Chapter 3 Moyo
Moyo
THE FAMILIAR VANILLA SCENT GREETS ME AS I STEP INTO Cole’s empty apartment. Muscle memory carries me to his bedroom, and my brain succumbs to nervous excitement.
I never thought astrology would be my thing, but this past year with Cole has made me a believer. Standing in my boyfriend’s house in a trench coat and sexy black lingerie, I’m glad I followed in the Three Wise Men’s footsteps and let the stars lead me.
A satisfied smile forms on my lips as I take in my first-anniversary surprise.
A royal blue bag holds the out-of-production perfume I spent months hunting down, and various sex toys are strewn across his silk sheets, waiting to be used.
Even before he arrives, I know this pivot to something more intimate, more us, is the right decision.
I can’t wait to glimpse the lust on Cole’s face when he sees me in this set.
After my inspection, I glance at the clock for the fifth time in thirty minutes. Initially, I checked to make sure my surprise would be ready for his arrival, but now my nervous excitement has morphed into full-blown anxiety because Cole should be home by now.
Was traffic worse than usual? I recall my own horror stories of driving in Boston.
Patience has never been one of my virtues, hence why I work with kids who move a mile a minute. This waiting is torture.
In my attempt to fend off restlessness, I turn my attention to the surround sound speakers, which immediately connect to my phone.
Once I hit play, the passionate crooners of ’80s and ’90s R he’ll fit right in when he gets to hell.
I dig inside my purse for his apartment key and throw it at his face. The metal hits Cole squarely in the left eye, a guttural groan erupting as his hands fly to his face.
“That was the key he gave me last week, lady. Enjoy married life with that piece of shit,” I say with a tight-lipped smile.
On my way out, I slam his bedroom door.
Only then do I drop the bravado and feel my tears form.
Humiliation and anger grip my heart with superhuman strength. The only thing stronger is the urge to light Cole’s dick on fire. My knuckles lose color as I release some aggression onto my steering wheel once I’m parked in my driveway.
How could I have missed this? How could I have been so oblivious?
The memories of all our good times in this car—from planning our first couple’s vacation to stealing kisses at stoplights—make tonight even worse. With each thought, my anger builds, and the tears fall until my vision is as blurred as a window during a thunderstorm.
“Good thing tomorrow’s the fucking weekend.
” My bitter words echo through my apartment as I saunter toward my bar cart, unscrew the cap off my favorite tequila, and take a hefty gulp.
The earthy liquid goes down smooth, the warmth calming my nerves.
An image of the last time I used tequila to get over being cheated on flashes through my mind.
I shove the memory away, take another swig, and turn on my breakup playlist.
“Man Down” by Rihanna booms through the speakers, and I sing loudly.
Tequila is the best dance partner I’ve ever had.
My hips sway out of tempo as I imagine telling my parents I attempted first-degree murder, but couldn’t go through with it, thanks to the whole doctor thing.
Mrs. Adegbite might be harsh at first, but after I explain the circumstances, she’ll privately pray God allows the judge to release me.
The hard part will be ensuring Mr. Adegbite doesn’t finish the job and end up in jail with me.
After I polish off the rest of the tequila bottle and three soju shots, Beyoncé’s “Best Thing I Never Had” coats me in the truth: Cole lost me.
I am the prize, and he lied, cheated, and strung me along.
I can’t believe he made me the other woman.
He will live his life regretfully while I move on, because I’m funny, intelligent, and wicked sexy.
I hope his wife leaves him. Not to mention, I’m becoming one of the most sought-after developmental-behavioral pediatricians in the country!
A little too much, my mind interjects.
“I’m becoming one of the best in the northeast!” I hiccup. I repeat the affirmations until I see new texts in my group chat with the girls.
Anjie: How’s it going? I’m sure he loved the gift.
Sewa: Don’t forget to gist us! We love the news! And we love this for you. Cupid’s Bow coming in clutch!
I attempt to respond to them, but the end of Sewa’s message reminds me of tonight’s other villain.
That stupid pink-and-purple astrology dating app that matched me with the blue-eyed devil himself.
Soulmates, my ass! I haven’t been in this much pain since I was in college.
I avoided love to prevent this shit, and in eighteen months, Cupid’s Bow ruined everything.
Cole is to be blamed, but the people who sent him my way also deserve some smoke.
With glassy eyes, I struggle to navigate the bright app. “Stupid colors, stupid app, stupid cherub.”
I stick out the tip of my tongue as I navigate to the complaints page on the Cupid’s Bow website, and I try my hardest not to wobble off my sofa. After what feels like half an hour, my mind clears up enough for me to unleash my anger.
The big black letters stand out against the colorful app’s complaints page. The first page reads:
What is the nature of your complaint?
“Fuck!” I scream when a drop-down menu with even more words appears. Instead of giving up—wouldn’t they like that?—I take the time to scroll through the list of possible culprits.
App design…
I mean, yes, I have complaints, but they’re not pressing. No.
Frequency of matches…
No.
Previous match…
Bingo.
I smile like a Cheshire cat when a complaint box appears.
“Let’s do this,” I say, words slurred. I crack my neck and squint at the miniature keyboard on the screen. I might be inebriated, but I have a lot to say, and they’re gonna hear every last fucking word.