That’sour mom. At least that’s who she’s been since my freshman year of high school, when Dad ran off with his associate professor. Just another woman, walking blindly into the rip current of everynext guy’sempty promises. It’s the same every time; she lets them pull her further and further from solid ground—from me, Zola…herself—until their dizzying tide breaks, and she’s spit back out at our feet, waiting for us to fish her out and bring her back to life.
The only thing more inevitable than the breakups themselves has always been their aftermath. Mom’s recovery process is a science.Stage1: fetal position. Stage 2: CIA level recon.
She wouldn’t exactly win any parenting awards for it, but Zo and I used to love when she’d put us on the case. We’d all stay up late, cracking passwords and monitoring credit card statements as husband number two flew his new white girl around for seedy hookups in three-star corporate hotels. And once we had irrefutable proof of what Mom had probably known all along, we’d listen to her rewrite a romantic history that never was and lament a romantic future that never would be.
But we didn’t mind, because it meant we’d survived anotherstage one.That Mom had scraped herself up off the kitchen floor enough to get to work—even if the work was wildly inappropriate peewee reconnaissance. It still meant she could see us again, that she needed us. And that’s all we ever really wanted.
Unfortunately, no matter how much time we spent playingfull-time therapists and part-time detectives, it wasn’t enough. Mom would eventually find her way back, but she’d do it hand in hand with another guy joking about her teenage girls calling himDaddy.In the end,he’dbe the only thing worth coming back for.
Then, one day, Zo and I grew up. And that meant realizing we should’ve been charging Mom by the hour all along.
“God, she’s exhausting,” I offer, teeing Zola up for our usual go-round.
“And I’m pregnant. I’m already exhausted! I don’t know why I thought Mom would take care ofmefor once.”
Our familiar cadence changes when she says it. Becausethisisn’t our usual go-round. Not anymore.
I start cautiously. “Zo. I remember what it feels like to try to resurrect her alone. Those few years after you left for school were heavy. You shouldn’t have to do this on your own.”
The gentle suggestion that Zola may not be able to handle something erases all signs of her physical and emotional fatigue. Or perhaps it’s the intrusive buzz from my intercom that does it.
“Maybe instead of worrying about us, you should help yourself first,” she says, sounding like my big sister again. “The world doesn’t need another missing Black girl.”
I smile at her righteous superiority, knowing that at least for tonight, balance in Zola’s world has been restored. Hopefully enough that now, she’ll sleep.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I’ll keep my Taser under the pillow.”
I practically hear her eyes roll. “You don’t get points for saving your life, if you’re the one risking it in the first place. Just keep your location on. We can fight about the rest tomorrow.”
I buzz Lawrence up without verbal confirmation that it’s him. No use feigning regard for personal safety now.
“If you still need me later, I should be free in like an hour.”
“Ew,” is all she says.
“You’re the one growing a penis inside you,” I say, laughing as I end the call and open the door to meet my next great decision.
—
The best thing about having sex with men you’ll never see again is that you don’t have to wonder if it’s good for them. The worst part is that it goes both ways.
Lawrence, I realize too late, is the kind of guy who has sexatyou. I know he’s not up there reenacting his favorite porn scene right now formybenefit—at least I seriously hope not. A singular focus on his own sexual experience? That, I can respect. Him living a quarter century under the impression that this rabbit pounding has anything to do with pleasing a woman is a prospect too grim to consider.
To stave off an outburst about how the patriarchy is to blame for the strategic vilification and ultimate disregard of female pleasure, I allow myself the briefest moment of dissociation—mentally restructuring my budget to delay having to sell a kidney, or worse yet, start another roommate search.
“I never do this,” Lawrence grunts as he thrusts into me again with so much force, I wonder if my vagina has wronged him somehow.
The movement is enough to bring me back to my body and Lawrence’s blond curls tickling my ankles wrapped around his thick neck. He’s got the neck of a linebacker. Everything about this guy screamsathlete.Though between his age and the fluff at his midsection, his glory days are likely a thing of the past.
Still, as a former athlete of sorts, I’m willing to bet Lawrencedoes“do this.” And if that’s not evidence enough, there’s alwaysthe fact that he’s been at my place a full eighteen minutes, and inside me now for at least three and a half of them.
I don’t mean to laugh, but I don’t exactly try to stop myself either.
“Says the guy who probably has a Costco-size variety pack of flavored condoms on his nightstand.”
Lawrence stills, and the tightness that had begun to coil around my belly subsides.
Confusion twists his dense brows and decently attractive face. “Huh?”
