Take Her Man

  *ego‘ē-(“)gō also ‘en 1: the self especially as contrasted with another self or the world. (Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary)

  2: me against her. (The Ego Challenge)

  Take Her Man

  Take Her Man

  Grace Octavia

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  For my sisterfriends who have

  made this journey much sweeter,

  this road a little longer,

  but certainly worth the road trip.

  Acknowledgments

  Following Father God, there are so many people who have helped this book come to fruition. At the top of this list is my grandmother, Julia Elizabeth Reid, who read every page, every day and has always encouraged me to follow my dreams. My agent and former colleague at Simon & Schuster, Tracy Sherrod, for her invaluable support and advice throughout the years. The entire editorial team at Kensington including Selena James, who has remained patient with me throughout this process and Mercedes Fernandez, who listened to my sob stories over the phone. Stacey Barney for first believing in my project and helping resurrect it from my mental grave. My sistergirl readers—Monica Harris, Naima Cochrane, and Daheli Hall for giving me honest feedback.

  To the accidental philanthropists who kept money in my pockets and fed me when I needed it—Garry Harris of HTS Enterprises, the English Department at Clark Atlanta University, Yvette Caslin, Munson Steed and the entire rolling out team, Raymond Williams, Tamika Maxwell, Duane Nix, Lou Matthews, Omar Imhotep Bowles, Shorter College, Julius Kevinezz, Sadiqa Banks, and countless others. Thanks for the support!

  To my family. First, this would not be possible without my parents—Michelle Williams and Calvin Reid. Who I am is who you two were, and I am eternally grateful. May you both rest in peace knowing that your fruit is growing strong. My brothers and sisters—Cindy, Kenyair, Eric, and Jacala. My Aunt Tina, nieces and nephews, uncles, cousins and extended members of my family who have listened to my stories when people just called them lies (remember the story of the pink elephant I saw, Gracie?). I can’t name you all, but know that you are always in my heart.

  To my instructors and classmates in the writing classes at all of the schools I have attended. Thanks for forcing me to get the work done and encouraging me to continue to grow in the craft. At New York University I developed my creative talent, at the University of Georgia I learned to trust my talent, and at Georgia State University I have learned to control it. I am still getting better. You all are the best. Special thanks to Judith Ortiz Cofer whose kind words will never leave me, and Sheri Joseph, Josh Russell, and Reginald McKnight, who devoted so much time to reading my work and giving feedback, it still surprises me.

  To the strong men in my life who laugh at my jokes and make me feel brilliant and beautiful. Jamison, Dwayne W, Erskine, Richard, John S., Jojo, Jerrod, Monty, Lavington, Kamau, Rasheed, Lemuel, Mr. B, Uncle Sam, Uncle Al—you all show me what true men of purpose exemplify, and the positive men in this book are my letter of love to you.

  To my church family at First Iconium. Debbie Copeland who always looks for me in the pews and Reverend McDonald for connecting me to the spirit. That Sunday blessing keeps me grounded.

  To fellow writers and people within the industry—don’t stop the dream. Ronda P, Trae, Isoul, Raqiyah, Ivory, Rodney, and many others. Keep making noise and believing in what you do.

  I have saved the sisters for last. As I once heard Dr. Beverly Guy-Sheftall say, the bond of sisterhood has been the tool that made the obstacles of life bearable for women of color. Sisters keep you sane. I happen to have the best sisters in the world and this book is dedicated to all of you—seen and unseen. First, to my sisters of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Incorporated, who have remained consistent comforters in my life—especially those of the Epsilon Tau Chapter in New York City. Thank you all for being an endless supply of fodder for the book—Tanya G., Carinda, Sasha, Danielle, Tanya D., Keya, Frankie, Tyritia, Stephanie L, Aretha, Chastin, Sharee, Ifill, Timyiaka, Tanny, and Krista. The list is endless but I pray you know how much I miss you all. Your emails and kind words always mean so much to me. To my Southern Belle Delta crew—Billie, Felicia, Shamita, Crystal, Renita—you ladies are also a barrel of laughs. The NYU Rubin Hall ladies, Bobby, Tasha, Chika, LaChrista, and Kamal—where do we go next? To my running buddies Tiki and Valeasia—all the talking we do should count for something. Essence T., Kaia Shivers (the other negress), and my other baby sisters of Xi Gamma and Pi Pho—love you much.

  Finally, to the sistermothers who make this joy of being a black woman immeasurable. Toni Morrison, bell hooks, Oprah Winfrey, Angela Davis, Alice Walker, Shirley Chisholm, Halle Berry, Sapphire, Nikki Giovanni, Terry McMillan, Dorothy Height, Ruby Dee, Judith Jamison, Aretha Franklin, Maya Angelou, Johnetta Cole, Gloria Wade Gayles, and Pearl Cleage, I too “speak your names” and am so proud to walk in your paved steps and dare to dream a dash beyond them. You amaze me to tears, and do it with the kind of spiritual grace that proves to all why we are still “ego tripping.”

  Thank you.

  Ain’t no woman in her right mind gonna sit back and let another woman come in and take her man—if he’s really worth having.

  —Millie Jackson

  Contents

  Prologue

  I’m Not Crying…It’s the Wasabi in My Eyes

  Meet the 3Ts: Troy, Tasha, and Tamia

  The Babbling Bourgeois Baboon vs. the Democrat Octoroon

  It’s Ladies Night…But I’m Not All Right

  The Plan

  Jesus Loves Harlem, Too

  The 3T Intervention

  Step One: Light as a Feather (Not Stiff as a Board)

  Step Two: Change, Change, Change

  Step Three: Say You, Say Me

  How to Kill Two Birds with One Lip Liner

  Girl Fight

  Bloody Mary and the Soap Opera Baby

  One Confused Man and One Confused Womb-Man

  3T Guy Lie List: Twenty-one Slick Signs of Shammery

  Step Four: Fella’s There’s a Jealous Boy in This Town

  Smart Girls Rule

  Amen, That Man Is Mine

  Mother Still Knows Best

  (The Remix)

  Where My Girls At?

  Out with the Girls, L.A. Style

  Hangover

  Step Five: The Damsel in Distress

  Step Six: Let Your Feelings Be Known

  It’s a New Day

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Put the Jimmy Choo on the Other Foot

  Iknow what you’re thinking: How does a fine, successful, educated sister find herself mixed up in a situation where she actually believes she has to try to take her ex-boyfriend back from another woman? Shoot, I’d be thinking the same thing if the Jimmy Choo was on the other foot, so I can’t even blame you for initially judging me. I mean, if I would’ve heard any other sister even whisper the words “Take her man,” I would’ve immediately asked her what kind of ghetto situation she was involved in. What happened to black sisterhood? We’ve come too far to be scratching each other’s eyes out like there’s only one brother left on the plantation. Trust me, there are plenty of fine fish-in–the sea—especially in the sea known as New York City. In this city I call home, brothers come in all shapes and sizes, colors and hues. They have multiple degrees and talents that range from the boardroom to the bedroom to the kitchen. So why would any sane sister be stuck on one?

  Like most sisters caught up in this kind of love triangle, I didn’t see it that way at the time. It didn’t just come to me all at once. It was slow…gradual…like the damn fat that starts to grow on top of your perfect abs after you turn twenty. You sisters who broke down and bought the Ab Lounge
know what I mean. Yep, in the beginning, everything was going fine between me and Dr. Julian James. I had “a man and a plan” and I was about to get my “ring by spring.” Everything was perfect. Nothing could hold me back.

  But then something went stupid somewhere along the way and I watched as my perfect world began to fall apart one tiny piece at a time. I’m still not sure exactly when it all began, but if I really focus, I’m pretty sure it was somewhere around the time I heard my future groom utter four very ugly words we all hate to hear: “I need a break.”

  Is it starting to sound familiar yet? I know I’m not the only sister in the world whose heard that bull crap before. Well, it should’ve been the end for me. But, again, like most sisters with even the tiniest bit of pride and ego—the other eight million Queens of Sheba, I took those words as an inevitable bump on the road to marriage, a temporary predicament, a moment of confusion, a blip. He’d wake up. His ass had better wake up. And why wouldn’t he? Like I said in the beginning: I’m a fine, successful, educated sister. A blind man wearing black shades in a dark room could see that. I didn’t believe that I had to “try” to take my man back from anyone…. He was mine in the first place. It was quite simply a matter of reclamation. An ego challenge. Like my best friend said, “It might take three days, it might take three weeks or three months.” Either way, I would get my man back.

  So, there it is, and thus, here’s my little story—blow by devilish blow. Read, weep, and rejoice, and never forget what you would do if the old Jimmy Choo just happened to be on the other foot. And in case you find yourself in the very same predicament and lack the knowledge of the Queen of Sheba, I’ve provided little instructions along the way. Warning: Things are about to get hot. This is definitely not for the faint of ego.*

  I’m Not Crying…It’s the Wasabi in My Eyes

  As I said, it all started with…

  “Troy, I need a break.” That’s what the love of my life said to me that sad March afternoon as we sipped sake over sushi in midtown Manhattan. For a minute, for one moment in my life as those dreadful words fell from my beloved’s lips, I forgot everything—who I was, where I was, and how I’d gotten there in the first place. All I could see was his lips moving and the sad frown he was obviously struggling hard to keep on his face. It was like I was watching one of those sad breakup movies where some gorgeous guy breaks the girl’s heart in slow motion…over and over and over again.

  “A break?” I managed, fighting my way back to reality. “What do you mean, a break?”

  “I think we need to not speak to each other for a while.” He took a sip of his sake. I could hear him gulp it down in a struggle.

  “Not speak?” What the hell was he talking about? How can you be in a relationship and not speak to the person you’re in a relationship with? And did I say that out loud?

  “That’s what I mean, Troy,” Julian said, confirming my Freudian slip. “We’re not in a relationship. We never were. I told you I didn’t want that when we first met. Not right now.”

  The room went spinning. Raw fish was flying everywhere, waiters and customers were holding on to tables for dear life, and the sake in the glass in front of me was spilling over into my lap. I imagined that the world all around me was falling apart; the one I’d tried so hard to create was slipping away from me like the tears slipping down my cheeks.

  “Oh, this is a fine time to bring that up. That was over a year ago that you said that crap. You didn’t mention anything about not wanting to be in a relationship when you introduced me to your parents as your girlfriend. Hell, I don’t remember you saying any of that when I was taking care of your ass last month when you had the flu or when I picked up your damn laundry last week or the week before that.” I was getting mad. I knew it because I could hear my voice getting louder, feel my cheeks getting hotter, and see the other people sprinkled around the restaurant beginning to turn around to sneak a peek at us. Normally this kind of display wouldn’t be accepted in the circles Julian and I traveled in, but I couldn’t help myself. I wasn’t about to just let my dream man get up and walk away from me. Not over sushi!

  “And what about Pookie?” I asked, bringing up the cotton ball colored Chihuahua we’d picked up one day strolling in the Village.

  “The dog is yours, Troy. You bought it. I was just there,” he said. “Stop making this hard. Neither one of us wants to be embarrassed.”

  I pushed back from the table and exhaled. I was losing control. I tried to remember a passage, a line, a chapter title, anything from one of those Iyanala Vazant “self-help for sister girls” books to help me from making a complete ass of myself at my favorite sushi bar, but it was too late. Tears were chasing each other like track stars down my cheeks and so many people were looking at us that Julian was covering his forehead to hide his identity. I wanted to disappear my damn self.

  “Stop crying,” Julian said. “This is not about you. I just can’t do you, and the hospital, and myself right now. Why can’t you see that?” He reached over and snatched the last piece of dragon roll off of my plate. Eating at a time like this? Just then I realized that there was some kind of invisible wall between us. A wall between me and the man who had filled my apartment with nine bouquets of magnolias on my last birthday—one for each month we’d known each other. And I didn’t know where the wall had come from or who’d put it up. I could only be sad that it was so obviously there.

  I wanted to pick up a big chunk of wasabi and rub it in his eyes…make his ass cry, cry like I’d been doing over the last three months each time he got frustrated with other areas of his life and asked for more and more space to figure things out. I wanted him to feel my pain and realize how much I loved him and that we could work through all of this stuff together if he would stop being so damn selfish. Sitting across from me with the wall between us, Julian seemed like a mean, coldhearted person, but I knew that he had the perfect heart. He treated me better than any man I’d ever dated in the past. During the year that we’d been together, he’d taken care of me when I was sick, helped me through my first year of law school at NYU, and remained a perpetual shoulder for me to lean on when I needed it. He was kind, and strong, and smart, and successful, and fine as all hell. And he listened to me. No matter how difficult I was being—and I could definitely be difficult—he always listened to what I had to say. Sometimes we’d sit up for hours on the roof at my apartment just talking about nothing at all. He was my best friend, my lover, and my confidant.

  He was just going through a rough spot. It wasn’t easy being a third-year resident at the hospital, and his family offered little more than stress. Sometimes it seemed that since he couldn’t do anything about either of those things, I got all of the heat. But I was understanding, and like Julian did for me, I tried to be by his side and simply listen. Couples had ups and downs. It was a fact of life. They just had to see them through. As my pastor always says, as surely as we see good days, we’ll see bad days—we just have to be willing to work through the bad ones to see the good ones. I mean, the only truly bad day we ever had, the only time Julian did something that would even potentially ruin our relationship, was when I caught him with that girl, Miata (yes, the trick is named after a damn car). She was some brain from Queens with no class and even less looks who Julian fooled around with a month ago. Julian came clean about the whole thing—the man shed tears—and we worked through it. Our bad day. So surely we had some good days coming. One, big, white-laced, good day.

  “But we were doing so good,” I said, sounding completely pathetic—I’d regret I said that later as I lay in bed crying to my Mary J. Blige CD. “We got over that girl you were seeing from the hospital. We can get through this, too. I know the hospital expects a lot from you and you need to be there around the clock. We can just see each other less.”

  I was beginning to feel guilty for all the complaining I’d been doing about not seeing him enough lately. I even felt bad for making him come meet me for sushi. He’d been awake for t
hree days straight. What was I thinking? He was a damn doctor. He didn’t have time for my drama. As one of my girls who had been married to a doctor for five years put it, if I wanted a man of that caliber, I had to find a way to live with him and his demanding job.

  I needed to calm down. I was pushing him away. Julian was a good man and he was out working hard for a good cause. He was worth waiting for. I just had to be patient and more creative. There’s nothing wrong with bringing the sushi and sake to the hospital.

  I reached under the table and patted his leg to assure him that I was ready and willing to change.

  “I love you, Dr. Julian James,” I said with all of my heart inside those words. “And I am not willing to lose you. I mean, just think”—I cracked an uneasy, well-intentioned smile—“we just exchanged keys to each other’s places. We’re official.” I batted my eyes like my grandmother taught me and blew him a kiss.

  Julian looked down at his lap and slid a little silver key onto the table. It was apparent that it had already been taken off of his key ring. Had he planned all of this?

  “What about my keys to your place?” I asked, realizing that I’d put my foot in my mouth as soon as the last word came out.

  “Hand them over.” He didn’t even pause. His voice was so cold and distant that I felt as if I didn’t even know him anymore, like he was someone else, a ghost of himself who had caught ebola or the bird flu during his last stint in the emergency room. The wall between us was growing.