Careful What You Click For

by Mary B. Morrison

  Her seven-year-old, Nairobi, slowly approached her. “If Daddy doesn’t send you anything, you can have my backpack.” Nairobi was four feet, nine inches. She was a foot shorter than Monet, and she resembled her. Light complexion, almond-shaped eyes, and moderately plump lips. Nairobi wrapped her short arms around Monet’s curvaceous hips and smiled. “But I’m going to need my phone. Please, Mommy.”

  Monet uncurled her fingers, letting the mango fall onto the island, then dampened a paper towel. Slowly she wiped the crystals.

  Israel handed her grandmother a paper towel. Three feet of separation across the island, Monet wanted her mother to say something. Anything. But Trinity remained silent as she wiped the juice off of her arm.

  This time her children deserved to see the outburst Monet often hid, like the lonely nights she wept on his pillow. Bracing her forearms on the tiles, tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “Don’t cry, Mommy.” Nairobi dried Monet’s face using the cotton of her mother’s orange maxidress.

  Monet firmly spoke. “Brunch is over, girls. Put your plates in the sink. Go to your room and pack an overnight bag. We are going to Atlanta to visit your father.”

  She retrieved her phone, then texted her travel agent: I need 3 round-trip airline tickets from BWI to ATL leaving after 6pm today returning tomorrow evening for me and the girls and a hotel suite where you booked my husband. Drivers on both ends.

  Monet’s impromptu decision was based on her gut instinct that something was wrong. That, and she was fed up with Kingston’s procrastination of finding their family a new home. And she needed to meet their Realtor, Lilly, eye-to-eye.

  Nairobi skipped to the table, stood next to her sister. Israel’s eyes filled with sadness. She shook her head.

  They lived south of Baltimore, north of Washington, D.C., where her husband had played professionally. Columbia was ideal for family living, when she thought Kingston would finally become a full-time father. Six bedrooms. Eight bathrooms. Six thousand square feet of living without him was depressing.

  Sunrays beamed in her direction through the vertical ceiling-to-floor patio blinds. Shimmering crystals danced along the tiles.

  “What about my friends in Jack and Jill? And the Girl Scouts, Mother?” Israel enunciated every syllable. “My perfect attendance at school will be ruined for an overnighter.” She nudged her sister.

  “Mine too,” Nairobi blurted.

  Israel added, “Daddy is always gone.”

  “And he always comes back.” Nairobi’s eyes were wide.

  True. They’d primarily grown up without their father around, but damn, it was only for one day. Basketball practice, games, constantly on the road. Monet looked forward to her husband being home when he could. That had changed after he’d recovered from his injury. For the first time—for four consecutive months—Monet was no longer parenting alone. Two months ago, Kingston reverted to the familiar. But why?

  “One day from school won’t keep you from getting into a new private school, where both of you will have a clean record.” Undoubtedly, it would ruin the girls’ perfect attendance in Columbia, but no educational institution in Atlanta would care.

  Nairobi didn’t move from the dining area. Israel poured homemade lemonade in four glasses, then handed one to her sister, mother, and grandmother.

  “Thank you, baby,” the grandmother said.

  As she placed her glass on the counter, Monet’s eyes drooped as she looked to her mother, Trinity Baptiste, and pleaded for help.

  Her mother stood. “You girls go to your library and read a book. Do not choose one you’ve already read . . . and I want an oral report when I come upstairs.”

  “Yes, Grandma,” Israel and Nairobi said simultaneously. Both of Monet’s daughters hugged her, then their grandmother, before racing up the steps.

  Waiting until the girls were out of sight, Monet waved her hand over the trash can. When the lid opened, she slammed the mango inside, washed her hands, then cleared the serving dishes from the table for six, which had two empty seats, sometimes three when her mother wasn’t dining with them.

  Her mom sat tall on the barstool, arched her back, then crossed her legs. “When did you become so selfish, Monet Baptiste-Royale? Have you ever stopped to think that maybe Kingston needs alone time? He didn’t leave the game because he wanted to. He’s dealing with a lot and you need to give him space.”

  Whoa. Wait. “Mother, time and distance? My husband being in Atlanta for two months straight without as much as a visit from his family is dangerous. He hasn’t even come home for a few days.” Her voice escalated as she slapped the tiles. “Anywhere but Atlanta. He wasn’t gone that many consecutive days when he was in the league. You’ve seen the reality shows. Those famished whores will stop at nothing to get at a tall, dark, and handsome man. Especially a celebrity with money.”

  Monet had decorated their home with original paintings throughout. The finest imported furnishings. High-end fashion was the norm for her and the girls. Kingston was more fanatical about his clothes. Her husband wouldn’t die in a pair of tennis shoes, unless he was on the court.

  Her mother had no comparative basis for love or marriage. Monet missed her husband. He was her truest best friend.

  “I’m telling you what I know. Keep acting up. Don’t be surprised if your husband begins to pull away from you. Kingston has given you everything you’ve wanted—and two beautiful children. He could’ve walked away and not married you when you got pregnant in college. Give—”

  Monet interrupted, “You told me to trap him before he graduated from high school. I could’ve gotten locked up for having sex with a—”

  “He was seventeen going on eighteen, and every university was courting him, Monet. You were twenty-three, single, and looking like a teenager yourself. And his parents were Christians from a small Southern town. I told you that boy was going pro and that the odds were in your favor, and I was right, just like I’m right, right now. My son-in-law earned credit for loving us unconditionally. He could’ve said no to making an honest woman of you when you intentionally got pregnant with Nairobi right before he was drafted from college—”

  Interrupting her mother again, Monet said, “You told me to have his second and get the ring that counts!”

  “Show respect, Monet. Haven’t I proven Mother knows best? That boy put that rock on your finger. He let you choose every house you’ve lived in. Bought me my own mansion. Let the man exhale, Monet, damn,” Trinity said with disdain. “He’s never lived alone. Let him get it out of his system.”

  As she wept in disbelief, Monet’s tears fell onto the tiles. “I can’t replace him. If I lose him, Mother, I’ll die. My husband is my best friend.”

  “Stop being dramatic,” her mother replied.

  Having Kingston’s babies was strategic, but Monet wouldn’t have wanted to nurture any other man’s seeds. Every cell in her body loved Kingston. He was the only man she’d ever had sex with.

  “I’m not overreacting. I’ve never lived alone, either, Mother.”

  Trinity stood. Walked around the island. Swatting at a bug flying in the air, Trinity asked, “Are you being his best friend right now? Seriously.” Trinity held Monet’s hand. “No matter how good you are to him, a man gets tired of the same thing, baby.”

  “Same thing or same woman?” Monet questioned, pulling her hand away from her mother’s.

  “No matter how great the sex is, they get bored of having the same pussy the same way. Calling him twenty times a day. Why, Monet? The two of you have been together for twelve years.” Circling back to her seat, Trinity picked a banana from the bowl. “He doesn’t have a prenuptial. Half of all he owns is yours. Trust your husband to do whatever he’s going to do, and whatever you do, do not show up in Atlanta without his permission or with my grandbabies.”

  Peeling the fruit from the bottom, she pulled away each leaf, then broke the banana in half before eating it.

  Monet’s phone rang. Quickly she r
etrieved her cell from the bowl, placed it next to her ear. Sniffling, she answered, “Hey, baby.”

  “I apologize for hanging up on you earlier, but that was my boy, Theodore, calling. I’m leaving the bar en route to the stadium. Theodore got us tickets to some event, and after that, he wants me to stop by his store so his partner can design me my own clothing line. That’s good news. Don’t cry,” Kingston said.

  “I’m not,” Monet stated, quieting her sniffs.

  “I’m going to find the perfect home for us, baby,” her husband claimed.

  Monet looked at her mother as Trinity consumed the last of the banana, then spoke to Kingston. “Theodore who?”

  Kingston hesitated, then answered, “Ramsey. You don’t know him. He goes to my church. He invited me to his store. His partner is going to design a clothing line for me.”

  “What’s his partner’s name? First and last.” Monet’s memory didn’t require a pen and pad.

  “I don’t know,” her husband answered.

  “You don’t know?” she stated.

  Kingston firmly replied, “No.”

  “Well, I can’t wait to meet our new friends. Take as much time as you want. We’re good. Besides, I don’t need to mess up the girls’ perfect attendance and have them mad at me, too.” Monet placed the call on speaker.

  Trinity nodded, then whispered, “Good response.”

  Rolling her eyes at her mom, Monet insisted, “Say hi to your best friend. She’s right here.”

  “Hey, baby,” Trinity said.

  Placing her cell on the island, Monet walked a few feet to the nearest full-length mirror. She turned her back to her mom and focused on her own image.

  “Hey, Mama-T,” Kingston replied with enthusiasm. “Thanks for helping Monet with the kids.”

  What man wouldn’t want all of this? Monet fingered the edges of her golden-brown highlights; not a strand was out of place. A part centered atop her head. Her hair, smoothed to the sides and slicked to the back, was gathered into a long, loose-waved ponytail that was all hers.

  Looking at her mother’s reflection through the mirror, Monet noticed her mother staring at her.

  “You know, once I find a house that my wife approves of, I have to buy you a home in the same neighborhood.”

  Trinity’s smile curved high, making her cheeks lift. “Take your time and find really nice homes for your families. I’m heading up. The girls owe me an oral book report. I’ll let you talk to your wife.”

  “Have a good day, Mama-T. You know I love you. Thanks for having my back. And tell my wife, she’s my best friend.”

  “You do know I’m right here,” Monet told Kingston as she watched her mom effortlessly climb the steps until she was no longer visible.

  “Love you more!” Trinity shouted.

  Retrieving her phone, then stepping out on the patio, Monet sat in a lounge chair beside the pool. She texted the travel agent—Cancel all plans—then removed the call from speaker. “Baby, can you at least give me a time frame? Or come home for a few days and tune up your pussy?”

  Jokingly Kingston sang, “Your mama’s gon’ take our kids out of the house because I’ma beat my pussy up ’til you scream my name.”

  “That was a great freestyle, but what are we waiting for?” she stated, relocating to their bedroom on the first floor, then locking the door. Monet eased out of her purple thong, let her maxidress fall to the floor. She slid her fingers along her clit, then moaned, “Mmmm. You just made her wet. FaceTime me so I can show you.”

  “I’m driving, Monet. And I only have a few minutes to talk,” her husband said firmly, declining her request to video. “I’m meeting back up with some church friends after the game, so this is the last time I can talk with you today.”

  “Friends, huh? Every week it’s the same thing. You don’t know those people, Kingston. A couple of months and you’ve joined a church, and whoever these so-called friends-slash-drinking buddies are, y’all do this every Sunday. Now it’s twice on a Sunday. I don’t trust them. Besides, I thought you were meeting up with Lilly the Realtor today, remember her? Kingston, are you cheating on me?” Disgusted and sexually frustrated, Monet put on her dress.

  “The only lips of any kind that mine have touched are yours, baby.” Kingston sounded sincere.

  Monet stepped into a fresh pair of underwear. The heaviest sigh escaped her mouth.

  “Don’t do that. Lilly had to reschedule. I’m getting out of the car to meet up with Victoria, Jordan, and Chancelor,” he confirmed. “And, yes, we do meet up every Sunday.”

  Monet flopped onto the edge of the firm mattress. “I thought you were headed to a stadium.”

  “Yes. After I leave the bar. Keep up,” he said, then laughed.

  Her husband was the one who needed to keep up with his lies. “Where are you? What’s the name of the bar?” she questioned, waiting to add the location to her mental Rolodex. “One better. Drop me a pin with your location.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s always some new spot,” he told her.

  Changing her tone, Monet calmly mentioned, “It’s cool, Kingston. Do you.”

  Her husband had gotten to a point where he couldn’t recall his lies. Monet wasn’t naïve.

  “I’ll have Lilly e-mail you the houses. I just need a little more—”

  “Shut up! I’m beginning to believe there is no Lilly.” Monet began crying. “I’m the one combing hair, washing clothes, dropping and picking up our girls from school, cleaning, homework, dental appointments, bedtime stories. I’m not going to be fine until we are living under the same roof. Going to sleep and waking up together. You hear me? Together. If you don’t want me to come to Atlanta, you need to come home for at least a week so we can discuss face-to-face how we’re going to move forward.”

  “Pretend I’m still under contract. That’ll help,” Kingston said, then added, “Muah!” right before he ended the call.

  Monet dried her tears. Self-pity wasn’t going to bring her husband home. Atlanta was not that far. If she took the first flight out in the morning, Trinity or her girlfriend Bianca could pick up the girls from school, and Monet could be back home in time for dinner.

  CHAPTER 6

  Jordan

  “Trust and believe. We’re never going to find true love in Atlanta.” Jordan curled her neatly French-manicured nails into her palm, pounded her hand on the round dark wooden table, then shouted, “Ever!”

  The liquid inside of Chancelor’s snifter and Victoria’s long-stem wineglass swayed.

  “Damn, girl,” Victoria replied. “You’re out of order. This is not a courtroom.”

  “That’s pent-up frustration,” Chancelor commented. “Let me take the edge off that marinated pussy,” he joked.

  Ignoring Chancelor, Jordan hit the table again to emphasize her point. “Men in Atlanta want women to pay them for dick. Even the ones who can’t fuck worth a damn.”

  Victoria laughed out loud. “We do have most of the money and all of the pussy. Meow,” she said, sounding like a cat. “The problem is, too many men are acting like females. They want women to suck their nipple, get on top and ride it, get them hard, kiss and hold him after she’s done all the work. That’s worse than paying for dick.”

  “That’s a lie,” Levi yelled from behind the bar.

  There were four eight-inch rounds in the bar section of the restaurant, plus eight barstools at the counter. Levi was aware of everything happening at all times.

  “Some of the trans are sexier than a lot of y’all born with the real thing,” Levi stated. “They keep themselves up. Hair. Nails—”

  “And what else they’re keeping up, Levi? Huh?” Jordan’s voice projected across the bar. Levi needed to stay out of the conversation with his fake-ass relationship with Queen. None of them had met her.

  Flinging her lustrous, kinky curls away from her sweet toffee skin, Jordan’s shoulder-length hair bounced back in place. Makeup beat to perfection, her facial features were pronounced. S
he knew that her left eye was smaller, right ear sat higher, and her narrow nose barely had a bridge. Nothing foundation, concealer, eye shadow, and lipstick couldn’t alter beautifully.

  She thanked her mother for her flat ass. At least men weren’t objectifying her based on what was behind her. And though she was 150 pounds, only five feet, five inches, her hips were wide, her waist was small, and her skin was smoother than a baby’s. What she lacked in the rear, she made up for with her double-F boobs. This time Jordan slapped the table.

  “Whoa.” Chancelor quickly gripped his snifter. “Don’t spill the cognac.”

  Staring at him, Jordan replied, “How many times must I tell you? What you drink is brandy. Kingston is a cognac connoisseur.”

  Successful men wanted to cum and go leisurely—no accountability or responsibility to a woman—the same as broke guys, except the ones with nothing played head games in order to drain gullible women of their tangible and intangible assets.

  Jordan directed her attention to her friends at the table. “I’ve been here fourteen years, dated six professional men, and all of them were on that MGTOW nonsense until it came time to fuck.” She pronounced the Men Going Their Own Way acronym as “mag-tow.”

  “Mag what?” Chancelor had a habit of laughing and frowning at the same time. When he did, his forehead wrinkled and brows almost touched. “That law degree has you making up words now? Lower your standards or keep sleeping by yourself,” he told Jordan.

  A seasoned attorney, Jordan moved to the ATL to practice, find a good man, and partake in a robust lifestyle she never had in her hometown of Rome, Georgia, which had a population of less than forty thousand.

  “Lower my standards. Like you did. And let men use me the way Tracy used you,” Jordan said to Chancelor. “No thanks. You might want to try screwing fewer women at church.” She waved to the mixologist. She held up her second bottle of the imported red wine she’d brought in from her collection for Levi to uncork.