“No, you chose to stay in the house and sulk. Probably took a gang of NyQuil and fainted on the couch while watching Love & Basketball again. Did the pizza man try to get with you this year? I told you to come out with me and Scarlet.”
I looked at the NyQuil pill wrappers on the floor beside the couch; the movie ready to begin again on the flat screen; the empty box of pizza. I hadn’t even tried to make it to my bed.
“What do you want, Ian?”
“You’re coming to Scarlet’s birthday party tonight, right?” Ian was in his car. Probably on his way to or from Scarlet’s loft downtown. He was an Africana Studies professor at Emory University and Scarlet was one of his former students turned “international” model and black feminist motivational speaker—whatever that meant. Basically, between Sears catalog photo shoots Scarlet put on a size 0 black turtleneck and Black Power pin, and spoke to poor black women about all the injustices they faced in the world—none of which she herself faced. She’s half black and Cuban and grew up in Buckhead with plastic surgeons for parents. Everyone eats up her little “uplift the masses of marginalized black women and girls” routine, though. And Ian has the fullest belly. He thinks Scarlet is the next Rosa Parks and Fannie Lou Hamer . . . and Naomi Campbell, rolled up in one. He says I give her a hard time. But I don’t. It’s just that . . . well, to be that pretty . . . and that “conscious” . . . all at the same time . . . it’s just insulting to the rest of us.
“The party’s tonight?” I asked.
“Don’t play with me. I need you to be there.” Ian had planned the entire party himself. He’d paid for the penthouse suite at the W Hotel and sent out invitations to all of Scarlet’s size-0 model/ conscious-activist friends. The night was guaranteed to annoy me to death.
“I know. I know. The W. Tonight. Whatever.”
“Are you coming early?”
“Don’t push it,” I said. “And why are you so amped about this anyway?” I knew I didn’t exactly sound like a wedding-planning romantic at that point. Really, a brother so excited about shelling out thousands of dollars to celebrate his girlfriend’s birthday should’ve scored high on my romance card. But there was something about Scarlet. I don’t know. While I’d never told Ian, I thought she was just putting on an act with the whole “black women rule the world” crusade and, honestly, I didn’t think she was good enough for him.
“I’m gonna ask her to marry me.”
It was like a missile had fallen from the sky. KABOOM! Right between me and the pizza box. The alcohol and acetaminophen in my gut was suddenly shooting up my esophagus.
I was up from the couch and on my feet before I responded.
“What?”
“Yep! Had the ring shipped in from Namibia—I found a non-conflict diamond dealer there, you know how she is about stuff like that.” (Instant frown earned from me.)
“You already have a ring?”
“Scarlet’s mom was the one who brought it up—us getting married—you know how those Spanish mamas are. She don’t play that long-term dating stuff. And at first I was like ‘nah,’ but then I was like ‘ahh’ . . . so I just got the ring!”
“You ‘just got the ring’?” I repeated, mimicking his nonchalance. He sounded like he was going to a linen sale at Macy’s.
“Why did you say it like that, Rach? I know how you feel about Scarlet, but I thought you’d at least be happy for me.”
“Feel about her?” I rolled my eyes at the thought that I felt anything or anyway about Scarlet. “I don’t feel anyway about her.” This little leak was so fake—and even with my forced smile Ian couldn’t see, I was sure he knew it. “It’s just that . . . I thought, you know, that we’d talk about this first. Before you made a decision. And . . . what about that girl? The one you met last week at the conference in New York—at NYU? The one with the books? The writer? I thought you liked her.”
“That was one night. A drink. Scarlet’s my girlfriend. I love her. I can’t imagine my life without her. She completes me.” When Ian is confused he has a tendency to speak in clichés. “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to—”
“Fine! I’ll come,” I blurted out to stop him. I couldn’t take it anymore. Ian was also as stubborn as a wild boar, and flooding him with questions wouldn’t get me anywhere. He was one of those “you catch more flies with honey than vinegar” people.
“Great! Early?”
“Yes, Ian.” I sighed. “I’ll be there early. I’ll be there as your best friend. Supporting you in marrying the best thing that’s ever happened to you.” (Cue the sarcasm.)
“No way! I’m not going. This is the worst thing that could happen! The worst thing ever!” I grimaced and nodded into the little camera lens perched on top of my computer monitor.
“Lord, what’s going on in the ATL? Do I need to get Dame to put me on a plane?”
While Ian was caught up in a cloud of clichés about his love for Scarlet, I was logging onto my computer to call on the only person who could stop me from completely wigging out over his pending engagement and making a worse situation . . . worser?
Journey Cash is my former client who was actually already married and living the only life she thought she’d ever have, being a high school teacher and singer in her daddy’s church in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, when one of her former students showed up to steal her away from it all. OK, that might all sound a little crazy, so it’s important to add that her former student was actually of legal age when he returned to Black Warrior High School to steal his old chorus teacher’s heart away—that and the biggest rapper in the country. Damien “Dame” Mitchell wasn’t just the toast of Tuscaloosa, but of every town and city all around the world. He had everything—number-one albums, media madness, a cultlike crew following, millions of dollars in the bank and a plan to turn them into billions—seemingly all a man from the projects of a small southern city with one highway in and one highway out could want. But Dame was missing the one person he thought was responsible for all his riches, the first person who inspired him to dream, and he set out on a seemingly impossible quest to get her, too. Well, impossible it was not. When Dame and Journey showed up in my office in 2009, smiling
and ready to jump the broom, Journey had just finalized her divorce, was working on her own album, and was about a month pregnant . . . with twins. They explained that because of Journey’s family, they wanted to say “I do” as soon as possible. Her father, Jethro Cash, was leading the biggest mega church in the South and Journey felt she’d done the family name enough damage by running off with one of her former students—not to mention, her baby brother was living the life of a female stripper in Atlanta and her older brother had been arrested for stealing funds from the church. While a lot of people had children out of wedlock (including Daddy Cash), Journey was certain a “bastard” baby from his only daughter would send her father to an early grave. Dame was willing to pay top dollar to make sure that didn’t happen. We had two months to plan the wedding of Journey’s dream—in three months, she’d be showing for sure. We spent about every waking hour together for those two months. I actually ended up going to some of Journey’s doctor appointments with her when Dame was away. To my surprise, I found a kindred spirit in her. Someone else who’d believed that even though she was imperfect, she deserved perfect love. It found her in the middle of her life and interrupted everything. It could find me, too.
After the wedding, Journey left Atlanta to go on a world tour with Dame, but we actually missed talking to each other every day, so Dame’s assistant introduced us to the wonders of video chatting on Skype. I called her when I couldn’t stand not being in love. I think she called me when she wanted to remember what it was like before she found it.
“He can’t marry her, Journey! Not Scarlet. Scarlet? Not Scarlet! No. He can’t.” I collapsed and banged my head on my desk to add a little drama.