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“Down with what?” she asks.
I shake my head, sighing. Paris can sometimes come off being so damn ditsy. “Uh, earth to Paris, down with Royce. Geesh, keep up with the conversation.”
She laughs. “Persia, kiss my ass, okay? How about you keep up with the conversation. I already told you I’m not interested in letting him stretch my pussy out. But if you and Porsha want to do him, then fuck and be merry. I’ll watch.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. The next time he’s lying on his back with his dick rock-hard, let’s see how long it takes before your pussy is begging to be stretched.”
“Yeah, we’ll see. Won’t we?” She and I go back and forth reminiscing over our night with Royce a few minutes more, then disconnect.
The rest of the morning I update the boutique’s website, go through emails, reply to Facebook messages, and return phone calls to potential clients. Running my own web design company for the last three years has been not only very lucrative, it’s also been rewarding. Though my bachelor’s degree is in marketing, my love is now in graphic design. And I owe it to Paris.
Designing the website for Paradise Boutique was the start of me realizing where my true talents lie. After all the rave reviews she had gotten about the design of her website and the numerous email requests for design quotes I’d gotten, I knew then I had found my calling. And from that came the birth of Sleek Media Designs where I provide premier web design and development, e-commerce, and Internet marketing solutions.
I get up from desk, walking over to the window. I see Porsha pulling up in the driveway. She parks her convertible 650i behind my Jag, then gets out. For some reason, my phone conversation with Emerson pops in my head. Mmmph, I’ma make sure Paris and Porsha know to delete his number, too. Talking about he ain’t feeling me. Nigga, please!
Paris
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As I’m driving down Bloomfield Avenue, heading to Union to meet my mother for lunch at the HUCK Finn diner, I find myself thinking about my phone conversation with Persia the other day and her attitude toward our mother. The last thing I want is to be sucked into Persia’s contempt for her. To distract myself, I slide Marsha Ambrosius’ Late Nights, Early Mornings album into the CD player. I press the CD changer until I get to track 6. When “Lose Myself” starts playing, I sing along, turning off J.F. Kennedy Drive onto the Garden State Parkway. I bear off exit 140, pay the toll and head down Morris Avenue. I spot the diner on the right side, turning on my signal to turn into the parking lot.
Once I find a parking spot and park, I take off my Versace shades, flipping down my visor. I slide open the mirror, making sure my hair is still in place. I run my fingers through my curls, deciding to pin it up. I rummage through my bag, pulling out a crystal encrusted hairpin, then flip my hair up into a twist ponytail. I slide my shades back over my eyes, then step out of my car, hoping my mother and I can get through our meal without incident.
She’s already seated when I walk through the door. Lips pursed, her face tight, she glances at her watch the minute she sees me. I sigh. “Hello, Mother,” I say, greeting her with a forced smile as I lean in and kiss her on the cheek.
“Fashionably late as usual,” she starts in. “But if I were your father, you would have been here way before me. I don’t know why you girls treat me so indifferently.”
I give her an incredulous look. “Really, Mom? Are you serious? I’m five minutes late. Geesh. I haven’t even sat down good and you’re already picking. Can we, for once, spend the day without you starting up?” I hear Persia’s voice in my head. That woman’s unbearable. “All I want to do is enjoy a nice peaceful lunch with you. Do you think you can handle that without ruining it?”
She puts her hands up in mock surrender. “Fine. I’m only stating the obvious. Not looking to get into a fight with you.”
I raise a brow, feeling myself already getting frustrated. “Then don’t.”
My cell vibrates. I pick it up and see that I have a text from Persia. I BET SHE’S ALREADY GETTING ON YOUR NERVES. HAHAHAHA
I text back. WHATEVER!
A few moments later she replies back with a smiley face. “So are you gonna fiddle with that phone all day?” I apologize to her. Tell her it was Persia;
that she told me to tell her that she sends her love. Yeah, we both know it’s a lie. I smile. She gives me a look of disbelief, grunting. “Really? I find that hard to believe.”
“Mom, contrary to your feelings, Persia does think about you. We all do.”
“Well, they have a strange way of showing it; more so Persia than Porsha. At least Porsha will call me. Not as much as you do, but it’s still a whole lot more than what Persia does. That girl acts like I’ve done something to her when all I ever did was cater to you girls.”
I sigh, fully aware that this will turn into a drawn-out laundry list of all the wonderful things she’s done for us, the opportunities she’s afforded us—the private schools, summer camp, ballet and piano lessons, trips abroad, paying for our college tuitions, blah, blah, blah. The list never ends. “Mom, listen...I don’t want to talk about that. We’re very much aware of everything you’ve ever done for us. And we’re appreciative. Why you insist on reminding us every chance you get is beyond me.”
I hear Persia’s voice, again. She does it because she wants us to keep kissing her ass. She wants us to feel obligated to her.
“Well, it seems like you girls sometimes forget all of the sacrifices your father and I had to make to ensure the three of you wanted for nothing.”
I bite down on my bottom lip, pulling in a deep breath. My phone buzzes, again. She stares at it, waits to see if I’m going to pick it up, raising her brow. I turn it off, then toss it in my bag. “There. Now, how have you been?”
She opens her mouth to say something when the waitress comes over to take our orders. She orders the breakfast special. And I order their Greek salad. She watches the waitress walk off, then tells me that she’s doing well. I am mindful to not ask her anything about my father; especially knowing she realizes we talk to him every day. I ask her if she’s done anything new to the house since we’ve last been there. She tells me no. Tells me money’s been tight. Then, in the next breath, says she’s looking to buy a new Benz—the S-class series. I don’t say a word. She stops talking when the waitress returns to the table to fill our glasses with water. She asks her to bring us some lemons, then waits for her to walk off again.
“I wanted to put in a new kitchen floor and buy some new appliances, but your father said there’s nothing wrong with what we have. I swear, that man can be so tight when it comes to spending money. He is so cheap. All he wants to do is save. I ask him what he’s saving for; it’s not like we can take it with us if something happens to us. I want to spend my money. What’s the point of leaving my hard-earned money behind for someone else to spend up? I told your father there’s no sense of leaving any of it with you girls. Y’all have gotten enough out of us over the years. I told him we sent y’all to private schools, paid for your college educations and made sure none of you had to be stuck with student loan bills. So we’ve done all we need to be doing. I want to enjoy my money while I’m alive. Not leave it for someone else to mess over.”
I stare at her, then blink. She’s oblivious to what’s come out of her mouth. I am so glad Persia isn’t here right now. This situation would definitely turn ugly real fast. I take a deep breath. Say a silent prayer that I can get through this lunch without incident. “So, what else is new?”
