Chapter 2
TWO
That night, Joseph and I were celebrating his recent promotion to managing director at one of Wall Street’s oldest investment banks.
By the time I got to Joseph’s place, I only had fifteen minutes to make myself presentable before our dinner reservation.
At least I’d left my outfit there yesterday.
Crashing at Joseph’s made sense: Our social life was mostly in Manhattan, plus my tiny studio in Bed-Stuy, with its towering stacks of magazines and books covering most of the available floor space, was a hovel compared to Joseph’s two-bedroom Upper West Side spread.
Watching him select a pair of cuff links from his extensive collection, then polish his dress shoes to a gleaming black, I realized that Joseph Burke III was very much like his apartment: mannerly, attractive, functional, above reproach.
The Harvard-educated oldest son of the Maryland Burkes, Joseph was a member of one of the East Coast’s most distinguished Black families.
His mother loved to remind me that her father and her father’s father were doctors.
Joseph was a “fine catch,” as Marie put it.
The two of them went to Harvard together, and she’d introduced us a year ago at one of their alumni mixers.
My heart had just been bruised by a guy I’d met right after I transferred to StyleList. He was a serious-minded marketer who worked on events for Park Ave Pub’s entertainment magazines.
A wiry six-foot-six with a penchant for vests and denim overalls, everyone thought he spent his weekends looking for pickup games at Rucker Park.
But it turned out that he was too nerdy for basketball and instead spent his free time collecting manga and watching anime—which he found out I loved too when he saw me reading Dragon Ball in the cafeteria.
He came over to reintroduce himself, then pulled out his copy of Neon Genesis Evangelion.
For a few months, we were two happy blerds, enthusiastically geeking out together.
And then he got recruited by Roc-A-Fella Records to join their marketing department.
Within weeks, he was wearing monochrome baggy outfits with a thick gold chain, canceling our dates to go to industry events, and casually dropping bitches and hoes in regular conversation.
The minute I protested, he unceremoniously dumped me for a Brazilian model.
When I told my sob story to Marie over lunch in the cafeteria, she’d offered to introduce me to her college buddy.
“Yeah, I don’t know about your Ivy League friends,” I’d said, laughing. “I’m going for a Morehouse man.”
“Just come on and meet my boy Joseph. He’s fine and paid and straight. It’s like the Black man trifecta. And he’s in his mid-thirties with no kids.” Marie widened her eyes for emphasis.
“Why haven’t you gotten with him, then?”
“Maybe I did—a junior-year fling. It didn’t even last two weeks, and we’ve been dogs ever since. It’s all good, I swear. Besides, I’d like to see him end up with a nice girl instead of the gold diggers that are always hanging around him.”
Turned out the man was fine: six feet, two inches of deep caramel with the self-possession of someone who has only ever known success.
Joseph tucked in the button-down shirts he wore under his carefully distressed leather jacket; he owned both a silver and a gold watch; his cocktail of choice was a dirty martini; and he spoke with the velvety baritone of a prime-time news anchor, carefully measuring every word like Himalayan salt.
Joseph’s confidence was even more attractive than his square jawline, broad shoulders, and almond-shaped eyes rimmed with lush lashes.
I had been a little intimidated when Marie first asked Joseph to join us for drinks after work.
But it turned out that we had a lot of random things in common: We had both been on our high school track teams; we shared an appreciation for nature and liked to Rollerblade through Central and Prospect Parks; each of us read for at least thirty minutes every night; and we both hated the notion that being smart and goal-oriented meant you couldn’t be attractive and have fun.
Marie had rolled her eyes at us. “Sweet baby Jesus, you two are insufferable! Just exchange numbers already.”
On our first date, he took me across town to an Upper East Side club where the improbably preppy-looking door guy with the turned-up collar immediately opened the velvet rope.
Joseph slipped him a twenty on the way in.
“I always hit off the hosts and bouncers. You never know when you need to impress a pretty girl,” Joseph had said when he saw I’d noticed.
The DJ was spinning West Coast gangsta rap for a crowd that looked like the grown-up version of my prep school graduating class.
Joseph knew half the people in there from the financial industry.
As Silkk the Shocker played in the background, Joseph generously shared our bottle of Belvedere with many a blond blazered dude who awkwardly danced over to say hello.
I had never met a man like him in my life.
Alonzo had accepted nothing less than excellence, but his energy stayed tensely coiled, as if he were always ready to fight for the largest portion if challenged.
Since Joseph already assumed that he belonged everywhere and should have the best of everything, he had an effortlessly calm élan.
As a maladroit Black woman with a white father who grew up stubbing my toes on the endless stacks of books decreasing the walkable floor space in my home, my élan was harder to come by.
The swanky life Joseph easily proffered was pretty damned enticing.
And, no matter what fancy cocktail party, Ivy League mixer, or European hot spot Joseph took me to, I felt like I belonged, if only because I was with him.
Now, a year later, I was standing in Joseph’s bathroom, trying to comb through my sweaty and tangled hair before giving up and shellacking it into a neat bun with loads of gel.
I had on a black sheath dress that had been a reject from a recent fashion shoot, black patent pumps, the Swarovski crystal studs I’d worn all day, and a thick silver cuff that Joseph had given me for Christmas.
The combination of the sleek hairstyle and carefully applied red lipstick made me look as if I’d stepped out of Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love” video.
My polished ensemble belied the day’s stress still churning my stomach.
With “Black girls don’t sell magazines” resounding in my ears, I suddenly felt very sick of what was staring back at me in the bedroom mirror.
Joseph came up behind me, put both hands on my shoulders, and kissed the back of my neck.
Normally, I relaxed under his touch, but tonight my shoulders stayed tight.
He dropped his hands. “What’s going on with you? ”
I forced a smile, faced him, and took one of his hands. “Sorry, I had a stressful day.”
“Rough time interviewing Donna Karan? Or did Nicole Kidman want green tea at the shoot and all you had was chamomile?”
His laugh was innocent, but I felt unexpected tears fill my eyes.
I went back to fussing with my hair. I was in no mood to defend StyleList, but I felt too fragile for his thinly veiled condescension.
Rather quickly after we started dating, I realized that the flip side of Joseph’s calm confidence was sweeping arrogance.
“Yeah, that’s it. Donna stood me up and I had to find marmite for Nicole’s saltines. Come on, we’re late,” I murmured.
At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to ditch Joseph altogether.
I thought about meeting up with my best friend, Teresa, and my girls Sofie and Denyse, who had invited me out that night.
I tried not to picture the three of them laughing it up at Rosa Mexicano, a hangout where we could always count on the bartender, a balding colossus with a Scottish accent and a crush on every female patron, to put an extra shot of Don Julio in our mango margaritas.
Or better yet, I thought of not going out at all. I fantasized about catching the subway home to my own apartment, changing out of my heels and into my slippers and pj’s, pouring a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, and watching Law & Order reruns with fine-ass Assistant District Attorney Paul Robinette.
Anything instead of the long evening that was stretching in front of me …
Then Joseph drew a small box from his pocket and handed it to me. “A promotion present,” he said.
“But we’re celebrating you tonight. Why did you get me a gift?” I asked, annoyed at myself for reacting to his generosity with impatience.
“Nicole, I want you to share in my good fortune. You’re my woman, and you should look like it.”
“You mean I’m a reflection on you, so I had better look good?” I could hear the harsh judgment in my voice but had no control tonight. “I’m not your trophy girlfriend.”
“No one said you are. Jesus, what’s wrong with you? I bought you a present—and yes, as my woman, you should look expensive. I should apologize for wanting my lady to look good?” Joseph sighed and looked upward.
My face grew warm as I suddenly recalled Alonzo intoning, Be Daddy’s good little bitch.
Joseph’s imperious word choice was infuriating, but at least I was his lady and not his bitch.
I stood up and hugged him from behind. I was almost five eleven in my heels and could kiss his neck without stretching.
“My bad. I skipped lunch today and I’m obviously feeling it,” I told him, nuzzling his neck.
He grabbed my hands and said without looking back at me, “You know, Nikki, no one has to be nice to you.”
Ugh. That was a phrase my mother endlessly repeated throughout my teen years. It stung coming out of Joseph’s mouth. “I know that, Joe, I just don’t like being told what to—”