“Get lost,” I notify him. Nobody has time for that shit.
“Oops, goodness, pardon me,” a shopper says as she bustles past me on the crowded sidewalk. “I’ve gotta get home to my kids.” She smiles at me over her shoulder. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year!”
“Beat it,” I say as I wrap my scarf around my neck tighter, but she’s already gone. Gone.
Story of my life.
So here’s the recap of my life if you’re willing to hear a terribly sad story where I come out looking like both a sleaze and an asshole:
Jacob courted me, screwed me and then left me.
I dated Marlon, married Marlon and had his children.
Three weeks ago a random picture popped up from the dead.
That third point is why I’ve been sleeping at the Ritz Carlton for nearly a month. I took a picture with Jacob that was both silly and fun and childish and so not me. And to be honest, I was practically forced to take it. Anyway, this picture found its way into the hands of a conservative reporter from The Boston Globe. As soon as I opened my mail and laid eyes on a picture of me holding up a sign that read: ‘White Boys Rock’, I nearly dropped dead on the spot. Years ago, I posed for that picture butterball naked in Jacob’s bedroom. Call it a Christmas miracle or a case of Marty McFly’s disappearing family in Back To The Future, but Jacob was mysteriously erased from the picture altogether. So there I am in this picture, naked, holding onto a sign that extols the rockability of white guys and I’m married to a black man. Not only am I married to a black man, I’m married to Marlon—the Trump of Boston. To make matters worse, the reporter isn’t even demanding money; this asshole is just waiting for the right moment to take down ‘the liberal trash that Malcolm Blair, a certified RINO (Republican In Name Only), frolics with’, he says. He’s waiting for the right moment.
My father’s a pediatrician who has wiped the asses of Boston’s brattiest rich kids. My mother’s a gynecologist who has looked up the skirts of the greatest socialites throughout greater New England. My husband has sold homes to all of these people. And I’m in that picture, naked, holding up a sign that says ‘White Boys Rock’. I could just die. Right here, right now. I could just throw myself in front of these cars zooming down the street and end my life.
Wait.
That may be a thought.
I stop walking and look towards Avery Street with its dirty slush and reckless cabs. I can just end this right now. Can’t I? Resolving to end something always starts with the first step.
I take the first step. I’m just waiting for the right moment.
Jasmine, were you seeing Jacob when we were dating?
I take the second step and bump into someone. “Sorry,” they say. “Merry Christmas!”
Were you? I want to hear you say it.
I take the third step.
Why, Jasmine?
I take the fourth step.
Everyone already knows about this picture.
I take the fifth step.
Jasmine, I can’t take this shit again. You have to go.
I take the sixth step.
Jasmine, Laura has problems. We were best friends once.
I take the seventh step.
You can’t blame her; she has problems. But don’t worry, Nat and the guys will get you out of this.
I take the eighth step.
Mommy, why do you visit us at Nanna and Grampy’s house every day and not at home?
I take the ninth step.
Mommy, why does Daddy look sad?
I’m just waiting for the right moment.
The toes of my boots are slightly over the edge of the sidewalk. Just two more steps, the eleventh step, at the right time, could end this. I look at oncoming traffic. Waiting for the right time. My heart isn’t even thumping. I’m not even nervous. I’m not even afraid to die. Why should I live? If I don’t have my dignity, why would I stay here?
I wake up each morning and make my family toast and coffee or hot cocoa. I get them all dressed for their day, approving hair bows and neckties. I bustle them out of the condo with the help of the nanny, Gertrude. Marlon heads to work; Pearl and Tiffany are delivered to my grandparents’ brownstone by Gertrude. I take a breather and make a mimosa and an egg white omelette stuffed with feta cheese, black olives and sundried tomatoes before searching through my catalogue of cookbooks. I was a nutrition major in college; preparing home cooked and nutritious meals is my forte. For the greater part of the day, I’m at a fresh air market or a local grocer scrounging up the ingredients for Prosciutto and Foie Gras Roulades with Fig Compote. Then I’m rushing to make it home before Marlon and the girls walk in at seven.
During the day, I have one ear to the phone, chatting it up with Dena about how Nat just seems like he’s going through the motions of love because that’s what he’s supposed to be doing. I’m giving her advice while drinking a glass of Cab and grating fresh Cheshire cheese. I have Sirius ‘Heart and Soul’ on while I bustle around the kitchen. Occasionally, I’ll throw my iPod in the radio’s receiver and crank of Deborah Cox’s Did You Ever Love Me. Some days, I sing that at the top of my lungs thinking about …
I should do it. I should jump right in front of these cars.
Laura will never pay for what she’s done to me. She’s crazy. She can’t help it that she’s crazy. At least that’s what Dena tells me. Laura’s jealous of my friendship with Dena; she sent that picture to a reporter at The Globe because of it. I have no idea where Laura is. I can’t get to her. I’ll never have a chance to confront her. I can’t fight her. I’m powerless. But she’s crazy. She’s not to blame. I’m to blame for taking that picture. This is my fault. I own this.
I should just throw myself in front of these cars right now. I take the tenth step off of the curb. All I need it one more step. I’m doing it. I’m—
“Jasmine.” Dammit. I bring my foot back on the curb and close my eyes. Now my heart is thumping. I place a hand over it and then turn around. And who do I see walking over towards me in a black wool tailored coat with his hands in his pockets?
Malcolm.
“It’s safer to cross at the light.” He looks at the stoplights a hundred yards away and points to them. He then looks back at me and smiles.
“Why are you here, Malcolm?”
“In the neighborhood,” he says with a shrug as he walks closer to me, reaching his hand out for me to take it. “Come take a ride with me.”
“No.” I’m barely talking to Malcolm as it is. When I first told him about that picture, he was gung-ho on bringing Laura down. Then, one day, out of the blue, he says that maybe bringing Laura to justice isn’t the best thing we could do. After all, she has problems and kids and what she needs is help … blah … blah … blah. So, Malcolm assured me that he’d deal with Laura privately and told me to trust him, because it wouldn’t be pretty. Bull. I don’t believe it. A week after I called Malcolm about that picture, he stopped mentioning Laura altogether. It was like he didn’t even blame her anymore for ruining my life. He’ll never bring her to justice; it’s obvious he’s still soft on her. And Danielle calls herself happily married. Please. No, I’m not going anywhere with him.
“You want me to beg?” he asks.
“No, I just want you to leave.”
“Well, that’s not happening, baby.”
Malcolm rushed back to Boston the night I called him in terror over that picture. He’s been a constant in my life ever since. He calls me every morning, come checks in on me every night and encourages me to go home every day. He promises me that that he’s doing everything in his power so that picture will never see the light of day and assures me that Marlon is desperate for me to come home. I kinda believe this—Marlon’s been calling my cell nonstop. He’s also been stopping by the Ritz Carlton and leaving me messages and flowers at the front desk. Malcolm says that Marlon’s been begging him to tell him my room number. But since I’m Malcolm’s client right now, my privacy is protected by contract a
nd by law. So Marlon’s resorted to calling Dena and asking for my room number. According to the messages Marlon’s left me on my voicemail, the next person on his call list was Danielle. (Like I would ever tell Danielle my room number. I am totally not speaking to her.) He’s also been calling Rena and Matt. But to no avail. Only Malcolm knows where I am.
My parents and grandparents think that Marlon and I are having a rough patch. They’ve been encouraging me every day to go home, at least for my daughters. Since Pearl and Tiffany go to my grandparents’ home during the day, I spend all day there cooking for my girls and listening to my grandmother’s endless advice. Marriage is not for the weak; please don’t be a weakling. But I’m not weak. I’m embarrassed. And I’m married to a man who kicked me out of our own home when I was at my lowest. I felt like dying when I saw that picture and Marlon asked me to leave! I needed comfort and reassurance and he gave me the cold shoulder. No. To hell with Marlon.
“Malcolm, please. Just leave.”
“Come on, pretty girl.” He nods towards his hand. “Just one ride.”
“Malcolm, just make sure that picture never sees the light of day. You can’t help me with Marlon, you can’t help me with Jacob. So just leave.”
“Listen Jasmine, I’m not sure how your story will end. Maybe with Marlon, possibly with Jacob … maybe with both … possibly with neither. There’s no way I can help you figure all of this out. I’m just trying to do one thing: get you home for Christmas.”
God, Christmas is coming up and I won’t be with my girls. I close my eyes and lean my head back. Why me? I open my eyes and Malcolm’s still standing here, waiting for my answer. And I have no idea why but Malcolm Blair, as much as I hate him, is the kind of guy who, for some reason, if he asks you for a ride, you do it ... No matter how much you despise him … or his wife.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had a woman give me this much grief when I asked her for a ride,” he says with that smirk of his, his hand still open for me to take it. Oh, please. I roll my eyes at him and cross my arms over my chest. “Listen Jasmine, you can figure out the rest later, but for now, let’s just get you home for Christmas.” He gives me that smirk of his again. “Ride with me, baby.”
Jacob
(her.)
“Are you cold?” I turn around and ask her at a red light.
“The air is refreshing!” she hollers back through the helmet.
“Bullshit!” I scream back. She wraps her arms around me tighter. Cold or not, Jasmine isn’t about to pass up a chance to slide through Boston on the back of my bike. Especially not during fall, her favorite season to ride over fallen leaves and under grey clouds. She likes that. She likes when the moon in high and the storm clouds occasionally drift over it, casting a temporary darkness over us. Many people don’t know this but Halloween is her favorite holiday, Autumn, with its dead leaves spiraling towards the ground, is her favorite season and riding sixty miles per hour through the streets of Boston on the back of my bike is her favorite pastime.
“Leave me alone, Jacob Blair and drive this darn thing!” she screams out. I rev the engine, annoying the hell out of cars around me. She wraps her arms around me tighter.
“Where to, babygirl?”
“Surprise me!”
“You trust me?”
“Not at all!”
“Good.”
I bolt away from the light.
She never trusted me, but she did love me.
I sit back in my chair and look at our picture. Black Girls Rule. Funny. I can remember the exact day it was taken. Jasmine had come in for the weekend before she headed to New Orleans to visit Danielle and Rena. Or, at least that’s what she told me. The truth is that she had been seeing Marlon at that point and I knew she was going to visit him too.
I figured her out, but I loved her anyway.
I look around my office, knowing I’m alone but still on guard when it comes to this picture. I used to keep it in a safe at home until three weeks ago, or should I say until Winnie found it. Malcolm and I figured out that Winnie was the one who caused all this shit and we naturally assume that Danielle and Rena helped her. They all deny it to the death, especially Rena, but Malcolm, Nat and I know the truth. How did we figure it out? Easy. The journalist from The Globe showed us the original package it came in. Malcolm has Laura’s diaries. The writing wasn’t the same. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t Winnie or Danielle’s handwriting either, and Matt swears it’s not Rena’s because the ‘a’ in Jasmine’s name was written backwards in crayon. Well, no shit it’s not their handwriting. They swear Laura did this but it’s Malcolm, Nat and my opinion that they all went overboard with Laura’s mental instability. If Laura, as a wife and mother of two, is writing in crayon and penning her ‘a’s backwards, she needs to be committed. No, Laura didn’t do this. Gwyneth Blair did this shit. Winnie sending this picture to a fucking conservative journalist only proves one thing: she’s guilty of the same crime she accuses me of. She too will never get over Jasmine. I sit back in my chair and look at the picture again.
Funny thing about me and Jasmine is–
“You’ll always love her.” Shit. I ease the picture down and onto my desk as I see Winnie standing in the doorway of my office. Two weeks away from her due date, she has on a black wool cape—the coats she and Danielle wear when they’re pregnant during the winter. Black hair, hazel eyes, red lips and her body filled with my fourth child. It’s hard to hate her right now.
But I’ll damn sure try.
“What’s going on?” I ask. For the past three weeks, things between Winnie and I have been as bad as when we divorced five years ago. Winnie, Danielle and Rena mailing that picture to The Globe is enough to almost make me end my marriage.
“It’s nine at night and Danielle said that Malcolm wasn’t with you.” She puts her hands on her hips. Winnie’s been tiptoeing around me for the past three weeks. Normally I could let the stupid shit that she, Danielle, Rena and my sisters do slide. But not this time. This time, one or all of them are fucking with Jasmine. And no one fucks with Jasmine; not even my wife.
“I’ll be home later.” What’s the rush? The kids are at my parents’ house for the weekend and I’m currently mad as hell at my wife. Why would I be darting home after work?
“Why do you have that picture?” She points to my desk. She’s calm. Her voice isn’t filled with anger or sarcasm. If anything she’s real blasé at this point, as if this picture of Jasmine and me doesn’t matter. She could give a shit less. This is one of Winnie’s defense mechanisms. You don’t care, shit, neither does she. I glare at her, doing my best to unarm her. I’m Jacob and I’m angry. This is a bad combination, sweetheart. This of course does not work for Gwyneth Blair who laughs in the face of another’s glare.
“It’s obviously not safe at home in my lock box,” I say to her.
“So you’ve decided to keep it in your hand?” She gives me a sweet smile, filled with a shitload of contempt.
“Winnie, can you tell me why you, Danielle and Rena decided to go this damn far with Jasmine? Was this shit necessary?”
“Jasmine is nothing but a little bitch who is much too high and mighty for her own good. But of course, you don’t see that. All you see when you look at her is this angelic essence of pure perfection who’s dressed in white and adorned with pearls.” She raises an eyebrow at that last word.
“I’ll be home later.” I can see how this is going to go. I’ll ask a question that she ignores and instead presents her defense. Not doing it. I begin to load up my computer. Might as well get some work done and see what I can do for Jazz. I’m not in that picture but I can’t let her go down like that. Not Jasmine Harlow. That’s just not happening.
“What the fuck is it with her!” And here she is. Gwyneth is gone, Winnie is here.
“Winnie, don’t start this shit with me. Not tonight.”
“Why? What’s going on tonight?”
“What the hell is your problem? You started all of t
his shit and now you’re pissed that I have to stay at the office and try to clean it up?”
“Is that what you’re doing? Helping Jasmine clean her life up?”
“Goodbye, Winnie.”
“Answer me!”
“Lower your goddamn voice.” I give her my glare. Jacob has spoken.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“You know, I think it’s remarkable—”
“Remarkable, huh?”
“That this picture stayed in the safe in my home office for five years and now because of you, once again, we have to deal with it. We’ve already been divorced and remarried over it once; are we planning on going through that shit again? As a matter of fact, let me answer that for you. I’m not going through this shit again. The fact that I have to go through this argument again is pissing me the fuck off.”
“Why don’t you just throw the picture away, Jacob? Huh? Why are you still holding onto it? I have four kids with you and Jasmine has two kids by another man! You two are over. Done. And you’re still gazing at pictures of the two of you? Why the hell are you treating me like I’m the side bitch!”
“Grow the fuck up!” That silences her as she grits her teeth. “For five years that picture was away in the safe, asleep. And now that you’ve woken it back up, you suddenly want it to lie back down? I’m not supposed remember that day with Jasmine? That time in my life? I’m just supposed to say ‘oh well’ and think nothing more about it? It doesn’t work like that Winnie.” I turn my computer off as soon as it boots up. Fuck it. I’m heading to the bar.
“I had a life before you, before we married, before Ralphie and Harper and Beckett and this new baby. Before all of you, before Blair and Associates, before we moved to that goddamn condo, I had a life. And my life consisted of school, Mac, Nat, Cadence and Jasmine. That’s it. Day in and day out. Malcolm, Nat and I hustled through undergrad, through law school. We’d stay up all damn night trying to make our shit happen. Trying to make our names relevant in this town. And you know who was there to listen to me when I talked about making it? Jasmine. I talked to her every night. Wherever I was, whether Yale or Princeton, I flew her into town. She stayed up with me all night listening to me run my mouth about me making shit happen. About me running this town. I went hard for Jasmine and she went hard for me. I wasn’t always right, I fucked around on her a hell of a lot, but when it came down to it, I would murder somebody over her. So this goddamn picture is not about Jasmine, it’s not about me. It’s about memories. Memories of a time when I met a girl who was fifteen years old. A girl I fucked with through high school, Princeton and Yale. Seven years, Winnie. I loved Jasmine, point blank. You, Danielle and Rena ruining her life doesn’t change that. In fact, it burns me the fuck up.
Forever. (This. Is. Not. Over. Book 3) Page 2