parts in some independent (read: straight-to-video) flicks to cover the costs of being beautiful and barely B-list in Hollywood. But unfortunately, between the cost of living in the 90210 area code, monthly appointments with the top dermatologist in the city, private acting lessons, and weekly sessions with my personal trainer, I’ve been living on a prayer and a generous gentleman friend for a hot minute.

  Sometimes when I think about how successful Trista and Vivian have become through their hard work and determination, I wish that almost every measly “break” in my career didn’t come from a traded sexual favor or putting up with some kind of bullshit. There are definitely times when I call one of my girls and almost break down and confess my trifling lifestyle—but inevitably one of my “boyfriends” will either show up with a diamond-studded trinket or get my name added to a closed audition list and I get over it.

  “Well, I was going to wait until we were all together to tell you the news,” I start to explain as I carefully apply my mascara. “But since you’re here harassing me I guess I might as well tell you…”

  “Girl, if you don’t spill the beans already!” Viv snaps.

  “Easy,” I chide. Patience was never Viv’s strong point. “I just got a call from Clarence, and your girl is up for the lead in the new Soular Son film.” And even though she is a senior reporter for the L.A. Daily News, hopefully she won’t say that “being up” for this part was just my way of saying that I—along with most of the black actresses in Cali—have been granted an audition, which will hopefully lead to a screen test, which will Lord willing lead to my first major movie role.

  “Shut up! Shut the hell up!” Viv screams while she hugs me.

  “Yep, I swear.”

  “Okay, just who did you have to sleep with for that shit?” she jokes.

  “Well, you know, they don’t call me the good-head girl for nothing,” I smirk.

  “Girl, stop saying stuff like that before someone believes you one day,” she quickly replies. “I am so proud of you. I know it’s been a long time coming.”

  “Thanks, and feel free to drop that little item in your paper next week so a sister can get some buzz going,” I tell her as I study my finished face in the mirror. I’d outlined my large brown eyes with a dusting of shimmery gold eye shadow and finished them off with several coats of mascara to make my lashes look a mile long, then sealed the deal with my signature glossy plum lipstick. I am definitely ready for my close-up.

  I silently wonder how proud Viv would be if she knew what I’d had to do to land that opportunity.

  “Looking good,” Viv says, ignoring my last comment as she does anytime I ask her to violate her “journalistic ethics” and help me out with some press. I return to dusting body shimmer along the tops of my breasts and then walk past her back into the bedroom to dress.

  Taking my gown out of the closet with one hand, I loosen the belt on my robe with the other and let it slip to the floor.

  “Aren’t you going to put on some underwear?” says Viv, looking at me with her mouth open as I slip quickly into the dress.

  “Ruins the effect,” I say, pulling the side zipper up quickly and then stepping into the Swarovski-studded silver sandals Elise’s mom picked out for all of the bridesmaids. Snatching up the matching clutch from the dresser, I walk back into the bathroom to grab my LV cosmetics case and my pager.

  “C’mon, girl,” I say on my way to the door. “You know Trista is going to be downstairs fifteen minutes ahead of time, and I don’t want to hear her mouth today.”

  “Um, I beg to differ,” she says mischievously, following me out the door.

  I search her eyes for details, but she isn’t giving it up. I have to work for it. “Excuse me?”

  Viv lets me sweat for a minute, then spills it: “Well, when I stopped by Trista’s room last night to give her the jacket she left at the rehearsal dinner, all I heard was the Isley Brothers and a whole lot of moaning through the door.”

  “What!?”

  “Yes, ma’am, whoever was inside that room was getting busy,” Viv giggles as she pushes the button for the elevator.

  “Do you think it was Damon?” I ask.

  “Hell yeah it was Damon. And you know what? I’m not mad at her. He’s looking good as hell, we all know their history, and if anyone needs to get some love, it’s Trista.”

  “Whew, I know that’s right,” I reply as we step into the elevator. “Talkin’ ’bout ‘Garret isn’t wack!’ Trista knows she’s dead wrong for even letting that arrogant asshole hit that.”

  “Stop! Stop! You’re gonna make me cry and my mascara will start to run!”

  Just as we step off the elevator into the bustling lobby my Sidekick sounds.

  “Gimme a sec,” I ask Viv. Before I even flip it open I know who it is. The message is from Keith: “Sorry I can’t be there with you. There’s a little something for you at the front desk. X&Os”

  My eyes sting as I fight back the tears. I hadn’t told the girls he was supposed to be coming because I didn’t want to see the pity in their eyes if he didn’t show up. They’re the only ones that I would trust with the fact that I’ve been dating a married man for all these years, and even they can’t help but feel sorry for me at times like this. I am so sick of his apologies and “get over it” gifts. I am sick of holding my breath—tired of being second best. I drop the pager back in my bag and start walking down the hallway.

  “Who was that? Anything important?”

  “Nope. Just a little friend of mine that heard I was in town and wants to hook up.”

  “So what did you say?”

  “I told him thanks but no thanks, I’m rolling with my girls this weekend.”

  “Must be nice to have little friends all over th
e country,” Viv muses.

  “I guess. He mentioned that he left me something at the front desk so I guess we’ll see how nice it really is,” I answer, making my way through the lobby.

  As Viv suspected, Trista is nowhere to be found when we arrive in the lobby. But what is waiting for me at the front desk is a small blue box. I untie the white satin ribbon and flip it open; inside is a blinding pair of diamond-and-platinum studs. As usual, no note included.

  “Well, it looks really nice from where I’m sitting,” says Viv.

  “I guess,” I sigh to myself as I remove the pair of amethyst earrings from my ears—the same ones Keith gave me when he stood me up on my birthday three months ago.

  “Well if you don’t want him, pass him and his gifts right along!”

  I look at Viv and laugh, “Like you have eyes for anyone but Dr. Feel Good. I’m not going to even ask how many times you’ve called him this weekend. Plus, trust me when I say, you don’t want no parts of this one.”

  Thankfully, just as she’s about to hit me with Twenty Questions, Trista slides up behind us and drops into a chair next to a potted plant. She’s trying to hide her bloodshot eyes behind a pair of dark sunglasses with the price tag still on the frames. As I quickly finish putting the latest “Keith consolation gift” in my ears, I catch Vivian giving Trista the evil eye.

  “I’m not even going to ask who you’re trying to fool with those ridiculous glasses, but what the hell happened to your hair?” she demands.

  “Girl, I think my shower cap was torn and I didn’t even know,” she answers sheepishly as she tries to pat the matted mess. “I think it had a small tear and the steam must have gotten to it.”

  “Shower cap my ass, that’s some straight up rolling-around-in-the-bed hair right there,” I say. “And I guess you missed your appointment with the makeup artist.”

  “She must have come while I was in the shower. What am I going to do?” Trista says, groaning and dropping her head in her hands.

  “All I know is, we better fix it before Elise sees you and falls out,” clucks Viv.

  “Is it that bad?” Trista asks, gingerly touching her head again.

  “The real question is, was it that damn good!” I answer her as the three of us head into the women’s lounge. Viv cracks up. “Don’t worry,” I say confidently as I tap my makeup case. “ ‘Louis’ and I are going to fix your face, and Viv can work on that head.”

  By the grace of God, Viv and I work a miracle in a mere fifteen minutes. I loan her the pair of earrings that I’ve just removed to complete the look. Even hard-to-please Trista is impressed.

  “Ladies, thank you so much for all your help,” Trista says gratefully as she admires her mini-makeover in the mirror.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, don’t think we did this for your trifling behind. This is all about Elise. I just didn’t want to mess up my lipstick trying to give her mouth-to-mouth when she passed out at the sight of your head,” I laugh.

  “I was kind of a mess, wasn’t I?”

  “We’ll talk about all that at the reception,” I say. “Elise is probably already in the lobby, so look excited. Or in Trista’s case, should I say, just try to look alive?”

  “Kiss my ass, Amaya.”

  “Seems to me someone already beat me to that, my dear.”

  IN TRUE BETTER-black-bourgeois fashion, the start of the wedding is delayed forty-five minutes. As we wait in the chapel lounge for the easily flustered wedding planner to give us the cue to line up, I distractedly watch Vivian and Momma Evelyn fuss over Elise. She looks beautiful. Standing in front of the mirror in a hand-beaded silk Vera Wang gown, she bends down so her mother can place the delicate veil on her head. So that’s what the glow of true love looks like, I think to myself.

  “Elise, you look beautiful. I am so happy for you,” Viv says.

  “I’m so nervous. Are you sure my hair looks all right?” questions Elise.

  “I promise,” I assure her. “You even look better than me for once.”

  “Mommy, I think I’m going to throw up,” Elise whimpers to her mother.

  “Chile, if you don’t want your father to die of a heart attack, you better not vomit on that eighteen-thousand-dollar dress,” she responds evenly.

  As Trista and I burst into laughter, Vivian throws us the glance she reserves especially for little Corey when he cuts up in class.

  “What? You know that was funny as hell,” I say.

  “Whatever, Heckle and Jeckle,” Elise snaps. “I’m dying here and two of my best friends are laughing their butts off.”

  “Don’t make me curse you out on your wedding day, Elise,” I answer her as soon as I catch my breath. “You know you look amazing. Stop acting up.”

  “Not to mention, you’re about to marry the man of your dreams,” Trista adds.

  Just then, the wedding planner bursts into the room: time to line up.

  When the church doors open, I’m overwhelmed by the number of people who’ve turned out for Elise’s wedding. I use my long walk down the aisle as an opportunity to profile all of the prospective hookups of the evening. Many of the guests try to place my face: sure, they’ve seen me on TV but can’t quite place me. A lot of the women wrap their arms around their dates a little tighter as I glide past their pews. Doesn’t matter, though, because their men are still checking me out. Can’t be helped. And while plenty of good-looking faces fill the pews, none belongs to the one I really want to see.

  By the time I reach the front of the church and assume my spot next to Vivian, my cheeks hurt from smiling so hard, while tears of disappointment again sting the corners of my eyes. When Elise finally appears in the doorway, looking breathtaking, I use that opportunity to finally let the tears fall. As I observe the look of absolute adoration on Will’s face, I selfishly wonder if anyone has ever looked at me that way. Or will anyone ever. As much as my ego desperately wants to pretend, my heart won’t let me deny the sad truth. The look on Will’s face represents a love that will last forever, while the looks I receive last until sunrise. As the Good Reverend clears his throat and asks us to bow our heads in prayer, I am struck by the reality of just how alone I truly am.

  3

  VIVIAN

  Maybe I shouldn’t have yelled at him. I mean, he is home on a Saturday night taking care of his child, while I’m out partying it up with my girls. But then, expecting anything less from him would make me one of those low-expectation-having mofos, wouldn’t it? He’s doing what a man’s supposed to do: he’s taking care of his kid. But he should be doing it without the help of some drunk trick whose obvious mission tonight is to ply Sean with drinks so she can break him off while my son is somewhere being ignored or rushed off to bed with as little attention paid to him as possible. That ain’t right. And I know Sean—my Sean—knows better.

  Sean is my son’s daddy, the boy I’ve loved since the moment I stepped onto the yard at the University of California. The first time I saw him, he was spinning his cane and stomping his size-twelve Timberland boots as he and his frat brothers hollered their organization’s Greek letters at the newbies crowded in the atrium for freshman orientation. I was mesmerized. He was a little light for my taste, and slightly more buff than I would have liked him to be, but his perfectly manicured, blond-tinged locks were piled high up on his head (I’m a sucker for dreds), and when he shook himself with abandon in a fit of frat pride, they fell past his shoulders and into his beautiful face—a move so sexy it more than made up for his melanin deficit. Tall, beautiful, and the center of attention—that’s what Sean Jordan was, and that’s what I liked. Well, that’s what I fantasized about. I had never actually hooked up with anyone like him because, um, let’s just say I wasn’t exactly Ginger the head cheerleader growing up, if you know what I mean. I’m not saying I didn’t have the goods to get the boys to look. It’s just that in the scheme of things, Vivian Olivia Evans’ natural hair, extra hippy hips, quirky sense of humor, slightly-to-the-left political sensibility, and ext
remely big mouth couldn’t exactly compete with the overproduced bombshells who showed up on campus with their expensive clothes, perfect bodies, and family credit cards. They’d come to get their M.R.S. degree alongside some of the most eligible black bachelors our people had to offer. I’d gotten used to playing the back in high school, being the girl who was “the friend”—the one everybody came to for advice when they wanted to get hooked up with someone else. But I was fresh at UC, and prepared to give myself a new start in a place where no one knew me, and that meant being bold enough to walk up to the hot boy and make his acquaintance.

  Let’s just put it this way: we made each other’s acquaintance, all right—straight up until our little boy, Corey Jordan, took up residence in my womb and made two pink lines appear on my home pregnancy test. Sean never denied the child was his; he would never play me like that. But the birth of our son was the death of our relationship. Sure he wanted to have a baby, just not in his first year of med school at age twenty-two, and, to be real about it, not with me, a broke college senior who was desperately clinging to an on again/off again relationship that should have ended long before his seed hooked up with my egg. But I’m completely incapable of being totally honest with myself when it comes to Sean. He was my first. And my first love. My only love. The first man to ever tell me he loved me back. And he is the father of my child, the person with whom I created a life—the most precious gift God could ever give to a human being. And I choose to recognize that as a good thing. Because the fact of the matter is that even with all our problems, Sean and I are more right together than apart.

  Which is what I’d been calling his house all night to tell him. I was feeling a little nostalgic—any wedding can get a girl’s heart pumping, but there was enough warmth and romance at Elise’s ceremony to make every woman within a three-state radius want to get on bended knee and convince her man that love’s the place to be. But Sean wasn’t answering. And, even tipsy on champagne and fruity mixed drinks, I knew that my child’s father, who was supposed to be baby-sitting his baby boy in his posh mini-manse in Pacific Palisades, should have been looking at his caller ID and picking up his receiver when he saw my cell number pop up. I’m the child’s mama. And what the hell was he doing that he was too busy to pick up the phone, anyway?