The Vow

by Denene Millner

  “Hello?” he finally answered, the annoyance in his voice more than apparent.

  “Hey, babe—it’s me,” I said, glad to finally hear his voice. I didn’t give him a chance to say anything; I just wanted him to listen to me. “You know, I’ve been thinking that maybe we should rethink our relationship—you know, make it work beyond pediatrician appointments and parent-teacher conferences and the occasional tryst. You and I were made for each other—I wish you would see that,” I said, the alcohol making me ramble on. “I’ve been calling you all night to tell you that.”

  There was silence, followed by a sigh. “Viv? Aren’t you at a wedding? Don’t you have some bridesmaid duties or something to attend to?” Sean said.

  Did he not hear a word of what I just said? I didn’t think I could make it any more plain. Maybe I should have just said “I love you” or something. Because he was ruining our moment. “I would be attending to my wedding duties if my child’s father answered the phone,” I huffed, giving back to him a little bit of the tone he was giving me. “What—were you ignoring me? What are you doing, anyway? Where’s Corey?”

  “Viv, why you acting like I never took care of my son before?” he sniffed right back. “You don’t have to check up on us—he’s fine. I don’t know why you can’t just…”

  Just as he was about to launch into his “you need to trust a brother” soliloquy, I heard her. “You want me to pour you another glass of wine, baby?” she said sweetly. Huh? Wine? With my man? Didn’t that bitch know who the hell I was?

  “Who the hell is that?” I shout into the phone, loud enough to surprise even myself in a crowded hallway. A few people toss glares in my direction. Talking on your cell phone is an inalienable right in L.A., but I’m not so drunk yet that I can’t recognize that in this crowd you come off as classless cursing loudly into it. I was already a bit uncomfortable mixing with Atlanta’s elite—I’m not one for fancy affairs—so wobbling around in these shoes and trying to look sexy but not too sexy in this dress, and choosing just the right words to say to a room full of strangers with more money, elegance, and attitude than the Kennedys isn’t exactly coming natural for me. I’m not up for embarrassing myself any more than I already have.

  My eyes dart around the hallway for an exit, somewhere quiet and empty. I quickly find two heavy French doors that open out to a balcony, and step out onto it, quietly closing the doors behind me. I can’t really hear what he’s saying until I get outside, but I pick up somewhere around “and it’s not any of your business who the hell I’m with. Please tell me you have a reason for calling me.”

  “Tell me you don’t have my son hugged up with one of your bitches,” I seethe.

  “Um, I wouldn’t be calling anybody bitch if I were you,” Sean shot back.

  “You did not just call me a bitch, did you? I know you didn’t just call me a bitch.”

  “You’re right—I didn’t call you a bitch. But you are drunk,” he says quietly.

  “You don’t know what I am,” I snap back. “I’ve had a little bit to drink, but I’m not so loaded that I don’t realize the danger my child could be in if his father is too busy drinking and sleeping with some stranger to watch after him properly.”

  “Corey is fine,” Sean snaps. “He’s sleeping. In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s well after his bedtime. And as for who’s in my house, that’s none of your business. Good night, Viv.” With that, Sean hangs up on me.

  I hear silence, and pull the cell phone from my ear like it’s scorching hot. I stare at the “call ended” message and, after a few seconds of catching my breath and realizing fully what Sean has done, I yell in a loud staccato, “Oh—no—he—did—not!” So consumed was I with dialing, dialing, and redialing Sean’s number—I must have been at it for at least fifteen minutes—that I hardly noticed Amaya step through the heavy French doors.

  “Please tell me you’re not calling that Negro again,” Amaya says, her voice so quiet I barely hear her. “I figured you’d be bouncing to the Star Spangled Banner up in this piece, seeing as you ain’t been out on the town since Ice Cube left N.W.A.”

  Startled, I almost drop my cell phone as I rush to hit the end button and shove it into my clutch. “Amaya, what you want?” I ask her, annoyed.

  “Stop sweatin’ your baby daddy and get back into that reception and party with us—that’s what I want,” she says as she pulls a mirror out of her purse and starts checking her makeup. “All these bougie folks are jackin’ my buzz up in here, and it would be nice if I could count on my homegirl to liven this ol’ stale party up.”

  “Amaya? Why you all up in my business? See, if you weren’t so wound up about what I was doing with my baby daddy, you might have one of your own. Now!” I respond, dotting my sentence with a chuckle. Damn. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. But she is speaking out of turn. And anyway, I’m mad.

  “Okay, superstar—you got that one. I’m gonna let it slide, just because I know that’s the Clicquot talking and not you,” she says. “But that’s going to be the last time you bring up my single status without getting your feelings hurt. Anyway, we weren’t talking about my love life; we were talking about you enjoying yourself. Sean is a good dad; if there’s something wrong, he’ll call you. And I know Elise is probably looking for your behind right now as we speak. So come on, let’s go get this party started right!”

  That’s my girl, Amaya—always looking out for my party interests. It was because of her that I’d gone from flirting with the idea of pledging, to standing front and center before a bunch of evil sorors who took great pleasure in torturing our pledge class for just over eight weeks. Though it was her good-time sensibilities that made me want to hang out with her, it was our shared backgrounds—and her willingness to let down her guard when she was around me—that made me count her as an irreplaceable friend.

  “Viv, come here, I need to tell you something,” she’d said to me conspiratorially one evening as we and our line sisters made our way back to our dorms from one particularly grueling pledge evening when we were ordered by one of the more demanding big sisters to hook up an elaborate four-course feast for her, five other sorors, and their boys du jour. The soror, the illegitimate but well-laced black daughter of a successful white TV producer who’d had a big career creating the most stereotypical black sitcoms ever to hit the airwaves in the seventies, was as rich and spoiled as they came at UCal—and she made a point of keeping those of us who didn’t have a celluloid pedigree in our place. She was particularly cruel to Amaya and me, probably because she knew that neither of us came from Hollywood or cash. It’s not that we were walking around broadcasting that we were straight outta Girlz in the Hood, but in L.A. it’s crystal clear who has roots and who’s an interloper. “And don’t even think about coming up in this piece with some broke-down pasta dish, or some of that backwoods ghetto food,” she’d warned as she stared into Amaya’s eyes. “I want a chi-chi feast—no expense spared. I better feel like I’m sitting at the best table at Spago. That’s the most exclusive five-star restaurant in L.A. for you country bumpkins who haven’t been anywhere,” she added, her spittle hitting my cheek as her words seared into my face.

  Amaya later confided that she couldn’t afford the forty dollars each of us line sisters needed to chip in to hook up that expensive dinner. I was the only one she could tell because I was the only one who knew she was broke as hell. During our long, grueling weeks on line, we’d gotten so close and identified with each other’s poor backgrounds so readily that we started sharing meal cards and pooling money for groceries to make sure that neither of us would go hungry while we kept being forced to spend our pennies on the rich bitches who were continuously kicking our ass with their financial demands. Elise and Trista were our girls— we’d grown to love and admire them while we bonded on line—but neither of us was ready to reveal our monetary issues, so we weren’t about to tell them that forty bucks was going to break our bank accounts. “What are we going to do?” I
asked, terrified that we would be exposed for the broke ’hood girls we were.

  I’m still not clear how she did it, but Amaya showed up to our pledge meeting later that night with $150 to split between the two of us. I felt guilty taking the money, and she wouldn’t tell me where she got it—just that I should hold on to the cash, lest she “waste it on something unnecessary instead of what it’s for, even though that’s pretty stupid.” I stuffed the cash into my shoe; I don’t know how she knew to get extra, but we ended up chipping in just under seventy dollars each for that damn meal that we couldn’t even eat.

  If it was Amaya that I could confide in, it was Elise that I could count on to make me feel good about myself—I swear, there’s no one more peppy and glass-is-half-full optimistic than that girl. So sure was she that everything would be better in the morning, that I half-expected her to grow a red afro and start singing that stupid Annie song every time she walked into the room. Though Trista and I liked each other just fine, she was a little too much of a straight arrow—conservative, quiet, and a bit too pent up—for me to really start to care for her like a true friend, until we went over, got a little older, and realized that though our political sensibilities were completely opposite one another’s, we had the same goal: to rule our world. In fact, it was Trista who, as we were about to graduate, helped me draw up the paperwork I needed to get into a competitive internship program—a paying gig—with the Associated Press in New York, which, after L.A., was the best place a young wannabe entertainment reporter could be to not only get attention from the publicists who grant celebrity access, but also to make some extra cash writing freelance stories for some of the hottest magazines on the newsstands. In fact, Trista came in from L.A. and drove me and a truckload of my stuff from D.C. to New York—a four-hour pep talk came with her services— then introduced me to the editors-in-chief of some of the hottest hip-hop mags around, as well as a few New York–based celebrity publicists, all of which put me on solid footing to getting into the highly competitive industry. My mom had agreed to take care of Corey for the six months I was in New York—I’d missed him something terrible even before we pulled the U-Haul out of the driveway, but I knew I’d be able to send for him once I got settled. So I, a single mom, had the rare opportunity to get my career started without all the hurdles that come with caring for a child. “I’m so proud of you, Viv, she said, hugging me tight. Today is the beginning of the rest of your life, and you’re going to win—I know it.”

  I guess I am playing to win. In the two short years since I walked through the AP’s doors, I’ve written over a dozen high-profile cover stories for Vibe, Essence, Rolling Stone, and Jane, and, after a short stint as an entertainment reporter for the Baltimore Sun, I finessed a gig covering movies, television, and music at the Los Angeles Daily News—a dream job that not only let me write the kinds of stories I wanted, but put me in the same town as Sean, whom I desperately wanted to be close to, for Corey’s sake. A boy, after all, needs his daddy.

  My son’s mama needed someone, too. But wasn’t nobody picking my ass up. Sure, there’ve been boys here and there that I’ve messed around with—a fellow reporter who covered my beat for the San Francisco Chronicle, a music publicist I met when I wrote a story about a rapper he represented, and even a youth pastor at a local church who ministered to B-list celebrities out in Compton. But being a single mom in a cutthroat business—entertainment reporters are expected to network at all hours of the day and night to get close to the players, and, lately, to damn near rummage through people’s garbage to keep up with the glossy tabloid scoops—I’d hardly had the energy to sustain a healthy relationship. There wasn’t anything wrong with those men; it was me. And, well, the fact that I was still having ex-sex with Sean.

  I know, I know—I don’t say this out loud too often. Who I have in my bed is, of course, my business, but I do realize that continuing to let Sean sleep with me in the nighttime but deny me during the rest of the day isn’t healthy for either of us. But the sex feels so damn good. And he’s so incredibly smart and strong and capable of treating me like the love of his life when he puts his mind to it. And Corey has his daddy around, even if it is under dubious circumstances. Besides, I can’t help but think that after Sean finishes sowing his wild oats, he’ll get tired of the women who only want him because he’s a sought-after plastic surgeon. I don’t care that he’s a boob doctor. I don’t care that he’s easy on the eyes. I don’t care that he’s got cash and a pedigree. I just want him. And seeing as I’m not all that happy with our current “arrangement,” I need to talk to the boy and let him know that it’s time to stop playing games and be together already.

  I was about to explain all of this to Amaya when Elise’s crack-head wedding planner busts out onto the balcony and orders us back into the reception room. “Ladies, come,” she says, clapping her hands. “It’s time for toasts. Inside.”

  Startled by her demand, I jump up and start to follow her through the double doors. Amaya doesn’t move; she rolls her eyes and reaches for her compact. I shoot her a look and signal with my head for her to hurry it up. “Oh, I’m coming, I’m coming—damn!” she says, rolling her eyes at the wedding planner’s back. But Amaya doesn’t move any faster. I’m laughing at her and shaking my head when I step back into the hallway leading to the reception area and see Trista running toward me, frantic. The crazy wedding planner foolishly tries to step in front of her, but Trista runs through her like a linebacker, and the woman has to scramble to keep her footing. Amaya busts out laughing; my eyes follow Trista to the ladies’ room. “Come on,” I say, grabbing Amaya’s hand. “Something’s wrong with Trista.”

  She is leaning over the sink, staring at herself in the mirror when Amaya and I bust into the bathroom. “Whose ass do I have to kick?” Amaya demands.

  “Amaya—please, not so loud,” Trista stage-whispers, her eyes darting around to see if anyone heard her.

  Amaya sucks her teeth, and lowers her voice. “I don’t care who hears me right now. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Trista looks at Amaya and rolls her eyes. “Nothing, Amaya. Nothing’s wrong.”

  I look at Amaya with a “let me give it a try” nod, and then back at Trista. “Sweetie, what’s going on?” I say gently. “Maybe we can help you fix it.”

  “Oh, there’s no fixing this, unless you know how to take back the last two days I spent making an idiot out of myself,” Trista says, her voice trembling. She is quiet for a moment, then turns around to face me and Amaya. “He has a girlfriend, and she’s here.”

  “Who, Damon?” Amaya says, her mouth dropping open.

  “She’s here?” I say, simultaneously.

  “Yes, and yes,” Trista says quietly. “Out on the dance floor with her man, slow dragging to my damn song. I saw her when she came in—all six foot five of her—looking like she stepped out of the pages of Vogue, and I watched her sashay her lanky behind over to Damon and kiss him on the lips. And you know he had the nerve to not even look embarrassed, like we hadn’t just made love less than twenty-four hours ago? I can’t believe I let him talk his way into my bed. I know better.”

  “Oh sweetie, it’s not your fault—the boy is fine, and he’s your ex, and sometimes, you need a little ex-sex to get you by,” Amaya says matter-of-factly. “Ask Viv.”

  “Amaya, please—this isn’t BET’s Comicview. Enough with the jokes,” I say, shooting her a look before turning to Trista. “Sweetie, come on— let’s get it together. I know you’re hurting right now, but short of us going out there and beating her down, there isn’t really much you can do about it right now. And Elise is waiting for you to come out there and make a spectacular toast on the happiest day of her life. Don’t let Damon and his trick steal your joy or Elise’s. Pull it together, Trista.”

  I look at Amaya, and she looks back at me, both of us unsure whether Trista will fall for my pep talk after being so badly embarrassed. After a few moments, she checks her lipstick in the mirror and turns a
round. “You’re right,” she says, standing up tall and smoothing out her dress. “I’m not going to worry about it. Let’s go celebrate the bride and groom.” That said, she marches out the door, with us close on her heels.

  IT TOOK ONLY a few seconds for the wedding planner to get everyone to start tapping their expensive crystal champagne glasses with their forks—a signal for Elise to kiss her groom. And then, as if she were a conductor cueing the brass section, the wedding planner points at Trista with her index finger, and signals her to start toasting the happy couple. I look to my left and then my right: Trista is staring down at her drink, her focus clearly somewhere other than on the index cards on which she’d jotted her speech yesterday afternoon between phone calls to her office and a really bad movie we’d ordered on pay-per-view. Amaya is staring into space—Lord only knows what’s going through her mind. Clearly we need to rally.

  The room becomes quiet; all eyes are on Trista. She’s good at getting plenty of attention for her clients, but she’s never been one to hop on stage and strut her own stuff, so this is a particularly exquisite torture for her, as the audience is full of proper black folks who don’t suffer fools easily. When she hesitates just a second too long, I know I need to step in. I stand up, take the microphone from her clenched fingers, and make a joke about how as the only writer in the bridal party it’s fitting that I should make the toast. “Elise and Will,” I start slowly, wracking my cloudy brain for words of love, faithfulness, and devotion that will pass as coherent and memorable. “There couldn’t have been a more perfect day for a more perfect couple. But Elise has always had it like that—she’s the lucky charm. Her parents had a hint that this was true when they brought their pretty little brown bundle of joy home, and they found out for sure when they marked Elise’s lucky numbers on that lottery ticket—her birth date, her favorite number, her age, and the first and last numbers on her Social Security card. Trista’s known the luck of Elise since they were toddlers, when they became best friends. Amaya and I were blessed with her presence when we pledged our sorority— she was always the calming, sweet one in the midst of the storm, ready to open her arms in a wide embrace, always saying just the right words to put everyone at ease. Through her we’ve all been blessed with good fortune, and now it’s Will’s turn to see just how lucky life is when Elise is a part of it.” I turned to Will and looked him in his eyes. “Good fortune is sitting right there next to you, Will. Yours will be a life crafted by the angels—God will see to it, for yours is a union that is truly blessed. Here’s to a true love—may it feel new, even through the years when the glitter fades, the children have moved away, and the wrinkles of time have turned both of you old and gray. To the beautiful bride, and her extremely lucky groom,” I said, raising my glass to them. “May we all be so lucky to find what you two have today.” The room rang out with Hear! Hear! and then fell silent as everyone took a sip. When I sat down, Trista reached for my hand and squeezed it; her eyes said “Thank you,” even if her lips didn’t.