Chapter One #2
Emma and I were on the other end giggling because this was never-ending for Mina, but we were used to it at this point.
"What are they up there doing?" Emma probed.
"Girl," Mina scoffed. "I guess they're up there wrestling, but they've been getting on my damn nerves. Then SCS just called and said they're supposed to be canceling school again next week. I don't like my kids like that to be having them all in my damn face like this," she joked.
"Well, it sounds like you're the problem," I mentioned jokingly.
"I can't wait to put their ass to bed so I can sneak in a drink. I’m pouring Benadryl in their juice before bed." She spoke seriously, making Emma and me cackle.
"I didn't get you that Bartesian for nothing," I chortled.
Releasing a low groan, I bent over to place the jugs of Crystal Geyser water in the bottom of the pantry, then I trotted over to the counter and decided on a grilled chicken salad, making me regret not stopping at Chick-fil-A when I said I would on the way home.
But I needed a few things from the grocery store, and I didn't want to worry myself by doing it in the morning or tomorrow after work.
"I poured myself a lemon drop last night, and his mama walked in on me, giving me a lesson about not drinking while breastfeeding, as if I don’t have four other children."
"Oh my God," Emma gasped like she was disgusted. "She's still there?"
"Where else is she gonna go?" Mina sucked her teeth. "This snow gave her another reason to stay longer than she needed to."
"Well, she is there to help you?" I chimed in.
"Bitch, help me with what? I can take care of my kids with my eyes closed. I don't need her acting like a third pair of hands. She ain't been doing shit but acting like a gnat," she spat irritably.
"Why are you talking about her as if she isn't there?" Emma questioned.
"She ain't nowhere 'round me, though. I'm in my closet, rearranging shit—"
Cutting her off mid-sentence, we heard a loud crash.
"What the hell was that?"
Mina released another deep sigh on the other end of the phone, so I knew wreckage was coming.
If we were on FaceTime, I could see smoke seething from her ears.
Mina was backwards. She had such a high tolerance for other children but none when it came to her own, yet she was one of the best mothers and wives I knew.
"Ugh, let me call y'all back, just to make sure y'all put some bail money to the side."
Before we had time to say our goodbyes, she ended the call, getting another giggle out of Emma and me.
"I’ma pray for her ass," Emma stated.
"You and me both. Those kids are gonna send her to the grave," I said.
"That's why her blood pressure stays high."
"She'll drink a French 75 and be okay. What are you doing? What's all that rumbling noise?" she questioned me, nosily.
"I was putting up groceries, but I'm about to make a grilled chicken salad," I told her as I put away the last bit of food.
"That sounds good. I saw a recipe on TikTok I wanted to try."
"Send it to me later, and I'll look at it."
"Have you booked the trip?" she mentioned, disregarding the topic in just a millisecond, putting sex before salad. I didn't have to probe because I knew what trip she was referring to.
"Nope," I sighed, hoping she wouldn't press the issue, but that was unlike her character. Emma always pressed the issue when it came to other people's business, not including her own.
Emma was my walking diary when I was faced with issues I couldn't force onto paper. Our friendship of twenty years had blossomed into a sisterhood, and I trusted her with deep secrets and fears. I trusted her enough to take them with her to the grave. Mina too, though she was the loudmouth friend who’d lit a match to my ass. Unlike Emma, she was the fighter.
She sucked her teeth and released a sigh of exasperation, so I knew what was next.
"I thought we talked about this, Nyne. Is it the price? I'll pay for you to go and book the trip myself."
"No," I waved her off as if she was in front of me. "It's not about the price. I just don't want to do anything crazy," I stressed to her as I leaned on the kitchen counter.
"Crazy like what? Get fucked?" she shrieked. "That's what you're there to do."
"You know what I mean, Emma," I muttered with my brows furrowed. "What will people think—"
She cut me off to say, "Who gives a fuck about what people will think? You're grown as hell, and you don't owe anyone an explanation, Nyne."
"It's way more complicated than that." I tried to reason with her and make my explanation logical, but there was no point.
We had this conversation months ago. Emma knew from experience, though her reason for going was different than mine.
She loved it enough to brag about it and encourage me to go.
"How complicated, Nyne?"
"What if my period comes on—"
"They'll make arrangements," she cut me off again.
"What if I get pregnant?"
"They'll wear condoms."
We went at it, back and forth.
"What if—"
"Stop bullshitting, Nyne. Just do it. You deserve this.
Even if you don't go for sex, go to relax and have a good time. You need a different scenery. It’s beautiful out there.
You don't want to miss out on something like that.
" Her tone was low, almost as if she was speaking from a place of genuine concern rather than the rambunctious, country, chopped-and-screwed grammar that she wielded often in professional settings.
Having heard enough, there was no point in going back and forth with her because though this conversation was mentioned months ago, I could weigh out the pros and cons, but the pros outweighed the cons in a heartbeat.
Truth was, I was looking for every reason not to go when there were none.
I had paid time off, and I didn't have any responsibilities.
Yet here I was, living my life like an old hag with kittens.
"Do it, Nyne," she stated, invading my thoughts like a thief.
"I hear you," I muttered, just to get her to shut up. Talking to Emma felt like talking to a brick wall when you were saying shit she didn't want to hear.
"I expect a screenshot of the confirmation email in the morning," she stated in a slightly assertive tone.
I chortled. "Who are you, my mother?"
"For you to be a college professor, you know, you're not that bright," she teased me.
"Fuck you," I uttered with a low laugh and ended the call.
If I let her, she'd talk my ear off all night.
As much as I wanted to have girl talk, I needed to wine down and relax.
The impromptu snow had me feeling a little depressed.
I didn't know if it was because I'd been snowed in for a few days, but it felt like those COVID-19 days when the world stopped for a moment.
Snow in the south always hit different, and I didn't care for it at all.
Thankfully, it was starting to clear up because I was starting to run low on items I needed. People had rummaged through the grocery stores, and items were low-stocked, but I settled for whatever I could get that would last me long enough until things went back to normal.
Wandering into my bedroom, I took off my clothes, threw them in the laundry, and then started the shower. While the water heated up, I stood in front of the mirror, gazing at my toasted complexion. The tip of my nose was a shade of red because in the wintertime, I was always a shade lighter.
Trailing slowly, my eyes roamed over my body as if I didn't recognize myself.
Since I'd turned thirty, you'd think I was aging backwards because that's how the compliments seemed.
When I was younger, people swore I was older.
Now that I was a little older, people swore I was younger.
I guessed yoga had me looking youthful. I'd always had good eating habits, but having a washboard stomach would never know my name.
I had enough stomach to pinch, and my stretch marks were visible.
They swarmed down my body, a shade lighter than my complexion, trailing in no specific pattern.
My breasts were small and perky, and though I wasn't blessed with a coke-bottle shape, it didn't take away from my curves and plump ass.
Gradually, my body became a trophy because it made men want to cuff me and show me off. Due to my disinterest in dating at that time, I declined anything that involved a situationship.
What the fuck are you waiting for then, Nyne?
I believe in monogamy, not what the men in this generation lusted after: pretty much anything that included late-night phone calls and catching feelings.
I liked being courted and feeling like I mattered to someone.
My time had already been wasted once, and I didn't want to play the fool and wear the clown suit once again.
I'd never let a nigga play in my face the way Malcolm did.
One hundred and fifty pounds was the smallest I'd ever been.
I gained up to two hundred pounds while going through the divorce.
All that time, I was stress-eating and sleeping so much that when I looked in the mirror, I didn't recognize myself.
Malcolm ripped me to pieces, and I had to muster the strength to see each day through and carry on as if I wasn't burning up inside. That was probably the darkest time in my life, one I struggled miserably to get over.
Taking a deep breath, I ripped my eyes away from my reflection in the foggy mirror and clasped my hand around the cold shower door handle, stepping inside one foot at a time. The second my feet touched the damp tile floor, a tingle of relaxation swarmed over me.
The water was so hot that it felt like needles were prickling on my skin, but it felt so good when I lathered my vanilla-scented body wash and Dial soap to wash the hard day's work off my body after washing my pussy. I'd been up since 6:30 a.m.
Washing the soap off my body, I exited the shower, grabbed my towel off the rack, and dried off.
Then I washed my face and brushed my teeth.
Though the shower gave me a little bit of relaxation, my muscles were still tight.
As I sauntered to the bedroom, I rummaged through my dresser to slip into some pajamas.
A brown lace negligee was what I opted for.
My body was already layered and scented in vanilla body creams and vanilla mists, so all I had to do was cook dinner and call it a night.
Before trotting into the kitchen, I turned on the television in my living room to watch another episode of All The Queen's Men.
Then I got started on my grilled chicken.
While it was sizzling in the pan, I prepared my salad, then opened my personal laptop to browse.
Nothing in particular, but I wanted to look into booking a massage at Bow Tie.
The second my cursor clicked on the browser, the ad popped up, making my heart skip beats.
"I thought I closed this shit," I muttered to myself as I browsed the questionnaire. The questions were detailed, clinical, and surprisingly thoughtful. They asked about my sexual history, masturbation habits, what I'd tried, what felt good, my fantasies if any, my fears, and my expectations.
There was a section about boundaries and consent that was refreshingly thorough. Another section about health and STI testing, a financial disclosure form, and a liability waiver. At the bottom was a text box asking: Why do you want to do this?
Staring hard, my nude-colored almond-shaped nails tapped against the keyboard, and before I knew it, I began filling out the questionnaire, leaving nothing unsaid—telling way too much of my damn business.