“Hmmm, I’m pleased to hear that Mr. Bennett is good company, but I hope you’re not losing focus. An ‘I love you’ is nice, but it’s nowhere near signed divorce papers.”
“No, I am not losing focus. But do tell, whatever happened to patience?” I ask sarcastically, happy to have an opportunity to throw her words back at her.
“With me moving, I’m just afraid that you won’t stay on track, my dear. I certainly don’t want to look up and have a forty-year-old spinster on my hands.”
“Don’t worry, Benita, that’s not going to happen. Not only do I plan to be extremely successful and self-sufficient, I have no doubt that I will not be alone,” I answer with much more confidence than I feel.
“If you say so,” she concludes. “Well, my darling, let me go. Please don’t forget to make the reservations for our final brunch. I’ll talk to you then. Smooches.”
“Smooches,” I reply as I slowly place the receiver back on the base and fall back listlessly into my pillows, devoid of all my earlier excitement. No matter how much I try to fight it, Benita always manages to snatch the wind completely out of my sails.
AS I PULL out of my parking garage an hour later, my mind is still scrambling to process all this new information. Benita in love? Not only in love but about to move back to Miami (a city she swore never to return to, come hell or high water) for some man named Gerald she just met three weeks ago? How is it that one woman can find so many men willing to love her and I can’t even convince one to take me seriously? Shit, my sorry ass just got an “I love you” for the first time, and I’ve been with Keith for how long? I silently fume as I head over to G. Garvin’s to meet Troy for our lunch date.
Clearly spending time with Troy and Keith’s sudden good behavior has thrown me off my Vow game plan for a couple of months, but thanks to Benita’s little revelation the blinders are off. It’s time to get back on track. I can’t have my mom manage to get yet another proposal before I even get my first. And not for nothing, there are only four months to go until the end of the year. I pull my cell out of my gold Louis Vuitton bag, dial information, and ask to be connected to the Eye Spy Surveillance Company as I pull out onto the 405. I make an appointment to swing by their office at six P.M. Keith can keep talking all that love shit till the cows come home, I’m about to get some proof on Trixie to help light the divorce fire up under his behind.
AS I PASS BY a young white woman in her early thirties with an engagement ring the size of a baby’s fist on her hand waiting at the entrance of the restaurant for the valet to pull her car around, I become even more irritated. As much as I hate listening to my mother, she’s right: I’m not going to be thirty-something forever. I need someone to share the rest of my life with. As far as I’m concerned I’ve been more than patient, and right about now I need a bit of instant gratification.
As soon as I walk inside, I sense all eyes on me and my green-jersey backless Chloe halter dress. It was just one of those dresses that make it good to be a black woman with tight curves. As the maître d’ leads me over to Troy’s table in the back, I notice that, as usual, he’s not alone. It seems like more and more, Troy is finding it impossible to separate himself from his cronies. Unless we’re attending an invite-only event, I can guarantee that he’ll be accompanied by two or three of his clown-ass teammates. Rookies who don’t know how to act with all that new money. I don’t get it—don’t they spend enough time with each other at practice, on the road, and during the games? I swear, they’re like high school boys. Always making crude jokes about women and discussing sports. It’s one of the only things about Troy that works my nerves. I really wish he would try to act older than his twenty-two years and cut them short. Thankfully, he dismisses the crew just as I’m seated, then starts in with his usual round of compliments. Not that I don’t appreciate hearing what he has to say, but today I’m on a mission.
“Sweetie, we need to talk,” I blurt out, interrupting him mid-sentence.
“What’s up?” he asks, cheesing from one diamond-studded ear to the other.
“Basically, it’s two things,” I begin. “First of all, I just found out today that I got that part in the Soular Son film.”
“Amaya, that’s so hot! I’m so happy for you,” he exclaims as he reaches over to kiss me. “I can’t wait to see my girl kicking ass on the big screen!”
“Wait a minute, Troy,” I say as I struggle to untangle myself from his embrace. “Let me finish!”
“My bad, babe, go ’head, then,” he apologizes.
“Well, this film also means that there are going to be a lot of changes in my life,” I start again once I straighten my dress. “I’m going to be traveling for long periods of time to the different shoot locations. I’ll be meeting a lot of new people, and my personal life is about to become a lot more public.”
“Okay, so what’s your point?” he asks, sounding slightly confused. “I mean, it’s not like everyone doesn’t already know we’re dating.”
“That’s my point right there—we’re dating. As far as I can see, there’s no commitment in that. At the end of the day, you can very well turn around and be with some random chick and you wouldn’t even owe me so much as an explanation, Troy.”
“Yo, you know I would never do that to you, Amaya. My word is my bond. You’re the only woman that I’m seeing. You’re like my wifey,” he says defensively.
“I don’t want to be a wifey, Troy. I want to be a wife,” I implore as I grab one of his huge hands in both of mine. “I know it’s only been five months, but I’m sure about the way I feel about you. And we spend all this time together, anyway…”
“Aww, man. Come on now. What’s wrong with the way things are going?” he questions suspiciously as he gently pulls his hand away.
“Not a damn thing,” I spit back, changing up my needy-nice-girl tactic mid-flow. “As a matter of fact, forget I even brought the shit up. Let’s just eat.”
“Whoa, whoa, ma, hold up, now.” Unlike Keith, Troy had never witnessed my queen bitch side before. He immediately starts to backpedal into safer territory. “You ain’t got to get mad like that.”
“I ain’t mad, it’s cool,” I say, blocking my face with the menu.
“Naw, for real,” he says and gently moves the menu from in front of me. “If it’s that serious to you, fine. I hear you.”
“And just what does you ‘hear me’ mean, Troy?” I inquire frostily.
“It means, it might not happen tomorrow or even next week but you’ll have a set of keys to the crib and whatever else you need to be happy before you step one of your pretty toes on that set, okay?” he says with a resigned grin.
I suppress my urge to jump on his lap right there in the restaurant and simply say, “I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, Troy.”
“Trust, I’m not doing anything I don’t want to, Amaya,” he answers. “Now let’s stop discussing and start celebrating because my baby is about to be a supa-dupa-star!”
ONE DOWN AND one to go, I smugly think to myself as I sit back on the cool black leather couch in the enormous reception area of Eye Spy Surveillance. The cute gay receptionist informs me that Ms. Smith will be out shortly and offers me a glass of water. I politely decline and continue to fidget with the strap of the gold Rolex Troy bought me last week. The sound of CNN on the flat-screen drones in the background as I debate whether I should even bother spending all this money to trap Trixie. I mean, I did hear the woman with my very own ears, and my word should be golden right about now. If Keith doesn’t want to believe me, fuck him. I still have Troy. Just as I rise to leave, Lisa enters the room. As soon as I see her, I change my mind—one can never be too safe. I greet her with a quick hug and follow her down the hall. A striking brunette in some bad-ass Sergio Rossi pumps, Lisa looks like she’d be more at home on a runway than a stakeout. Raised in a family of cops and private eyes, she runs this thriving business with her older brothers. Although her client list is strictly confide
ntial, from the single case that I helped with, it’s obvious to me that Lisa works with some big dogs.
After catching up for about fifteen minutes, I candidly explain my situation. I tell her everything from how long Keith and I have been dating to the day in the Armani dressing room to Keith’s declaration of love this very morning. Shoot, it’s better than a damn therapy session. Lisa listens wordlessly, nodding her head and taking notes, interrupting only once or twice for a clarification. When I finally finish, she reviews her notes again and assures me that it sounds like a pretty standard case. The only obstacle would be if Trixie were working on a film out of town. From the sounds of it, this Sam guy is in Los Angeles. I agree and promise to do some research to find out whether or not she’s going to be filming anything within the next couple of months and get back to Lisa as soon as possible.
With that out of the way, Lisa proceeds to explain a few “extra” options available with her service: photos or video, phone tap or list and length of cell-phone calls, credit-card receipts… it went on and on. As much as I would like to get the works on Trixie, I know that my friend-of-the-family discount is only going to carry me so far. I don’t possess nearly the amount of money necessary to make those dreams come through. So I simply settled for color photos, digital and print. I make out a check for $900, and make a mental note to swing by the post office to check my PO box for this month’s Dead Straight check. As I rise to leave Lisa’s office, I can feel my good mood from earlier return. Maybe speaking to Benita wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Thanks to her needling, I’m back on track with my private-investigation plans for Keith, and I’ve even forced Troy to step up his game. Score another for the little black girl; it’s full steam ahead!
12
VIVIAN
I walk into Young Daddy MC’s house, fully expecting to find the standard rapper decor: black leather couches; bland white paint; cheap, gold-trimmed étagères filled with insignificant mementos and sports memorabilia; a framed poster of Al Pacino from Scarface; a full collection of blaxploitation DVDs. You see a couple of episodes of MTV’s Cribs or BET’s How I’m Living and you’ve seen ’em all. But Daddy, with whom I’ve been spending a lot of time lately, continues to surprise me in the most unusual ways: he isn’t the irresponsible, party-hard rapper desperately trying to hold on to his last two minutes of fame. In fact, over the past few months, he has virtually cut off the deadbeat hype crowd that used him to get into parties and pay for their drinks, and has started spending more time thinking seriously about his career—and spending quite a bit of time with me. We get along easily; he told me a few weeks ago that he likes hanging out with me because I am unpretentious and didn’t seem phased by his fame. Plus, he said, he trusted me—if I, a reporter, hadn’t spread his business in the tabloids by now, I was a friend worth keeping. I’m by no means one of those writers who gets her rocks off hanging around with the stars; no, there is something different about Daddy’s actions when he isn’t around the lights and cameras. I like what I see—a smart, thoughtful man who is attentive, sweet, and ambitious. Indeed, he’s begun to plot and plan his debut on the big screen—a career change that follows that of rappers-turned-actors Ice Cube, Queen Latifah, and LL Cool J. At the very least, the move will boost his waning rap career—and it might well mean a new source of income for him. He grows excited every time he talks about his big changes with me.
He lives in a tasteful condo in Beverly Hills, beautifully outfitted with plush neutral sofas, chairs, and settees, colorful artwork, and an impressive collection of artifacts he says he hand-picked during his travels through Europe, Africa, and Asia. He doesn’t even have a television in his living room—“I don’t really watch it much,” he confided. “I’d rather study scripts and write rhymes than waste my time watching reality shows and bad made-for-TV movies.” And get this: the boy cooks. Loves to, he claims.
Which is why I find myself sitting in his condo on a Tuesday evening after work, wishing I’d bothered to dress up for the occasion. Everything is so incredibly lovely—silver place settings sparkle against the ruby table linens that cover his ten-seat dining room table. Candles flicker all around the dimmed common areas; his CD player dances through a mix of classic and contemporary R&B—Stevie Wonder’s Songs in the Key of Life flows easily into Alicia Keys’ Songs in A Minor, into Mary J. Blige’s My Life. I’d just finished eyeing the collection of Senegalese tapestries he’d artfully hung in the hallway just off the kitchen when Mary starts singing the title track from the hit album; I was humming to Mary’s scats, about two seconds from catching the Holy Ghost, when Daddy walks into the dining room, a plate of food in each hand.
“You got a nice voice—you sing?” he asks, startling me out of my off-tune flow.
“I have shower concerts at least once a week,” I joke. “I can’t give away tickets.”
“Shoot, by the time they finished pushing buttons in the studio, even Mary J. Blige wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between you and her singing,” he laughs. “But seriously, you have a nice voice.”
“Why, thank you, sir,” I say, taking my seat at the table. I lean into the plate and breath in deeply. “Mmm, I’m hungry as heck. This smells absolutely delicious.”
“Steamed monk fish in a caper butter sauce, shrimp risotto, and broiled asparagus,” he says.
“Um, okay—tell me that you ordered this from some fancy restaurant somewhere and had it delivered. Or that you hired some chef to cook it for you and then discreetly slip out, so I’d think you really cooked this meal yourself. Because I just refuse to believe you can burn like this on the regular, and this is the first time I’m being invited over to witness your skills.”
“Nope—it’s not takeout and there’s no little Italian guy running around in the kitchen. It’s all me,” he says, taking a bite. “Eat up.”
We talk easily about everything imaginable—the upcoming gubernatorial elections, which car is better, a Benz or a BMW, the state of Hollywood and how rappers are replacing black actors on the big screen. Our conversation just flows without pretension—even when we disagree, we manage to find some common ground and learn from one another in the process. Funny thing is, we never ever talk about relationships—ours or any that we’d had with anyone else. Somehow, we’ve taken an interesting turn and ended up in the friend zone, I’m sure at my own doing, seeing as I am consumed with moving my relationship with Sean out of the ex-sex category and into the winner’s circle. The sexual tension is there, for sure—we’d talked before about racier subjects, like who our firsts were, who did it best, the kinkiest things we’d ever done with the opposite sex. But I get the distinct impression that he knows not to push me. Besides, Daddy has his choice of ass, I’m sure, and probably isn’t starving for my affection, not with all the groupies who regularly turn a simple trip to places like Baskin-Robbins into here’s my number/can I get your autograph on my breast/what you doing later tonight—and who turn my stomach, and sometimes even make me ashamed to be female. I do know that all their shenanigans make me even more appealing to him: I’m the nonjudgmental, safe, non-celebrity-obsessed “mom”—the closest thing to normality he could possibly get. Maybe he wants to keep the relationship unmolested. Ass he can get anywhere.
Which is why I feel totally comfortable telling him about the Vow while we sit eating dessert and sipping wine on the sofa.
“So, hold up, let me get this straight: you three plan on finding men who will meet you, propose, and marry you before New Year’s Eve—in, like, six months?” he says, his mouth agape, enough for me to see the chocolate mousse in there.
“Well, we all have prospects, so it’s not like we actually still have to find the men,” I say casually.
“And you’re going to try to coax a commitment out of him in less than a year.”
“But see, that’s just it right there: I don’t understand why we have to ‘coax’ someone—particularly a black man—to marry us. We’re three beautiful, strong, educated black wome
n who just want to fall in love with someone who will love us back. Maybe you can explain to me why you guys are so afraid of commitment.”
“Wait—hold up: you and your girls have set some arbitrary timetable to rope a brother down and make him dedicate the rest of his life to you after being together for only a matter of months, and you’re wondering why brothers are afraid of commitment? Can you say, type-A personality—run?”
“What would you prefer—a fifteen-month deadline, a five-year one, fifteen? What’s the difference, if you love the person you’re with, whether you get married in seven months as opposed to seven years? You love each other, you get married. Why stall the process?”
“Maybe he needs to cross the street to make sure the grass really isn’t greener,” Daddy laughs. “Can’t rush those things.”
“So is that what Corey’s dad is doing—taking his time?” I ask. “Should I be prepared to wait until my child goes to college before I expect an ‘I do’ out of him?”
“Sean is the target of your Vow?” Daddy says, staring into my eyes. I don’t know if I’m reading him right, but he looks disappointed, if only for an instant.
“He’s not a target—he’s Corey’s father and the man I’ve loved since freshman year in college,” I say quietly. “And, quite honestly, I’m at my wits’ end trying to figure out what we’re doing. On any given week we can be thick as thieves, showing up together for school functions, talking about Corey’s progress, taking him to interesting places, making plans for his future. We even have a set game night—I cook, Sean helps me with the dishes, Corey picks the game, we put our son to bed, and we cap the evening with mind-blowing sex. But then days will go by where I don’t hear from him unless it’s a voicemail, or a quick phone call—and sometimes I don’t even get that. I just can’t figure out what we’re doing.”
The Vow Page 20