Rich Girl Problems

by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker

  “He can spend the night. But I’m not leaving and coming back tomorrow. I’m staying right here and we’re going to deal with this. We need to call the hospitals and the police stations.”

  “I did that. I even called the city morgue. They don’t have her ass. You know who has her—the glass dick she’s somewhere sucking on. Look. I have my own child. I can’t raise my mother too. I’m tired of feeling like I have to be watching over her all the time when she’s here or she’ll sneak out somewhere and get high. I would like to be her damn child for a change and not her overseer! Damn!”

  “It’s not your fault, baby. And you’re not responsible for your mother.”

  “I know it’s not my fault. But I feel like it is.” She wiped tears. “Do you know how many times I dragged my mother out of an alleyway? Nursed her back from a damn overdose? Waited by the bathroom door while she stayed in there all damn day? Do you understand that? She begged me to give her another chance and now this is the shit she pulls?”

  “It could be something else, V.”

  “It’s not, Taj. We’ve been together long enough for you to know that her ass is somewhere probably sucking dick for a hit.”

  Taj pulled Vera into his chest and he rested his chin in the center of her head. “I want you to know that you are not responsible for your mother’s addiction. Your mother is an adult.”

  “Taj.”

  “Listen to me—” He held her head up. “Rowanda is your mother. She is the parent in this situation. She failed you. Not the other way around. And if she makes a decision to get high, you are not to blame. You are not to blame now and you were not to blame when you were a little girl dragging her out of the alleyways or stealing food from the corner store. And you are not to blame because you went to school when you were eight and told the teacher that your grandmother had died and you were home alone. That is not your fault.”

  Vera wiped her eyes. “I know you’re right. I just want to truly feel that way.” She looked into Taj’s eyes and slid her arms around his neck. “Thank you,” she said as they began to kiss passionately. Soul stirringly.

  He ran his hands up her thighs and ended their kiss with a suck of her chin. “You want me to stop?” He unbuttoned her blouse and caressed her hard nipples.

  “No.”

  “Then tell me you love me and take responsibility for what is your fault and apologize for all of the crazy shit you’ve done to me.”

  “What?” Vera frowned. “Apologize? I’m not apologizing. I’m not doing that.”

  “Then I’m not doing you. Because if you think I’m going to sleep with you and help you run away from what you need to be dealing with, you’re wrong. This is a marriage and it’s not all about you and what you need. And instead of laying up here at night and crying over me, you need to be talking to me. Now, if you want to talk about your mother, let’s do that. You want to make love to me, then you’ll need to hollah at me with an apology.”

  “Then I guess I’ll be seeing you in court next week.”

  “I guess so, and make sure you bring your checkbook.”

  CHAPTER 36

  JAISE

  Ashes to ashes . . .

  Dust to dust . . .

  Black suit . . .

  Slick mahogany coffin . . .

  White satin lining . . .

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .

  You choosing this niggah over me? Your own son!

  “Noooo!” Jaise screamed as she jumped out of her sleep in a sweat. Her eyes moved around her bedroom in a panic: from the caramel painted walls to the rod iron railings of her bed, to Bilal, who lay next to her sleeping.

  Jaise felt nauseous as she tossed the sheet off and eased out of bed. She headed for the bathroom and immediately her stomach boiled and her mouth watered. She gripped the edge of the toilet and dry heaved into it.

  “Are you okay, Jaise?” Bilal rubbed her back.

  “Yeah. I just feel really, really fucked up.” She dry heaved again. After a few seconds of trying to get herself together, she walked over to the pedestal sink and splashed water into her face.

  “Maybe you need to sit down and let me fix you some tea.”

  “I don’t want any tea. I want a cigarette and I have this urge to cook apple pancakes.” She looked over at Bilal. “I feel so weird.” She looked around the bathroom and saw that the butler had let the camera crew upstairs and they were filming her.

  Ignoring the camera, Bilal said, “You’re going through a lot right now.”

  She looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean with Jabril passing away, it’s a lot on you.”

  Passing away . . . passing away . . . Jaise looked into Bilal’s face.

  Ashes to ashes . . .

  Dust to dust . . .

  Black suit . . .

  Slick mahogany coffin . . .

  White satin lining . . .

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .

  You choosing this niggah over me? Your own son!

  “Passing away,” Jaise said as tears streamed down her face. “He wasn’t sick. He wasn’t some old-ass man. No one expected him to die.”

  “Jaise, calm down.” He reached for her hand and she snatched it back. “Calm down.”

  “Get. Off. Me!” Jaise screamed.

  “I know you’re upset.”

  “You know I’m upset? I’m more than upset. I’m enraged and I want to kill your fuckin’ ass! Passed away! My son didn’t pass away. He was murdered, motherfucker, and as far as I’m concerned, you might as well have pulled the trigger!”

  “What?”

  “Get the fuck out!” She pushed Bilal. “Get your shit and get the fuck out! Had me put my child on the street because he wasn’t man enough for you! Because he didn’t meet your standards, so he had to go! All this fuckin’ house! Six bedrooms, a full and finished basement! And you had me put my baby on the street! You killed him!”

  “Jaise—”

  She pushed past him, ran into the closet, yanked his clothes from the hangers, and tossed them out of the closet. “Get the fuck out!” She flung his shoes. Took her hand and in one swipe knocked everything off his dresser. “Out!” She opened the bedroom window and began sailing his things into the street.

  “Jaise.” He grabbed her, his hold paralyzing her.

  “You killed my baby.” Her voice ached. Her body ached. Everything felt weak. “I need you to leave. You killed my baby.”

  “Jaise.”

  “I don’t want to see you ever again. This marriage is over. I chose you over my baby and now I’ll never see him again.”

  Bilal’s face was wet with tears. “Jaise.”

  “Let me go and leave.”

  He released her from his hold and gathered what he could of his things. “I love you and I loved Jabril. I just wanted what was best for him. Had I known—”

  “Go!” She yelled at the top of her voice, “GET OUT!”

  Bilal threw some things in a bag, picked it up, and walked out of the room. Jaise could hear his feet slamming against the steps, and once they stopped she heard the front door slam.

  “My baby’s dead!” she cried, and curled into a ball on the floor for what felt like forever.

  CHAPTER 37

  MILAN

  This wasn’t meant to be a fucked up fairy tale. It was meant to be as sensual as the first night Kendu grooved between her thighs and they made love until sunrise. As surreal as her heartbeat used to be when she’d whimsically doodle his name.

  Never. Ever. Did she imagine, at least until this moment, that she’d dream of pointing a gun to his head and pulling the trigger.

  Motherfucker.

  She sipped her smooth black tea and looked around at her kitchen, from the sleek black and cherrywood cabinets with the chrome handles, to the chalkboard wall that encompassed the doorway—which led to the hallway. She glanced over at the camera zoomed in on her
and then skipped her eyes over to the open space, designated as the family room. Her gaze landed on the red leather sectional and her mind was quickly lost in a memory of once sitting there and watching Kendu on Scoreboard, his ESPN morning show, feeling privileged to be his wife.

  Milan giggled and her eyes danced over to the fireplace mantel where their wedding picture used to be until the night of his birthday party, when she’d snatched the picture off the mantel and tossed it across the room.

  She couldn’t believe he was having an affair.

  An affair . . .

  I can’t live like this. I have to leave him or kill his ass.

  Tears filled her eyes.

  You’d better not drop a damn tear.

  “Milan,” Kendu’s voice boomed into the kitchen from the hallway. He stepped in through the doorway, wearing gray sweats, a ribbed white tank top, and Adidas slippers. “We need to talk.”

  Silence.

  He sat at the kitchen table. “I need you to talk to me.”

  More silence.

  Milan quickly wiped away the tears that had escaped and returned to looking down at the concrete kitchen table she’d filled with pictures to place in her son’s baby book. She reached for a photo that she and Kendu had taken a few months before the baby was born. In Vegas. Standing before a black Elvis who renewed their vows.

  The corners of Milan’s lips stretched toward her ears as she smiled and picked up the scissors. She traced the sharp and cutting steel around the shape of her image and then moved on to Kendu’s, stopping short at the outline of his ears.

  I’m so exhausted.

  Tears haunted her eyes. She cut around the side of his face, over the crown of his head, down the other side, and slowly slid the scissors partially across his paper neck. She stopped and ran a finger across the slice.

  I’m so sick of your shit.

  She decapitated him and his head slipped to the floor, where she left it.

  “Milan.” He waved his hands before her face as if he were seducing her out of a trance. “You just cut my damn head off in the fuckin’ picture?!” He looked disgusted. “What kind of drugs are you on? Yo’, what the fuck?”

  “You better get away from me.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “I don’t have anything to say.” She walked over to the stove and stirred her pot.

  “Milan—”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Malik.” Rosalynn, the maid, hurried into the kitchen, breathing heavily. “Did either of you happen to see Aiyanna’s rabbit?”

  “No.” Kendu frowned. “Why?”

  “I went in there to clean the cage and it’s gone! The thing is gone!” Rosalynn looked perplexed. “I looked everywhere.”

  “Calm down, Ros,” Kendu said. “I’m sure you’ll find it.”

  “But how does a caged rabbit disappear? You think the nanny moved it?”

  “No,” Milan said. “She’s been out all morning, taking the baby for a stroll.”

  Rosalynn shook her head. “Well, I’m going to keep looking. I promised Aiyanna I would take care of her rabbit while she was in South Africa. Now I don’t know what I’m going to tell her.” She walked out of the room, shaking her head.

  Kendu stared at Milan and she could tell by the look in his eyes that he attempted to read her mind. “I’m not having an affair,” he said.

  She ignored him and instead walked over to the stove and removed the lid from her pot.

  “Damn, this smells good.” He gave her an awkward smile. “The chef made it?”

  “No.”

  “Who made it?”

  “Me.”

  “Where’s the chef?”

  “Off.”

  “Do you think you can say more than one word?”

  “No.”

  Kendu gave Milan a once-over before cupping his hand over hers. She shot him a look that ricocheted a round of invisible bullets into him.

  He inched his hand back and sat up straight in the chair. “You know I love you. And I would never do anything to hurt you. Please talk to me.”

  Talk to you? Talk to you? You’d better get the fuck out of my face playing stupid. You know as well as I do that you are a lyin’ piece of shit who only thinks with his dick. But I got something for you and that tramp-ass whore you’re cheating on me with! And as soon as that private eye I hired gives me the information I need, oh, baby, I will show you and your prostitute a thing or two!

  “I don’t have anything to say.” Milan turned the fire off under her pot and the spicy smell of fresh curry, carrots, pigeon peas, and mixed peppers greeted her nose. She inhaled the aroma. “It’s done.” She turned to Kendu. “Would you like some?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Should I eat it?”

  “Choice is yours.” She fixed herself a bowl.

  “A’ight, I’ll take a little. Maybe while we eat, we can discuss some things.”

  “Sure.” Milan grabbed two porcelain bowls and filled them with curried shreds of meat and chunky vegetables. She set Kendu’s bowl before him.

  “This looks good.” He dug in. “Is this curried chicken?”

  “No,” Milan said as she set her bowl on the table and took her seat.

  “No?” Kendu dipped his spoon back into the bowl and filled his mouth. “What is it?”

  “Rabbit.”

  Kendu froze. “What?”

  “It’s rabbit,” she said calmly.

  Kendu sat completely still. Then, as if a slow, shocking wave washed over him and suddenly crashed and exploded in the center of his stomach, he heaved and hurled across the table, turning the sleek black cabinets speckled orange. Kendu leaped from his seat, rocked the table, and sent the bowls to the floor, shattering them and covering the wood planks with shards of porcelain and lumps of food.

  “Sick ass! Are you fuckin’ crazy?!” Kendu ran into the powder room. “What the fuck,” traveled down the hallway as Kendu emptied his stomach into the toilet, “is wrong with you?!

  “I don’t believe you did some shit like that, Milan!” He continued to vomit. “You cooked the fuckin’ rabbit?! I should kick yo’ ass for that! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

  “Nothing.” Milan cracked half a smile.

  “I knew your ass was crazy!” He gagged, hurled, and hard splashing sounds rose from the toilet.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I don’t believe this shit!” he said, struggling to breathe. “Fuckin’ twisted!”

  Milan wiped the corners of her mouth and as she rose from her chair, she spotted the rabbit hopping toward the powder room. “I’ll be back.”

  “Yeah, you do that. You need to take your sick ass out of here!” He gagged. “Motherfuckers get killed for less than that! How the hell could you cook my daughter’s pet and then feed it to me!” Kendu heaved and as Milan walked past him, she picked up the rabbit, whom she’d hidden in a makeshift cage behind the sofa, opened the front door, and set it free.

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAUNCI

  Monday afternoon is when Chaunci realized she’d fucked up. She stared at her engagement ring on the nightstand and into the band where Emory’s name was engraved. She closed her eyes and wondered what he was doing and how he would feel if he knew she’d spent a taboo weekend with another man.

  She pulled the sheets over her breasts as she looked down at a sleeping Grant. She wanted desperately to nurse his morning hard-on, but decided she needed to get her thoughts in order so that she could return to New York ready to meet her knight. Emory. The man who’d practically saved her life when she was emotionally bankrupt.

  What the hell am I going to tell this man? This was only supposed to be overnight. Not all weekend.

  “Tell him you’ve changed your mind.”

  Chaunci froze. “I thought you were sleeping . . . and how did you know what I was thinking?”

  Grant sat up with his back pressed against the headboard. “It was a wild guess. Are you regretting this weekend?”

  “No.” She
kissed him. “It was one of the best weekends of my life. I just can’t do this again.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m engaged to be Emory’s wife.” She tossed the covers off her and headed into the bathroom.

  Grant followed her. “You don’t have to marry him.”

  “I love him.”

  “If you could so easily spend a weekend with me, then loving him is not even part of the equation.”

  “You are out of line.” Chaunci turned on the shower and stepped in.

  “Am I?” Grant stepped in behind her, the water gracing both of their bodies. “Or are you trying to fulfill an obligation that you are no longer required to meet?” He placed kisses from the base of her neck to her ass, where he tossed her salad, forcing her to cry out his name. Spinning her around and licking her clit, he said, “Don’t worry about calling the wedding off. I’ll do it.”

  CHAPTER 39

  VERA

  A Week Later

  Vera sat in her office, watching red numbers flash across her iPad. She tried her best to muster a smile for the camera, but she couldn’t.

  She hadn’t heard from her mother in a week, and instead of the days getting better, the wounds of having a drug-addicted mother and fucked up childhood memories felt like fresh slices to her skin.

  Tears filled the corners of her eyes as her cell phone rang. She read the caller ID: Private.

  “Hello?” She cleared her throat.

  “This Vera?” a raspy and unfamiliar male voice said.

  Her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. “Who is this?”

  “This Vera?”

  “Yeah,” she said in a panic. “Who is this?”

  “Don’t worry about who this is. Just know you need to come and get yo’ mama. She down here in Lincoln projects courtyard lookin’ sick off that shit and you know what shit I’m talkin’ ’bout.”