The Ex Factor: A Novel

by Whitaker, Tu-Shonda

  “As far as I can see, you're their mama now and this is their home.”

  “No!” She pointed her finger. “Their home is in New Jersey. And when are you going back to work?”

  “Once Celeste's charges are dropped, I can go back.”

  “And until then, what?”

  “Look, baby.” Sharief grabbed Monica by the waist. “I know this is hard. And it seems like everything is on you. But I love you and we fought for this. Everything will work out.”

  “Sharief, we need some money.” She looked at him and sniffed. Thinking she smelled alcohol, her nose started to twitch. “Why can't you sell that damn house you and Celeste were living in? At least sell it before they foreclose on it, I know the mortgage hasn't been paid.”

  “I have unemployment insurance on my house. It defers the mortgage for six months.”

  “So what's stopping you from selling the place?”

  “I can't sell it without Celeste.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just can't.” He turned to walk away.

  “Where the hell are you going?” She pulled him by his shoulder. “I'm talking to you!”

  “The fuckin' house isn't in my name! Okay? I can't sell the house because it's not in my name! And in case you forgot, I have no money because somehow Celeste cleared my bank accounts.”

  “Well, if you changed your goddamn codes and used more than zero-four-one-one she wouldn't have guessed it! Shit!” Monica slammed her fist.

  “That was my wife. I didn't care if she had my codes.”

  “Your wife? But you were married to my pussy, niggah, so get the hell out my face with that! I'm you're fuckin' wife for all intents and purposes and I ain't staying around for better or worse. So either you get a job or you leave.”

  “Get a job? Leave? And do what?”

  “I don't give a damn. Get a side hustle, deliver newspapers, QuickChek, McDonald's, be a Moonie and sell flowers on the side of the street, I don't give a damn, but I can't keep living like this.”

  “Well, guess what? I ain't doing any of that and all I got right now is me and my children. And if we're not good enough for you, Ms. Monica, then I don't know what the fuck to tell you.”

  Monica stared at Sharief's face. She wanted to slap him in the mouth. As she thought about how she could backhand him, she noticed slob sliding out the side of his lips; his eyes appeared to be hellfire red and more slanted than usual. She walked up close to him. “You're drunk?”

  “I'm not drunk! Just leave me the fuck alone. Call Listra or one of your li'l friends so you can talk about me. A man's down on his luck and all of sudden you can't shut the fuck up. If I knew it was gon' be all of this I'da stayed with my wife.” And he walked out of the kitchen, leaving her there alone.

  “Aunty! Aunty!” Kori came running in. “Are you a tramp-ass ho?”

  “And ask her if she's a slut too!” Kai said, running behind her sister.

  Monica spun around to face them, stunned. “What? What did you say to me?”

  “Are you a tramp-ass ho?” Kori repeated innocently.

  “And a slut?” Kai chimed in. “Don't forget that.”

  “Where did you get that from?”

  “Kayla,” Kai said. “Aunty, she on the phone with her friend Ronneasha talkin' about Mommy, and you, and Daddy. She said that Daddy is pimpin' both of y'all bitches!”

  “My sister said,” Kori joined in, with a hand on her hip, “that the reason my mommy ran away is because you and Daddy were fucking each other. And she said that that baby in your stomach is a basket.” Kori folded her arms across her chest. “How could a baby be a basket, Aunty?”

  “Where's Kayla?” Monica was fuming, and tears started to fill her eyes. Living with Kayla felt like living with Celeste all over again.

  “Kayla's on the phone,” Kai said.

  Monica marched out of the kitchen with the twins following close behind. They walked up the stairs to what used to be Monica's home office but now doubled as the girls' bedroom. Monica could hear Kayla's conversation as she approached the room. “Although I miss my mother, I'm real pissed off with her,” Kayla was huffing to her girlfriend on the phone. “She just up and left us here with this low-life prostitute. And my daddy—that niggah— you know he ain't even my real father. They think I don't know, but I can read and I saw my birth certificate, so you know I ain't doin' shit this niggah say—”

  “Get your ass off that phone!” Monica yelled, barging into the room.

  “Excuse me.” Kayla rolled her eyes. “I'm on the phone, don't come in here tryna flex.” She sucked her teeth and returned to her phone conversation. “See what I mean?”

  Monica snatched the phone out of her hand and threw it across the room. “I said hang up the damn phone and I mean it!” she yelled.

  “I hate this place!” Kayla screamed at her. “Oh, you get on my nerves!”

  Kai and Kori placed their hands over their mouths and started giggling.

  “You get on my damn nerves and you better shut the hell up!”

  “I don't have to shut the hell up. You know it's the truth. You just a low-life home wrecker and like my mother told me you just a skeezer. A tramp-ass—” Before Kayla could finish what she was saying, Monica had slapped her in the mouth.

  “Let me tell you something. I will not tolerate you being disrespectful to me, you hear me? The next time you call me a tramp-ass ho—”

  “And a slut,” Kai interrupted.

  “And a slut,” Monica continued, “I'll break your little freckle-faced ass open, you understand? I'm tired of your li'l grown and nasty ass! If you don't like it here, then call your grandmother and go live with her, because quite frankly I'm sick of you!”

  “And I'm sick of you too!” Kayla spat.

  “Well then, get your shit and get to steppin'! Get outta my face!”

  “Hold up!” Sharief slurred. He stormed into where Monica and the girls were. “What the hell is gong on?” He rested his beer on the dresser. “Damn, Monica, you have to talk to them like that?”

  Kayla ran over to Sharief and started crying. “Daddy! Daddy! She slapped me!”

  “What?” Sharief looked at Kayla's face and saw the redness. He was pissed. He looked at Monica. “Have you lost your damn mind?”

  “Do you know what she said to me?” Monica couldn't believe he had taken Kayla's side without hearing her out.

  “Just don't put your hands on her no more!”

  “You know what, this is getting real, real tired.” Monica felt the pain in her stomach intensify. She started to double over. “Something has to change,” she tried to say.

  “Monica, what's wrong?” Sharief asked, seeing her bending over.

  “I need to go to the hospital, Sharief. Get the car keys.” “What's wrong?” Sharief started to panic.

  “I think it's time, so please get the keys, we have to go.”

  Sharief stood there.

  “Did you hear me?” Monica screamed.

  Sharief stumbled as he pulled the keys out of his pocket. He wiped the drool that was sliding out the corner of his mouth. “Ready?”

  Monica looked at him and started screaming, “You're drunk! I can't believe that you're fuckin' drunk!”

  “I'm all right, baby.” He grabbed her by the arm.

  “Get the fuck off me!” She snatched her arm away. “Just go.”

  Monica grabbed the phone and called 9-1-1. She explained her situation to the operator, then called Listra. “Listra, please come and go with me to the hospital.”

  Listra didn't ask any questions. “I'll be there in a minute.”

  By the time Listra got to Monica's house, the ambulance was already there. “Where's Sharief?” she asked.

  “He's drunk.” Monica cried, “He's drunk.”

  (Celeste)

  “COME ON, SHARIEF!” Celeste blew on the dice as she rolled them across the craps table. “Mama needs some fuckin' Manolos!”

  “It's a hit!” the dealer
yelled, raking the dice back.

  “Hot damn!” Celeste cheered. She took a pull off the silver tip of the long brown cigarette tucked between her fingers, blew out the smoke, and collected her chips. “Do it again, baby. Five hunnid this time.” Celeste had been in Atlantic City, New Jersey, all weekend, contributing to Donald Trump's fortune by gambling half of Sharief's money away. Hell, what else was there to do? She was exhausted from staying at home, crying, cussing, having visions of stalking Monica and Sharief. Tired of Starr calling her cell phone and begging her to please come home.

  So fuck it, Celeste thought. Monica and Sharief have moved on and I need to do the same thing. Besides, how many tears can I waste on unchangeable shit?

  Sharief had already admitted to cheating, that was half the battle; she knew who he was cheating with, that was the other half. And now that he was gone, Celeste knew her battle was lost. Her James Bond instincts were downhill from there. There was no more looking through his shit; no more listening to his voice mails; and no more waiting up with wild eyes, wondering just how long she could stand for them to burn, before she lay down and accepted she was alone.

  But no matter what, the hardest thing for Celeste was trying to figure out when the dick flipped and turned the extramarital affair into a relationship. What happened to her being the wife, number one, numero uno—was that just for show? Or was Celeste sleeping or fucking herself with a beaver dildo when the exchange took place? Was she in the kitchen cooking his food, washing his clothes, bathing his kids, or sucking his dick? And that's when it clicked: that his cheating didn't bother her as much as his leaving did. And it wasn't him having sex with another woman as much as it was him falling in love with her. And it wasn't so much that it was another woman, but it was her sister. The same sister she'd confided in about Sharief cheating, the same sister who'd advised her on whether she should kick in the bitch's door or not. The same sister whose words of advice were, I think you should chill… he's not cheating… The same sister who was now pregnant with her husband's child.

  For a moment, as Celeste watched the dice pop up snake eyes across the craps table, she thought about her children. She missed them and realized being away from them wasn't the answer; it only made things worse. At least her children would have clouded her thoughts so she could pretend to be happy.

  After having Lady Luck dump her, causing her to lose five hundred dollars, Celeste looked around, wondering if she should hit the blackjack table or the slot machines. As she turned around, she felt someone brush up against her right shoulder. “Mind if I stand next to you?” a deep and raspy male voice asked her.

  “Not at all,” Celeste said, never looking at who was talking to her. “I'm leaving anyway.”

  “Well, hello to you too.” He peeked around at Celeste's face.

  Celeste turned to greet him. Oh my God! she thought, this is the niggah from 7-Eleven. The same ma'fucker that I told to suck my tit-ties. Shit.

  “Aren't you wanted for assaulting the cashier in 7-Eleven?” The guy laughed, massaging his chin. “Listen.” He looked her in the eyes. “You ai'ight tonight? Or do I need to warn the dealer?”

  Celeste laughed. “Do I know you?”

  “Oh,” the guy chuckled, “you know damn well you remember me. 'Cause I never forget a beautiful face, even when it seems a little out of wack.”

  “So now you're calling me out of wack?”

  “Well, something was going on,” he insisted.

  “Why are you all in my business?” Celeste snapped. “Don't you have a wife or something? Go find her.”

  “I'm divorced.” He placed a hundred-dollar chip on the table with his left hand, which was no longer wearing a wedding band. “And you?”

  “I was almost a widow, until the police got involved.”

  “What?”

  “You asked.” Celeste batted her eyes. “Ola!” She walked over to the slot machines, dropped a chip in, and pulled the handle. “Come on, seven, seven, seven, come on and make Mama proud.” The machine dropped a cherry, banana, and an orange. “Shit, damn, motherfucker!” Celeste dropped another chip in. “You better be good to Mama!” She pulled the lever.

  “Excuse me,” a voice purred over her shoulder, “what you said to me a few minutes ago, were you for real?”

  Celeste jumped and spun around on the stool. “What the hell is really wrong with you?” It was the 7-Eleven guy again.

  “You.” He smirked. “I'm tryna put my thang down on you and you playin' me.”

  She turned back toward the slot machine. “Let's see.” She stared at the machine. “I've lost my money since sitting here, and lost time because you scared the shit outta me. You called me wack, crazy, and have asked me several times am I okay. Why would you want to keep puttin' your thang down on me? Are you the one crazy? Or you looking for some pussy?”

  “Look, on the real I ain't never had no shit like that happen to me.”

  “What?”

  “What happened in 7-Eleven. And I swear ever since then I can't stop thinking about you. I was scared to call you, so I was hoping to one day see you again, and when I saw you here I had to come up to you.”

  “Okay, now listen.” Celeste dropped in another chip and pulled the lever. “My husband fucked my sister, fell in love with her, and got her pregnant. I have three kids, a house I can't afford, and without warning my life left me and nobody declared me dead in the process. So there I was, trying to get in where I could fit in, and at that moment it was with my titties shaking as I walked half naked through 7-Eleven. So, Mr. Stalker, can you leave me to play my game?”

  “Damn, baby, you've been through a lot.”

  Finally Celeste spun around and prepared her mouth to tell him off, but then she noticed how fine he was: six foot two, perfect teeth, and broad shoulders. He had a shadow mustache, big round eyes, regal nose, and sexy African lips.

  “Damn, you're cute,” she said, looking him up and down.

  “Oh, now I'm cute?” He laughed. “After I've been called a stalker.”

  “Look, let's call it a truce. What's your name?”

  “Myles.”

  “Well, Myles, I'm Celeste.”

  “Listen, I can't hold this back any longer.” Myles took a deep breath. “You're absolutely beautiful.” He licked his lips admiring her copper skin, large breasts, and sharp haircut.

  Celeste couldn't believe it; instead of feeling complimented, she felt self-conscious. She looked down at all the cleavage she had, but decided there was nothing she could do about it. She tried to pull the split that was in the front of her sleeveless red rayon dress together praying it didn't show the cellulite that dimpled portions of her thighs.

  Myles noticed Celeste covering up. “I'm sorry. I hope I didn't embarrass you or make you uncomfortable.”

  “No—no.” She took her hands off her dress and let her split fly open. She saw Myles look at her thighs and again lick his lips.

  “So what's a beautiful young woman like you doing here alone?”

  “Oh,” she chuckled, “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “That's true, so is this a vacation?”

  “More like a personal retreat.”

  “Okay—okay. Have you eaten?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Celeste said as she smiled, “I haven't.”

  “Wanna go out on the boardwalk and grab something?”

  “I would like that. I've been dying for a funnel cake.”

  Myles and Celeste walked the boardwalk; they grabbed two funnel cakes, a glass of white wine for her, and a beer for him. Once they were done eating they strolled along the beach. “So you really think I'm crazy, huh?”

  “I'll admit, at first I was like, This chick has flipped her lid.” He smiled. “But now I know that you've been through a lot—”

  “So do you think I'm crazy?” Celeste asked him again, as if she were looking for a definition of herself.

  “I don't think you're crazy; I think you're beautiful.”

>   “Stop it.” Celeste held her head down.

  “I'm serious.” Myles lifted her head back up.

  Suddenly they started to hear thunder, and when they looked at the sky rain started to pour. Celeste had never seen it rain on the beach. The drops were different from the ones she was used to seeing. These raindrops were clear and heavy, and when they splashed they seemed to dent the sand and scatter into wet diamonds. “Come on!” Myles ran with Celeste, grabbing her by the hand. “Stand over here with me. When the rain comes, it's like a river coming down.” He pulled her under an open wooden stand, where most people prepare picnics or simply lie back and relax when they hit Atlantic City's beach or need a break from the casinos. Since there were no chairs, they were forced to stand. Celeste leaned her back against Myles's chest. Although it seemed strange leaning against a stranger, Celeste felt at peace. She grabbed Myles's hands and pulled them around her waist.

  Once the rain let up, Celeste turned and smiled at him. “I'm staying at the Taj Mahal.”

  “You're leaving?” He seemed disappointed.

  “Yes.

  Come with me?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  They both laughed.

  I hope he has a big dick, Celeste thought on their walk to the hotel, because I wanna fuck him sooooo bad. She looked at Myles and smiled.

  … … …

  ONCE THEY WERE in the suite, Celeste opened her balcony doors and let the breeze pass through. She sat on the edge of the bed. “Look,” she said, “I hate to be so direct, but all I really wanna do is fuck. No strings attached, just some nasty-ass wet-ass ball-slappin' groovin'.”

  “Damn.” Myles couldn't believe it. “You're bold as hell.”

  “Just direct. I don't know you well enough to want anything other than dick.”

  Myles walked over to Celeste and extended his hand. She accepted and stood up. He wrapped his arms around her waist and started dancing with her, moving slowly from side to side.

  Didn't I just tell this niggah I wanted some dick? Celeste thought.

  Why is he trying to romance me? “Myles, I don't mean any harm, but I don't want to dance. I would like to get down to business.”