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“Oh, please,” Persia says teasingly. “We couldn’t stand his big head. Hi, I’m Persia.” She shakes her hand. Porsha introduces herself next.
Garrett pulls Persia into a big hug. “Yeah, right, Apple Head. Tell the truth. You couldn’t stand not having me around.” We share a laugh until this cocoa brown woman walks by, distracting all of us. She’s wrapped in a form-fitting, white silk gown with thigh-high slits that leaves very little to the imagination. Her designer clutch is tucked under her arm. I glance down at her shoes as she sashays by. They’re a gorgeous pair of high-heel, platform ankle-straps in white satin. But it’s not her expensive wears or the blinding diamonds wrapped around her wrist or in her lobes that has us glued to her. It’s her sculpted body, and her humongous ass that has us all mesmerized.
“My God, she’s wearing that dress,” Porsha says, eyeing her.
“Mmmmph, that chile has a whole lot of ass,” Mother says, cutting her eyes over at Daddy who keeps them locked on her backside until she’s out of view. Garrett shifts his eyes when Bianca catches him staring too long.
“Oh, she stops traffic wherever she goes,” Bianca states, stealing a sideways glance at her.
“You know her?” Garrett asks curiously.
“Not personally. I’ve seen her down at Pasha’s salon a few times. Her name is Cassandra. But in the streets they call her Big Booty.”
“And I see why,” Persia says, shaking her head. “If I had her body, I’d be dangerous.”
Mother grunts but is cut off by Daddy. “Oh, look,” he says, pointing toward the back of the tent. “They’re about to start the receiving line.”
We spot Aunt Harriett dressed in a white, ankle-length dress-suit with a portrait collar bolero jacket. She’s first in the receiving line, followed by another woman who I assume to be the groom’s mother. She’s smartly dressed in a bone-colored gown standing next to a man who looks like a taller version of the groom. Standing next to him is Pasha.
“Ohmygod, she looks beautiful,” I whisper to Porsha and Persia. Mother and Father are in back of us, followed by Garrett and Bianca. Pasha looks gorgeous in a white silk, backless, beaded gown with a deep-pleated train. “Her gown looks absolutely stunning from here.”
“I’m so glad she didn’t wear a veil,” Mother says to no one in particular.
Numerous waiters donned in crisp white tuxedo shirts, white slacks and white tuxedo vests walk by offering flutes of Krug, Clos Du Mesnil and Dom Rose—two of the most expensive champagnes—to guests as we wait to move through the line.
Standing next to Pasha is the handsome groom, Jasper, decked out in a black tux with white vest and tie. “I hate to say this, but her man is fine,” Persia whispers in my ear. Porsha and I agree. “I wonder if he has any single brothers.”
“I’m sure he has some in the wedding party,” I say, craning my neck to look past him. Standing next to him is Felecia, who is Pasha’s maid of honor. Next to her are three bridesmaids.
“I don’t see any of the groomsmen,” Porsha says, eyeing the line as she sips her champagne. I tell her it’s optional to have all of the wedding party members in the line, or not.
“With all these guests,” Persia adds, looking around at the line. “We’d be standing in this line for hours if they did.” She grabs another flute of champagne, sitting her empty glass up on the tray when a waiter comes by. I take another glass as well.
As the guests move through the receiving line, they’re then led through an archway that leads into another tent where dinner will be served. I watch as everyone in the bridal party stays focused, smiles painted on their faces, as each guest is greeted. Thirty people ahead of us, the woman with the big ass who Garrett’s fiancée called Big Booty, shakes Aunt Harriett’s hand, moving down the line. I watch as she hugs Pasha, then Jasper, kissing him on the cheek.
Porsha and I eye each other with a raised brow. “I bet you these eight-hundred-dollar heels they’ve fucked,” she whispers.
“I hope not,” I say.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he has, though, since he used to cheat on her before he went off to prison,” Persia notes. I watch as she gives Felecia a hug, then says a few words to the three bridesmaids before walking off. “Speaking of groomsmen,” she says in a hushed tone, “there’s two of them right there. And they both look like they might be fine.”
Two men, one tall and dar
k-skinned and the other the color of caramel, in white tuxedos, walk up to Jasper. The dark-skinned man leans in and whispers something into Jasper’s ear. The three of them share a laugh. I can’t make out who he is since my view is now being blocked by the other groomsmen and a thin woman and her extremely large date who are shaking hands with Pasha, then saying something to Jasper and the two groomsmen.
As we move closer to the line, the dark-skinned groomsman standing in front of Jasper turns slightly to the side, letting the couple go by. I catch a glimpse of his side profile. Persia abruptly gets out of line, almost knocking over one of the waiters and his tray. I turn in her direction, ask where she’s going. “I gotta use the bathroom.”
“Well, hurry up,” I state, turning back toward the receiving line. I drop my drink, gasping. “Oh my God,” I say in a whisper.
“What is it?” Porsha asks.
“It’s him.”
“Who?” Her eyes follow the direction of my stare.
“Desmond,” I whisper as he turns his head in our direction and locks his eyes on mine.
Persia
