The Ex Factor: A Novel

by Whitaker, Tu-Shonda

  “But Imani—” Jamal said.

  “What did I say?” Imani squinted. Jamal turned around and ran down the stairs.

  Imani closed the door behind him, and Starr started yelling, “What the hell is going on with you! You were fighting again and carrying on in front of my baby?”

  “What's new, Ma?” Celeste chimed in.

  “Ma,” Imani said, rolling her eyes at Celeste, “Jamal doesn't know what he's talking about. Jamal is always lyin'.”

  “He never lies, Imani,” Monica interrupted. “He may exaggerate, but my nephew doesn't lie.”

  “Well, he's getting confused with the fight I had with Shante.”

  “That baby ain't confused,” Starr said. “And what is he talking about with Walik bringing you down here?”

  “Because he did.” Imani twisted her neck.

  “Girl,” Starr growled, “you got the right one, 'cause it'll be live in this ma'fucker here! Now take it down. I thought that sorry sack of shit was in prison.”

  “He is not a sorry sack of shit, thank you!” Imani snapped.

  “Ma, there was a get-free party for him last night,” Monica said sarcastically, placing baby's breath in her hair and looking at Imani as she checked herself in the mirror.

  “Oh, you trying to be funny?” Imani said as she started getting dressed.

  “Does this sound funny to you?” Monica sucked her teeth. “I don't know about anybody else, but me personally, I'm sick and tired of you being so fuckin' irresponsible and my nephew being put through—”

  “A buncha bullshit,” Celeste blurted out.

  “Exactly,” Monica agreed.

  Imani shot Monica the evil eye and said, “Don't speak to me!”

  “Whatever.” Monica sighed. “Whatever.” “See why I stay home? See?” Imani complained, zipping the side of her dress.

  “Okay now,” Buttah said, “every one of y'all need to hush.”

  “You're right, Buttah,” Monica said as they all proceeded to put their finishing touches on for the wedding. Celeste dressed her girls in their flower-girl dresses and sent them downstairs to sit still and not get dirty.

  Jamal came back upstairs so that Imani could see his tux. “It looks pretty in the backyard,” he whispered to Imani.

  “Good,” she said, fixing his tie. “You look really handsome, but I'm still mad at you, so go back downstairs.” Jamal turned around and went downstairs.

  After a few minutes of silence Starr smiled and said, “I can't believe that I'm marrying the love of my life.” She blushed as she fixed her furry blue garter around her thigh.

  “Ma.” Monica frowned. “You don't have any ultrasheer stockings?”

  “Don't you worry about it. Anyway, I feel like all my life I've been waiting for a man like Red. Just think, I'll be Mrs. Redtonio Breaker Brown, lead singer of the Jam On Its.”

  “Ma,” Imani sighed, “he's not famous anymore. He's a security guard and all he does now are What Happened to Them Old-Ass Niggahs concerts.” She started laughing.

  “You are so inappropriate,” Celeste snapped.

  “Oh hell no!” Mama Byrd said with her eyes bulged out. “Ain't nobody gon' be talkin' about my son.” She looked toward Buttah. “The niggah is my son, ain't he?”

  “Don't y'all worry about what he is.” Starr rolled her eyes at Imani and placed her hands on her hips. “At least he ain't a sorry sack of shit. My Red is sweet, and he still does his thing.” She snapped her fingers and shook her body. “On stage and in the bedroom. And to think I'm marrying him.”

  “Okay, enough,” Celeste said, shaking her head and putting lipstick on. “I can do without hearing about Red in the bedroom.”

  “Don't mind her, Ma.” Monica rolled her eyes. “You can talk about your man all you want. Can't nobody tell you who to love.”

  “That's right.” Starr smiled. “And Red is kind and faithful—”

  “Faithful?” Celeste looked at her mother, surprised. “I wouldn't quite describe someone who was still married to his wife when he asked you to marry him as faithful.”

  “For your information, they were separated,” Starr said defensively. “And he's divorced now.”

  “He's been divorced for a month, Ma.” Celeste waved her finger. “One month.”

  “What is it to you? As Red would say, you better hold ya roll, home girl. Sit back and listen. 'Cause one thing I know is men and from what I can see you need some old-school advice.”

  “Old-school advice? Ma, please, what can you tell me about a man? We each have different fathers.”

  “Why are you being so nasty?” Starr asked.

  “Because she's not the bastard child of Redtonio Breaker Brown.” Imani frowned as she straightened her gown. “Her daddy was a crackhead.”

  “At least my father wasn't a fag.”

  “Oh please, you don't even know my father.”

  “Y'all don't have nothing else to do but talk about each other's fathers?” Starr asked.

  “Whatever,” Celeste said. “Ma—no disrespect—but I'm just getting tired of constantly having to hear about Red as if he's the only man that's ever been in your life. Or better yet our lives, because we all know that isn't true. Plus, ever since you been with him you act like he's all that matters. Like y'all are always one… ‘Ma, can the kids come over… let me see what Red wants to do.’ Red-this and Red-fuckin'-that. You weren't born with Red, Red hasn't been around all my life, and he damn sure ain't perfect!”

  “What is your problem, Celeste?” Monica asked.

  “I don't have a problem—but if the truth be told I feel like a kid holding her breath trying to figure out what man is coming through the door next. 'Cause like we all know”—she pointed at both of her sisters—“none of us has ever known a man to stay around this long—not even our daddies.”

  “Mommy and Red have been together for five years. That's a long-ass time,” Imani said. “So slow ya roll, home girl.”

  “I can't believe you're saying these things to me,” Starr said, her heart feeling crushed.

  “Ma, I'm only speaking the truth. Right, Monica?”

  “Oh no, sweetie, you're in this one alone. I have no problems with Red. He already thinks I was making fun of his act, so I have nothing to say.”

  “I can't believe this, Celeste,” Starr said. “Why would you insist on us getting married here at your home then? We could've stayed in Brooklyn and got married at the VFW.”

  “I wanted you to get married here because I thought that would make you happy, but I didn't realize it would make me miserable.”

  “Your ass is always miserable,” Imani mumbled.

  “Give it a rest,” Monica said to Celeste. “This is not the time.”

  “I'm not talking to you,” Celeste said. “And what are you worried about: she loved your daddy. I'm the result of a one-night stand. I would've been aborted if Mommy wasn't Catholic at the time.”

  “I ain't never been Catholic!” Starr screamed. “My daddy was a Baptist deacon! Is it a crime to simply not believe in abortion? And you were not the result of a one-night stand!”

  “Then what was I?” Celeste screamed back.

  “A pain in the ass, from what I can see,” Imani said. “Shit, she raised you, didn't she? Paid for those expensive-ass bras you had to wear with them big-ass titties you got, shit.”

  “Imani,” Starr said, “be quiet. Celeste, you were made out of love. I loved your daddy. I just didn't want to be with him anymore. I'm entitled to that!”

  “But you were a mother—my mother. What makes people think that they can have children and just walk away from that child's parent? What about me? How could you expect him to stop loving you because you didn't want him anymore? He had a child with you. It's not that easy!”

  “That wasn't my problem.”

  “And it's not your problem now, Ma!” Monica squinted at Celeste.

  “You loved Monica's and Imani's fathers,” Celeste said to Starr.

  “
It was my damn life, and I loved their fathers because I fuckin' loved them. I don't owe you any explanations. Get over it!”

  “Well.” Celeste sucked her teeth. “If I need to get over it then you need to know that the last thing I wanna hear is you confessing your undying love for Redtonio Breaker damn Brown.”

  “And that still won't make me love or wish I had been with your father,” Starr snapped.

  “Make you love my father? You should've already loved a man that you had a child by. It's called planning.”

  “And me slapping you in the mouth will be called painful if you keep talking shit! I wish I had known before now that this is how you felt. But come rain, sleet, hail, or snow, I'm marrying that man downstairs because I love him and he's good to me. Understand? And just because I'm your mother doesn't mean that I should live my life revolving around you and what you want. And for your information, Ms. Married Lady, when you have a husband, you two are one. It doesn't take away my love for my children or my grandchildren, but I have to always consider my husband when I make decisions. As of this afternoon my last name will be Brown and that means we will all be family— whether you like it or not. Accept it and try applying this little bit of advice to your own life: if somebody doesn't want you— husband, wife, or baby daddy—then walk the hell away. Now shut up because I have heard enough! The next li'l nasty-ass comment that comes outta your mouth will be greeted by my fist slamming into your teeth.”

  “Ma,” Imani said, “you a better woman than me because I wouldn't even talk that much. I would straight twist this broad's jaw.” She turned to face Celeste. “Why don't you stop hating on Mommy and let her live her life? She ain't want your father; hell is she with mine? Just get the hell over it. Period.”

  “You know what,” Starr yelled, trying to keep her eyes clear of tears, “just be quiet 'cause no matter what y'all think Red is a good man.”

  “He can be whatever you wanna believe he is, Mama. Whatever.” Celeste frowned.

  “Just put her out your wedding, Ma,” Imani said, slipping her shoes on. “We don't need her, she's been a pain in the ass long enough.”

  Before Starr could respond, there was a knock on the bedroom door. “I'll get it,” Monica said. She opened the door slowly. There stood Sharief dressed in a black three-piece walking suit with a starched white shirt and satin-trimmed three-quarter-length jacket. The cuff of his dress pants fell slightly over the back of his black alligator shoes. His bald head was smooth and reminded Monica of melted honey. His eyebrows were thick and his mustache well trimmed. His five-o'clock-shadow beard was perfect, and his white teeth set it all off. Monica took a deep breath. “Yes?”

  Sharief tried not to smile as he admired Monica's royal-blue halter dress. The color didn't quite flatter her mocha skin, but she still looked as if the dress were tailor-made for her. It graced her wide hips and snuggled against every curve. Her waist was small but her ass was voluptuous and shaped like a full moon. There was a split on each side of the dress that showed off her thick legs and part of her thighs. Without thinking Sharief slid his hand in his pocket and slyly grabbed his dick. Monica peeped what he was doing, and her mouth started to water. She bit her bottom lip and nervously moved the Shirley Temple curls draping in her eyes from her face. “Yes?” she said again.

  Sharief placed his bandaged hand on the door. “I wanted to speak with Celeste for a moment.”

  “Celeste—” Monica turned around and Celeste was standing right behind her. “Oh,” Monica said, startled. “Sharief wants you.”

  Monica stepped away and Celeste stepped up. “What is it?” she said to Sharief. “What are you here to serve me?”

  “Serve you?”

  “Divorce and custody papers.” “Oh here you go. Damn, can I just speak to you civilly for a moment?”

  Celeste sucked her teeth.

  “You wanna step outside the door, please?” he asked.

  “Are you asking me?”

  Sharief took a deep breath. “If you don't mind, would you step out here for a moment?”

  Celeste stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her. “You have something you want to say?”

  “Look, I'm sorry about last night. We had a big fight, the shit got way out of control, and I apologize for my part in that. I didn't intend to add anything more to the situation or make it even more fucked up. Monica and I fell asleep. I just wanted someone to kick it to, not to mention how upset she was.”

  “I'm your wife, me being upset is what matters—Monica will get over her shit.”

  “Celeste, I just wanted to apologize.”

  “Okay, whatever.”

  “You just insist on being nasty.” Sharief shook his head. “Do you even know how to take a sincere apology? Do you have to always be nasty?”

  “Me? Nasty? You're fuckin' nasty. You're nasty when you're fuckin' some bitch in the street and then you wanna come and bring your dirty-ass dick and place it next to me. You're nasty when you don't understand how much of my life I put into you and this is what you do? Your cheating ass has become a constant migraine in my asshole and they don't make Advil for the rectum—”

  “Wait a minute, Celeste—”

  “No, you wait a minute…It's like I woke up one day and suddenly I have become synonymous with you and now I don't know what the fuck to do because the you that I have glued myself to doesn't want me anymore. So fuck you and that sorry-ass apology.” Celeste turned around toward the bedroom door.

  “Why don't you just tell me to kiss yo' ass,” Sharief snapped.

  “Yeah,” Celeste threw over her shoulder, “that too.”

  “Celeste, how can you say that you love me and want our marriage to work when you're always acting like this?”

  Celeste spun around. “I'm hurt. Don't you see that?” Without warning tears fell from her eyes.

  “I understand that, baby.” He wiped her eyes. “I really do.”

  “Well then, why? Why did you let this get so far?”

  “Time broke us apart.”

  “No, your wandering dick did it.”

  “I'm not even going to respond to that.”

  “Why do you hate me, Sharief?” Celeste wiped her eyes. Her stomach felt like it was caving in.

  “I could never hate you.”

  “Then kiss me.” “What?” Sharief was surprised. “You just cursed me out and now you want me to kiss you?”

  “Do you love me, Sharief?”

  “Yes, you're my kids' mother.”

  “Then kiss me.”

  “Celeste, baby, it won't change anything.”

  “Yes it will.” Celeste walked close to Sharief. She was surprised that he didn't take a step back.

  “No matter what.” Sharief closed his eyes as Celeste pressed her lips into his. “Always know that I loved you.”

  “Well thank God!” Starr yelled as she opened the door, with everyone standing behind her, looking at Celeste and Sharief. “Maybe you'll be happy now! Come on, it's time for the wedding to start. The preacher has arrived and Mr. Brown is waiting for his bride downstairs.”

  (Monica)

  MONICA'S HEART DANCED its way under Sharief's feet as she saw his lips pressed against Celeste's. I gotta find a way, she thought, to get the fuck outta this.

  “Excuse me—I have to go to the bathroom.” Monica flew into the bathroom, never making eye contact with Sharief.

  As she closed and locked the door behind her, the lump in her throat started to ache. She didn't know how to stop the pain; all she knew was that she needed to soothe it. She walked to the sink, turned on the cold water, and splashed it on her face. The water slid down her cheeks and mixed in with her foundation, creating streaks of muddy tears.

  Monica! her conscience screamed at her as she looked in the mirror and swallowed the lump's residue, he is her husband. She took a deep breath and snapped back, But he's my man. But he's her husband. She argued with herself, wrestling back and forth with her conscience, desperately ne
eding a way to make this okay. But he's my man. No, Chauncey has claimed himself to be your man. Celeste is married to Sharief; he's her man. But I love him. It doesn't matter he's her husband. But I love him—play your position—but I love him—it doesn't matter—What the fuck am I supposed to do with my love for him? What the fuck should she do with hers? Who cares, I love him. She's his wife. But I love him—but she's his wife: thank him for the dick, smile, take your skeleton, and walk away.

  Monica took a cloth out of the linen closet and wiped her face clean. She opened the medicine cabinet and saw that Celeste had some clear MAC Lipglass and black eyeliner. She quickly lined her eyes, put the Lipglass on, and popped her lips together. “Fuck Sharief.” Monica walked out of the bathroom and saw that everyone had left. She hurried down the stairs; they were all lined up by the French doors, waiting for her to come down.

  She sucked in her stomach and walked briskly to take her position next to Sharief, who was her escort.

  Sharief could immediately tell that Monica was upset. He could tell by the way she was chewing the inside of her jaw that either she wanted to break down and cry or slap the shit out of him. “Monica,” he said as they locked arms. She ignored him and instead admired the beauty of the backyard, which had been transformed into sheer wedding bliss. Wildflowers, tulips, and roses were everywhere. All of the guests were seated in folding chairs with white satin covers and big draping bows in the back. There were ice sculptures of swans and hearts everywhere. There was also a multicolored rose-covered arch where the preacher and Red were standing. Red's backup singers from the Jam on Its were singing their rendition of the Isley Brothers' “For the Love of You.”

  “Monica,” Sharief mumbled again, tugging slightly on her arm.

  She ignored him and positioned her single calla lily in the fold of her arm while waiting on the musician's cue to walk down the aisle. Two seconds later the musician gave the cue and Monica and Sharief began to walk arm in arm. “Monica,” Sharief mumbled.

  Monica ignored him.