The lie burns like acid on my tongue, and it comes too quickly. Monique’s brows pull together. She is constantly suspicious of my marriage, picking apart everything I say and do as it relates to Aubrey because she can’t believe I could still love a man who apparently didn’t shed a tear for me while I was being held hostage by a man determined to kill me on national television. I don’t blame her for being skeptical. I don’t blame my parents or my sisters either. Everyone has questions, and all I have are the lies I tell to perpetuate the narrative Aubrey promised to kill me for contradicting.
“Okayyyyy,” Monique says slowly after a few tense seconds, where I force myself to hold perfectly still and maintain eye contact. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem for you to come into the office more. Just tell Allegory to keep it cute with the scheduling.”
Once again, I find myself laughing. “Her name is Allegra, and it’s not that simple, Mo.”
“Of course it is. You’re the First Lady. She works for you.”
“Right,” I drawl sarcastically. “How could I forget that?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” she says, tilting her head to the side. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
“What?”
“Sleep, Selene. Rest, recuperation, you know, when you lay down and close your eyes and your brain shuts off?”
I pick the pad of sticky notes next to the mouse and launch it at her head. “I know what sleep is, girl. I was just wondering where the question came from.”
She swats away the projectile just before it collides with her face. “Jesus! I was just curious!”
“Your curiosity wasn’t the problem. Your tone was.”
“Just answer the question, heffa.”
“No, Monique.” I let out a heavy sigh, knowing exactly where this conversation is going. “I didn’t get much sleep last night because I had a nightmare. What about you? Did you get your suggested eight hours?”
We both know the answer is no. Neither of us does a good job of taking care of ourselves, but Monique is usually worse than me about going to bed at a decent hour. After the kidnapping, that changed.
“This isn’t about me,” she says.
“Well, I don’t want it to be about me.”
“You’re the one having nightmares about the very real trauma you experienced that resulted in the death of three people. One of whom has a crazy ass racist daddy who told the world he was gunning for you.”
Monique’s recounting of Leland’s viral video is just as dramatic as Mama’s was when she called me about it yesterday after she got done talking to Cal and Beck. I roll my eyes, and I’m not sure if the annoyance trickling down my spine is for my bestfriend or my mother and her ability to talk to my men whenever she wants.
“He did not say he was gunning for me.”
Her nostrils flare. “I’m not about to argue about word choice with you, Selene.”
“We’re not arguing. We’re not just discussing a series of facts you think are connected.”
“So you just think it’s a coincidence that you had your first nightmare in weeks after that video came out?”
Anyone with an ounce of common sense would know seeing Jacob’s face reflected in his father’s sneer was the cause of that awful dream returning, but I still resent Monique for making me admit it.
“No.”
It’s a low, defeated confession that my best friend takes no pleasure in extracting. She’s been riding the wave of my subconscious’ betrayal with me for months now, and I know I should do us both a favor and be a little less combative when it comes to addressing her concerns.
“Are you still against speaking to someone about all of this?”
“Thanks for talking me down earlier,” I say, switching subjects much to Monique’s frustration.
“You are getting on my last nerve today, you know that?” she growls, checking her watch and pushing to her feet. “You’re lucky I have a meeting with the coding academy coordinators, or else I’d beat your ass for all the shit you put me through.”
“No, you won’t. You love me too much,” I remind her, moving over to the door to give her a hug before we part ways. Even with her hands full, she manages to wrap me up in a tight hug. I’m so glad to have the physical contact, I don’t even complain about her laptop digging into my back.
“I do love you,” she confirms, pulling back to set a serious gaze on my face. “That’s why I want you to seriously think about going to therapy, okay?”
