The Vow

by Denene Millner

  “It’s my credibility on the line,” I shouted into the phone, drawing the attention of a Botox victim sipping an iced latte on the stool next to me. I rolled my eyes at her; she knew not to say shit to me. But I did lower my voice. “Look, you have to make this right,” I whispered.

  “I know how to make it right,” he said quickly. “I can make an honest woman out of you. That way, you can just cop to being my girl, your boss will crawl out your ass because he’ll know not to mess with the girlfriend of a hardcore rapper, and you’ll be proud to be seen in the newspapers with your man.”

  “Jerome, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m just saying, Viv, you never gave a brother a chance. And I understand that you were focusing on getting your son healthy and all, but I deserved a shot at your heart. I know I’m not Sean, but I figured not being his ass would give me an in. Why can’t you cut a brother a break and give him some love?”

  I didn’t quite know what to say. Perhaps I’d confused him by turning him down at the hospital but accepting his offers to hang out “like friends should.” We’d talked a lot during those dinners, including the night at Mr. Chow’s, about the reasons why I felt like I needed to take a break from dating. He knew not to push the issue. But it was looking like he needed the “we’re just friends” reminder.

  He wasn’t trying to hear it. “I just don’t understand black women,” he said, sounding annoyed. “You all stand on your soapboxes and tell the world your Terry McMillan can’t-get-a-good-black-man stories, and then when a good brother comes along, you just toss him to the side for the guy who’s not interested in doing the right thing.”

  “Jerome, I know you’re not sitting here stereotyping black women with this nonsense,” I said, sounding equally annoyed.

  “I’m not talking about all black women—I’m talking about you right now,” he said.

  “Me? How you figure?” I said, incredulous.

  “Come on, Viv—you’re the queen of the chase. You been running after a brother who don’t want you for almost a decade, and the more he pushes you away, the more you chase him. What’s up with that?”

  “I like to think that I, like a lot of my sisters, am simply focused on what I want. And unlike you doggish men, we women feel no need to string a bunch of random men through a smorgasbord of unnecessary dates, sex, and false commitments, especially when we’ve settled on who should be our main course.”

  “And what happens when you eat your main course and you’re still not satisfied and hungry as hell?” he asked. “A man gets up and goes to another restaurant if he’s still hungry. Black women? They sit there and stare at the plate, wondering if someone is going to come along and give them seconds. You don’t get seconds in restaurants without paying a price. How long you gonna pay the price chasing after Sean, Viv?”

  “Well, Jerome,” I said, dragging out the last syllable of his name for emphasis, “if you must know, I’m not sitting at any restaurant table and I’m sure as hell not waiting for anybody to put food on my plate. I’m not studying Sean or any other man for that matter. I’m on a man diet.”

  “Huh?” he said.

  “I’m not focusing any more energy on getting with Sean. I’ve set my sights on loftier goals,” I said enthusiastically.

  “Oh really,” he said. “Do tell.”

  “Well,” I sighed, “I’ve decided that I don’t want a man—I want me. A healthy, successful, great mom who’s in love with herself. All these years I was focused on having Sean because he’s the father of my child, he was my first love, and I was raised to believe that people who make babies together should stay together. But I’ve realized that he doesn’t love me back the way I deserve to be loved. Hell, I didn’t love myself the way I deserve to be loved. So now I’m being selfish—for myself and for my child. A boy needs his daddy, but he also needs a mom who can show him she enjoys what she does for a living, who’s healthy enough to stay alive to see him graduate and make something of himself, and who’s just… happy. When I focus on me, and not you men, my life with my son becomes exponentially better. I mess with you boys, and my life is a shambles. I don’t like messes, so I’ve cleaned me up.”

  Daddy was silent, but only for a moment. Then he made a halfhearted last-ditch effort. “That sounds all good and well, Viv, but what about the Vow? You know, a brother would be willing to help you meet your deadline if you gave him half a chance.”

  “Man, fuck the Vow,” I said, laughing. “Can you call somebody and get this gossip crap straightened out, please, so that people don’t think I’m sleeping around to get my stories? I have an interview with Newsweek tomorrow, and the last thing I need is for them to think I’m not a serious journalist.”

  “Newsweek, huh?”

  “Yes, Newsweek. They’re looking for a new L.A. bureau chief who’d be responsible for covering entertainment in a much more meaningful way than planting paparazzi pictures in the gossip columns and making up stories to sell magazines.”

  “Shee-it, all of them are the same—rags that don’t ever tell the truth,” Daddy said. “But I’ll do you that solid, Ms. Evans, ’cause you’re my girl. No problem.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Jerome. I really mean it.”

  “Yup,” he said and hung up.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon at home, preparing for my interview and running through worst-case scenarios of what I would do if I didn’t get it. Joel was going to fire my ass for sure, so I’d probably be stuck freelancing until something else more stable came along. Sean could put Corey on his insurance plan, and I could stretch the child support out with my savings to make ends meet. When I wasn’t thinking about fresh ways to make new money, I was praying that none of Corey’s little friends had said anything to my son about the Herald item. I wasn’t quite ready to explain to him what any of it meant, and I was sure he wouldn’t understand, anyway, but I’d crafted a little something in my mind that I thought would adequately explain to a seven-year-old that gossip isn’t necessarily true, and that he shouldn’t believe everything he reads or hears—not until he checks it out for himself. And who better to tell him the truth than his mama? By the time five P.M. rolled around and his dad brought him home from soccer practice, I was ready.

  What I didn’t prepare myself for, though, was Sean’s reaction. Not that I really cared what he thought; we hadn’t really spoken to each other, save for the necessary parenting conversations, in weeks. But it’s amazing what a little gossip item can do to an already frosty relationship. “Nice picture, Jane,” Sean said before he even got through the door.

  “You know what, Sean? You can go screw yourself,” I said simply, taking Corey’s sports bag from his hand.

  “Why don’t you watch your mouth?” he said, as Corey walked into the kitchen, completely oblivious to the brushfire spreading in the foyer.

  “Why don’t you leave my house?” I shot back.

  “My pleasure,” he said, turning to leave. But before he could get all the way through the screen door, he reached into the breast pocket of his windbreaker and stepped back into the house. “By the way, nice spread,” he said, tossing the September issue of Playgirl at my feet.

  My eyes widened; I picked up the magazine in one quick swoop, afraid that Corey might catch a glimpse before I could get it out of view.

  “Nice,” I said, sarcastically. “You’re such a class act.”

  “So is your man,” Sean said. And with that, he walked out the door in a huff.

  “I didn’t know you cared,” I said.

  “I don’t,” he said.

  “Then at least we’re on the same page,” I said, smiling sweetly as I watched him walk down the driveway. He tossed me a nasty look as he backed out and pulled away in a swirl of burning rubber.

  “My man?” I mouthed to myself. Lord, that boy thinks Daddy and I are an item. And if I was reading him correctly, he was actually jealous. “Ha!” I laughed out loud, shaking my head. “Isn’t that
rich?” Usually it was me who was slamming doors and pointing fingers. How the tables have turned. I shrugged. Who gives a damn what Sean thinks?

  “So, big boy, how was soccer?” I called out to Corey as I closed the front door and headed into the kitchen in search of my son.

  “CONGRATULATIONS, superstar!” Trista yelled as she stood on my front porch, a bottle of champagne in one hand, a box from Magnolia in the other. I’d called her just a few hours earlier, screaming into the phone in excitement about the job offer I’d received from Newsweek. To celebrate, Trista invited herself over for a home-cooked meal. For such a skinny girl, she sure can put it away. I happily accepted her invitation for me to cook; it’d been so long since we actually sat down and talked to one another in person, one would have wondered if our friendship had also suffered a mortal blow from the Las Vegas blow-up. I was happy to see that it hadn’t.

  “That’s Bureau Chief to you, Miss Missy,” I said, opening the door and accepting my friend’s warm embrace. “Come on in.”

  “You better go ahead and get yourself a title,” Trista said as she stepped into my foyer and handed me the box. “I can’t believe they offered you the job on the spot. I figured they’d at least make you sweat a couple days before they hit you with the package.”

  “So did I. And you know I was sweating about that gossip item,” I said. “But they almost seemed impressed that I got caught in a precarious position with a star—to them it looked like I was doing a helluva job getting a good story. In the end, that’s what saved my behind at the News. I hope that’s not a sign that they’re just as ridiculous as those bubbleheads at the News.”

  “Speaking of bubbleheads, when are you going to tell them?”

  “I was thinking I might walk in there tomorrow, climb up on my desk, lift my dress up around my waist, and tell them all to kiss my big brown ass, then stroll the hell out to a theme song—maybe something from early NWA, or maybe that Ice Cube song where he says ‘today was a good day, I didn’t have to use my AK,’” I said, putting a serious look on my face for emphasis, then falling out in hysterics. “But then I thought better of it and decided I should just tell Joel ‘Fuck you’ and be done with it.”

  “You might want to spare him the expletives and stick to a tee resignation letter,” Trista laughed. “Ride out on top. I’m so proud of you, Viv. But enough about Newsweek—what’s for dinner?” she asked, looking over my shoulder toward the kitchen. “I don’t smell my prized fried chicken.”

  “Fried chicken?” I said, reeling back. “Girl, I haven’t made fried chicken in damn near two months. Jules won’t stand for it.”

  “Who in the world is Jules, and why is he messing up my dinner plans?” Trista asked, hands on her hips.

  “Jules is my personal trainer, and he’s saving your girl’s life,” I said.

  Actually, I like to think of Jules as my knight in shining armor—a personal trainer/nutritionist who’s gay and blessed with the uncanny ability to read men better than most women and dispense advice more sound than any of L.A.’s $400-per-hour psychologists. His sofa? The treadmill at Red’s Total Fitness, a sweaty, hole-in-the-wall gym I joined over two months ago, shortly after Corey got out of the hospital. I didn’t tell anybody I was joining—didn’t ask for any referrals. I needed to lose weight without any pressure from Amaya, without overspending on some celebrity trainer Trista would surely have recommended, and without doing it to please some man—specifically, Sean. I found Jules in the Yellow Pages. He had found a way to help me lose just over eight pounds and two pants sizes in a mere seven weeks. “Jules wouldn’t stand for me ruining all his work for a piece of greasy fried chicken,” I said heartily to Trista as she followed me into the kitchen to check on the salmon and slice a little red onion for our salad.

  “Oh really—Jules wouldn’t want you to ruin all his work, huh?” she said, looking me up and down. “You look good, girl! So, um, how much work is Jules putting in?” she said coyly as she sat at the kitchen table.

  “Um, get your mind out the gutter, Ms. Trista. Jules is sweeter than syrup—he ain’t putting that kind of work in, trust. Damn shame, too, because he’s fine as hell. But the gay ones always are. But I’ll tell you, when that boy’s bending over on top of me, stretching my legs? Lord, that’s when I really miss getting some.”

  “What, no ex-sex?”

  “Trista, what have you been living on—the planet Mars? I told you, Sean and I are over. I miss the sex, but I tell you, my world is so much easier to navigate now that I keep our relationship simple.”

  “Simple, huh?”

  “Yup, simple,” I said. “He picks up Corey—I say ‘Hi,’ hand him my child’s suitcase, tell him when I’ll be by to pick him up, and say goodnight. He drops off his child support, I say ‘Thank you,’ and keep it moving. The other week at Corey’s soccer game, I sat on the opposite side of the bleachers and didn’t pay him any mind. And I’m proud to say that when he reneged on his weekend with Corey last Saturday, I just told him, ‘No problem,’ then made reservations at a vegetarian restaurant and took my son on a date.”

  “Damn—‘No problem’?” Trista said, cocking her eyebrows. Then she playfully looked around the room, cupped my face, and looked deeply into my eyes. “Who are you, and what did you do with my friend Viv?” she joked.

  “I know! Right? The Viv who gave a damn would have hired a private investigator to find out where the bitch he ditched his kid for lived, so I could drive on over to her house and egg both their cars. The Viv who just a few weeks ago screamed on him for mentioning another man’s Playgirl spread. But like Oran Juice Jones, I chilled. Just call me Mary J. Blige—no more drama for me.”

  “I must say, I don’t quite know what to say,” Trista stammered. “Viv without Sean is like, like, peanut butter without jelly, ice without water, Gladys without the Pips.”

  “I know, right?” I said, shaking my head.

  Trista kept going. “I sure am glad you finally came to your senses,” she continued. “I never could figure out what it was you saw in him.”

  I wrinkled my brow. “What do you mean?” I said.

  “I mean, come on, Viv. Sean isn’t exactly the prize you’ve made him out to be. He’s selfish, afraid of commitment, he never gave you the respect you deserve… And, quite honestly, I never thought he handled his business in the father department as well as he could have, either. Thank God Corey’s got you…”

  “Hold up,” I said, cutting her off. “You’re my girl, so I’ll take you criticizing my choice in men with a grain of salt. We certainly don’t have the same taste in men. But I think you’re out of line questioning what kind of father Sean’s been to his child. He may not be perfect, but he’s better than some of these other knuckleheads out here spreading their sperm from woman to woman and not taking care of their responsibilities.”

  “Oh, so now just because Sean cuts a check he’s a good dad?”

  “Sean’s a good dad because he’s responsible, he loves his son, and he doesn’t let a day go by without letting him know it,” I insisted. “Don’t confuse Sean’s treatment of me with the way he treats his child. Better yet, don’t confuse Sean with Damon or Garrett or any of the other men in your life who’ve hurt you.”

  “Damon and Garrett have nothing to do with how I feel about Sean, Vivian,” Trista seethed. “And if you’re not interested in Sean anymore, why are you defending him?”

  “I’m not defending Sean—I’m just asking my best friend to think about what kind of harm she’s done to my relationship every time she’s told me that I’m a fool for wanting to love the father of my child. You’re my girl; I come to you for a shoulder to lean on, Trista. I don’t need your criticism. And my son sure doesn’t need you comparing his father to these trifling-ass niggas who walk away from their children as if they never existed.”

  “Damn—you sure told me,” Trista said, rolling her eyes.

  “Yes, I did, didn’t I,” I said, rolling my eyes right back at her. “
Shit is complicated enough, my friend. Don’t add to my drama. In fact, why don’t you focus on your own? When’s the last time you talked to Amaya?”

  “Oh, see, there you go,” she said, laughing nervously.

  “Yeah, there I go,” I said, tossing my chin up at her. “You know, life is much too short, baby. Whatever it is you and Amaya are going through, it needs to be over. She’s a different animal from you, for sure, but there’s something to that yin and yang thing. You guys were put on this earth together for a reason. Lord knows, I haven’t figured out why, but I do know this: I can’t stand it that my two best friends aren’t talking, and that it’s all over some dumb shit. Can y’all please just stop it already?”

  “How about we make a deal right here, right now, over your bland-ass broiled fish and rabbit salad?” Trista said. “I won’t get in the middle of your business with Sean, and you won’t get in the middle of me and Amaya’s mess. I’m finished talking about it. This is supposed to be a celebration, dammit. I don’t want to fight—I want to eat. Tell me you have some mac and cheese hidden somewhere up in here.”

  16

  TRISTA

  Today is the day. I barely slept last night because I was so excited. It felt like the night before Christmas. I flipped channels most of the night and didn’t drop off until around three. I even caught one of Amaya’s old movies Baby Mamma Drama 3 on BET. Lord, that girl has been in some bad movies! I thought about calling her after the movie went off but then changed my mind. I’m still pissed, and we haven’t spoken since Vegas. Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, I see it’s six forty-five. Garrett’s side of the bed is empty.

  “Garrett?” I call out as I sit up in the bed. My bedroom door opens and he walks in, dressed in dark-blue pants, a crisp white shirt, and yellow silk tie.

  “Whatcha got there, hot stuff?” I ask, smiling as he places a tray of food on my lap. “I can’t believe you found something in my refrigerator to cook.”