Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
“We’ll take another, my man,” JJ told the waiter over my weak objections.
There was already an empty bottle of Cristal sitting on the table and we hadn’t even finished our appetizers.
I was feeling lightheaded and could have used a sparkling water, but the waiter, who’d clearly identified my dinner companion as a big spender, practically bowed before speeding away to get the second bottle.
JJ tilted his flute at me and continued to eat his lobster salad.
For all his obvious wealth, JJ had shown up in ripped jeans, a black hoodie, and a black leather jacket.
Of course, the hoodie looked like Maison Margiela, and the jacket was probably Gucci, but still.
That night, JJ’s hair was neatly cornrowed, though his motorcycle boots and silver belt chain looked more rocker than rapper.
The thin yet very noticeable diamond chain around his neck was the only flashy indication of his wealth.
I had to admit it: The man was very good-looking.
I was trying to hold Kiara’s warning in my mind, but watching JJ’s muscles ripple every time he reached for the Cristal to fill up my glass was messing up my program.
I hadn’t been sure of what to wear that evening, but instinct told me to glam it up.
I dug my black leather pants out of the closet and paired them with a glittery green bustier that I wore under the black blazer from Bloomingdale’s.
As I’d strapped on my stilettos, I’d felt some guilt about how hard I’d worked to put together my outfit.
Then I remembered how Joseph still hadn’t picked up my first issue of Sugar again, even after he’d promised to read it.
I added an extra coat of mascara, some gloss over my lilac lipstick, and left my apartment.
Once I got to Chakra, I was glad I’d dressed up because it was a scene, crawling with celebs, models, and artists.
And after the Red Party, I understood how critical a part of my job it was to represent Sugar.
On the way to our table, JJ had said hello to at least five urban entertainment industry baller types, identifiable by their seemingly uniform diamond-encrusted cross pendants, watches, and pinkie rings, the empty bottles of Cristal in front of them, and the requisite prepubescent Zac Posen–clad model clinging to their arm.
When he introduced me to each one, they’d looked me up and down appraisingly.
I had no idea if the ballers recognized my name from the gossip mill, if they were curious about the newest EIC of Sugar, or if they were just very blatantly checking out JJ’s flavor of the week.
So, I couldn’t tell if showing up for dinner with JJ was helping or hurting my reputation.
Once JJ and I sat down at our table, I kept waiting for him to live up to his reputation and act like the playa everyone said he was (or to allude to Alonzo, because there could be no doubt that he’d heard the scandalous tales about me).
Instead, he was respectful and polite, asking me questions about where I was from, how I’d gotten my start in journalism, how I came to be at Sugar.
Never once did he venture a question about my romantic life.
By the time we’d finished half of our second bottle of Cristal, I’d shared more about my life and dreams with JJ than Joseph and I had talked about in years.
And we were making each other laugh nonstop.
“Biggie,” he insisted.
“No way. Tupac,” I said, taking another sip of champagne.
“What do you know, bougie girl? Pac is the truth but it’s all about Biggie.”
“Whatever, music producer extraordinaire,” I enunciated, imitating Barbara. “Any man who can write ‘We’ll have a race of babies who hate the ladies that make the babies’ is my man. I don’t care what you say.”
JJ laughed at me. “All right, be like that. But you know Barbara wants me to teach you what’s hot, so you’re supposed to be listening to me.”
“I am listening to you. I just don’t agree!”
We grinned at each other. I reached for my champagne glass but changed my mind at the last moment, taking another bite of the beef and gulping some water instead.
The room was already starting to spin, and more Cristal would not help the situation.
JJ reached across the table and gently lifted my chin with his index finger.
“You’re cute when you’re stubborn,” he said, letting his grin fade into a spicy smirk.
“And I bet you’re stubborn when you think a woman is cute,” I responded, keeping the smile on my face to defuse my comment but removing JJ’s hand and placing it back on the table.
I nervously picked up my fork and tried to skewer a shrimp dumpling, but the dumpling skittered off my plate to the floor and rolled under the table next to us.
JJ had the grace to ignore my runaway dumpling and horrified expression. “Yeah, well, not to worry. Barbara told me you’ve got a man,” he said, forking a piece of meat into his mouth. Without missing a beat, he continued, “But ma, you are fine.”
His grin had turned a little sheepish, and I couldn’t help but think how attractive he looked now.
We both glanced away, then JJ saved the moment by giving me some behind-the-scenes details: how a CD gets made, the artist development, the marketing efforts, the radio promotions.
By the end of his music industry tutorial, I understood that you could tell if an artist had a real shot at blowing up by how much heat (music-ese for promotional dollars) the label put behind them.
JJ was in the middle of talking me through the marketing process when I heard a familiar voice above me.
I looked up to find Joseph standing above us, so drunk he was practically swaying.
“Isn’t this cozy?” he slurred, loud and belligerent, then stuck his hand out in the general direction of JJ’s head. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Jerome. In case you’re wondering, I’m Joseph, Nicole’s boyfriend. I guess she likes J’s.”
I was mortified. The only other time I’d seen Joseph drunk was when he’d stumbled home from a friend’s bachelor party missing his shoes, tie, and all the money in his wallet. We’d agreed the next afternoon that excessive alcohol was not his friend.
“Joseph, please,” I warned.
But JJ merely shook Joseph’s outstretched hand. “What’s up, brother. How you livin’?” he asked smoothly.
“Not as good as you, brutha,” Joseph sneered, holding the side of the table for balance. “Since you are having dinner with my woman.”
“Jesus, Joe. Enough,” I said sharply. “You need to leave.”
“Why, Nicole? You don’t want me to meet your new friends?
Or am I interrupting something?” He stumbled slightly, knocking my champagne flute to the floor.
As it shattered, a few people at nearby tables turned to see what was going on.
“Whoops, sorry about that,” he hollered, nudging the glass away with a Ferragamo loafer.
“But I’m sure Jerome can afford another bottle. Can’t you, brutha?”
With an apologetic glance at JJ, I stood and grabbed Joseph’s arm. “Let’s go. Now.”
Once we hit the street, I let go of him and crossed my arms in front of me, waiting for an explanation. Instead, Joseph took in my leather pants and bustier—I’d left the blazer draped over the back of my chair. “Nice outfit, Nicole.”
“Seriously, that’s what you have to say?” I exploded. “How dare you embarrass me like that at a business dinner?”
“Business dinner? Business dinner?” Joseph yelled, louder each time. “If that’s a fucking business dinner then Sugar is some real bullshit.”
Joseph had clearly taken my decision to edit Sugar personally, as some sort of rejection.
And as we faced each other in the middle of the quiet narrow street, I realized, for the first time, that maybe it was.
After Alonzo, my almost universally approved relationship with Joseph had given me concrete evidence that I was finally acting like a real adult.
But his rigidity and judgment were beginning to make me feel stifled instead of protected, timid instead of mature.
Lately, he had felt like one of the soul-sucking yet positive reinforcement–generating things that Teresa and I had talked about.
Watching his expression change from angry to apprehensive, I realized that I’d stayed with Joseph for so long because he had been my security blanket—and I was afraid how leaving him would impact others’ opinions of me.
My mother would take our breakup as a sign of residual irresponsibility; I would be disappointing Marie yet again, since she’d always joked about Joseph and me naming our first child after her; and most of my friends would think I had lost my ever-loving mind to let that high-quality man go.
But, for once, I had the clarity and confidence to make the hardest choice.
I took his hand and said gently, “Joe, this just isn’t working out anymore. I love you, but I need to see what life is like without you right now. I’m so sorry.”
Joseph stared at me, his understanding of what I’d said sobering him up. “Nicole, is this really what you want?” he asked slowly. “Do you really want to choose Sugar over me?”
I kissed his cheek, surer than ever about my decision. “That’s the problem. I shouldn’t have to choose.”
Joseph backed away, shaking his head. “Don’t regret this and come crawling back. This is it, you know.”
“I know,” I said, trying to ignore the tightness growing in my stomach, the prospect of being alone becoming more frightening as it became more real. I turned and walked into the restaurant, forcing myself not to look back.
I’d half expected JJ to be out of there, but he was waiting patiently at the table. When I sat back down and tried to explain, he waved my apology away.
“Don’t worry about it, ma,” he told me. “He’s your man, so he has a right to be a little protective.”
“I guess,” I muttered, not yet ready to contradict him about my having a man. “Thanks for being nice about it.”
“You sure you’re all right?” JJ asked gently. “Want to call it a night?”
I shook my head. Allowing a tight smile, I said, “No, I’m fine. It was a misunderstanding.”
“Well, your boy seemed real heated for a misunderstanding. But if you’re good, we’ll keep it moving.”
Relieved, I smiled for real at JJ. It was obvious I was not “good,” but I liked him for not dwelling on my embarrassment. “So, where were you before we were interrupted?” I prompted.
“Marketing campaigns,” JJ said, handing me a new glass of champagne.
Two hours later, JJ put me in a chauffeur-driven Escalade to take me back to Brooklyn.
There was no discussion about whether I needed a car; it simply showed up.
He didn’t try to kiss me or follow me into the car.
He just put his information into my new Motorola two-way pager and disappeared into his own chauffeured car.
The only time JJ touched me all evening was when he lightly rested his hand on my lower back while I waited for the Escalade driver to open my door.
It was only there for a few seconds, but I still felt the residual sensation as we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and rolled down Flatbush toward my apartment.
Later that night, I robotically took off and folded my clothes, removed my makeup, washed my face, dotted on eye cream, and applied hand moisturizer until I had no more tasks left to distract me from my emotions.
My pillowcase was still damp when I woke up the next morning.