Chapter 11 Mind Your Ps and Qs #2
Then my phone lights up and my heart does a stupid little flip before I remember I’m supposed to be annoyed.
Spence: Sorry, babe. I got caught up with the guys. I’ll be there in 5.
I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck.
Me: How do you ask me to come see you and you’re not even here?
I hit send and immediately hate the hint of need in my tone. God, when did I become this person?
Spence: Relax, Harlee. I’ll be there in 5. It’s cool.
Cool.
It’s cool.
I inhale through my nose, exhale through my teeth, and decide to try for dignity.
Me: I have to pee. Can you at least let me in?
The blue dots pop up like he’s typing. They disappear. Nothing.
Five minutes later, my phone buzzes.
Spence: I’m closing out my tab, chill.
Okay. Sure. No problem. Let me just stand outside like an idiot, bladder full, phone dying, while you “close out” whatever version of adulthood you’re pretending to have today.
Another text.
Spence: Paid, we’re walking to the car.
We?
My stomach drops in a way that has nothing to do with needing to pee.
Who the fuck is we, Spencer?
I sink onto the steps outside his building, trying not to squirm like a toddler. The concrete is cool against my thighs, a stark contrast to the heat burning in my chest. I rub my temples with one hand, the other gripping my phone like it owes me money.
“Why am I doing this?” I mutter, bitter. “Oh wait. That’s right. I’m a masochist.”
The street is quiet in that late-summer way, like the world is holding its breath. Then I hear a tiny yelp and the soft tap-tap of paws.
I look up to see a woman walking a teacup Yorkie who immediately squats in front of the tree next to me and starts peeing like it has nowhere else to be.
“You lucky little bastard,” I mutter, earning a look from the owner. I flash a smile that probably looks like a cry for help.
Then the peace gets shattered.
Bass. Loud. Familiar.
Drake’s Money in the Grave bleeds into the air before the car even turns the corner. The passenger window rolls down and smoke slips out like an announcement.
Spencer’s Midnight Purple C-Class.
Of course.
He stumbles out of the driver’s seat, eyes red, grin lazy, like he didn’t just have me outside for over an hour like a placeholder. The smell hits me before he does, weed and alcohol clinging to him like a second skin.
“Hey, babe!” he says, arms open like I’m supposed to melt.
I walk past him.
A collective “Oooooo” comes from his friends leaning out the windows like this is entertainment. The pack of dogs.
“Damn, Spence,” one of them calls, laughing. “She ain’t happy.”
I keep moving, because if I stop, I might actually scream.
Spencer grabs my arm, grip firmer than it has any right to be. “Where you going?”
“Home,” I say, not even looking at him.
“Home? Wait, what the hell?” He steps forward, confusion scrunching his face like he’s trying to solve a math problem. “I thought you were gonna come inside. You did blow me off a few weeks ago, remember?”
I stop and turn.
“First of all,” I say, voice steady, “let go of my arm.”
He hesitates, then loosens like he’s doing me a favor.
“And second,” I continue, “I might’ve considered giving you even a fraction of my attention… but seeing as you had me standing outside your building for over an hour while you were getting high with your boys, I’m really struggling to find a reason to stick around.”
He opens his mouth, ready to give me the usual half-baked excuse, and I cut him off.
“Got tied up smoking weed, huh? Yeah. I know. You really know how to ruin a good day, Spencer.” My voice rises, echoing off brick.
“You couldn’t text me? You couldn’t say, How about you meet me, here Harlee?
’ Or here’s a wild idea, you shouldn't have gotten so high off your fuckin' ass, that you once again treated me as an option?”
His friends’ faces are lit up by their phone screens, recording or texting or whatever little boy hobby they’re doing while I’m out here fighting for my sanity.
Spencer looks back at them like he’s trying to play it cool. Then he turns to me and gives me that look. The one that says calm down, like I’m just being emotional for sport.
“H-Babe, come on.” He reaches again. “Don’t be like that. We were just having a little fun. You right, you should’ve come with us.”
I step back immediately, hands up like I’m warding off a stray dog. “What did I just say? Don’t touch me.”
His smile flickers, annoyed.
“And don’t ‘babe’ me,” I add. “I’m not your babe. I’m not your anything. I’m just the idiot who keeps giving you chances you don’t deserve—choking on this air, on this version of me that keeps choosing you over my own fucking self-respect.”
The air tightens.
A bee drifts between us, slow and aimless, like even it can feel the shift.
And for a fraction—just a sliver of a second—I think I see it.
Accountability.
Or maybe it’s just the other version of him tagging into the ring.
Spencer’s face hardens.
There he is.
The one that shows up whenever I stop being convenient.
“You need to calm down,” he says, voice low. “You’re acting a little out of pocket.”
Out of pocket?
I laugh, loud and sharp. “Oh, I’m outta pocket?
Really, Buch?” I drag the nickname out slow, because I’m done being polite.
“You know it’s funny how I only become ‘outta pocket’ when I’m feeling something other than submissive and demur.
Because not sure if you knew this, but humans, Spencer…
we got more emotions than ‘quiet’ and ‘dead inside.’”
He rubs the back of his neck like he’s shopping for an excuse. His eyes flick over his shoulder at his boys, then back to me.
“What are you even talking about?” he snaps, like he’s confused by accountability.
“What am I talking about?” I laugh again, pure disbelief. “I’m talking about the fact that you are a literal piece of shit.”
His jaw clenches.
“You’re gonna need to check that attitude,” he says, voice dropping, trying to control the moment. “People can hear you.”
I glance around and realize, yeah, they can. A couple walking their dog has slowed down. Curtains twitch in nearby windows.
And for once?
I don’t care.
“Let them hear us!” I shout, throwing my hands up using them for emphasis.
“It’s about time people know the truth about you.
Spoiled-ass trust-fund baby who whines about not having a life when you’ve never had to lift a finger in your life.
And for two whole years I’ve put up with your bullshit, letting you treat me like I’m some damn security blanket dressed as a punching bag. ”
His friends go quiet.
I keep going because I’m already here and I’m not swallowing this again.
“You jump from girl to girl, and the second you’re done with them you come crawling back to me like I’m gonna take you in with open arms. Well, not anymore.
I’m sick of this. Sick of the lies, the cheating, the gaslighting, the half-assed effort.
I’m DONE with your self-centered, egotistical, narcissistic bullshit. ”
My chest heaves by the end of it. My eyes burn. I refuse to let tears fall. Not for him.
Spencer’s mouth tightens. “Harlee. Stop. Now.”
“Oh, don’t worry.” My voice goes cold. “I’m done. Done with you. Done with this conversation. Done with all of it.”
I turn to leave.
He grabs my arm again.
Something in me snaps clean.
I yank away, and my arm connects with his face hard enough that the sound echoes down the block.
For a split second, I freeze.
“Oh God, Spencer—”
His nose starts bleeding, not a lot, but enough for him to start performing like he got shot.
“Fuck, bitch!” he wails, hands flying to his face. “Did you just break my nose?”
Then he says it.
“This is why I don’t mess with Black girls,” he spits, loud enough for the whole street. “They’re too busy trying to be seen to see reason. Always popping off at the mouth and shit. Fuck. Now you broke my fucking nose. I knew your ass was eventually gonna be a problem.”
The world goes quiet in my ears.
Not because it’s silent.
Because I’m hearing him clearly for the first time.
I take a breath. Pray to God to give me the strength, to hold my tongue. Not because I’m afraid of him.
Because I refuse to give him the satisfaction of watching me explode.
“You know what, Spencer?” I say, voice even. “I’m gonna be the bigger person and not waste any more of my brain cells on that ignorant-ass shit you just said.”
I step closer just enough that he has to look at me. He's got almost a foot on me. And yet, I just can't find a fuck to give.
“But I will say this,” I continue. “I hope your mom, your sister, and your grandmom… who are all Black women, by the way… know how you feel. I’m sorry for you, Spencer. Sorry you’re carrying around so much self-hate you could say something that degrading to my face.”
He sneers, barely listening. “Shut up, Harlee. You whiny ass bitch.”
I blink once. “Fuck you, Spencer.”
I flick my wrist like he’s lint. “Here—take a tampon, you big-ass baby. It’s barely even bleeding. And learn this: don’t ever put your hands on me again.”
I toss the spare tampon at his chest.
It hits dead center as he fumbles to catch it.
His friends hover nearby, frozen, eyes wide—like they don’t know whether to laugh or run.
I don’t look at them.
I pull out my phone and open my ride-share app.
Eight minutes. Kia Soul.
Beautiful.
I collapse onto my bed, lavender sheets soft under my back, phone hot in my hand. Spencer’s messages stack like a bad stand-up set he keeps insisting on finishing.
Seriously, Do Not Answer: You had your fun. Don’t come crawling back when you want some Of Daddy dick.
Seriously, Do Not Answer: Oh, so you’re ignoring me now?
Seriously, Do Not Answer: Don’t think you can’t be replaced. I got girls lined up.
Seriously, Do Not Answer: We not even together. You knew that. Now you acting crazy because I was a few minutes late.
Seriously, Do Not Answer: I know you see me texting. You just staring at the screen, huh?
Seriously, Do Not Answer: My nose isn’t broken, just in case you were wondering.
I snort, bitter and tired. “Oh, honey… keep the line. I’m not trying to be anybody’s salad bar.”
My thumb hovers over delete. One swipe and he’s gone.
I back out before I do something impulsive, and my eyes snag on another name.
August.
The little mute bell icon by his name.
My stomach does that stupid little flip—like it didn’t just watch me make a series of terrible decisions and still decided, yeah… him.
The next few weeks blur into humid Aurora days and nights where my brain won’t stop running laps.
Then my email pings.
Northbridge.
I sit up so fast I almost drop my phone. I open it, skim it, read it again slower.
Approved.
James Wilde Media is officially accepted as part of my accelerated practicum, which means the finish line just materialized in front of me. I’m still short around 1,000 hours, but the path finally exists: minimum 25 hours a week, quarterly reporting, validated time logs.
And then the tone shifts. The part nobody screenshots.
In order to be in good standing, you must adhere to proper and orderly conduct while representing Northbridge University.
Violating any of these terms can result in withdrawal from the program, which will result in loss of any or all credits earned for your practicum.
Violations may include, but are not limited to: failure to meet minimum hour requirements, late or inaccurate time logs, breach of confidentiality, or unprofessional conduct that reflects negatively on Northbridge University.
I keep reading, but my brain starts summarizing the rest like a Terms & Conditions scroll: don’t be drunk, don’t be weird, don’t embarrass the school.
Heard.
I laugh under my breath, already scrolling.
I’ve never had a bad mark in my life. Never been written up. Never been “a concern.” I don’t cut corners, I color inside the lines, and when someone hands me a rubric I treat it like gospel.
Rules don’t scare me. They organize me.
This is light work.
I set my phone down and stare at the ceiling, heart humming with something dangerously close to certainty.
Oh I most definitely got this!