Chapter 19 Asia
I might need a break from Nyree.
Things had gotten too hot and heavy between us.
The whole drive home from his apartment, my mind was racing. My heart wanted to believe him, to trust that the search history he showed me was genuine, that his feelings were real. But my brain kept flashing warning signs, reminding me that I'd been here before.
Why the hell did I go build a website and create business cards for that man?
I'd given in to my feelings with Quan, let myself believe the sweet words and promises, and look where that got me.
Played like a fool, embarrassed in front of strangers, and feeling like I couldn't trust my own judgment because look where I was now. About to fall into the same trap with Nyree. When I was creating that site for him, it felt right, like I was just helping him out. But now I realized I did too much too soon. Showing that much of my hand so early and doing so much for a man was what got me played last time. This was why I told Bella I wasn’t ready for no damn man.
Soon as I had that thought, I shunned myself. This wasn’t Bella’s fault. She didn’t even know about me and Nyree’s relationship. Hell, maybe if she did know, she would have been able to hold me accountable so I wouldn’t be making risky moves like the one I just made.
As I pulled into my driveway, the memory of that awful day with Quan's baby mother came rushing back, as vivid as if it had happened yesterday.
***
I'd been leaving Quan's apartment, a smile on my face after he'd made me breakfast. We'd been together for six months at that point, and I was falling hard. As I walked to my car, a beat-up Honda Civic screeched to a halt behind my vehicle, blocking me in.
A woman jumped out—pretty but furious, with dark eyes that burned with anger. A teenage boy sat in the passenger seat, looking uncomfortable and embarrassed.
"You Asia?" she demanded, storming up to me.
My heart dropped. "Who's asking?"
“I'm Betsy. Quan's baby mother." She looked me up and down, her expression a mixture of pity and rage. "We still fucking, you know that, right? Been together for fifteen years. That's our son." She jerked her thumb toward the car.
I stood there frozen, unable to process what she was saying. The boy in the car looked about fourteen, which meant Quan would have been a father since he was what—seventeen?
"You're lying," I said, but my voice had wavered, uncertainty already creeping in.
Betsy had laughed, a harsh sound. "Girl, I wish I was. And I'm not the only one. He got another bitch pregnant too. Don't think you're special."
Something in her tone, in the way she looked at me not with hatred but with a kind of weary solidarity, made me believe her. My stomach had twisted into knots.
"Prove it," I demanded, wanting her to be wrong so badly.
"Let's go ask him then," Betsy had said, already marching toward Quan's door.
We knocked, but he wouldn't answer, even though his car was still in the driveway and I had just left him in the kitchen. Betsy had grown increasingly agitated, pounding on the door and calling his name.
Then, in a burst of fury, she picked up a brick from the small garden bed near his door and hurled it through his window. The crash of glass had been shocking, but not as shocking as the words she'd screamed afterward.
"You're a bitch ass nigga, Quan! Stop playing with these women's hearts!"
I turned and walked back to my car, my whole body numb. Pulling out my phone, I texted him a simple message: You wasted my time.
Halfway home, he called, his voice smooth and persuasive.
His baby mother was crazy, he insisted. He hadn't been with her for years, but she was stalking him, couldn't accept that he'd moved on.
The story he spun sounded plausible—the angry ex, the child he did acknowledge but claimed he'd told me about (he hadn't), the restraining order he said he was filing.
I didn't believe him at first. But then he showed up at my door that night with flowers, tears in his eyes, asking how I could think he would lie about something so important. He'd seemed so genuine, so hurt by my accusation.
My heart got in the way. Despite the red flags, despite the evidence, despite my gut instinct, I stayed with him.
Three more months of my life wasted on a man who was living a double—no, triple—life.
The end had come when another woman, Jamika, had reached out via a messaging app. Instead of anger, her messages were filled with confusion and hurt.
Hey, I think we need to talk about Quan.
I'd been ready to ignore her, not wanting to deal with more bullshit when my heart wasn’t settled from the last bullshit.
But then she sent a picture—Quan in the hospital, cradling a newborn baby, his arm around a pretty woman with braids who was still in the hospital bed.
They were both beaming at the camera. The woman's left hand displayed a diamond ring.
Then she sent me a screenshot showing she just posted the photo the day before on her social media.
My world crashed down around me. Not thinking clearly, I drove to his house, confronting him at the door. He opened it with a lazy smile, clearly expecting sex, not wrath.
I lost it, screaming at him, tears streaming down my face as I unleashed months of pent-up feelings. I told him how I fell in love with him, how he played me, how he made a fool of me.
When I ran out of breath, he just looked at me with those eyes that had once made my heart race and said, "Come on, Ma. At least give me one more piece of nukky for the road."
In that moment, I never felt more disgusted or disrespected—both with him and with myself. After everything I just said, after pouring my heart out about how he had hurt me, that was his response? Like I was nothing but a body to him, not a person with feelings and dignity.
I left and never looked back. But the scars remained, deeper than I wanted to admit.
***
Now, sitting on my couch with a glass of whiskey, I dabbed at fresh tears with a Kleenex. The memory of that humiliation still stung.
"And this nigga claims he was looking up rings," I said to my empty living room, sniffling before taking another sip of my drink.
The whiskey burned going down, but I welcomed it. At least the physical sensation distracted from the emotional turmoil.
I wanted to believe Nyree was different. Everything about him seemed different. The way he listened when I spoke. The way he didn't push when I pulled back. The pride in his eyes when he looked at his photos. The genuine shock and gratitude when I showed him the website.
But fear was a motherfucker, and for me, it was the hardest thing to shake.