“I know that’s right,” cosigned Vivian.
“As long as you know,” I said with a smile and a snap of my fingers.
I almost fell over laughing as they described the havoc that ensued from the special edition of Tattleteller with the exclusive photos of Trixie and Sam versus Trixie and Keith on every front of the entertainment industry while I was away. Apparently within hours of the magazine hitting newsstands the story was picked up and reported on by MTV, BET, and every online and print gossip column, not to mention the celebrity news TV shows like Extra and Inside Edition. In fact, Viv is pretty sure that she even read something about it on the Associated Press wire service that same day. When the news first hit, Keith and Trixie tried to present a united front and refused to comment. But I guess Trixie’s agent broke down for her how hot homosexuality is in Hollywood right now, because not even four days later, homegirl sits down with Diane Sawyer and comes clean. Not only did Trixie admit that the photos were real, but turns out it wasn’t just a random lesbian affair. She’s in love. During her hour-long interview, Trixie told Diane about how she’d been unsatisfied for years with Keith and how relieved she was to finally live her life openly.
“You should’ve seen the crocodile tears sliding down her face,” insisted Viv. “That woman is coldhearted. She filed for divorce the same day she signed her new movie deal with Miramax Films. The rumors say, it’s a drama about a woman seduced by her sister-in-law. Now you know!”
“Last I heard she was suing for full custody and asking for damn near twelve thousand dollars a month in child support,” added Trista.
Needless to say, after Trixie’s little primetime confession, Keith Cooper’s name wasn’t worth a damn in the streets. Nobody wanted to deal with or be too closely associated with him. Beat Down Records has become a joke—I mean, how do you expect people to believe that you’re running shit when your own wife prefers the pleasure of a woman to you? Industrywhispers.com has it that he’ll be replaced as the CEO by the end of the month.
I almost felt bad for him… but then again, not so much. For a while there he kept leaving me threatening messages on my cell. But after I politely left a message with his assistant, Andrew, warning that if he continued to harass me with the phone calls and pages I’d file for a restraining order, it stopped. Considering the last thing he wants or needs right about now is more messy press, I’m pretty confident I won’t be hearing from him.
I never spoke to Troy again—which suited me just fine. Of course, Industrywhispers.com was the first to break the news of our breakup. I laughed out loud when I read the exclusive interview Troy had given, claiming total responsibility for the breakup, insisting he was a changed man and begging for my forgiveness. I figured he should probably save some of that energy for the paternity suit he’d just been slapped with by a woman in Nevada. She came forward, shortly after the Stingers lost the finals, claiming that her baby twins were his sons. My, oh my, karma is a bitch!
A couple weeks later, I signed on with Trista’s new agency. The ink had barely dried on the contracts before she had me sequestered in my apartment reading the revised script for The Black Crusader. I was only allowed to leave home for my acting classes and the gym. Tris insisted that I know every single line backward and forward before I left for Toronto in January. “There is no wiggle room for you, Amaya,” she explained. “You need to be so good that no one can deny you.” About three days before the first principal-cast read-through, I stopped by her office on my way to the gym and confessed what happened at the dinner with Carter. She was livid. Turns out that he had harassed one of her clients a couple of years back and she was very familiar with his antics. She put an immediate call into Carter’s management team on my behalf. I don’t know what exactly Trista said to them, but I sure heard a whole lot of “sexual predator,” “filing charges,” and “next special edition of Tattleteller magazine” coming from her side of the conversation. Needless to say, the largest bouquet of white roses, white calla lilies, and orchids I’ve ever seen in my life arrived the next day for me at Trista’s office. And best believe the moment he saw me at our principal-cast read-through, he was the perfect gentleman. If I hadn’t been the one sitting in the restaurant, I would never have believed that incident ever happened. Can’t nobody tell me my girl ain’t the fire!
Of course the ceremony was an amazing Vivian Evans affair, but I gotta say that Trista almost stole the show with her surprise proposal. I should’ve known that she and Damon would end up together. Ever since they started dating in college, they’ve been meant for each other. Seeing the way her entire body lights up when she speaks about him is enough to make even me teary-eyed. And you know I’m not about getting worked up and ruining good makeup for any ol’ body! To think, if only she hadn’t been so hard-headed back in the day, Trista would already be married to that man! I’m just glad that they finally got it together. But I sure hope she takes some of that glow with her to the jewelry store and puts a little more bling in that little-ass ring Damon gave her.
So with Viv now happily married and Trista engaged, that just leaves me—still. I haven’t come anywhere near accomplishing our Vow. If anything, I took about twenty leaps in the opposite direction. Yet I can’t say that I’m upset. In fact, this total independence feels good. I never realized just how capable I am until I cut all the safety nets. Granted, every once in a while, it gets a little lonely in my bed, but that’s the reason for my trusty vibrator and the porn channel.
Thankfully, with Keith, Clarence, and even Troy to a certain extent supplementing my lifestyle for so long, I had more than enough money stashed away to hold me over until the first check from the film came through. So I haven’t been stressing about the rent and whatnot. I mean, the usual bill collectors continue to harass me, but I just chalk it up to fodder for the future tell-all. Not to mention, Trista is already in the middle of negotiating a possible Gap campaign and a run on Broadway in a new August Wilson production. She thinks I need to branch out with something more artistic. Can you imagine me in New York? Whew, those Negroes aren’t ready!
THE SUDDEN rustle of the curtain startles me back to reality. Time to get back to the reception. I hurriedly finish applying my gloss. As I study myself one last time in the mirror, I pause and smile. Flawless. I head back into the bedroom to search for the sandals I kicked off my feet earlier. While searching, I flip on the television to see if I can catch the weather report. My flight to Miami is scheduled to depart from Saint Thomas first thing in the morning—I plan to spend a few days in Miami with Benita before I head back to L.A. and start packing for Toronto. Hopefully, this visit will be the start of some type of reconciliation. I booked an open ticket so that I can always leave at the drop of a hat, just in case. As the TV comes into focus, my very first Dead Straight television commercial begins. I pause and watch my image fill the screen. Damn, it’s good to be me! I grab my glass of champagne off the night table and raise it in a silent toast to me, myself, and I.
21
VIVIAN
We screamed one of those sorority-sister screams—the screeching kind that makes whoever is standing in a five-mile radius turn, take note, and shake their heads in disgust at the ruckus being made. I didn’t care who was looking, though. It’s my wedding day, which means that I’ve walked down the aisle and exchanged vows with the man I’ve loved a lifetime. Can’t think of a better reason to act a fool with my girls.
“I’m just saying—peep the ring,” Amaya said, grabbing my hand and thrusting it into Elise and Trista’s faces. “Honestly, I don’t even know how you made it back down the aisle without a separate attendant to hold up your left hand. That’s at least four carats, right?”
“I haven’t a clue—you know I don’t know anything about diamonds,” I said, smiling and holding my hand out to admire my ring finger. “The first time I even saw it was when Sean put it on my finger. He and Corey picked it out.”
“Well, your boys sure got some serious taste,” Ama
ya said. “Um, Trist—maybe you should get Damon a tutorial with Viv’s little man so he can hook you up properly.”
Trista rolled her eyes and passed her ring finger under Amaya’s nose. “Don’t hate,” Trista said. “I got the ring I’ve always dreamed about—one from the man I love.”
“That’s right,” I chimed in after taking a sip of champagne from a glass I grabbed from the waiter as he passed by. “No ring size, price tag, or stone can ever be as precious as the sentiment behind it. I love your ring, Trista. Congratulations, girl.”
“Thank you, Viv,” Trista said, shooting a fake dirty look at Amaya. “When you get a man, then maybe you can take some lessons from me and your girl here on how to keep him and get yourself one of these.”
“And you better hope he’s an ounce as romantic as Sean and Corey,” Elise said, throwing a high five to Trista and me for emphasis.
Sean’s proposal was, indeed, out of this world. I hadn’t expected it to come so suddenly; we’d been back together for only about a month when he pulled off an enormously extravagant and elaborate proposal/engagement party. One beautiful, balmy evening in October, he dispatched a fleet of limousines across Beverly Hills, Hollywood, and Compton, to pick up thirty of our family members and closest friends and bring them to an undisclosed location. No one knew what was up—Amaya told me later that the drivers just showed up to everyone’s doorstep with a single rose and a hand-stenciled invitation beckoning them to get in the limousine and head for an “unforgettable celebration of the woman who’s taught my heart to sing.”
While everyone was being snatched up around town, Sean showed up to my office to take me to what I thought was going to be a movie-and-dinner date. It was obvious something was up, though, when he drove back to his place—he claimed he’d bought the movie tickets and left them in a jacket at his house—and we were met at the door by a group of three women who ushered me into his rose-filled home. “Sean? What’s going on,” I said, a frown crossing my face as the three welcomed us and grabbed me.
“Just do as the nice ladies say,” he said, smiling.
In his bedroom there were three beautiful dresses laid across the bed; at least ten pairs of shoes stood at attention by the closet. The women sat me at a vanity by the fireplace and proceeded to fuss with my hair and paint my face and body with makeup and all kinds of exotic potions, then helped me into a gorgeous, strapless rust-orange gown that boasted a tight bodice with a long, flared skirt, accented with a stunning flower at the waist. I was slipping into a pair of brown lace sling-back pumps when Sean came into the room about an hour later.
“You take my breath away,” he said.
“Sean? What’s going on? No one will tell me what’s going on,” I said, half smiling, half demanding answers.
Sean didn’t say anything at first; just watched as the women cleaned up their things. Then he turned to me, took me by my hands, and said simply, “Come with me.”
Rose petals painted the carpeted hallway and the spiral staircase. My eyes filled with tears as we headed downstairs—I knew what was about to happen the moment I saw my mother, Sean’s family, and a roomful of my closest friends all crowded at the bottom of the staircase, grinning from ear to ear and clapping like they’d just seen an encore at a Janet Jackson concert. Mom, Amaya, and Trista each reached out and gave me hugs, and then Sean took my hand and led me over to the picture window in the living room. There, my son, in an adorable gray pin-stripe suit, was sitting in a grand chair. A ring box was in his little hand.
Sean raised his hands to quiet the crowd, and then turned to me. By now, I was a blubbering idiot, completely incapable of saying so much as my name. Luckily, Sean and Corey did all the work.
“Vivian Evans—there is no other,” Sean said, taking my hands in his. “You are the mother of my child, my best friend, my confidante, my lover, and I couldn’t imagine my life without you in it. When I wake up in the morning, I want to see you. When I’m headed for work, I want to see you. When I’m eating lunch and dinner, I want to see you. When I go to sleep every night for the rest of my life, the last sight I want to see before my eyes is you. Because no one has ever made me feel like you do, and no one ever will. I am a lucky man because I’ve found the woman who has made my heart sing. I don’t want that feeling to ever go away.”
And then he got down on bended knee, and Corey got out of the chair, stood next to him, and opened the ring box. “Vivian Evans, will you be my wife?”
I was so overwhelmed with emotion, and trying so hard to keep my tears and nose from running over my makeup that I didn’t respond immediately. Corey took my hand and gently reminded me that I should answer his dad. “Mommy,” he whispered, “you have to say yes.”
The room burst into hearty laughter. As did I. “Yes, Sean Jordan. I’ll marry you.”
We had just shy of two months to pull our wedding together. Sean liked the idea of having it in the Caribbean. That way we could keep the guest list short—just those we truly wanted to witness the ceremony. We all arrived in Saint Thomas three days before the wedding to enjoy the island and party together, and the day before the ceremony, Sean and I spent the majority of the day together with our son.
“Are you excited, Son?” Sean asked Corey, who’d been picking over his food and pretty quiet over lunch.
“Yeah, I guess,” he said.
“Corey?” I said, giving him a stern look.
“I mean yes,” he said quickly.
“You don’t seem like it,” Sean said. “Is there anything wrong? Or are you just tired?”
Corey was quiet for a moment. And then he finally spoke up. “My friend Victor is really sad because his parents are getting a divorce and now he has to live with his mom in a different house and his dad moved out and his family is broken,” he said.
Sean and I looked at each other, waiting for him to say more, but our son didn’t say another word. Though he didn’t ask a question, it was obvious he was looking for answers—specifically, whether his parents would meet the same fate as Victor’s. Sean took the lead. “Are you worried that your family will be broken, too?” he asked his son. Corey nodded but still said nothing. Sean shot a look at me, and cautiously continued. “Your mom and I have been apart for a long time, but we’re together now. Today, we’re going to stand up on the beach in front of our family and friends and the ocean and the sunset and tell everyone that Mommy, you, and I are a strong family and that we love each other and will stay together forever. We’ve waited a long time for this, right?” Corey nodded again. “So we should be excited about the new life we’re going to have, because it’s filled with love. Right?”
“Right,” he said slowly.
“That doesn’t sound like excitement,” I said.
“Sure doesn’t,” Sean said, reaching across and giving Corey a noogie. “Come on, champ. Nobody loves your mother like I do.”
“He’s got the hots for your mama—he’s not going anywhere,” I said, winking.
“And you know that,” Sean practically yelled.
“Daaad!” Corey said, finally smiling.
“That’s my boy,” Sean said. “That’s my boy.”
I think Corey was more excited than Sean and I were about the ceremony—and we were pretty geeked. He practically galloped down the aisle with my wedding band on a small lace pillow my mother made from the lace hem of her mother’s wedding dress (“I never got to wear it because I never got a wedding day, but I knew I’d be able to put it to good use,” she’d said when she presented the pillow and a handkerchief she made from the material just before we left for the ceremony), much to the delight of the audience. I couldn’t tell who was grinning harder as I waltzed barefoot across the sand to the precious sound of a kora player strumming a beautiful African wedding song. Corey waved and reached over to grab his father’s hand as I reached the altar, and then he grabbed my hand, too, making the entire audience go, “Aw!”
“I swear, I hope I have a child as smart, sweet, and w
ell mannered as your son,” Trista said. “Did you see little man holding things down during the ceremony?”
“That’s my boy,” I laughed.
“You gonna work on a girl now?” Trista asked, hardly missing a beat.
“Can I let my wedding cake settle in my stomach before I start making reproductive plans?” I shot back, laughing.
“Come on now, Viv, you know you can’t wait to give that man a whole basketball team’s worth of kids,” Amaya said. “Don’t wait too long—you ain’t getting any younger.”
“Thank you, Jagged Edge, I have one already—if anything, I think you need to be talking to your girl Trist,” I said, tossing my head in her direction. “That’s right, Miss Agent Extraordinaire—you might have your little business up and running, but make sure you carve out some maternity leave,” I laughed.
“Easy,” Trista said. “Easy. We have plenty of time for that. If anybody needs to be pushing out a little one, it’s Amaya, seeing she’s a celebrity and all and it’s all the rage in Hollywood to carry babies down the red carpet. Jada does it. Angelina Jolie does it. Sarah Jessica Parker, Reese Witherspoon—all of them Hollywood mommies make motherhood look hot. It’s the thing to do. So how about it, Amaya?”
Amaya twisted her lips up on the side of her face and sucked her teeth. “Shoot, I’m not finished working on the first Vow, much less trying to push a baby out in the next nine months,” she said. Then she looked down at her watch. “Shit, I got another twenty minutes to find me a man. Don’t put another one on me.”
“Oh, bump men and babies,” I said. “Taking a vow to find and marry a man in a year was perhaps the craziest thing I’ve ever done in my life—just stupid and foolish. I’m amazed that we actually emerged from the year with men, frankly. Somehow, we did, despite ourselves.”
The Vow Page 35