Chapter 12- Eshe
"Time?" I echoed. "How long do you expect me to wait? I don't even want this to work anymore. I'm twenty-eight. I want a husband. Kids. A fucking family of my own."
I didn't even raise my voice. I was too tired.
"You'll wait. Until. As long as it takes."
"So... forever?"
Because when he first showed up at my door with her, it was: "I'm sorry, Eshe. It's you I want, but you gotta wait. She's pregnant."
Then she had a miscarriage. "She's hurting, I can't leave while she's hurting."
Now she was pregnant again—when he wasn't even supposed to be fucking her—and I was left with what? Weekends?
"Me not fucking her wasn't realistic," he said. "We live together, sleep in the same bed. It's not like I'm fucking other women. Just you and her. And her only once in a while. It was a mistake."
I chuckled bitterly. "Just two women? Congratulations. You's an honorable-ass negro." I clapped. "I need another man then. You ran away the most recent one. Why can't a girl get her pussy ate in peace?"
His nostrils flared. "Don't fucking play with me, Eshe. You out your monkey-ass mind if you don't know I'll kill you and that nigga."
I threw my hands up and sat forward. "You're a real-life wack job," I snapped.
"You just sat here bold and unflinching and told me you couldn't stop fucking the woman you claim not to like, and now you're married to her.
But you wanna kill me over getting my pussy ate? " I was intentionally poking at him.
"You damn right," he growled. "I'll kill both y'all before I let you leave me. That's a promise."
"Whatever, goofy." I waved him off. "Can you go now? I'm tired."
"No. I can't fucking go. This is my fucking house. I leave when I want to."
I snapped my head back. "What you mean your house? My granny left me this house."
"Who paid to fix this raggedy motherfucker?" he boasted.
"Who asked you to? I didn't."
He slammed his hand into his chest. "You didn't have to. You're my woman. That's what I'm supposed to do. You damn sure didn't turn down the new bathroom, the stainless-steel appliances, the roof, or the furniture your naked ass sits on."
"You keep throwing that in my face."
"And you keep bringing up this marriage shit like it means something. You know it's in name only. My momma asked me to marry her. She thought she was dying of breast cancer—was I supposed to say no?"
"Oh, you mean the benign cyst she had drained as an outpatient? Oh, I get it. She never had cancer, and as a reward for not having cancer, she got a daughter-in-law, a grandbaby, and a new pair of tits you paid for. In the end, she wins. Sinica wins. And I wait."
His chest rose and fell. Jaw ticking. At this point, I should've walked away.
"Don't disrespect my moms again, Eshe," he warned, sitting up.
I couldn't stand his wicked-ass, color-struck momma. That bitch hated me from jump, told me one Christmas she didn't like me because of my dark skin. Her son and husband were darker than me, but she still acted like I was dirt.
And Donte didn't say a damn word in my defense. Fuck his momma.
"Fuck your momma," I spat, hoping wherever she was, she felt it.
Before the words were fully out of my mouth, he wrapped his hand around my throat. He lifted me from the chair.
Donte wasn't exactly abusive, but he'd shake my ass if I pushed him to. That's why I knew this was coming.
I slapped the hell out of him. His face registered shock, but his grip tightened.
"Let me go," I choked out, swinging again.
"Hit me again and I'll snap your fucking neck." He meant it. I let my fist drop.
Seconds passed. Hours disguised as seconds.
"I know you ain't fucking ol' dude at the restaurant.
I saw him leave you there." He shook me a little.
"That's what your ass get. What I want to know is if you fucking that nigga Jalen?
" he finally asked. "You left with him that night.
He put the battery in your back that got you acting like this? "
"No," I said truthfully, even though I regretted not fucking Jalen. It would've hurt him so bad.
He searched my eyes, then released me and folded his arms. I rubbed my sore neck, trying not to cry.
"Fix your fucking face," he said. "You know what you said about my momma was uncalled for."
"Whatever, Donte."
"You hungry? I brought crab legs. They're in the refrigerator." He said it like he hadn't just choked me.
I walked to the kitchen. Not for the crab legs. I didn't want him to see me break. He followed anyway.
I burst out crying. My grip on the kitchen table was the only thing keeping me upright.
He came up behind me. "Stop, please, Eshe. You know I hate when you cry. I'm sorry for putting my hands on you. I've been losing my mind ever since I saw you smiling at that nigga like you used to smile at me."
I stayed silent.
"I'm sorry. Forgive me." He buried his face in my neck. When I tried to pull away, he held me tighter.
"Please, Eshe," he whispered. "Please don't give up on us."
"I already have," I whispered back.
"Don't say that. I know it's fucked up, but—"
"But nothing." I cut him off.
He backed me up against the table and lifted me onto it, still talking. "But you're supposed to make it to the end with me. The white picket fence. The two kids. Yoga before homeschooling. Everything you want, Eshe—I got you."
"This isn't a fucking fairytale, Donte."
He kissed me so sweetly I almost forgave him. Almost.
"It can be real," he said, nibbling at my collarbone, massaging my breast.
I froze, and my mind started flashing red.
Images of him and us bombarded me. Him walking down the aisle with her.
Him disappearing for days, then showing up with banana pudding and excuses.
Him choking me. His mama calling my skin, my hair, my being bad behind her thin pastel pink lips.
Me sitting on my bathroom floor, crying into a towel so my granny wouldn't hear.
It snapped in my head in that moment. What I had with Donte wasn't love. It was warfare. I was tired of fighting him, fighting for him, but never for myself.
I shoved him hard. He stumbled back, shocked, lips parted like I'd just slapped him.
"Get out." My voice was low, dangerous.
"Eshe—"
"I said get the fuck out."
He didn't move. His brow furrowed, like his brain was buffering. Like my words were in a language he didn't speak.
Fine. He needed motivation. I turned toward the kitchen drawer. The wood groaned as I yanked it open. The blade glinted under the fluorescent light.
I turned and leveled it at his chest. "Out." I didn’t scream. My voice came out quiet, and mean. "On your own two feet. Or in a bag. Your choice."
His hands shot up, palms out. "You're fucking crazy," he breathed, hands up, voice lowering like I was some stray animal he was trying not to spook.
I stepped forward. "Yes, I fucking am," I snapped. "You made me this way."
I took another step in his direction. I was already settled with the idea of spending the rest of my life in jail. It wasn't much different than what I'd been dealing with him.
"All the lies. The gaslighting. The promises. The 'wait for me' while you build a family with her. You twisted me into this."
He backed toward the door, staring me dead in the eyes, and I think he was finally seeing me—really seeing me. It terrified him. I knew it was because a world where I didn't fold was scary to him. Good.
As he slipped out, he muttered, "This ain't over." He slammed my door. That pissed me off.
The knife clattered to the floor as I ran toward the door, yanking it open so hard the knob punched a hole in the wall.
He was backing out. "DON'T COME BACK!" I roared into the night. "I'LL BURY YOU NEXT TO YOUR LIES, BITCH!"
My throat burned. Neighbors' lights flicked on. I didn't care. I slammed the door so hard the frame shook.
Then slowly my knees gave out. I slid down the door. It was over.
On my granny, it was over. I'd slit my own wrist before I made one more mistake or wasted one more minute of my life with Donte.