Rich Girl Problems

by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker

  “Did you?”

  “Hell no. So to make a long and fucked up story short and fucked up, I caught this chick standing across the street from my house yesterday morning, so I confronted her.”

  “You did?” Chaunci’s eyes grew wide.

  “Hell yes.” Milan cocked her neck for emphasis. “And I tried to beat that ass too.”

  “Milan—”

  “And how about she had a black baby with her.” Tears welled in Milan’s eyes.

  “A baby . . . ? Well . . . maybe she was the nanny.”

  “She wasn’t the damn nanny. And after, she asked me if Kendu had told me about them—”

  “Them?!”

  “Yes, them! I knew then that she was the mama and my husband was the damn daddy!” Milan took a swig and tears streamed down her cheeks. She flung the tears away with the back of a hand.

  Chaunci’s mouth dropped open. “Are you serious?”

  “As serious as the drop kick I wanted to lay in his damn chest when I ran up on him in LA.” She flung more tears away. “I’ve had it! It’s over. We’re done. And that damn surprise birthday party I’ve been planning for him . . .”

  “What about it?”

  “I’m changing the motherfucker to a divorce party.”

  “Milan, I think you might be overreacting a bit. Did you ask him to explain?”

  “Explain? I flew out to LA and tried to give this motherfucker a chance to explain.”

  “And?”

  “He told lie after lie after lie. And then when his lies weren’t working, he asked me to come back to his hotel room.”

  “Did you go?”

  “Hell no! He didn’t have a room up in that bitch! He was lying about that too! I am finished with him!”

  “I think you should’ve at least heard him out.”

  Milan looked at Chaunci in shock. “Did you forget that you’re my friend?! You’re on my side! And you know you don’t like his ass! You never have and you never will. You’re the one who told me not to marry him in the first place!”

  “I’m not taking his side. I just know you. The sober you. And this is your marriage.”

  “Fuck that marriage.”

  “Milan—”

  “Look at me!” Milan demanded, and Chaunci observed Milan’s hazel eyes drooping, the lids half-mast, and her bottom lip glazed with slicked saliva. Milan continued, “Does this look like the face of woman who doesn’t mean what she says? No more of that forgiving shit.” She belched. “I’m serious. Me and Kendu are done.” She sipped and found herself sucking air through her straw. She turned the bottle upside down, causing the straw to slip to the floor and a single drop of Merlot to splash on the table.

  She looked over at the coffee table, where Chaunci’s bottle sat. “You’re not going to drink that. I’ll finish it for you.” Milan picked up the bottle, and after a few sips, said, “Now, what’s going on with you? Did you tell me where you were for four days? Did I tell you that the whole world was looking for you?”

  “Yes, you told me that. And, yes, I told you that I was in France.”

  “Oh, okay. So what’d you do in France? And why are you looking like somebody stole your damn bike?”

  Chaunci chuckled. “You are officially crazy as hell. My company,” she shrugged, fighting back tears, “was taken from me.”

  Milan held her head up straight as if she were trying to get her thoughts together. “Say that again.”

  “My company was taken from me. Stolen.”

  “What do you mean?” Milan squinted. “Somebody stole the whole damn building? Oh my God. Only a crackhead would do some shit like that. And I betchu that ass was a man too. Don’t worry; someone had to see ’im. Did you contact security?”

  Chaunci wiped her eyes. “Milan, please. Not the whole damn building. The company.”

  “So somebody stole the whole twenty-seventh floor? Now that’s fucked up.”

  Chaunci sighed. “You know what, it’s a long story. One you’ll understand when you’re sober. Just know that I can’t eat, can’t sleep, and for the first time in many years, I feel lost.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “Don’t cry.” Milan pulled Chaunci into her bosom. “Don’t. It’ll be okay. ’Cause only a motherfuckin’ crackhead man would steal a goddamn floor out of a building and think his ass’ll get away with it. I promise you we’ll find him! ’Cause it ain’t too many places in this tight-ass borough that he can hide that shit.”

  CHAPTER 22

  JAISE

  The wee morning breeze was cool as it blew into Jaise’s face and she stared into the new day’s darkness.

  What the hell am I going to do?

  She huffed. Turned from the window and leaned her back against her farmer’s sink.

  There’s nothing left to cook.

  Her eyes scanned her kitchen table, which overflowed with the hot and piping feast she’d just completed minutes ago:

  Chicken smothered in homemade gravy.

  Yellow rice.

  Steamed cabbage.

  Cheddar cheese grits.

  Scrambled eggs.

  Maple bacon.

  Biscuits.

  Boiled apples.

  Banana bread.

  Cigarettes.

  She walked over to the table and reached for her cigarette case, which sat on the edge of the table. She fumbled as she tried to open it.

  Why does this always happen?

  Jaise tapped the case’s clasp on the edge of the table and it popped open with ease. “Nothing?!” A lump filled her throat as she stared at her reflection in the mirrored case.

  You don’t need any cigarettes any damn way. And you need to stop cooking and eating everything in sight. You’ve resorted to wearing leggings, wrap dresses, and stretch pencil skirts in a piss-poor effort to avoid seeing the ten pounds you’ve gained. You are just a fat, miserable ass—!

  Stop it!

  Jaise closed the case and fixed herself a full plate of food. She sat down on her antique church pew and crossed her legs. The ten pounds she’d gained must’ve all gone to her thighs; resting her left thigh over her right one was a struggle. She eased her leg down and settled for crossing her ankles.

  Jaise sopped a biscuit in the gravy on her plate and took a bite.

  All you do is eat, cook, smoke, and sleep, and none of it makes any damn sense. All you’re doing is running away. Well, your size-sixteen hips, double D breasts, and those love handles you try and hide will not let you run that fast, and one day, you’re going to sprint your chubby ass into a mirrored brick wall right smack into the miserable bitch you really are.

  Stop it!

  Jaise looked down at her plate and realized that she’d eaten everything on it. She replenished it. Sat back down and sopped her biscuit.

  You’ve always wanted a good man . . . and you had one. One who loved you. And he didn’t call you fat, miserable, slap the shit out of you and tell you you deserved it. He loved you just the way you were. You were enough for him and he was exactly who you’d prayed for. But you didn’t want a good man. The motherfucker who kicked your ass got more respect than the one who truly loved you.

  Stop it!

  She reached for another biscuit.

  Stop what? Telling yourself the truth? You don’t have anything else to cook and no cigarettes left to smoke. There’s nothing left to do but listen to your damn thoughts, ’cause nobody knows you like I know you. And I know you may have prayed for a good man, but you have never felt like you deserved him. Because your grown ass is still the same fat-ass little girl who your daddy told you would always be second best. And you believed him. So when a great man came along, you put everything and everyone before him because you couldn’t believe that you were actually his top priority. And you couldn’t believe that because underneath all of your testimonies of love and light you are a low-down, greedy-ass, emotional liar who will never feel good enough!

  Stop it!

  It’s not true.

&n
bsp; It is true and you know it!

  She reached for a biscuit. They were all gone. She opted for two pieces of chicken, thought it over for a minute, and reached for a third piece.

  Why don’t you have your man at home?

  “Instead of worrying about who’s fucking your son, you’d better worry about who’s fucking your husband!” Journee’s voice invaded her head.

  Shut up!

  Somebody’s fucking him!

  “Bilal wouldn’t do that to me,” Jaise said to no one in particular.

  You don’t know that. You don’t know what he would do. The only thing you knew about your husband was that he would leave you. And he did.

  Tears ran from Jaise’s eyes and under her chin. She chewed slowly at first, but soon quickened the pace. The iron fist in her throat made it hard to swallow, but she attempted. She failed, and gagged. She reached for a napkin and spit out what was in her mouth. She wanted desperately to stop the tears, but she couldn’t. Her chest hurt, her back hurt, her eyes burned, and her cheeks felt deflated. Everything was a blur. She even thought she could see Jabril sneaking a girl out the front door, but she wasn’t sure. And she didn’t give a damn. She just wanted her thoughts to stop kicking her in the head and shooting the pain down her spine.

  She wanted to eat her miseries away in peace. But she couldn’t. And here she sat, a bumbling fool, holding her third plate full of food, yet feeling like she was starving to death.

  Call him.

  I can’t.

  Why?

  I don’t deserve him. . . .

  You’re stupid. So you’re just going to give your man away!

  No.

  Then call him.

  What if he doesn’t answer?

  What if he does?

  Call him.

  Jaise walked over to the vintage pay phone on her kitchen wall. She reached for the quarter she kept on top of it and dropped it in the upper slot. Instead of dialing, she listened to the dial tone and a few minutes later, a loud busy signal invaded the line and the quarter dropped into the bottom slot.

  She reached for the quarter and held it in her hand.

  Call him.

  She dropped the quarter in the slot and dialed the number quickly. He answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “Bilal.”

  “Jaise?” She could hear a slight panic in his voice. “Are you okay? What are you doing up this time of the morning?”

  “I just called to see what you were doing.”

  He hesitated. “I’m in my car. Just getting off work and headed home.”

  Hearing him say he was “headed home” felt like someone had pounded her in the lungs and knocked the breath out of her. Say it. “I want you to come home,” she said quickly, before her tongue changed its mind.

  Silence.

  “I love you and I need you. I do. I’m lost. I’m confused. I want to make love to you. I need you. You’re my best friend. My everything. And there’s nothing left for me to cook and all my cigarettes are gone. And I’m so, so sorry. I just—” Her words turned into inaudible sobs.

  “Baby,” he called.

  “And I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Please give us another chance,” she cried.

  “Jaise, calm down and listen to me.”

  She shuddered and wiped tears. “I’m listening.”

  “This time it has to be all or nothing.”

  She wiped tears from her eyes. “It is. It’s all and everything.”

  “No half ass. We’re in this marriage and we’re committed to it. You and I. That’s it.”

  “That’s it.”

  “And I understand that you love your son, but he has to leave. We can’t live in the same house. He needs to make it on his own.”

  She sighed. “I know.”

  “I know you want what’s best for Jabril, and I do too, but you’re going to have to practice tough love so that he can learn how to be a man.”

  “I hear you, Bilal.”

  “I want my wife. The woman I fell in love with. I want it to be us.”

  “Yes, yes, yes. Just say you’ll come home.”

  Bilal released a deep sigh. “Open the door, baby. I’m already here.”

  CHAPTER 23

  MILAN

  Summer 1991.

  Playground 52.

  South Bronx.

  R & B singer Aaliyah was hot. Hip-hop artist Ice Cube was even hotter, and his hit “The Wrong Nigga to Fuck Wit” floated like a musical cloud through the air. And while eight-year-old Milan turned double Dutch, ten-year-old Kendu break-danced.

  “That is so played out.” Milan smirked as she looked at her friend Sharifa. “Who is that bama?”

  Sharifa cheesed. Hard. “That’s Kendu. My home skillet. My boo.”

  Milan stopped turning, causing the girl who jumped to step on the rope and be called out by the other girls who stood waiting. She completely faced Sharifa and said, “That’s who? And he’s your what?”

  “My home skillet. My boo.”

  “Why you lying? Your mama won’t even let you talk to a boy. So you know that is not your boo. You probably don’t even know him.” Milan twisted her lips.

  “So what if I don’t know him yet. He’s lives down the hall from me with Ms. Lucy. You know—she keeps foster kids and he came last week. Special delivery for me.”

  “Whatever. Foster kids are scrubs anyway, and you need to tell him to stop dancing like that. ’Cause it’s played out.”

  “Milan, would you come on!” yelled the girl holding the opposite end of the rope. “They wanna jump.”

  “You’d better slow down!” Milan cocked her neck and yelled back, “I’m coming.” She looked back at Sharifa. “You always like them dirty boys.” She began to turn.

  “Wassup?” came from behind them.

  Milan dropped the rope and she and Sharifa turned around.

  Kendu and his friend stood there. “Wassup?” Kendu repeated.

  “Hey, Kendu.” Sharifa grinned. “I live down the hall from you. ”

  “Word. ” He nodded, looking Milan up and down. “Who you?”

  Milan fought back a blush. “Somebody and that’s all you need to know.”

  “You real cute, Somebody.”

  “I know this.”

  “I got a dollar; we can get some ice cream and kick it for a minute.”

  Milan looked toward Sharifa, who stood with her mouth hanging open. She handed her the ropes. “Turn. I’ll be back.” Milan walked toward the ice cream truck with Kendu. “You’d better have a dollar too.”

  “I got you. I promise.”

  5 a.m.

  I should’ve kept turning and let Sharifa have the ice cream.

  Tears filled Milan’s eyes as her memory faded and she ran her hands over Kendu’s cold and empty side of the bed.

  Maybe I should’ve stayed at Chaunci’s a little longer.

  I don’t believe this.

  Believe it.

  She glanced at the sitting area in her master suite and her eyes landed on the red leather sectional. Her mind drifted into a memory of sitting there and watching Kendu on Scoreboard, his ESPN morning show, feeling privileged to be his wife.

  She smiled and her eyes danced to the fireplace mantel where their wedding picture hung. A jagged pain sliced down the center of her chest and tears eased down her cheeks.

  Stop crying.

  She stirred and turned toward the French patio doors.

  You’ve been crying for way too long.

  This wasn’t meant to be a fucked up fairy tale.

  Well, it is.

  I love him so much.

  He doesn’t appreciate it.

  I don’t know what to do.

  Yes, you do.

  Should I leave?

  Hell no.

  Milan wrestled in the sheets as she turned back toward the double door entrance and saw Kendu, standing there, just arriving from California with his suitcase in hand and his tired eyes locked into hers.


  She quickly wiped away the tears that continued to escape down her cheeks. Breathe.

  “We need to talk.” He sat his suitcase on the floor.

  “Why?” she answered. “I don’t have shit to say to you.”

  “Then you need to listen. Now, I love you and I’m sorry that I lied to you about what I was really doing in LA—”

  “Oh, so now you want to confess the truth?”

  He ignored her comment and continued, “There was no convention—”

  “I would’ve never guessed.”

  “And I actually spent the night in West Hollywood—”

  “Hollywood?” She felt an invisible fist shoot through her chest. “So you got a famous bitch in addition to the side slore who was at my door? I should slice your fuckin’ throat.”

  “I went out there because I was given an opportunity to start my own sports network. I wanted to actually purchase it and surprise you with it before I told you. That’s why I lied to you. But that other shit about some chick and some baby, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Here’s what I expect: for you not to ever lose your damn mind again, run up on me, and show your ass like that in public!”

  “Excuse you?”

  “I don’t know what is wrong with you! But you’d better get it together.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Milan hopped out of bed, feeling like she was in Oz. Did he think he was going to waltz in here and she was going to care that she embarrassed him? This motherfucker was crazy. Had to be. “You have lost your mind! Do you really think you’re going to apologize and then put this shit on me? You’re the one fuckin’ bitches, making babies, lying about where you’ve been. You ain’t shit!”

  “What baby?! I don’t have another damn baby and the only one I’m fuckin’ is you!”

  “Oh, puhlease! So the whore who was at the Met Gala, the same bitch who followed me and the nanny through the park, and the same bitch who showed up at our doorstep is what? A figment of my imagination? Spare me. I know and you know that you’re a cheatin’ motherfucker—”