“I think you think you have something to prove.”
“Prove what? To whom? To Porsche? That bitch never gave two shits about me. She let the entire world raise me, her bastard daughter, as she went off and chased her dreams. What could I have to prove to her.”
“That you’re better,” Lionel said so easily and so quickly it was clear to Tasha he’d thought about this for a long time. “That you can be better than her—even without her. That you’re better than the little girl she left alone, the one she let leave.”
Tasha pushed away from Lionel’s hold against the car and tried to laugh it off as she walked in circles in the empty parking space beside the car. Suddenly she was seven and watching Porsche leave her in a hotel room again. Suddenly she was eleven and begging Porsche to read a poem she’d written for Mother’s Day. Suddenly she was seventeen and running away from home.
“You think I didn’t know how hurt you were when Porsche told you she wasn’t coming when Tiara was born and that she hasn’t ever been here to see her?”
“I don’t care about that. I don’t care about anything Porsche thinks. She chose not to see her grandchildren. She chose her career again. I didn’t!” Tasha was hollering so loud the children in the playground in front of the restaurant stopped playing and watched. She wouldn’t cry, though. Tears were welled up in the corners of her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry.
“Yes, you do. It’s obvious. It’s obvious in everything you do. No nannies. No help. You have them crammed up in that little bedroom….”
“That’s for their own good.”
“No, that’s for your own good. It’s so you can feel like you’re doing something for them, when you’re not,” Lionel said. “You’re too busy doing for yourself.”
“I love my children!”
“If you love them then why did you stop counseling? Why didn’t you keep going to the therapist?”
“I was doing better.”
Lionel looked up at the clouds like he was expecting rain, lightning, thunder, a tornado.
“You don’t get it,” he said, walking away from Tasha. “You just don’t get it.”
“Where are you going?” She went running behind him as he cornered out of the lot.
“Home.”
“You can’t walk home from here.” She grabbed his arm. “It’s too far.”
“I’m not getting in that car, Tasha. I need to be alone. I need to be away from you.” He stopped walking and looked at her, letting his own tears flow freely. “When we got married, I knew you were selfish. I knew I’d have to fight you and help you see the right way sometimes. And I’ve put up with a lot of your bullshit. A lot of it. I’ve let shit go and I’ve let you win.”
“Win? This isn’t a—”
“No! Listen to me. I’ve let you win more times than I can count. But not right now,” he said. “I never fought for myself, but you’re a fool if you think I’m not going to fight for Toni and Tiara. I won’t let your shortcomings, your anger, ruin them the way Porsche ruined you.”
Tasha pulled back her hand to slap Lionel, but he caught it.
“Fuck you,” she cried.
“Fuck me? Really?”
“Fuck you.”
“No. Fuck you.”
Tasha snatched her hand back from Lionel and charged toward the car. The distance between them grew from an invisible river to two tiles of sidewalk concrete. Tasha turned to see Lionel’s back.
“I’m moving back to the city,” she said harshly. “Just not with you.”
Lionel stopped in his path on the sidewalk and turned with the ease of a beau at a debutante ball.
“That’s fine with me,” he replied breezily. “Just make sure you add my children to the list of people not going.”
Six Male Conversation Starters to Avoid