Chapter Three
Three
“Y’all gonna get up off Mary Poppins...”
Aaliyah
I march into Tamara’s apartment, barely managing not to slam the door closed behind me. I’ve been in Chicago and out from under my parents’ thumbs for two weeks, yet years of conditioning don’t disappear in days. Outward displays of emotion—unless in church—weren’t welcome. Even in church, go on too long and you’d get ushered out the sanctuary. Apparently, even the Holy Ghost got a time limit.
No, in my world—former world—emotional displays were derided, disdained. So for the second time in hours, I check the need to “display” all over the place.
Now, I quietly shut the door.
Earlier, I restrained myself from telling Von Howard to go to hell.
Still, not acting on my fury doesn’t mean it isn’t burning a hole in my chest.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Tamara emerges from the kitchen with a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. “And where are you coming from?”
I move farther into the apartment, cutting a left into the living room and plopping down on her couch. Bending down, I slip my shoes off, setting them neatly to the side. Heel to heel. Toe to toe. Cleanliness wasn’t just next to godliness, order was, too.
I stare at them too long while a closed fist of anger, frustration and sadness squeezes my throat. I’m not home anymore. I’m on my own. I don’t need to abide by anyone’s rules but my own. And yet...
Yet I don’t move the shoes.
Sighing, I fall back against the couch, staring at the recessed ceiling.
“Girl, I know you hear me talking to you.” The cushion next to me sinks as Tamara drops down. “Where’re you coming from? Classes don’t start until a couple weeks from now, as you’ve been telling me. Often.”
Okay, so I’m a wee bit excited about starting college and may have been talking about it. A lot.
Shifting my body to face hers, I lift my legs up and curl them under me. Propping an elbow on the back of the couch, I lean my head against my hand. “I had a job interview. I put it on the calendar on the refrigerator,” I say.
She waves her spoon before digging it into the bowl. “I told you I wasn’t paying attention to that,” she says around a bite. “Damn, Aaliyah.” She moans. “You put your whole foot in this banana pudding. I’ma have to spend a few more hours in the gym, but it’ll be worth it.”
“Thanks. I’m glad you like it.”
I smile, my delight probably disproportionate to her compliment. Tamara wouldn’t let me help pay rent out of the money I brought with me, ordering me to save it along with the first few paychecks I’ll eventually earn. I very much appreciate her generosity. I hadn’t planned on staying with her, but she’d insisted, claiming I would end up on the back of a milk carton with my green ass—her words, not mine. The least I can do to earn my way here is cook and keep her gorgeous condo neat.
And by cook, I mean secretly DoorDash meals and transfer the food to plates.
Because my mother tried, but the cooking gene? It skipped a generation. Aside from banana pudding, I got burgers and boiled eggs covered. Other than that?
Peace be with you.
But Tamara doesn’t need to know that. She would just be upset over me spending my money to get us food. So why get her blood pressure up?
Why yes, I am justifying me lying and being sneaky.
“So where was this interview at and with who?”
I sigh, thoughts of the past few hours snuffing out any positive feels. “You remember that I signed on with that nanny service?”
Tamara nods. “And the temp agency. And you’ve been submitting applications to every grocery store between here and the Gold Coast. Yeah.” She squints at me, jabbing the spoon in my direction. “I’ve told you repeatedly you don’t have to worry about getting a job right away. I’m not trying to kick you out. There’s more than enough room here for both of us, and shit, half the time, I don’t even know you’re here.”
“Here” being her beautiful apartment in the South Loop neighborhood of Chicago. For all her talk in that motel room back home, Tamara wouldn’t hear of me posting up in an extended-stay motel. Speaking of motels...
I don’t know what I expected, but given the, uh, modest motel I found her at in Alabama, I figured her apartment would be nothing exceptional. But I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The spacious three-bedroom, two-bath condo sits on the sixteenth floor of a towering high-rise. Wide, high-ceilinged rooms that seamlessly flow into each other, hardwood floors, free-standing fireplaces, and a whole wall of glass that faces east and offers a breathtaking, panoramic view of Lake Michigan, Museum Campus and Soldier Field. Out of all the rooms, ironically, her kitchen is my favorite. It’s not as big as the one in my childhood home, but the amenities make up for the lack of space. Glossy wood cabinets, quartz countertops on the breakfast bar and counters, a marble backsplash and top-of-the-line appliances that need a master’s in engineering to operate. It’s beautiful.
My cousin is living her best life as “Jade” down at Inferno, the strip club where she works. She pays her bills, owns her condo and the newest Audi A8, and always looks like she just rolled up out of a salon. I can’t lie: I’m trying to be like Tamara. Well, not the stripping part. Aside from the fact that I don’t have the guts to strut out on stage mostly naked, I can’t dance to save my life. I blow that stereotype about all Black people having rhythm out the water.
But she’s gorgeous, confident, self-reliant and doesn’t give a damn what people think or say about her.
That’s admirable.
That’s powerful.
I shrug, lifting my hand and studying my cuticles. The acrylics I’d gotten on my wedding day were long gone, leaving my nails short, unadorned. “I know, but I want to contribute. It’s important that I do.”
She doesn’t ask why; she and I come from the same place, the same family. She understands why.
Tamara shrugs, scooping up more banana pudding. “Whatever. So, back to your job hunting. Where’d you go? And I hope you Uber-ed. God knows you’re not familiar enough with Chicago to take public transportation.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I took a rideshare. I had an interview for a nanny position, but I had to meet the father at his job. It was a tattoo shop over in Irving Park.”
Tamara slowly straightens. Setting the bowl and spoon on the coffee table in front of the couch, she studies me for several long moments.
“One, why didn’t you tell me you needed a ride? I would’ve driven you. Irving Park is damn near a half hour away from here. Too far to Uber. I thought you wanted to save your money,” she points out.
“In my defense, I didn’t know it was so far.”
“Uh-huh. You didn’t seem to have a problem asking me to bring you with me to Chicago, but now you have an issue with asking me for help. If something happens to you, that’s gonna be my ass. So for my ass’s sake since it’s literally my moneymaker, stop being too proud.” She cocks her head, squinting at me. “Now, second. You interviewed at a tattoo shop? Which one?”
“King Tattoos, I think?”
“King Tattoos?” Tamara’s eyes widen as she leans forward. “Von Howard’s shop?”
“Yes, that’s who I met with. Do you know him?”
“Know him? Hell, girl, who doesn’t know him? He’s only one of the best tattoo artists in the city. Shit, the country. People from all over come to get work done by him. Including athletes and celebrities.”
“Oh.” I had no clue. But since I’ve never had the occasion to get a tattoo, why would I? “Well, he’s looking for a nanny, but I sincerely doubt that nanny will be me.” I suck my teeth. “He was an ass.”
Tamara blinks, then releases a crack of laughter. “Well damn, Aaliyah. If you’re cursing, he must’ve really rubbed you the wrong way.” Her lips twist into a smirk. “What did he do?”
“He didn’t give me a chance. At all. His mind was already made up before we spoke.”
She balls up her face. “Did you wear that to the interview?”
I glance down at my white silk blouse with the big bow at the neck and the dark blue pencil skirt. It’s one of my favorite outfits, not to mention it’s professional-looking. “Yes.” I lift my hands, giving myself another once-over. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“Nothing...if you’re going to share the good news of Jesus Christ.”
“Seriously, Tamara?”
“I’m just sayin’. He took one look at you and probably thought you were Mary Poppins’s sister from another mister.”
Laughter rolls out of me, and Tamara grins, shaking her head.
“You’re ridiculous. I mean, I was applying to be a nanny. You’d think he’d appreciate the Mary Poppins look. But instead, he just called me into his office and told me how I didn’t belong anywhere near his daughter. Didn’t belong in Chicago. He was so cold. And mean.”
“And fine.” Tamara reaches for her bowl again. Twirling her spoon, she arches an eyebrow. “Tell me I’m lying.”
“He’s aight,” I mutter.
I’m lying. And from Tamara’s smirk, she knows it.
Okay, so the man was gorgeous. And even that seems too lackluster a description for the giant, wide-shouldered man with the chestnut skin, heavy dark brows, deep-set gray eyes and thick black beard. His dark hair, weaved into long stitch braids, revealed a face of stark, almost severe angles. A sleeveless black shirt and jeans didn’t hide the tight muscles in his big body or the miles of tattoos that covered his arms, hands and neck. The piercing at the corner of his full bottom lip drew attention to the carnal cruelty that was his mouth.
Von Howard was brutal beauty.
And an asshole.
But that didn’t seem to matter to my body as I sat across from him. Even now, my belly pulls and knots at the thought of that harshly pretty face and intimidating body. My coochie spasms, and I curl my legs closer as if that can extinguish the ache. An ache I never once felt with my fiancé—ex-fiancé. I’m chalking it up to fascination; they didn’t grow ’em like Von in Parsons.
“He’s aight, huh?” Tamara mocks me, snickering. “So he really said you didn’t belong in Chicago?”
“Yes,” I grumble, bending my head and picking a piece of nonexistent lint off my skirt. I don’t want her to see the hurt that still resonates in my chest. Silly to have my feelings all sore by a man who doesn’t know me from Adam. “And I told him his thoughts on the matter were irrelevant.”
“You didn’t.”
I chuckle at Tamara’s surprise. “I did. What? Don’t let the church girl fool you.”
“Yeah, okay.” She laughs again, scraping the last of the banana pudding from the bowl then setting it aside. “I tell you what. Make some more of that—” she points at the empty bowl “—and I’ll take you clothes shopping. Because lil’ cuz, you can’t go out on any more interviews looking like a disciple.”
“You’re gonna get off my outfit,” I snap, but then ruin it by grinning. “I’ll have you know, I wore this on my first date with Gregory, and it bagged me a man and a proposal.”
Tamara snorts, rising from the couch. “And we see where that got you, right?” Not waiting for my response—not that I had one because, y’know, she’s right—she strolls toward the kitchen. “Go and get changed. We’re leaving out in twenty.”
Grabbing my shoes and standing, I follow her, stopping at the mouth of the hallway leading to the bedrooms.
“Hey, can I ask you a question? It’s been on my mind for a minute, but I don’t want it to seem like I’m in your business...”
“Just ask it, Aaliyah.”
“When you came to visit home, you stayed in the Barrington Arms. Not saying it’s a dump, but clearly—” I turn, waving a hand at the living and dining rooms and kitchen “—you can afford better. Why go there?”
“The same reason I’ve never invited your family here to visit me—to keep them out of my pockets. Because the people who talk shit about me and what I do are the same people who would expect ten percent of it when that offering plate goes by. Nope. If what I do isn’t good enough for them, then neither is my money.”
My cousin wears a hard demeanor, and with reason. I’ve heard with my own ears how Dad runs her down to Mom’s sister, my aunt Trulie. And while Tamara’s mother doesn’t take that with a closed mouth, most of our family follows Dad’s lead. It’s no wonder my cousin opts to stay in a hotel rather than with her own relatives when visiting. While she and Aunt Trulie get along, her father is another story. So yes, her defensive manner is warranted. Yet...
Yet, I still catch the note of hurt in her voice. Family is supposed to love and accept you, even if they don’t necessarily agree with all your decisions. With mine, their love and acceptance are conditional on obedience. On submission.
How well someone takes to the gilded cage comprised of expectation and Scripture.
I should know. All my life, Dad has tried to keep me behind the same bars my mother so willingly accepted.
“I get that,” I murmur. “I’ll be ready in twenty.” Nodding at my cousin, I continue down the hall to the guest room.
It’s funny.
I’ve left Parsons. Physically escaped my father’s house and my mother’s suffocating silence.
But then there are moments like this one where it just feels like geography.
I’m as trapped now as I’ve ever been.