by Candice Dow
The fellas rented a Stretch Hummer to drive us from the rehearsal dinner to the bachelor party. As soon as we hopped in, we started taking shots, drinking beer, talking loud, and just flat out celebrating the biggest decision a man can make. In the midst of all the noise and the partying in the limo, I didn’t pay attention to where we were going. When we pulled up to my condo, I was confused. They started spilling out of the truck when the chauffeur opened the door. I looked at Jason and he said, “The party is here, dawg.”
I jumped out and we poured into my bachelor pad. The place was sprawling with sexy-ass chicks wearing skimpy thongs and those hooker heels. They walked around feeding us desserts, kissing on us, and making me question whether I was making the right choice. There were like three chicks assigned to me at all times, even while each girl performed, a girl personally entertained me. In a quick glimpse at Jason, a dark cloud hovered over his dark skin. His forehead rippled like he was stressed, as he stared aimlessly at the dancers. I excused myself from the ladies and staggered over to my boy. His eyes were red and steam was rising from his bald head. The pit of my stomach felt funny as I stood in front of him. Before I could ask what was going on with him, he looked into my eyes and said, “You always got to jump on something before somebody else gets it, huh?”
“Man, c’mon now. Stop trippin’.”
Jason was always the one who didn’t mind shedding a tear, and it looked like he was about to. I was too intoxicated for that comical shit. I snickered, and he looked up at me like he hated me. His stood up and rammed into me and my back banged into the opposite wall, instantly cracking it. After shaking the shock, I punched him in the face.
The dancers, our line brothers, and everyone else watched on in awe. If they hadn’t been so caught off-guard, they probably would have tried to stop it. It was as if everyone’s mouth was open, but no one spoke. We trampled over furniture; fixtures and glasses clanked as they fell to the floor. No one even tried to stop me from whipping Jason’s ass. They watched like we were scheduled entertainment. He kept calling me a punk-ass nigga, but I couldn’t help thinking how much of a punk he was. He would have been better off saying something months ago. I slammed his six-foot-two muscular body around like I was a Marvel superhero. I don’t know where the strength came from. Even though we were about the same height, Jason was more bulky than me. Maybe I would have called off the damn wedding if I knew this clown would act like this. Here I was again, like déjà vu. Clark had waited moments before I married Jennifer to profess her love for me and to tell me that I was making a big mistake and that she and I belonged together. Why was I dealing with shit again right before my wedding?
As Jason and I fought all the way into the guest bedroom, everyone shifted from location to location with us. Finally, I threw his bag at him.
“Get the hell out of my house, punk.”
He slung his duffle bag over his shoulder and stormed from my house. A part of me was concerned that he was too drunk to drive, but I was obviously not concerned enough to go after him. Everyone was confused, but I wasn’t up for explaining. I looked at Brandon. “I hope you can fit that tux in there.”
He shook my hand and patted my back. “I gotchu, man.”
I walked into my bedroom and slammed the door. During the fight, I was too pissed to rationalize the situation, but the blood stains on Jason’s polo shirt and the look in his eyes as I slammed the door haunted me. My mind raced and I really couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about all we’d been through. With the wedding just hours away, I figured I shouldn’t sweat it. I had too much respect for Taylor to call it off now. If this shit didn’t work out, I wasn’t doing it anymore. I loved Taylor enough to at least give it a shot. I ran my hand down my face. Taylor J, you better be worth all this bullshit.
2
CLARK
When are you supposed to come to grips with an anti-climactic life? No one could have convinced me that I wouldn’t be jet-setting around the world, in mad, breathtaking love, with a bunch of kids, a nanny to help me, and a bottomless spending account. It seems like all those dreams slipped away in a nightmare nine years ago on New Year’s Day. I was just twenty-five years old then, and what should have been a celebration of a new beginning marked the end of my best friend’s life. Tanisha and I had been inseparable from the time we were nine and ten. In a crazed state, her then fiancé, Fred, killed her in a murder-suicide after discovering she was still sleeping with my brother, Reggie, her kid’s father. I blamed him. I blamed me. I blamed the world for being so cruel, but nothing would bring her back. My life literally spiraled out of control in just twenty-four hours.
When I received the call that she was gone, I was in New York and had just begged Devin not to marry Jennifer. He was the love of my life, and after some ups and downs we had a temporary breakup. In that time, Jennifer got pregnant and Devin decided it made sense to marry her. I pleaded with him, nearly down on my knees with tears streaming down my face. Still, he looked me dead in the eye and pledged his love for her. I felt like I wanted to die, too. The two people I loved the most were gone in a blink of an eye.
My niece, Morgan, was ten years old at the time and she wanted to live with me. My nephew, Little Reggie, was six and he went with my brother. Considering I was forced into motherhood, I knew that I couldn’t just die or sulk over Devin. Instead, I sought therapy for Morgan and me. We needed real help. God would have it that Kenneth, my therapist and the director of Agape Mental Health, would fall in love with me. He, too, was a single parent with a daughter, Mia, a year younger than Morgan. We could help each other and we did. We married two years later.
It set out to be the ideal marriage, because he believed in family and human services, and I had evolved to be that person, too. He inspired me to leave the corporate world to pursue helping foster kids. My group home opened five years ago, and Kenneth and I planned to have a home full of our own kids. But shortly after, I was diagnosed with polycystic ovarian syndrome, which can cause fertility issues. My doctor insisted that with fertility drugs, I’d be pregnant in no time. We went from fertility drugs to shots to in vitro fertilization, or IVF, and so far nothing has worked. Our retirement, our savings, all the equity in our home, is gone as we continue to go broke attempting to bring life into this world. After the last cycle, I was tempted to tell Kenneth that we should stop, but I could never find the right time to say it.
In August, we dropped Mia off to college. It seemed like in the two months since we’ve been home alone, the silence was alarming. It didn’t seem so bad when Morgan was the only one gone, but it was clear that Kenneth and I were missing something. We were trapped in a monotone, lifeless marriage, distracted by the kids. So, I decided to try again to give my husband what he wanted and attempted IVF for the fifth time.
I sat up in my bed and looked at the clock: 3:25 a.m. My insomnia had gotten worse several days ago after my eggs were extracted. When the sun came up, I would be going in for the embryo transfer, in which they would insert up to four fertilized eggs into me. The process does not guarantee pregnancy. Trust me, I know. I wondered if this time it would work or if it was even worth it. The damn artificial hormones in my system were driving me crazy. My mind raced with thoughts about bills, needing a new car, and wanting just to be free of the pressure to conceive. I felt trapped.
If the transfer didn’t take this time, we would be forced into taking out a loan to do it again. Kenneth wanted to try until the damn fat lady sang. I heard her singing loud and clear, but he was the positive one, the one who believed that your mind predicts your destiny and all that other overoptimistic hoopla he tells his clients. And I didn’t want to disappoint him, so I said nothing. I just went along with the program, despite it being my body experiencing all the changes. He was a good husband and this was my way of being a good wife.
Six hours later, we were in the cold, sterile room trying to get pregnant. Why couldn’t I be like everyone else and conceive in a warm, sweaty, lustful bed?
I looked at Kenneth, standing beside the bed. His hair was thinning, and his dark lips attempted to crack a smile. I reached out to hold his large hand, which was about as romantic as my reproductive process gets. I lay back on the table and put my feet in the stirrups. I prayed that it would work this time, because I was tired. I was so tired of my life being on hold. From the dark blotches on Kenneth’s once-smooth milk-chocolate skin and the slight traces of crow’s-feet around his small eyes, he was tired, too. Maybe it just wasn’t meant for us to have kids together.
The doctor inserted the egg and tears rolled down the side of my face. Kenneth wiped them and asked, “Does it hurt?”
I shook my head.
“So why you crying?”
I shrugged. “I just hope it works, because—”
“Stopping thinking negative.”
I huffed. You’d think after seven years of marriage, he’d learn to be my husband and not my therapist. Don’t be negative. Be careful what you say out of your mouth. Kenneth thought he knew me better than I knew myself. Considering he was five years older than me, it often felt like he thought he was my father. Sometimes I just needed a partner to say that everything would be okay, not teach me. But, he’d yet to get it, and when I tried to dispute his teachings, we always ended up in an argument. I closed my eyes, because I knew that I didn’t need the added stress. Not now, especially since I’d concluded that this was definitely the last time. I wasn’t putting my body or my mind through this shit anymore. It had to work and I didn’t want to take any risk. I needed to be as calm as I could be.
3
DEVIN
Shortly after I launched the legislative branch of my parent’s law firm in DC, I was quickly inducted into the high-powered political scene in the Maryland suburbs. Most of my clients were there, and many of them believed I could make a difference, and they encouraged me to purchase property in the Maryland area. The Democratic congressman in District 4 had suggested he would retire, making his seat available in the 2008 election. Considering I’d only been in the area a short time, I was surprised the Young Democrats were interested in supporting me. Congress had always been a part of the plan, but I assumed first State Senate and then Congress. I guess when things are meant, they’re just meant. Or better yet, when you have the money to pay for your campaign, it’s possible to win any election.
The Young Democrats knew that it would be no issue to call my parents and ask them to give me a couple of million. That would seal the election. Right after I purchased the house in Mitchellville, Maryland, I asked Taylor to marry me. Despite the short courtship, I knew she couldn’t resist the million-dollar home and the million-dollar man. She accentuated my political résumé. I had set myself up in less than two months to be the party’s candidate if the congressman really decided to retire.
I didn’t want to jinx myself by spreading the word that my plan was to run for Congress if the opportunity arose. After the wedding, I thought it was the perfect time to surprise Taylor with the news. We were chilling on the beach in Turks and Caicos for our honeymoon, relaxing in beach chairs. She read a romance novel, while I read a book about being an effective leader. It hit me, this was the time to say something. “Taylor, what do you think about me running for Congress in oh-eight?”
She lifted her sunglasses. “Oh-eight? Like next year oh-eight?”
“Yeah. I mean the seat would have to be available and it’s not right now.”
“First of all, we just got married. Do you realize how hard running for Congress will be? Do you realize how much of a strain that would be on our relationship?”
“But, you know that Congress is my ultimate plan.”
“Ultimate is the key word. Let’s live our lives for a moment, before we put them under a microscope,” she pleaded.
Considering it was only a mere possibility, I decided my honeymoon wasn’t the time to argue about it. I had nearly six months before any decision would need to be made. I leaned back in my chair and nodded like I was listening to her plan. Taylor paused and almost leaned back, too. As if she had another bright idea why this was wrong, she popped back up and said, “Not to mention, you’re just getting Love My People going in the direction you want it to go.”
I grimaced because I didn’t understand what my nonprofit organization had to do with my possible run for Congress. I kidded, “You can run that for me. Right, baby?”
Her neck snapped back, probably because Love My People was a concept that Jason and I had come up with in his last year of medical school. He did a medical rotation in Honduras and when I went to visit, I felt compelled to help. In the small village where he worked, the clinic was literally about two hundred square feet. The man running the clinic told us if only he had people to contribute sheets and beds or even to take time to hand out water to the patients that were waiting, things would be better. He asked for so little, but there was so much that needed to be done. I felt it was my mission to start an organization that would take a group of law students twice a year to different South American countries, especially in the areas where black people were. That way the students could experience injustice firsthand and hopefully they’d be willing to fight it when they graduated.
Jason liked the idea, too, and he wanted the other component to be medical students coming to administer health care. Since he had been so busy with residency and his finances weren’t actually where they needed to be yet, he hadn’t had the time to fully commit to Love My People. And based on what happened the night before the wedding, I wasn’t sure he ever planned to join the mission. Obviously, Taylor thought we’d eventually get it right, which is why she was staring at me with a smirk that said she didn’t want to work so closely with a guy she used to date.
“I trust you,” I said jokingly.
She rested back and said, “Devin. Don’t play me. Do you realize if you run for Congress, you may have to give up the foundation? I mean, they’re going to be watching your every move, and you’ll probably have to expose all your contributors. It’s just not good.”
Maybe she didn’t fully know what type of man she had yet. I laughed. “Taylor, you do realize that I knew all of this when I started Love My People. I only solicit and accept donations from American citizens.”
“So I guess you got this all planned out, huh?”
“No, I thought I should discuss it with my wife first.”
She rolled her eyes. This was clearly not going the way I expected. I rested my hand on her knee and looked at her. I said, “Taylor. You make the call. When do you think would be a good time for me to run?”
“After kids, after we explore the world, I guess when we’re about forty or so.”
I nodded and stared out into the sea. I understood where she was coming from, but I clearly didn’t agree. How often do congressional seats open up and you really have a shot? I decided we’d cross that bridge when we absolutely had to.
It wasn’t until the end of October that I finally gave up hope and assumed that God had granted Taylor her wish. Congressman Grayford had yet to announce his retirement and was still wavering whether or not he would do it. I mentally began gearing up for the 2012. That would give Taylor the time she wanted to build our relationship. Things were going well so far. This marriage was far better than my last. Unlike Jennifer, Taylor knew how to give me space. She liked her time with me when she liked it, but she knew how to occupy herself when I wasn’t around. Still, we always made the best of the time we had. Taylor enjoyed socializing and trying new things, so there was never a dull moment in our house. She couldn’t cook well, but she knew how to pick out the best restaurants in the city. So, I couldn’t complain.
In fact, I loved coming home to Taylor. She was always so excited and full of life. No matter how drained I was, her personality invigorated me. I came home on the evening train after spending two days in New York with my daughter, Nicole, and I was ready to relax with Taylor. Initially, I suggested we go out to eat, but she offered to cook.
I laughed. “No, baby. I’d rather just hold you.”
“Well, hold me then.”
We stood in our large kitchen holding on to each other. All I wanted to do was eat dinner and watch a good movie. I raked my hand through her asymmetrical haircut. I liked to run my hand up and down the nape of her neck where the tapered part was. She leaned her head into my shoulder, and I asked, “What did you cook?”
She pulled away and shifted her weight to one leg with her hand on her hip. I laughed and she laughed, too. It had to be one of two dishes. I walked over to the stove and confirmed it was chicken parmesan. I sniffed. “Hmmm. It smells good.”
“You’re just trying to get me hyped,” she said, as she walked closer to me.
Actually, I didn’t smell much of anything, but I wanted to acknowledge her effort. My stomach was growling, and I hoped that the lack of aroma didn’t reflect how it would taste. “Nah, baby. I’m not trying to get you hyped. I’m ready to eat. Let me go get cleaned up and I’ll be back.”
When I returned, she had lit an apple cider candle that sat on the kitchen counter. The plates were prepared and on the table. I grabbed a bottle of Shiraz from the wine rack and set it on the table beside the toasted garlic bread. Taylor dimmed the chandelier and sat down. She said grace and opened the bottle of wine. I poured some in her glass and then in mine.