Chapter 2 #2
“It makes me uncomfortable to hear it, for hours on end, being the only person in the office who identifies as African-American,” Brinton had told him. “I’m just asking to make an effort, because I’m on this team too. Shouldn’t we make it a safe space for everyone?”
Rich, however, felt that it was their job—as a team—to be “dialed into” the cultural zeitgeist. “That means appreciating music in its original form. It shouldn’t feel political or like a personal attack,” he reasoned.
Later, at the team editorial meeting, the entire staff found her guilty of “killing the vibe.”
“See, everyone else loves the playlists,” Rich had said. Then, brightly, “Have you considered wearing headphones?”
It was clear then that Brinton was never going to get the support she needed from Rich, or anyone else at Landmark, and that being a “team player” meant accepting the poison with a smile.
But she couldn’t quit, not until she’d gotten a cover story she could be proud of.
So she stopped asking so many questions and stopped advocating to deaf ears, because bemoaning it all felt like a self-inflicted wound.
Because Brinton was living the new American Dream: blessed with an Ivy League education and a Black Job countless others would never experience. So, she did what she had to.
“That’s why I’ll write an amazing cover story. I’ll leverage it to get my reputation back,” Brinton told Shay, peeling back her croissant’s tender center. “I’m not going to let a thirty-second Grammys interview screw me over forever. I’ll figure something out.”
“That’s a lot to manage, baby,” Athena started. “Have you given more thought to—”
“Therapy?” Brinton edged in. She slumped down, dragging the quilt over her head. “I’m fine, Mom. Really.”
Brinton had tried seeing a psychologist a few times over the years, always at her mother’s behest, but it never stuck.
Eventually, every doctor had expected her to have made some progress with the various coping techniques for intrusive thoughts.
But Brinton’s fears were too overwhelming to outrun.
They engulfed her before she could catch her breath.
“I’m worried that you’re letting life happen to you,” Athena reasoned. “And you deserve so much more.”
Shay stood and crossed to Brinton’s open closet door. She swiped through a few hangers before landing on a slinky black midi dress. It still had the tags. “Mom’s right. It’s been three months. You’re in a rut.”
“You can’t borrow that,” Brinton droned. She poked one eye out from beneath the quilt.
“Why not? It’s not like you ever go out anymore.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Athena interjected, waving a shea butter–anointed hand.
“Sorry,” Shay said, extending her vowels like a petulant teenager. She marveled at the dress, as if it hid the Holy Grail in its halter neckline. “This dress is a masterpiece. It deserves to be peeled off slowly by a stupid-hot man. Preferably when pressed against his bedroom wall…”
Athena hid her smile behind her coffee mug.
Shay returned the dress to its rightful tomb. “I’m the Pussy Whisperer. I know these things.”
Athena loaded empty coffee cups, water glasses, and plates from Brinton’s bookshelves onto the tray. “Honey, please don’t say pussy before ten a.m.,” she called out, gliding through the door.
Shay exhaled dramatically. “It’s not my fault somebody started that hashtag for me.
Anyway, as a Master of the Vaginal Arts, it’s my job to help women feel safer in their bodies.
And I know a little consensual humping can work wonders.
Great for stress relief and helps you feel more connected to your body. ”
“Funny, on most days, I feel too connected to my body,” Brinton said, still swaddled in cotton.
Shay’s hands planted on her perfectly curved hips. “You, girl, need some fresh energy. When’s the last time you went on a date? And please don’t say that hemorrhoidal ex-boyfriend.”
Eli was a software engineer. They worked in the same building—he was three floors up at a startup app that matched singles based on which subway line they hated most. He checked all the boxes: tall and attractive, with short brown hair and penetrating brown eyes.
Midwestern-friendly, though he worked hard to ditch his accent now that he’d “escaped.”
Eli was the first guy she dated who she told about her anxiety, and he seemed understanding at first. But after two years, he’d roll his eyes when she begged him to cancel plans if she needed to recover from a panic attack.
They argued quietly in the darkened corners of rooftop parties and bars when she pleaded with him to leave early. He never went with her.
And when the lightning-hot stabs of an anxiety-induced migraine sliced through every nerve in her body, he said running out for Pedialyte drained him and that he didn’t sign up to care for a sick child.
Brinton flipped the quilt off her face and eyed Shay. “I don’t want a date. Or a booty call, a sneaky link, or a Netflix-and-chill.”
“‘Netflix and chill’? Ew, be more old. I dare you.” Shay clicked her tongue as she rummaged through Brinton’s closet.
It was pointless because a guy would find some reason to reject her once he saw her hideous emotional scars. Therefore, a relationship—or love—wasn’t realistic for someone like her.
“What about the country singer? You still talk to him?” Athena asked, returning to the room with a stack of fluffy white towels. “I think he was flirting with you during that interview.”
“Yes, the country singer,” Shay squealed. “He caught you in his arms like the juicy-booty damsel you are. You should slide into his DMs and refresh his memory with a titty-gram.”
One thing about Shay: she didn’t waste time with subtlety.
At sixteen, when she came out as a lesbian, she sat the family down for a PowerPoint presentation on why, in her experience, teenage boys were simply the worst. In summary, they possessed the emotional maturity of a walnut, wielded Axe body spray like a weapon, and didn’t look at all like Rihanna.
“First off, they call him the Heartbreak Prince,” Brinton said, counting on her outstretched fingers.
“He’s a walking red flag. And second, he used me as a punchline in his awkward-ass acceptance speech, like I’m not a real person with a life outside of our mortifying five minutes together. Nah, I’m good.”
She scooted off the bed and met her mother at the door, grabbing the towels from Athena’s hands. A cream business card with a name and phone number typed in neat serif font sat on top.
“Today’s a new day, I can feel it,” Brinton said. She wasn’t quite convinced, but if it’d get her family off her back, she’d take it. “I just need the right opportunity.”
Athena kissed her cheek. “If you change your mind about therapy, call her.”
Brinton had the decency to wait for her mother to leave before she opened her top dresser drawer and dropped the card inside, beneath a dusty stack of pamphlets extolling the power of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.
“Be for real. You’re a little curious to see what he’s packing in those Levi’s,” Shay trilled as she twerked against the edge of Brinton’s mattress.
Brinton turned her back so she wouldn’t laugh. “I’d rather walk naked through Times Square than ever see Jamie Crawford Jr. again.”