My engagement—like my relationship—was sacred to me. I didn’t post Hunter on social media, and at my request, he didn’t either. He told me he wasn’t fond of it, so I had no worries. At my birthing center or with associates, I’d only confirm it if someone noticed the rock on my finger or caught wind some other way.
Damn, my baby did an amazing job picking this ring.
Was I proud to be Hunter’s fiancée? Absolutely. Ray Charles could see that. I wore my heart on my sleeve, my pride in my strut, and my happiness in all thirty-two teeth that came out whenever someone said his name or I smelled a fragrance that reminded me of him. I caught myself daydreaming about his kisses and touching myself to the sound of his “I love you, Mahasin” on the voicemails he’d leave when he knew I’d be too busy to pick up. I was whipped, crazy in love, and it was a diagnosis even I wouldn’t treat.
But the second you share your happiness with the world, the universe sends its number-one hating bitch—negative energy—to rain on your parade. People who once celebrated you now give half-smiles. Suddenly, Hunter becomes “familiar” to womenwho didn’t even have forty dollars, let alone access to VIP at the 40/40 Club. And the wordlittlecreeps into every compliment.
“Oh, I saw your little fiancé.” “That’s a cute little engagement ring.” “Here go your little hundred dollars I owe you.”
You know—hating shit like that.
So no, the universe would never find out about my love until that marriage license was signed. Or until Medicine Mag drops the million-dollar spread they booked for our wedding in their “Prescription for Love” feature. We’d be showcased alongside two other weddings where the bride or groom was a doctor.
I wasn’t Rihanna-famous, but I was well known in Havenbrook for my stance on maternal health in the Black community. I’d been featured on hundreds of podcasts, talk shows, and even had a season onSexy in Scrubs—a scandalous reality show that didn’t last long because it wasn’t worth my reputation.
So, when my mother booked celebrity wedding dress designer Charisma to create my gown, she told her best friend Scott, owner ofMedicine Mag.The rest was history.
“It’s settled—this Thursday, 8 p.m. at Tribal. I booked a VIP section for the four of us, and no, Missthe-universe-is-out-to-get-me, I did not tell them what we’re celebrating,” Amber said as she flopped into the lounge chair across from me at the birthing center.
“Ambs, first off, that universe shit is real. Remember when you prematurely announced your miracle hair elixir for postpartum hair loss?” I asked, raising my brows.
“Bitch, how could I forget? I still gotta color in my baby hairs to this day. Edges just gone—like my daddy on payday.”
We laughed until tears streaked our faces.
“But seriously, girl, don’t make a fuss. I haven’t even asked my fiancé if his schedule’s clear for Thursday.”
“Oh hell no, bitch. Don’t start that shit,” Amber said, wagging her index finger at me.
“What?” I asked.
“That nigga mama named him Hunter, notfiancé.Don’t be one of those bitches who get a ring and now it’smy fiancé this, my fiancé that.Say it with me, hoe—Huuunnnttteeerrr.” She dragged out his name dramatically.
“Oh, whatever.” I waved her off, still laughing.
“Listen here, you successful, well-deserving-of-love, fine-ass heffa. Let your best friend do this for you. Seriously, Mahasin—you’ve been through so much, and through it all you stayed kind, caring, and dedicated to the cause. You never let your struggles change who you are.”
“Thanks, Ambs,” I said, blinking back tears.
“So, it’s settled, then? Thursday?” She raised her soda can toward me.
“Thursday,” I agreed, smiling as I clinked mine against hers.
Tribal, newly built in Havenbrook, was more than a restaurant; it was an experience. From its delectable cuisines to the mauve walls adorned with gilded frames capturing history, every detail was meant to impress. Floor-to-ceiling bouquets of red roses spilled from black lacquered vases, while marble floors in sharpblack-and-white geometrics guided guests past velvet chairs and Versace-trimmed décor. This wastheplace to be.
“This place is absolutely beautiful, Amber,” I said in pure amazement. “How did you even score this private area?”
“It is, right? This doctor—Davis, I think, built it for his girlfriend. I called in a favor on behalf ofDr. St. James.” She winked.
I playfully sucked my teeth.
“Apparently, all the private rooms are named after something related to her. The one we’re in is calledThe Flower,” Amber shrugged.
“Must be nice,” I said.
Creed and Hunter held out our chairs for us to sit.
“Baby, you want me to build you something like this. Just say the word, it’s yours,” Hunter smirked.
