6. Mahasin
Mahasin
(sometime in April)
M ahasin
The warmth of the sun and the bloom of new flowers were always a beautiful sign that spring had arrived.
Gorgeous weather was normal in Rosemoor.
As a matter of fact, spring, in the whole beautiful state of Havenbrook, was like no other.
It was like the sun’s rejuvenating power hit this state differently —smiles were brighter, the air sweeter.
My birthing center even saw an influx of patients; new life really was in the air.
So why was I still stuck sulking in my old one?
That disaster at Tribal with Hunter and his wife, Morgan, was nearly two months ago, but the shit hurt like it happened yesterday. That ambush set up by Nova, the hostess, was the most humiliating episode of my life. Even with Amber by my side, I felt outnumbered.
Hearing Morgan say Hunter had a kink for successful Black women—that I was just a fetish, a high to make him feel complete in their already established marriage—shattered my confidence.
But nothing prepared me for Morgan’s meltdown.
She cried big, sloppy tears, snot running from her nose, her pain spilling everywhere in that hallway.
She screamed about how Hunter had ruined her life, cut her off from family and friends, convinced her to drop out of college, and give up her dream of becoming a PhD-level professor just so she could have his children.
Eight. He already had eight beautiful children, and here he was feeding me a fantasy about giving him a son.
Sick bastard.
I was hoping after the humiliation he caused me, he would just go away.
But nope. The moment the evening settled and my body finally forced itself to shut down, my phone started ringing.
Ignored calls turned into long voicemail messages—him professing how much he loved me, how sorry he was, how he was leaving Morgan, how she had always been a “mistake.”
Was this nigga serious? How the hell you have eight children with a mistake?
And apparently this fool was able to live with me because his wife had given him a break. Who in their right mind, gives a break to someone they have eight kids with? The only break he would have gotten from me, was my foot breaking off in his ass.
Finally, after I moved out of the penthouse he purchased and two weeks of me sending every call straight to voicemail, it was like he disappeared and I could breathe again.
That’s until his ass popped up at Serenity, blasting Boyz II Men’s On Bended Knee like we were in a 90s R&B music video.
His clothes were disheveled, facial hair unkept, eyes swollen from the same ugly cries he was currently performing out front of the birthing center. Embarrassing was an understatement.
It was time to pull out my big joker because enough was enough.
Storming to his car, I warned him that if he didn’t leave me alone, I would tell my father—who just so happened to be real close with a few bank owners.
And I knew damn well the way he treated me would not sit right with certain people who could rearrange his entire financial world with one conversation.
That must’ve been when the light bulb came on, because after that, he vanished.
He vanished, but the pain he caused me stayed behind.
I rubbed the spot where my beautiful engagement ring once rested. Why does it feel like my heart is bleeding inside my chest? What did I do to deserve this kind of pain? How could someone blessed with the hands to bring life into this world also be cursed to never have a happy one of her own?
Maybe God thought that I being in love would pull me off the path He set for me—that I’d pour so much of myself into a husband that I’d lose focus on being an OBGYN, on fighting for Black women in maternal health.
But that couldn’t be it. Weren’t we designed to pair?
Surely, He wouldn’t gift me the capacity to love another soul, only to keep me from showing how great I could be at it.
I guess the old gospel whispers were right. This life is not about you. We’re all on His mission. On borrowed time.
Got me taking out my IUD, thinking he's my forever. I hope every time he microwaves food, the middle stays cold no matter how long he heats it.
“What’s wrong, pretty girl?” Amber asked, her bottom lip poking out.
We were at Ryze’s, a local jazz spot known for its top-shelf bartenders and Parmesan—garlic flat chicken wings that could make you lick the plate clean.
Earl, the florist and frequent visitor, was making his rounds with his cart, selling roses.
I grabbed a bar napkin and quickly dabbed at my eyes.
I was so over crying, but lately it seemed like tears were the only natural thing to do.
It had gotten so bad that after my third week of not showing up for work, Amber came over and dragged me out of the house.
She’d given me space, let me grieve and, as she called it, “detox from a fuck nigga,” but tonight she decided enough was enough.
“I’m sorry, Ambs, I’m trying, I swear I am,” I sobbed. “Shit just fucking hurts. Am I cursed?” I asked through misty eyes.
Amber rose from the barstool next to me and wrapped me in her arms. “Aww, baby, no. There’s no set timeline for heartbreak, but I’m not going to let you sulk in self-doubt.
You’re amazing, inside and out—you can’t let the actions of an asshole reconstruct how you see yourself.
” She paused, then smirked. “Besides, the only thing you’re cursed with is good pussy! ”
I laughed so hard at her crazy ass.
“Thanks, Amber,” I said, hugging her tightly around the waist.
“You can also take a remedy straight from the Urban Hoochie Mama Thesaurus,” she continued.
“And what’s that?”
“Et um.” She cleared her throat dramatically. “According to the UHM Thesaurus, the best way to get over a nigga is to get under a new one,” she said with a wink.
Why was I not surprised that something like that would leave her mouth? A few women sitting across from us heard my friend’s bold declaration and lifted their glasses in agreement.
“Facts, sis,” one chimed.
I guess I wasn’t the only one nursing heartbreak tonight. Come to think of it, the bar was full of beautiful women from all kinds of backgrounds and walks of life.
“Attention! All the bad bitches at the bar who don’t give a fuck about a nigga—my beautiful friend here has let her crown slip just a little bit, and I was wondering if we could come together for just a moment and pour some magic on her,” she announced.
“Amber!” I hissed.
“What, bitch? I ain’t tell them it was a lying, married-ass nigga who tilted your shit.”
“Oh my goodness.” I covered my face in embarrassment. When her ass was off that Patrón , there was no taming her.
Just as I mustered up the courage to uncover my face, the woman who’d agreed with my bold friend earlier appeared in front of me with a rose.
Handing it to me, she gently adjusted the imaginary crown on my head and said, “It’s okay if it slips.
We can’t control life—only God has that power.
But never let anyone who didn’t place that crown on your head knock it off, because only God can do that, too. ” She gave me the warmest smile.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
Fuck—here came the tears. Reaching for another napkin, I noticed a line of women at Earl’s cart buying roses. One by one, they each came to me, adjusting my imaginary crown, gifting me roses, and speaking affirmations over me.
“My ex-nigga had a whole baby on me, then turned around and dumped me, the baby, and brought a dog,” one woman confessed.
We all burst into laughter in unison. These niggas were unbelievable.
Two rounds of Hennessy shots landed on the bar—two for each of us—courtesy of Amber and my newly found sister circle.
“Thank you, ladies, but we’re on light tonight,” I announced.
We’d already been throwing Patron back like it was about to be discontinued, and there was no way we needed to add Henny to the mix.
I handed my two shots back to the bartender, but before she could remove them, Amber placed a hand on her wrist.
“Um, no ma’am. We’ll keep these. Thanks, Beautiful.”
“Girl, we’re on light. This hood mix ain’t going to agree with our systems,” I fussed.
“Oh, Mahasin, please. If anything goes wrong, I’m pretty sure you know a doctor who can get us a new kidney,” Amber slurred.
“Um, bitch, it doesn’t work like that. And I’m not worried about our kidneys—well, not entirely—I’m worried about being sick to my stomach,” I explained.
“That’s what they make Pedialyte and B-12 IVs for. Now hush up and throw these shits back with me. I’m Martin Lawrence, and you’re Danny DeVito. On three—1, 2—”
“Wait,” I stopped her. “Martin Lawrence and Danny DeVito?”
She shrugged. “ What’s the Worst That Could Happen? ”
I rolled my eyes and shrugged with her before downing both shots back-to-back.
“Fuuuck!”
That damn Hennessy burned so good it was criminal. Shit had the magic to give the most uncoordinated individual rhythm. I'm fairly certain this is how teenage boys develop hair on their chests. Judging by the screwed-up faces around the bar, the ladies were feeling it too.
Dark liquor—especially Hennessy—hit Amber and me differently. Amber wanted to fight. Me? I wanted to fuck. Which is exactly why I usually stayed away from that dark potion. Five shots later, I was torn up, having the stability of a newborn baby and the judgment of a blind man picking out curtains.
Amber, smartly, tapped out after the first two shots so she could play babysitter. If she sat next to me, I wouldn’t get into trouble.
“Hey, Amber, a group of fine brothers just walked in. Be my wingman? I’m rusty when it comes to picking up men,” one of my affirmation sisters asked.
“I can coach you, keep the conversation going, but I can’t sample anything. I got a good man at home,” she said.
“Deal!”
As Amber’s sociable ass got up, I grabbed her arm. “Bitch don’t leave me at this bar. I've done mixed dark and light—and Hennessy at that. You know what Henney does to my pretty penny.”
She cackled. “Yeah. It makes you refer to your pussy as a penny. Sit your loose ass right here. I’ll be close enough to keep an eye on you. Besides, maybe somebody needs to relax that little penny of yours.” She winked.
“Ambs!”