Sunday’s, a famous soul food restaurant here in Havenbrook, catered the food. My mother was delighted when Mahasin said she could help plan the menu. Fried chicken, oxtails sliding off the bone in savory gravy, mac and cheese baked just right with that soft crust on top, shrimp and grits—the list could literally go on.
Amber had a mobile bartender set up a cocktail station with alcoholic and mocktail-themed drinks. The “Baby Blaque Blueberry Lemonade” was my favorite. She schooled me on the importance of mocktails—according to her, there are always a handful of other pregnant women at a baby shower. I wasn’t mad at any of it. This event felt like a love letter to my baby girl.
When Mahasin entered through the side entrance, the entire place went still. The—broke the internet—kind of still.
She was a vision of perfection in a soft pink satin gown with a sweetheart neckline—beautiful and timeless, just like her. Tru had pulled this off on short notice, a timeframe that probablywould’ve gotten anyone else cursed out. But that was the thing about my Dollface—everyone loved her, because she was love.
Not to mention the $10,500 it cost me. But fuck that money. I’d pay double to see Mahasin as beautiful and happy as she was today.
As I made my way to her, I briefly stopped to kiss both our mothers on their heads. They stayed still, starstruck, clasping their hands to their chests, trying not to cry at Mahasin’s beauty.
I dapped up our fathers and playfully slapped my brother upside his head. He threw a few fake punches in return.
When folks noticed the direction I was heading, they began clapping, drawing attention to the mommy-to-be and me.
She blushed, placing one hand in mine and the other on her belly.
“Damn,” Jason whispered in my ear as he stood next to me. “Bro, you know this where you should be.”
Metaphorically, he was saying I should be in a relationship with Mahasin—and I felt the same. My hopes were to be connected to her forever, and had I known God was granting heart desires that blissful night me and her shared, I would have been more specific about the connection. She wasn’t meant to be just the mother of my child. She was meant to be my wife.
“I know, bro. I know,” I responded. “And go sit your ass down. You ain't supposed to be standing next to us in the spotlight. Light-skin ass always wanna be seen and shit,” I joked, but pointed for him to take his seat.
“Aight, nigga. Just know, the Godfather ain’t never too far,” Jason replied, but looked over at Desmond when he said it.
I chuckled as Desmond stuck up his middle finger.
Gifts stacked the back wall like the mall exploded. Gucci gift bags. Louis Vuitton diaper bags with Blaque heat-stamped on them. Dior knit sets. A Fendi and a Bentley stroller—some shit I didn’t even know existed until today. I guess I’ll have myassistant go out and purchase things we wouldn’t mind the baby throwing up on.
The card box, decorated with sunflowers, was stuffed to capacity. People wanted us to know that our baby was loved.
The games were where we really let loose and turned this upscale event into a backyard boogie. One of the hosts handed out clothespins, and apparently, you couldn’t say the word “baby.” If you did, you had to give up your pin to the person who caught you. An argument broke out when the DJ played Ashanti’sBabyand muted the part where she goes “Baby, baby, baby.” The guests kept singing anyway, and the DJ collected everyone's pins, winning the 90-inch smart TV as the prize.
The classic belly-measure game with toilet paper turned into a tearjerker when Jason’s drunk ass wrapped almost an entire roll around a woman’s stomach. Now, there were two things wrong with this situation: number one, he was supposed to guess Mahasin’s belly size, and two, this woman wasn’t even pregnant.
When I tell you she snatched his ass up by the collar and dragged him like a ragdoll across the floor—armed security damn near had to taze her to get her off him. The whole party couldn’t stop laughing.
Man, this felt good—easy.
“You can have this all the time if you cancel that subscription you call a girlfriend,” Desmond said, lightly bumping my shoulder.
“Take it easy on Paris, she’s a good girl,” I replied, not sounding convincing at all.
“And so was Tasha St. Patrick fromPower.And you see how that turned out?” he responded.
“Nigga, what?” I asked, genuinely confused.
“It means she’ll never see you as nothing more than what makes her comfortable—secure. It means you will stray. And before you become a fuckboy, be honest and walk away from thatshit,” he said, tapping my shoulder and heading off to make sure Jason was still breathing.
I took a seat in the nearest chair and contemplated the idiotic yet understandable logic my best friend had just laid out. Was Paris with me because she was comfortable? Was I official or just beneficial? I didn’t even have time to finish the thought before Tasha—I mean Paris—walked in.
I didn’t think she’d show, especially since we were already two hours into the festivities. But she came in with a smile and bearing gifts. She also wore a dress that would stop traffic, and diamonds that a blind man could see.
Attention-seeking at its finest—but as long as she acted accordingly, so would I.
After placing her gifts on the table, she hugged and kissed a few people she knew and even made conversation with my mother—something her ass never did. Then she made her way toward Mahasin, who was seated in her throne chair while Amber made her hat out of wrapping paper.
We just had an argument, so her intentions were unknown. I jetted out the seat to stand next to Mahasin, when I should’ve been next to my girl. Realizing, I rushed over to Paris and placed my hand at the small of her back.
