“Mmm-hmm,” Jerome hums, rolling his eyes. “Finish your set, girl.”
I continue on, a bit more fiercely.
“Well, damn, Honey, don’t take it out on the dang machine,” Jerome protests. “You don’t want them titties to explode. They too pretty for that.”
I’m too upset to laugh. I finish the set and pop up to let him take his turn.
“He said it was just for appearance’s sake.”
“And I’m assuming you’ve seen the appearance of this hoo-ha woman?”
“Muffy,” I correct, a reluctant smile coming to my face.
He sucks his teeth before starting a rep. “If I was you, I’d take that one as a sign. Ain’t no woman, high class or not, go around namin’ herself after her own damn vajayjay. At least not unless she ain’t purposely out there looking for some dick to go with it. Hell, if I was desperate enough I’d change my name too, get me my own Francis. Call myself Jheri Swirl or Jheri Coochie.”
I cough out a laugh. This is the second reason why I’m coming to Jerome for all of this. Laughter really is the best medicine, even for a broken heart.
The two men pumping iron nearby turn to give Jerome disgusted frowns. They each look like they could benchpress a pickup truck.
Jerome is more lean muscle, currently exposed in short shorts and a very loose tank top, which I’m sure only adds to their disdain.
“What?” Jeromes says, being extra sassy just to wind them up. “Don’t act like y’all wouldn’t sample a piece of this pie.”
“He’s joking,” I quickly say, trying to calm them down, since they look like they definitely want to do something to Jerome’s pie.
They huff and puff, but take one look at me and my pleading eyes and decide to move to another machine instead of blowing Jerome’s house down.
“Maybe next time mind ya business. Listenin’ in on people’s conversations and shit,” Jerome mutters.
“Do you feel manly now?” I say with a smirk as I turn back to him.
He clucks his tongue as he continues pumping the machine. “I didn’t offer either of them anything they wasn’t looking for. You’d be surprised, baby girl.”
“Anyway,” I stress, getting back on track. “Can we move on from your dick and back to my Muffy?”
Jerome purses his lips in an exaggerated way. “Girl, you know I like it when you talk nasty to me.”
“I aim to please,” I say blithely.
“Okay then, just let me understand all this nonsense. You gave your man the green light to tap some strange.”
“No! It’s a fake relationship. He said there wouldn’t even be so much as holding hands!”
“And you believed him enough to say okey-doke.”
“What all else could I say?” I hear my Georgia roots creep in, now that I’m feeling a bit more fired up.
“Do you really want me to tell you?” He gives me a pointed look.
“I agreed because this is what his family’s company needs. And I love him—and trust him enough to…agree to it.”
“Honey, I ain’t never met a man who’s been given an inch and don’t take a damn mile. And girl, you just gave him permission to travel down the whole dang interstate.”
“You’re supposed to be cheering me up,” I say morosely.
“No, I’m supposed to be givin’ your ass a reality check, and that’s what I’m doin.’”
“So, I should officially-officially break up with him,” I say, mostly to myself.
“Not so long as you have that apartment!” Jerome says in alarm. “At least make him sign the lease for another year. Hell, get you a duplex and checks. Some decorations from Tiffany’s or somethin.’ You bettah channel Miss Kitt if you know what’s good for you. Let Santa Baby do his thing. You deserve a parting gift. Get as much as you can from the man, then move on to another sugar daddy.”
“Don’t cheapen it, Jerome. I do actually love him, you know.”
“And your ass can just as easily fall in love with another multi-multi-millionaire. Hell, if I had your face and body, I’d make a career of getting money from men. I wouldn’t even need the love part.”
“But I do. And I don’t want it to be over. Francis and I, we have fun together. He’s sweet and kind and…yes, generous, but that’s a bonus on top of everything else.”
“Are you sure the love part wasn’t the bonus?”
I scowl at him.
The truth is, when Francis and I first started, I wasn’t sure which was which. When Francis showed up backstage to the theater I work at so unexpectedly, he was all roses and gifts to win me over.
Then, when I finally melted, it was luxury trips and designer clothes. It was nice to be spoiled, especially after those first few years struggling in this city. I’m going to miss this life of luxury when—if!—he’s gone for good.
But that doesn’t mean the crack that’s formed in my heart isn’t genuine.
“I want to be with him, Jerome. I can’t help it. I love him.”
“Fine, fine, she loves the man,” he says toward the ceiling, as though praying for understanding. He brings his head down to consider me. “But let’s think this all the way through before we consider going after that ring. Do you really want to be Honey Hickenbatter?”
“It has a certain alliterative ring to it,” I say.
“I don’t even know what that means, but I do know Honey Hickenbatter sounds like the poster girl for a box a grits or somethin’.”
“Well, I am from Georgia,” I sass. “Come on, Jerome, do you honestly think I haven’t called myself Honey Hickenbatter in my head a hundred times in preparation for what I thought would happen?”
“I guess,” he says, rising up now that he’s finished his set. He grabs a towel to wipe down as he continues. “First of all, you need to find out all you can about this supposed arrangement of theirs. Discover if it’s really for show.”
I nod in understanding.
“Then,
