Chapter 1
Deshona Charise Edmonds
Twenty-two Years Ago . . .
Slow breaths and measured steps carry me toward the thunderous voices that startled me out of the deep sleep I was previously enjoying. My weary eyes bounce from left to right as I silently pray the floor doesn’t creak and give me away. Like a panther, I hug the wall before I tune into the conversation and the rise of Mom’s voice.
“I don’t give a fuck what you say. This shit ends tonight.”
“Nah. We ain’t about to let that bitch come between what we’re building, Ros. Can’t you see that she’s jealous of you?” a man, his clothes wrinkled and hanging loosely from his body, says as his arms flail.
“What I see is that you’re not the man I thought you were. What I see is that you’re no different than all the others who have come in and wasted my gotdamn time. I’m sick of giving you niggas chances,” Mom rants.
“Man, I ain’t trying to be compared to the other niggas, Roslyn. I’m in love with your stubborn ass. Why is that so fucking hard for you to understand?”
My eyes blink continuously, and my breathing slows when a maniacal laugh falls from Mom’s lips. Her eyes pinch and darken, and goosebumps rise on my thin arms as my body chills.
“You’re in love with my pussy and her pussy, Rondale. Be fucking for real. You can’t have both of us. The fact that you think I’ll be good with you bed hopping after that woman called my phone, asking if it was her turn, is asinine. Just take your sorry ass out of here because this is done.” Mom’s finger points back and forth between her and this man.
I’m glued to the spot I’m in because I have never seen this man in the light of day, and Mom’s tone is harsher than I’ve ever heard from her.
“I didn’t ask that?—”
“Why the fuck are you still trying to provide an explanation? Are you or are you not fucking both of us? I have two kids and no time for extra bullshit.”
“That’s the problem though, Ros. You’ve been hiding me like I’m one of your creditors or some shit. I’m only able to come here when those bastards are in bed or gone for the weekend. How long do you?—”
“Either you can leave my house willingly, or you can find yourself looking up at the smoke from my BFF, Archie.”
“Here you go threatening me with that little ass gun. Fine. You got it, Roslyn. But just know that once I leave?—”
“That’s where you got me misunderstood with that other chick. Ain’t no coming back for you, nor will I regret your loss. Be gone, dick slinger.” Mom waves the man off as he grunts and stomps toward the front door, where he exits without another word.
Blame it on my inability to process the conversation, or on my eleven-year-old mind not warning me to run back to bed, but my eyes are intently watching Mom. “I know you’re there with your nosy ass, Deshona. Come on out here.” Mom’s cold voicefreezes my blood, and my eyes stretch before I slowly enter the living room.
Oh Lord. Please don’t let her switch her frustration to me. I know I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, but they were loud and woke me up.
“I’m glad you witnessed that bullshit with me and that sorry ass nigga. Let it be a lesson to you that men ain’t shit, won’t be shit, and will only fill you with heartaches, just like your sorry ass daddy. Make sure you steer clear of men when you’re older. I have given my heart and body to them repeatedly, and each time they give me their asses to kiss. Punk ass niggas can’t do anything but fill you with a belly full of disappointments and bullshit ass feelings. Men ain’t shit, Deshona. Remember that and you’ll keep from wasting your time with them.”
My chest tightens with every word that comes from Mom’s mouth as a slow track of tears eases from my eyes. What’s crazy is that I have no idea why I’m crying, but the depth of Mom’s words fills me with sadness. The mention of my father, whom I’ve never met, could also be the reason for my moisture. But as Mom paces back and forth, now mumbling incoherent words, all I can feel is pain and melancholy.
Present Day. . .
How in the hell is this my life right now?
“Please hear me out, bae. This ain’t what it looks like. Lilliana’s ass ain’t wrapped too tight. She?—”
“You must think I’m a fool, huh? The birthmark on your dick is all the evidence that the woman had to produce. Not to mention you slobbering while in the deep slumber of sleep. Just pack your shit and get out. I’m done.”
The memory of Mom’s warning when I was eleven echoes in my mind as my stomach sours. Here I am, thirty-three, dealing with a similar situation, and fatigue fills me instantly. Maybe I should have listened to her and left men alone. Maybe I should have had more of a hardened heart. Maybe I shouldn’t be so hung up on the fairy tales I read in books or see on TV. Maybe I need to stop fucking trying with the opposite sex.
“I love y?—”
“Save that shit for little Ms. Lilliana. All I need is for you to pack your shit and get out of my life.”
Fuck ass nigga ain’t shit. Dicks with birthmarks can’t be explained away. Neither can your comfortable ass snuggled in that woman’s fucking bed. Ugh.
While Mom had a woman call her with the news of her man’s infidelity, social media is what led me to find out about my man. I might not have ever known had the other woman not tagged my man or, better yet, our man in the intended cute post. The woman posted the sleep post, but after I slid into her DM, she sent me a personal picture of his dick. The subtle kiss to my forehead causes my head to jerk back, and a frown instantly forms.
