When Somebody Loves You Back. Mary B. Morrison

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СКАЧАТЬ sounded, the next day was a replica of yesterday, and it seemed like the groundhog saw its shadow every day because each tomorrow for the next eighteen-years-plus brought sorrows that would make demands of the black woman to carry on, humming the same old hymn…“I won’t complain.”

      Who would take care of the black woman while she sacrificed to rear her kids, pay the bills, and all too often, sleep alone at night, wondering if her direct deposit would post in time to keep the lights on, or balance her checkbook the day before payday to restock the refrigerator before emptying the cabinets, or feed her children the last few slices of bread while she watched them eat?

      The black woman didn’t need anybody’s empathy. She was a survivor by nature. The Mother of Jesus, many denied the undeniable, but what the black woman fell short of was an epiphany: a lesson in how to love herself first. How to stop stressing about not knowing if her baby daddy—daddies—would ever show up at his children’s events, parent-teacher conferences, if he’d ever pay her child support, and ultimately to stop worrying about whom he had sex with when he wasn’t loving her, that is, if he’d ever loved her.

      Love or the lack thereof, based on his mother’s mistakes, Darius reluctantly admitted to himself, what most men at some point in their lives experienced; he was terrified of two things: falling in love and failure. No one had taught him how to attain one while avoiding the other. Either, or would render him vulnerable. Destroy his character. Ultimately strip him of his manhood.

      A man in love was weak for his woman. Would do anything for his woman. The more he gave, the more control she wanted. Darius didn’t want to be hard on women; he had to be. The cold, callous, careless, arrogant, inconsiderate, selfish person ruling his existence, primarily with his dick, wasn’t him. But if Darius didn’t protect his heart, who would? Surely not the women who’d emotionally broken him down. Like the one blabbering on the other end of his cell phone wasting his time, burning up his daytime minutes.

      Sitting in the white Hummer limousine, next to his fiancée, Darius regretted answering his phone. If it were up to him, he would’ve ignored the call, but no, Fancy had to insist, “Answer, it.” Translation, “Put that bitch in check so I won’t have to.”

      Darius was stuck again between the old and the new pussies.

      Ashlee cried in his ear, “I’m sorry.” No, she wasn’t. “I never wanted to hurt you.” Yes, she did. Otherwise she wouldn’t have phoned. “And no matter what, I love you.” That was probably the one truth.

      No woman could resist Darius’s six-foot-eleven, 240-pound muscular caramel frame with six percent body fat, his lustrous shoulder-length locks, chiseled chin, hazel eyes, perfect white teeth, his millions of dollars, or his big eight-inch dick and the fact that he knew how to sling Slugger and eat pussy oh so sweet that the strongest women submitted to him.

      Ashlee continued, “But you need to know.”

      Exhaling, Darius conceded, “Then tell me.”

      Crying, like most women did when they wanted sympathy for something that was their fault, Ashlee said, “Our son, Darius Junior, died from HIV complications.”

      Whoa, that was some cold-blooded shit to drop on a brotha on his wedding day. Hell, any day. “And you?” Darius whispered.

      Sniffling, Ashlee said, “Positive.”

      The numbness in Darius’s body caused the phone to slip from between his fingers.

      Picking up the phone, Fancy questioned Ashlee. “What did you tell him?” Fancy looked at the phone, then said, “Hello? Hello?” Staring at Darius, Fancy began crying along with him. She muttered, “She hung up. Please tell me. What did she say?”

      If Fancy had kept her damn mouth shut, he wouldn’t be trippin’ over Ashlee’s bullshit. Why in the fuck did he have to answer his phone?

      “Move! From now on, don’t tell me what to do.”

      “Don’t you dare turn this on me! Fine, forget I asked. You think you can handle everything by yourself. In here,” Fancy scolded, pressing her finger into Darius’s temple. “Well, you can’t. And I’m not marrying a man who doesn’t need, trust, or value my opinions.”

      Softly, Darius said, “It’s not like that. I do respect you.” Her opinion was what he didn’t care for. Darius pressed a button, lowering the divider window, then instructed the driver, “Man, take me straight home.”

      “Oakland or Los Angeles?”

      That’s how Darius wanted his life, clear cut. Black or white. A or B. Gray areas were like women, ambiguous and complicated. Darius answered, “Los Angeles.”

      Banging his face against the limo window, Darius worried, was his HIV test, taken years ago, a false negative? How many women had he possibly infected? Darius could start with the one sitting next to him.

      CHAPTER 1

      Candice

      Alone, Candice sat in Jada’s guest bedroom by the large bay window, enjoying the second-floor view. Inside the cozy space, a plush queen-size bed with a red satin buttonhole headboard rested catty-corner facing the door. The sparkling fuchsia duvet adorned a dozen tasseled pillows. A pink leather bench perched adjacent to the footboard.

      The glass-top computer desk faced outside, snug beneath the redwood window frame. Candice’s fingers skated along the keyboard, sixty, seventy words a minute:

      I had a dilemma many married women shared: Should I divorce my impotent husband or not? I’d instantly trade in a broken car I couldn’t fix or sell a run-down house that cost more to maintain than its value. My husband wasn’t a thing; he was a human being. A cheating man, who’d fucked around for over twenty years, with the same woman.

      Candice paused, gazing at the rolling green hillside resembling the peaks and valleys of their friendship. Jada was Candice’s girl, her best friend, her right hand. They’d partied together, laughed, cried, double-dated. Met their husbands the same night at Cityscape in San Francisco at a Will Downing, Rachelle Farrell concert.

      That was BM, before marriage, those were the good old days. Jada met Wellington. Candice met Terrell. Wellington fucked up, Jada married Lawrence. Terrell fucked up, Candice married Terrell. They both relocated from Oakland to L.A but not together. Jada moved to get away from Wellington. Candice would’ve moved anywhere in the world to be with Terrell, who lived in Los Angeles.

      Terrell was five years younger, an international model, and, so she’d thought, wealthy until she married him, realizing Terrell lived well above his means. He owned a huge house with a waterfall, bought her an expensive wedding ring. The first sign of financial trouble was when Terrell purchased matching his-and-hers Mercedes Benzes, with her money.

      Accepting Terrell’s ring, Candice felt obligated to get married. What if she didn’t get another chance to meet a man like him? If Candice had remained single, and Jada had gotten married, they wouldn’t have stayed friends. Not close friends.

      Assuming their wives weren’t intelligent enough to think, insecure married men objected to their spouses kickin’ it with single girlfriends. A selfish man could ruin a good friendship. Hoping she and her girl would stay close, Candice said, “I do,” shortly after Jada called off her engagement to Wellington.

      The main thing Candice tried to avoid happened. СКАЧАТЬ