“Gettin’ ya tires slashed in my driveway was strike one. Actin’ funny ’n shit and gettin’ ghost on a bitch was strike two. And not keepin’ shit real wit’ me ’bout that bitch was strike three.”
I walk up on ’im, and do sumthin’ I know I probably shouldn’t. I pull him by his shirt down to me, standin’ up on my tippy-toes. I kiss ’im on the lips. Let the nigga slip his tongue in my mouth. My pussy starts to pop as his hands start roamin’ all ova my body.
“I’ve missed you so much. Don’t do this to us, baby. Give me anotha chance.”
I pull away. “I can’t.”
He hangs his head, lookin’ defeated as he walks out. I watch ’im walk to his car, get in, then back out. He’s lookin’ at me, and I’m lookin’ at ’im. I wave to ’im. And he blows the horn. I don’t shut the door ’til I can no longer see his car, then I press my back up against the door, closin’ my eyes and bangin’ my head up against it.
I take a deep breath, walkin’ up the stairs to get showered and dressed. For some reason, a bitch is feelin’ kinda down. I know, think, in my head, I’m doin’ the right thing, but my heart is tellin’ me sumthin’ different.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“Oooooh, bitch, I don’t think I can eva forgive you for packin’ up and movin’ waaaaay out there, and takin’ Zaire from me,” Chanel says, lookin’ at me through the monitor on my laptop. We’re up on Skype talkin’, which is our new thing. We talk e’eryday, two, three times a day. It’s almost like we’re right in the same room togetha. I miss this bitch. She presses ’er face up to the screen. Zaire tries to grab the monitor. “Ain’t that right, Boo? That mean old-ugly witch done took you from ya Aunt Chanel.” He laughs, touchin’ the screen. “Ohhhmiiigod, Kat, and he has two teeth already.”
“Girl, them things just popped up outta know where. Now all he wanna do is bite up e’erything. This lil’ muh…boy, is a piece of damn work.”
“Wit’ his fine self,” she says, wavin’ and blowin’ kisses at ’im. He waves back at ’er, then gets down on the floor and starts crawlin’ ova to the otha side of the room to get his Spiderman toy. I have toys and shit e’erywhere. This boy is has e’ery kinda toy made for lil’ boys, then some. He’s spoiled rotten. Chanel rolls er eyes, suckin’ ’er teeth.
“Why you doin’ all that?”
“Kat, why’d you have to move so damn far from me?”
I laugh. She asks me the same shit e’ery time we talk. And I tell ’er the same shit. “’Cause change is good.”
Three weeks after I put my house up on the market, I was able to sell it. I dropped ten gees off’a the price but it’s all good. A bitch was ready to roll out, so I didn’t give a fuck ’bout nickel and dimin’ ova a few thousand dollas. I even paid for the closin’ costs. I just wanted to be done. It sold and that’s all I cared ’bout. The next month, I shipped what I wanted out here and sold e’erything else, then I changed my numbers. It’s definitely a different vibe here, and I’ma always be a East Coast bitch at heart. But bein’ here is the best thing I coulda did—for me.
“Change my ass. You coulda kept it real cute and found a cute lil’ place in Connecticut, or Philly. You woulda been far enough, but still close enough at da same time. But nooooooo, you gotta be all dramatic and shit, movin’ way out there.”
“Chanel, boo. Let it go. You’ll be here for a whole month in two weeks, so…” I look to see where Zaire is, then lean into the monitor and whisper, “…stop actin’ like a needy-ass bitch.”
She laughs, whisperin’ back, “Fuck you, booga.” I toss up da finga, pressin’ it up at the screen. She asks me what’s up wit’ the nigga Tone. I tell ’er nuthin’. Tell ’er we straight mad cool. She wants to know if we fuckin’.
Of course we are, but it ain’t nuthin’ serious. He’s my lil’ maintenance man ’til sumthin’ worthwhile comes my way. I ain’t tellin’ ’er all that, though. I laugh. “Bitch, stop tryna monitor my pussy. Geesh.” Zaire crawls back ova to me, reachin’ up for me to pick ’im up. “Okay, Zee alert,” I state, lettin’ ’er know that Zaire’s back in earshot. I lift ’im up.
“Eat. Eat. Eat,” he says.
“Ohmigod, when did he learn to say that? He’s talkin’ away now.”
“Girl, all this boy knows is ‘eat, eat, eat’ wit’ his greedy self.” He’s eight months old and he’s almost twenty- four pounds. He says it again, tryna bite my hand. “Okay, Zaire. Wait. Here drink this.” I hand ’im a sippee cup of water. He throws it. “No. Bad boy.”
He throws his Spiderman toy. “Don’t get it crunked up in here, lil’ boy. ’Cause you ’bout to get tossed up, okay? Now chill out.”
Chanel laughs. “Boo, you gonna have ya hands full.”
“Tell me about it. So, you already know I don’t have time for no man.”
She smiles. “Well, you neva know what might happen.”
“Mmmph. Trick, you know sumthin’ I don’t?”
“Nope.” I grab the laptop, carryin’ Zaire on my hip into the kitchen. I sit the laptop up on the table, then put Zaire in his high chair. “Kat, I’m so proud of you. Is parenthood what you thought it would be?”
“Yes and no,” I tell ’er, movin’ ’round the kitchen tryna warm up Zaire’s food. He starts bangin’ on the tray, yellin’ at the top’a his lungs. E’ery since he started daycare he’s picked up shit I ain’t diggin’. Like throwin’ shit and this screamin’. I’m slowly learnin’ how’ta ignore his ass when he starts up his tantrums. Hopefully, he’ll outgrow the shit, otherwise we gonna have’a problem. And it ain’t gonna be cute. “Sometimes it can be…” The doorbell rings. I ignore the shit. The only person who knows where I live out here is Tone. And I know it ain’t ’im ’cause he calls first.
“Ain’t you gonna get da door?”
“Nope.”
It rings again. “Kat, maybe you should get it. I sent a package to you. That might be it.”
“Ooooh, what you send me?”
“Don’t worry ’bout it. Go open da door and find out for ya’self.”
I suck my teeth. “Uggh. Watch da baby,” I say, turnin’ the laptop facin’ Zaire so she can keep an eye on ’im while I go to the door. I laugh, knowin’ there ain’t shit she can do if he gets into sumthin’, but I like sayin’ it, anyway. I tell ’er I’ll be right back, then walk out into the livin’ room, poppin’ shit.
I peek through the peephole. All I see is a white box wit’ a red bow blockin’ a man’s face.
He grins, handin’ me the box. “Can I come in?” I step back and let ’im in. I can’t front, this deep, dark nigga looks…delicious! “Damn, I’ve missed you, Kat.”
I smile. “Nigga, I’ve…” I stop myself, almost forgettin’ I left Zaire in the kitchen by himself. I shut the door and tell ’im to follow me into the kitchen. I turn the laptop ’round. “Umm, ho…is this the package you were talkin’ ’bout?” I go back to feedin’ Zaire. He has food tossed all ova the floor, and all ’round his face. But, he’s quiet and happy and that’s all that matters.
