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“Well. Why?” Journey asked. She was sitting before a backdrop of finger paintings and family photos. Since the wedding two years before, Dame and Journey actually had the twins—two little boys (Jessie and Justin)—and a baby girl, Apache. Journey released her first album, Black Warriors, and it became an instant classic, but she wanted to take time off to raise the children around their father. That meant that they basically lived in hotels. She tried to keep some semblance of regularity by hanging the children’s artwork and pictures everywhere they went.
“I told you before, she’s a faker. A phony. She’s trying to . . . I don’t know . . . get Ian to marry her,” I said.
“So you don’t think she loves him?” Journey asked.
“No. I don’t know . . . Maybe.”
“Does he love her?” She leaned in with a little more interest.
“No!” I sucked my teeth. “I don’t know . . . Yes? But only because he doesn’t know who she really is.”
“And you do?” Journey reached down to pick up Apache, who’d just started walking and was grabbing for the keyboard. “Look, you keep saying how much you don’t like her, but you can’t say why and you haven’t even told Ian how you feel about her.”
“Because I can’t—”
“You can’t find anything really wrong with her.”
“It’s just a feeling in my gut that this is wrong. That she’s wrong. That she’s wrong for him.”
One of the twins showed up beside Journey at the laptop. They both looked just like Dame.
“Then who’s right for him, Rachel?” Journey flashed an accusing frown.
“Don’t get on that again. There’s nothing between Ian and me. He’s my best friend.”
“Well, you be his best friend and just support him. Be there for him. Instead of being all suspicious about this being the worst thing for him, help him make it the best thing for him. Can you do that?”
“Whatever. Yes. I mean, if this is what he wants . . . whatever,” I said. “Marry the fake-ass Angela Davis.”
The little boy climbed on the desk in front of Journey and peered into the camera at me. He came in so close all I could see was his mouth.
“Boy, back up from the camera,” I heard Journey order before she pulled him back. Then the other twin showed up.
“I hungry, Mama,” he said as Journey hustled him back into her lap.
“Oh heavens!” Journey said, trying to manage both of them at the computer and not looking like she was going to be successful. With all of her responsibilities literally mounting up in front of her, my emergency seemed so trivial. “Look, Rachel, duty calls. I need to feed these little people.”
“OK.”
“But listen, before I go, there’s something else I want you to consider.”
“What?” I asked.
“Why this bothers you so much.”
“He’s my best—”
“No, no, no,” Journey said. “I don’t mean that. I mean, maybe this is less about Ian getting married and more about you not getting married. You said it yourself last week. Another year alone. Another Christmas. Another New Year’s. Just be certain that you’re not trying to stop your friend from getting engaged simply because you’re not the friend who’s getting engaged.”
The lobby of the midtown hotel where Ian had reserved the suite for Scarlet’s birthday party was so full it looked like it was the spectacular New Year’s Eve celebration I’d missed the night before. Techno-pop washed into the grand entrance through invisible speakers and a matching modern decor of art deco leather couches and random abstract sculptures provided the perfect backdrop for a thick crowd of leftover partygoers, whose chatter seemed to erupt into uproarious laughter every thirty seconds.
As I snaked through the maze, careful not to drown in someone’s martini or tip over in the red six-inch platform heels I’d need to hop out of in three hours and slide on the flip-flops I was carrying in my purse, I realized that the gathering was almost all black men. Impeccably dressed. Irresistibly fine. The brothers were everywhere. It looked like a single black woman’s dream—well, any woman’s dream. And the few sisters (white and black) who were sprinkled into the mix were beaming like lottery winners, holding onto whatever brothers they could catch.
Taking note, I put my meanest platform stiletto walk into action. I’d pinned my loose natural curls up in a pompadour bang, summoning a bit of Afro-chic glamour, and slid on a simple little black halter dress that let my red heels do all the talking. I knew I looked good when I walked out of the house. And now here was the test of my evaluation. Journey always says, “Anytime is a good time to meet a great man.” Unfortunately, most single sisters, especially the successful single sisters, are guilty of giving up on the day-to-day meeting opportunities that present themselves. So they rush when they leave the house—put on little to no makeup, jogging pants, Uggs, and T-shirts that are so old you can hardly read the lettering. They put hats over their hair, shades over their eyes, and frowns on their faces, and go out into the world like they’re ready for war. And then wonder why they haven’t met anyone or had a date in years. Of course, this is the extreme, but I know I’ve been guilty of at least five of these counts on a daily basis. Now, taking Grammy Annie-Lou’s advice that “Even a barn needs a little paint,” I try my best to look my best even when I feel my worst. While I’m the judge and jury of what exactly that best look is before I leave the house, once I’m on the go there’s a new sheriff in town. Now, I know I’m a complete neurotic mess, but there’s something about the whole process of just knowing men will look at me that all the way fucks with my mind when I’m walking by. I’m always like:
1. What if they look for a second, frown unmoved, and turn away? Death sentence! Does that mean I need to go to the gym? Dye my platinum edges? Stop wearing this darn pink lip gloss?
2. What if they look and smile, but don’t say anything? That’s better than the death sentence, but a smile isn’t getting me anywhere. I didn’t spend thirty minutes on my hair to go home with a bag of smiles. Do I try to slow down awkwardly and start up a conversation with a total stranger? He smiled. Right?
