Storming to his car, I warned him that if he didn’t leave me alone, I would tell my father—who just so happened to be real close with a few bank owners. And I knew damn well the way he treated me would not sit right with certain people who could rearrange his entire financial world with one conversation.
That must’ve been when the light bulb came on, because after that, he vanished.
He vanished, but the pain he caused me stayed behind.
I rubbed the spot where my beautiful engagement ring once rested. Why does it feel like my heart is bleeding inside my chest? What did I do to deserve this kind of pain? How could someone blessed with the hands to bring life into this world also be cursed to never have a happy one of her own?
Maybe God thought that I being in love would pull me off the path He set for me—that I’d pour so much of myself into a husband that I’d lose focus on being an OBGYN, on fighting for Black women in maternal health. But that couldn’t be it. Weren’t we designed to pair? Surely, He wouldn’t gift me the capacity to love another soul, only to keep me from showing how great I could be at it.
I guess the old gospel whispers were right. This life is not about you. We’re all on His mission. On borrowed time.
Got me taking out my IUD, thinking he's my forever. I hope every time he microwaves food, the middle stays cold no matter how long he heats it.
“What’s wrong, pretty girl?” Amber asked, her bottom lip poking out.
We were at Ryze’s, a local jazz spot known for its top-shelf bartenders and Parmesan—garlic flat chicken wings that could make you lick the plate clean. Earl, the florist and frequent visitor, was making his rounds with his cart, selling roses. I grabbed a bar napkin and quickly dabbed at my eyes. I was so over crying, but lately it seemed like tears were the only natural thing to do. It had gotten so bad that after my third week of not showing up for work, Amber came over and dragged me out of the house. She’d given me space, let me grieve and, as she called it, “detox from a fuck nigga,” but tonight she decided enough was enough.
“I’m sorry, Ambs, I’m trying, I swear I am,” I sobbed. “Shit just fucking hurts. Am I cursed?” I asked through misty eyes.
Amber rose from the barstool next to me and wrapped me in her arms. “Aww, baby, no. There’s no set timeline for heartbreak, but I’m not going to let you sulk in self-doubt. You’re amazing, inside and out—you can’t let the actions of an asshole reconstruct how you see yourself.” She paused, then smirked. “Besides, the only thing you’re cursed with is good pussy!”
I laughed so hard at her crazy ass.
“Thanks, Amber,” I said, hugging her tightly around the waist.
“You can also take a remedy straight from the Urban Hoochie Mama Thesaurus,” she continued.
“And what’s that?”
“Et um.” She cleared her throat dramatically. “According to the UHM Thesaurus, the best way to get over a nigga is to get under a new one,” she said with a wink.
Why was I not surprised that something like that would leave her mouth? A few women sitting across from us heard my friend’s bold declaration and lifted their glasses in agreement.
“Facts, sis,” one chimed.
I guess I wasn’t the only one nursing heartbreak tonight. Come to think of it, the bar was full of beautiful women from all kinds of backgrounds and walks of life.
“Attention! All the bad bitches at the bar who don’t give a fuck about a nigga—my beautiful friend here has let her crown slip just a little bit, and I was wondering if we could come together for just a moment and pour some magic on her,” she announced.
“Amber!” I hissed.
“What, bitch? I ain’t tell them it was a lying, married-ass nigga who tilted your shit.”
“Oh my goodness.” I covered my face in embarrassment. When her ass was off thatPatrón, there was no taming her.
Just as I mustered up the courage to uncover my face, the woman who’d agreed with my bold friend earlier appeared in front of me with a rose. Handing it to me, she gently adjusted the imaginary crown on my head and said, “It’s okay if it slips. We can’t control life—only God has that power. But never let anyone who didn’t place that crown on your head knock it off, because only God can do that, too.” She gave me the warmest smile.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
Fuck—here came the tears. Reaching for another napkin, I noticed a line of women at Earl’s cart buying roses. One by one, they each came to me, adjusting my imaginary crown, gifting me roses, and speaking affirmations over me.
“My ex-nigga had a whole baby on me, then turned around and dumped me, the baby,andbrought a dog,” one woman confessed.
We all burst into laughter in unison. These niggas were unbelievable.
Two rounds of Hennessy shots landed on the bar—two for each of us—courtesy of Amber and my newly found sister circle.
“Thank you, ladies, but we’re on light tonight,” I announced. We’d already been throwing Patron back like it was about to be discontinued, and there was no way we needed to add Henny to the mix. I handed my two shots back to the bartender, but before she could remove them, Amber placed a hand on her wrist.
