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“Now we’re getting somewhere. Why are we beefing, Dime?”

I prepare for a fight just in case. I know how she gets down. Swing or shoot first, ask later. If I were anybody else, we’d already be rolling around on the floor throwing MMA strikes.

“I don’t feel appreciated in our friendship. At all.” “Hmm. Care to explain why?”

“Gladly. You and I both know I needed that lounge job more than Tyesha. She already has a business. Not to mention, you rarely check on me the way you do for her. It’s like you only see me as your friend when you need something. You mainly call me for weed. You know today was the first time you asked about your niece since you even opened that damn lounge? Had you asked before, you would’ve already known Kota was gone for the summer. Tye knew. Take a guess as to how.”

Guilt hits my stomach like a speeding car.

“Okay, you’re right. I’ve been kind of selfish…”

Dime throws a hand up.

“I’m not done.”

“Oop. My bad, go ahead.”

“And then, I just feel like you’ve been judgmental as fuck too.” “Judgmental?”

“Very! Always rolling your eyes at me whenever I talk about the niggas I date. Treating me like some hoe because I like to fuck and date around. As if you and your husband are the Huxtables or some shit. I may not have a stable relationship like you, sure. At least I’m honest about it. My baby daddy is fuckin’ dead. My family doesn’t exist outside of the foster sisters I’ve grown to make my own. Your mom is in rehab. I don’t even know what the fuck my mother looks like anymore. And my father…”

She takes a second to breathe, legs shaking like she’s preparing to explode.

“My father isn’t around, because he chose not to be,” she goes on, turning completely towards me with red eyes, “You wouldn’t know shit about that, Morgan. You’re little Miss Perfect.

Living in the suburbs now. Married to a fuckin’ wealthy ass nigga. This nigga has coffee in stores. Magazine articles about him and shit. All my niggas have to show for themselves is hard dick, conflict, and boring conversation. Unless I get lucky enough to find one who pays my rent. So, yeah, I’m very disappointed in our friendship right now.”

We both sit quietly with our words for a minute. Both of us clearly still feel some type of way. While I can understand her side, it’s still rather unfair for her to project that type of energy onto me. Hell, it’s not my fault I found the perfect man for me. That’s just how life happened. I can still sympathize with her though. I’m sure it’s not easy raising a child alone.

Kota’s dad, Jaron, has been dead for a while. Stabbed to death. It still hasn’t been solved either. Whoever did it was slick. They left no DNA on the scene. No footprints or fingerprints. Nothing.

Rumor on the street is that it was someone close to him. Maybe a scorned lover or something, considering how Jaron got down. He wasn’t the type to just let anybody run up on him. The way Dime always described him, he was a lot like Damien. At least in the sense that he always thought ahead. Always with eyes in the back of his head, type shit. Initially, I thought Dime did it herself since she damn near hated the nigga’s guts. But she always claims it wasn’t her.

Regardless, she’s still a single mother, grinding however she can to reach the promised land. It’s easy to assume somebody has it all together just because they make it seem that way. In hindsight, I could’ve been here for her more. It’s heavy on my mind as the silence ends.

“Anything else?”

“Nope, wanna smoke?”

“Sure. But I’d also like to have my side if you don’t mind.”

She shrugs.

“Be my guest.”

“Look, Dime. You’re right. You’re one hundred percent right. I haven’t been fair to you. Since we’ve become friends, I promised to look out and protect you the same way as Tyesha.”

She scoffs, “Well, you’ve failed lately, sis.” “Let me finish. You had your turn.”

“My bad, go ahead.”

“And admittedly, I’m not perfect. If there’s any indication of that, this is it. You may think I live in some glass house, Dime, but trust me, my windows are not bulletproof. You wanna talk about struggle? About pain? About growing up rough? Trust me, babes, I know all about that. My mother is in rehab, now, yes. That doesn’t mean she’s always been a saint. I have the emotional and sometimes, physical scars to prove it. You want to talk about my sex life? Absolutely, I found a man who I can explore my sexuality with unapologetically. After years of hiding in the closet, afraid to be who I really wanted to be, my husband allows me to do that. Willingly.

Together. That’s who we are. That’s who we’ll always be.”

Now in tears myself, I draw closer for her to really hear me.

“And as for these other niggas, let me remind you of Brendan. Remember him? The nigga who I used to call boss back at the Midnight Inn Hotel. The man I used to swear I wasn’t fucking for a better position, when we both know that’s exactly why I was fucking him. Yeah, I know all about dealing with corny ass men during the struggle. Who only offers toxicity and good dick in the same breath,” I cross my arms before continuing,