Take Her Man

Just then, as he turned his back on me, the clock struck 3 p.m., his pager went off and my Prince Charming walked out of our favorite sushi bar and into the streets of New York—alone.

So that’s how my sad situation started. Walking out of that restaurant that Wednesday afternoon with every eye fixed on me, I was sick and nearly suicidal. It’s funny how losing your man, more than any of the other things in your life, can make you like a woman on her deathbed. You feel like you’ll never see the sun rise over Manhattan again.

I felt like I was on some silly candid-camera show. While Julian and I definitely went through our share of “I need space” drama, that didn’t separate me from any other woman who was dealing with any other man—especially a successful man. I never would’ve thought that he would really split up with me—not for real, for real. Inside, I couldn’t even believe he was serious this time. He was just as feisty and nervous about commitment as all of my other friends’ boyfriends-turned-husbands, and everyone had assured me that if I stuck it out, he’d come around and realize that he was supposed to be with me. So what the heck was happening? As I said, Julian was one of the good guys. The man visits his ailing grandmother every Thursday night. He’s no heartbreaker. Julian was just heaven-sent—at least that was the way it had seemed when we met just over a year ago at the bookstore at NYU.

It was definitely an unlikely meeting. It was the beginning of my second semester at NYU Law and I was there to pick up a book…and maybe even a man if one crossed my path. I spotted Julian as soon as he walked in because he looked like a lost mountain man. His beard was completely overgrown, his shirt was all crooked and crumpled, and his hair was in desperate need of a cut. Before I got a good look at him, I thought that he’d just escaped from the city jail, but the closer he got, the more I knew this wasn’t the case. Even a lesbian had to admit that beneath the rough edges, there was a fine-ass black man.

Looking at his calm hazel eyes and roasted-pecan skin, I just wanted to have his babies and play in his thick, jet black hair for the rest of my life. While I was sure he wasn’t a good fit for me socially (seeing as how he was an escaped convict), within the two seconds it took for me to squeeze past him in the doorway, I rationalized that we could live off of my salary after I graduated from law school and settle down in one of my father’s properties in downtown Brooklyn. I could clean him up a bit, show him the high-society ropes, and help him get back on his feet. Squeezing by only made my interest grow. My hazel-eyed, ex-con/future-husband smelled like a cloud and his stomach was completely solid when I stood on my tippy toes and brushed my bootie up against it—don’t be jealous, I said excuse me.

When I turned to put my school bag in one of the free lockers, I decided to drop my book and prayed he would notice. He’d pick it up, I’d smile and say, “Thank you. Let’s go home now, fine-ass man.” I thought it was a pretty solid plan. I pulled my torts book from my bag and looked toward him to make sure he would notice the drop and have no choice but to acquiesce.

That’s when I saw the scrubs. The blue freakin’ scrubs. My heart started racing. I felt sweat beads forming on my forehead. I reached for my compact; I needed to check my makeup. I reached for my two-way pager; I needed to text my girls. I reached for my phone; I needed to call my mother. A doctor, I thought, feeling my Gucci bag fall to the floor. He’s a doctor. Did I say that aloud?

“Yes, I’m a doctor,” Hazel Eyes said, looking at me. “Can I help you?” He reached down and picked up my bag.

Dumb ass, dumb ass, dumb ass. I silently cursed myself for letting “doctor” slip out. Now I was looking like a gold digger—thank God I don’t fall for that label. Seems like every time a sister reveals that she’s trying to have a successful man by her already successful side, folks start calling her a gold digger. I say it’s bull. I’m not a gold digger. I’m a gold sharer; I have mine and my man had better have his own.

“Are you okay, sis?” Hazel Eyes asked. I couldn’t say anything. I was stunned. My future son’s father was a door-opening panhandler when I first walked into the store and now he was a doctor. I needed time to work it all out in my head. I needed a new plan.

“I’m sorry. I was just trying to remember my professor’s name,” I managed to say. Good catch. Good catch.

“Oh, I thought you were talking to me,” he said. “I was wondering how you knew I was a doctor.” He smiled and I do believe I witnessed the cutest white teeth I’d ever seen. I couldn’t help but to return the favor. By the time he handed me my purse, we were exchanging names and numbers. It’s amazing what a smile and a growing concern over the irregular heart palpitations I only experience in bed will do. Hey, I just needed some advice.

A week later, while walking through Central Park, Julian would tell me that he knew I was lying about not knowing he was a doctor, but he thought it was cute that I was so fast on my feet. He was doing his residency at NYU Medical Center and that day he’d stopped by the bookstore to pick up a book for a new recruit. He was glad he did. He’d noticed me as soon as he entered the bookstore. He said my skin that was just a few shades darker than the sweetest vanilla bean ice cream was striking. Right away he noticed the thin spray of light brown freckles that swept across my nose from cheek to cheek—a genetic gift from my mother I was always trying to hide with makeup—and thought he’d like to kiss each one of them as he made his way to look into my dark brown eyes. Plus, he’d always had a thing for sisters with a little extra shape to their derrières, and mine was looking like a perfect size ten in my fitted black slacks. I was definitely his type and he was trying to find a way to introduce himself when he heard me say “doctor.” It was music to his ears. And listening to this description of me as we walked through Central Park with snow falling all around us and kids laughing and playing was certainly music to mine. I do believe I was already falling in love with Julian.

With a romantic beginning like that, who ever would have thought that we’d end up breaking up over sushi? I kept asking myself that question over and over as I drove home from Shimizu. That was just not how love stories went—not in any of the romantic movies, fairy tales, books, songs, poems, or limericks I’d ever laid eyes on. It was supposed

to be happily ever after like it was for Cinderella and that green girl in Shrek. It was supposed to be a happy ending. For once, it was supposed to be my happy ending.

But it wasn’t, and after spending the rest of the day and the entire night crying and thinking about where in the world I’d gone wrong, I was feeling down and I was definitely out. Locked up in my apartment for almost twenty-nine hours straight, I was feeling like the loneliest person in the world as Wednesday had washed away into Thursday. Although I was used to being alone on Thursdays while Julian visited his grandmother in Queens, it didn’t feel the same. There was no one waiting to see me, no one I was waiting to see. Just me and Pookie, the damn dog I picked out, locked up alone in my apartment. I was now a single dog parent, a neglectful one, and there was only one thing I could do to stop myself from completely losing my mind and swallowing a bottle of Ambien. Call my girls.

Meet the 3Ts: Troy, Tasha, and Tamia

While there are some things I absolutely hate about being a woman (crippling cramps and bad hair days being at the top of the list), the one thing that makes up for all of the drama is having girlfriends. They know your dirt, they keep your dirt a secret, and when called upon they’re usually willing to do your dirt.

I just happen to have the best dirt-doing girlfriends in the whole world—Tamia Lovebird and Tasha Lovestrong. No, those aren’t their real last names; we all chose best friends’ last names when we formed our ultimate girlfriend supper club during our sophomore year at Howard University. Swearing off all other girlfriends, we held hands around a bucket of KFC in my dorm room, took on last names that all began with the word “Love” (mine being Troy Lovesong), and named our alliance “The 3Ts.” After that faithful, finger-lickin’ night, we were stuck together like Krazy Glue and it’s been that way for the last six years. Hands down, while they can be a little crazy, my girls are my rocks, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

It had been twenty-nine hours, about twenty-nine thousand tears, and twenty-nine million doubts after my breakup with Julian when I finally picked up the phone to call on the other 2Ts. While inside I just wanted to barricade myself in my bedroom and cry for the rest of my life, I was sure that little plan wouldn’t work, because my father would stop paying my rent at some point. So it was time to face the girls and talk it out. Wasn’t that supposed to make things better?

“Hey, T, I’m about to meet my study group at the library. Can I call you back?” Tamia asked, answering my call on the first ring. She always picked up on the first ring, and no matter what time of day I was calling, she’d sound as if she was wide awake, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, studying, studying, studying. That was just her thing, though. I guess you could say she was the nerdy friend. Tamia got straight A’s all through Howard U. and she was now in the top 1 percent of our law school class. Yes, she was the 3Ts resident Einstein, but Tamia’s brains weren’t to be mistaken for a lack of beauty. She definitely wasn’t the kind of girl you’d introduce as simply being “nice.” While she preferred less social circles than the ones Tasha and I frequented in undergrad, Tamia was the envy of the campus. Crowned Ms. Howard University twice (yes, twice), Tamia complemented her brains with a beauty most of the women on campus found unattainable and the men found irresistible. Her flawless deep mocha complexion played second fiddle only to her near black, brown eyes that seemed to always be looking at something beautiful. Her lips were perfectly round and puckered in a perpetual kiss that needed not a dab of lip gloss.

“Okay,” I said, trying not to sound too sad. I guess the Mary J. playing in the background gave me away.

“What’s wrong?” Tamia pried. “Is that Mary you’re listening to? You okay? Everyone okay?”

“I’m fine.” I burst into tears for what had to have been the billionth time. Even the idea of saying what went down with Julian the day before made me break down again. What a mess. “You can call me back when you get done at the library,” I rattled off.

“Well, you don’t sound fine,” she said, now whispering as if she was in the library. “What is it? Tell me. I have a minute.”

“We broke up, T,” I managed, blowing my nose on a napkin from the huge box of Kleenex I had stashed next to my bed.

“What happened?”

“He just said he needs…” Another breakdown was coming. “space…”

Pookie looked up at me sitting on the bed. Even his huge Chihuahua eyes looked sad after hearing my words. I wondered if he understood what was going on: that his human daddy was gone and never ever coming back. Never ever ever.

“Oh, Troy,” Tamia said, “I’m sorry to hear that. When did it happen? What did he say?”