4. Mahasin
Mahasin
Mahasin St. James (soon to be Mahasin Knox)
H unter and I have been engaged for a little over two months now, and the emotional high I’m on can’t be contained.
We’ve been going over everything, life insurance, finances, and even what our future children’s lives might look like.
He was thoroughly impressed with how I managed to pay off my student loans and open my private practice, and I let him bask in the glory of my success.
What I wasn’t about to do was admit that the Bank of Mommy and Daddy cleared those loans.
It was a deal I made with them: if I earned my white coat, they would cover my education.
Graduating at the top of my class secured my residency at Havenbrook University Hospital and completing that program landed me the private practice—something my father blessed me with as soon as I hung up my residency badge.
My engagement to Hunter wasn’t a secret, but it wasn’t five o’clock news either.
The important people knew—Amber, my parents.
As a matter of fact, my parents knew in January because Hunter asked my father for my hand.
They just thought he proposed on Valentine’s Day, and I hadn’t gotten around to correcting them.
My engagement—like my relationship—was sacred to me.
I didn’t post Hunter on social media, and at my request, he didn’t either.
He told me he wasn’t fond of it, so I had no worries.
At my birthing center or with associates, I’d only confirm it if someone noticed the rock on my finger or caught wind some other way.
Damn, my baby did an amazing job picking this ring.
Was I proud to be Hunter’s fiancée? Absolutely.
Ray Charles could see that. I wore my heart on my sleeve, my pride in my strut, and my happiness in all thirty-two teeth that came out whenever someone said his name or I smelled a fragrance that reminded me of him.
I caught myself daydreaming about his kisses and touching myself to the sound of his “I love you, Mahasin” on the voicemails he’d leave when he knew I’d be too busy to pick up.
I was whipped, crazy in love, and it was a diagnosis even I wouldn’t treat.
But the second you share your happiness with the world, the universe sends its number-one hating bitch—negative energy—to rain on your parade.
People who once celebrated you now give half-smiles.
Suddenly, Hunter becomes “familiar” to women who didn’t even have forty dollars, let alone access to VIP at the 40/40 Club.
And the word little creeps into every compliment.
“Oh, I saw your little fiancé.” “That’s a cute little engagement ring.” “Here go your little hundred dollars I owe you.”
You know—hating shit like that.
So no, the universe would never find out about my love until that marriage license was signed.
Or until Medicine Mag drops the million-dollar spread they booked for our wedding in their “Prescription for Love” feature.
We’d be showcased alongside two other weddings where the bride or groom was a doctor.
I wasn’t Rihanna-famous, but I was well known in Havenbrook for my stance on maternal health in the Black community. I’d been featured on hundreds of podcasts, talk shows, and even had a season on Sexy in Scrubs —a scandalous reality show that didn’t last long because it wasn’t worth my reputation.
So, when my mother booked celebrity wedding dress designer Charisma to create my gown, she told her best friend Scott, owner of Medicine Mag. The rest was history.
“It’s settled—this Thursday, 8 p.m. at Tribal. I booked a VIP section for the four of us, and no, Miss the-universe-is-out-to-get-me , I did not tell them what we’re celebrating,” Amber said as she flopped into the lounge chair across from me at the birthing center.
“Ambs, first off, that universe shit is real. Remember when you prematurely announced your miracle hair elixir for postpartum hair loss?” I asked, raising my brows.
“Bitch, how could I forget? I still gotta color in my baby hairs to this day. Edges just gone—like my daddy on payday.”
We laughed until tears streaked our faces.
“But seriously, girl, don’t make a fuss. I haven’t even asked my fiancé if his schedule’s clear for Thursday.”
“Oh hell no, bitch. Don’t start that shit,” Amber said, wagging her index finger at me.
“What?” I asked.
“That nigga mama named him Hunter, not fiancé. Don’t be one of those bitches who get a ring and now it’s my fiancé this, my fiancé that. Say it with me, hoe—Huuunnnttteeerrr.” She dragged out his name dramatically.
“Oh, whatever.” I waved her off, still laughing.
“Listen here, you successful, well-deserving-of-love, fine-ass heffa. Let your best friend do this for you. Seriously, Mahasin—you’ve been through so much, and through it all you stayed kind, caring, and dedicated to the cause. You never let your struggles change who you are.”
“Thanks, Ambs,” I said, blinking back tears.
“So, it’s settled, then? Thursday?” She raised her soda can toward me.
“Thursday,” I agreed, smiling as I clinked mine against hers.
Tribal, newly built in Havenbrook, was more than a restaurant; it was an experience.
From its delectable cuisines to the mauve walls adorned with gilded frames capturing history, every detail was meant to impress.
Floor-to-ceiling bouquets of red roses spilled from black lacquered vases, while marble floors in sharp black-and-white geometrics guided guests past velvet chairs and Versace-trimmed décor. This was the place to be.
“This place is absolutely beautiful, Amber,” I said in pure amazement. “How did you even score this private area?”
“It is, right? This doctor—Davis, I think, built it for his girlfriend. I called in a favor on behalf of Dr. St. James .” She winked.
I playfully sucked my teeth.
“Apparently, all the private rooms are named after something related to her. The one we’re in is called The Flower ,” Amber shrugged.
“Must be nice,” I said.
Creed and Hunter held out our chairs for us to sit.
“Baby, you want me to build you something like this. Just say the word, it’s yours,” Hunter smirked.
“Nigga, please. You see these marble floors and Versace frames? You ain’t opening that many checking and savings accounts,” Creed joked.
We all fell out laughing.
“I know you’ll get me anything I ask for, King,” I smiled, leaning over to kiss my fiancé.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah—tell me about the proposal, nigga, so I know what I’m competing against,” Creed teased.
“See, that’s the thing, little nigga,” Hunter bragged. “You can’t compete where your money doesn’t compare.”
“And I—oop,” Amber and I said in unison.
“Aight, you got that one, my guy.” Creed dapped him up.
Hunter leaned back, grinning. “So here I am, tearing that pussy up on the patio—”
“Hunter Knox!” I hollered. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
“What? Baby,” he shrugged.
I covered my face with both hands, laughing but embarrassed as hell. He was tearing this pussy up on the patio, though.
“Oh, Mahasin, please. We know he's beating that shit like a drum. Continue, Hunter,” Amber said through laughter.
“So, look—I’m in that good shit, right? My baby orgasms so hard, she starts drooling, eyes rolling in the back of her head. I’m talking about she’s on another planet. I managed to conjure up enough strength to slip the ring on her finger. And here we are today.”
Of course, he left out the love we confessed and the tears we shed.
Just like a damn man. My book bae would’ve never watered down such a perfect proposal story.
But then again, them niggas are written by women—and if it’s one thing a woman is going to do, it’s remind you niggas ain’t shit by creating these phenomenal beings with perfect bodies, big dicks, and a shitload of money.
“That’s so fucking romantic,” Amber gasped, her elbows on the table as both sides of her face rested in her palms.
Giggling at my crazy friend, I excused myself to use the restroom.
Tribal was a firmament of luxury and wonder—every corner turned revealed another pocket of love, lust, and money well spent.
The way this place blended the aroma of good food with the richness of expensive perfume was almost supernatural.
After my third failed attempt at finding the ladies’ room, I politely stopped a beautiful, olive-skinned Black woman. Her uniform matched the other hostesses, so I didn’t feel like one of those ignorant people who assumed a guest was staff. Her name tag read: Nova.
“Excuse me, can you please direct me to the ladies’ room?” I asked.
Nova was knee-deep in her phone, sucking her teeth before finally looking up. I braced for a rude interaction, but instead she froze—like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. It was the kind of expression you’d have if you were reading on your Kindle, looked up, and—boom—Beyoncé.
Her lips pulled into a thin smile, and I could still see remnants of whatever she had eaten on break caught in her teeth.
“Umm, yeah. Walk straight down this pathway and take the first left,” she instructed.
“Thank you,” I replied, moving past her, though every step felt heavier under her lingering stare.
That bitch was still smiling. At first, it was confusing, but now it just felt creepy.
A tattoo on her hand caught my eye—a symbol from the Bad Girls logo.
Maybe she was a reality-TV junkie and recognized me from Sexy in Scrubs.
Naw, that wasn’t it. If she knew me, why not ask for a picture?
Maybe the restaurant had a policy about not bothering high-profile guests.
But still. I wouldn’t call myself a celebrity. I mean, I spend most of my days with my hands inside vaginas. Normally, odd interactions rolled right off me. But Nova’s energy? It clung to me. It didn’t sit right in my spirit.