Playing Hard To Get Read online

  “Prove what? To whom? To Porsche? That bitch never gave two shits about me. She let the entire world raise me, her bastard daughter, as she went off and chased her dreams. What could I have to prove to her.”

  “That you’re better,” Lionel said so easily and so quickly it was clear to Tasha he’d thought about this for a long time. “That you can be better than her—even without her. That you’re better than the little girl she left alone, the one she let leave.”

  Tasha pushed away from Lionel’s hold against the car and tried to laugh it off as she walked in circles in the empty parking space beside the car. Suddenly she was seven and watching Porsche leave her in a hotel room again. Suddenly she was eleven and begging Porsche to read a poem she’d written for Mother’s Day. Suddenly she was seventeen and running away from home.

  “You think I didn’t know how hurt you were when Porsche told you she wasn’t coming when Tiara was born and that she hasn’t ever been here to see her?”

  “I don’t care about that. I don’t care about anything Porsche thinks. She chose not to see her grandchildren. She chose her career again. I didn’t!” Tasha was hollering so loud the children in the playground in front of the restaurant stopped playing and watched. She wouldn’t cry, though. Tears were welled up in the corners of her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry.

  “Yes, you do. It’s obvious. It’s obvious in everything you do. No nannies. No help. You have them crammed up in that little bedroom….”

  “That’s for their own good.”

  “No, that’s for your own good. It’s so you can feel like you’re doing something for them, when you’re not,” Lionel said. “You’re too busy doing for yourself.”

  “I love my children!”

  “If you love them then why did you stop counseling? Why didn’t you keep going to the therapist?”

  “I was doing better.”

  Lionel looked up at the clouds like he was expecting rain, lightning, thunder, a tornado.

  “You don’t get it,” he said, walking away from Tasha. “You just don’t get it.”

  “Where are you going?” She went running behind him as he cornered out of the lot.

  “Home.”

  “You can’t walk home from here.” She grabbed his arm. “It’s too far.”

  “I’m not getting in that car, Tasha. I need to be alone. I need to be away from you.” He stopped walking and looked at her, letting his own tears flow freely. “When we got married, I knew you were selfish. I knew I’d have to fight you and help you see the right way sometimes. And I’ve put up with a lot of your bullshit. A lot of it. I’ve let shit go and I’ve let you win.”

  “Win? This isn’t a—”

  “No! Listen to me. I’ve let you win more times than I can count. But not right now,” he said. “I never fought for myself, but you’re a fool if you think I’m not going to fight for Toni and Tiara. I won’t let your shortcomings, your anger, ruin them the way Porsche ruined you.”

  Tasha pulled back her hand to slap Lionel, but he caught it.

  “Fuck you,” she cried.

  “Fuck me? Really?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “No. Fuck you.”

  Tasha snatched her hand back from Lionel and charged toward the car. The distance between them grew from an invisible river to two tiles of sidewalk concrete. Tasha turned to see Lionel’s back.

  “I’m moving back to the city,” she said harshly. “Just not with you.”

  Lionel stopped in his path on the sidewalk and turned with the ease of a beau at a debutante ball.

  “That’s fine with me,” he replied breezily. “Just make sure you add my children to the list of people not going.”

  Six Male Conversation Starters to Avoid

  You don’t need a degree in psychology to know that women are the great communicators of the sexes. This well-recorded reality may present vindication for all of the “Chatty Cathys” of the world; however, it also adds to relationship woes where communication-craving girlfriends are left screaming mad, trying to get their dreamboats to open up. While this task is easier said than done, there are a few things you can do to win this communication coup.

  Don’t open your conversation with dreaded lead-ins like “We need to talk…” and “What’s wrong?”

  Rationale: These words produce a “fright and flight” response.

  Easy fix: Open your talk with noncommittal language at noncommittal moments. If you’re concerned about his ongoing bout with his mother, casually ask, “How’s your mother?” This will open the door for discussion.

  Don’t smack him down with the biggest question on your mind: “When will you marry me?”

  Rationale: This is confrontational. Every word that follows will sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher: “Wha wha wha.” Easy fix: Instead of asking about his desires, tell him yours. If he feels the same, he’ll come around.

  Don’t ask, “How do you feel about me?” after sex. Rationale: You can’t believe anything he’s saying at that moment. Hopped up on his orgasm, he might even propose.

  Easy fix: Communicate your feelings during “we time.” While listening to music, say, “I love that we enjoy the same music.” This will give him a chance to express his feelings.

  Don’t begin conversations with confrontational statements: “You need to get your credit cleaned up!”

  Rationale: Unless they ask for advice, men despise being told what they should be thinking or doing.

  Easy fix: Casually state the facts and provide numbers. Men are goal-oriented. Mention that in order to move into his dream home, he’ll need $60K and a FICO of 800.

  Don’t say a word leading into an emotional exchange when he’s enjoying “he time.”

  Rationale: From televised sports events to his beloved beer time on the couch, men have their own “me time.”

  Easy fix: Wait until he’s done, kiss him on the cheek, and sweetly say, “I love you.”

  Don’t dominate the conversation with your own ideas if he’s quiet and not responding.

  Rationale: If you become the talker, he’ll become the listener.

  Easy fix: Listen and learn. If you open the conversation and he’s quiet, let there be silence until he opens up. You’ll learn a lot based on what he’s not saying.

  

  While 99.9 percent of the people in the universe had solid bets on Lionel saying no to New York, no one was willing to put money on Kyle saying no to Troy. For, the man of the Lord had taken the old biblical quote to heart and loved his wife the way Jesus loved the church and since the day they’d met, whenever it came to matters of the heart, he was torn between the two.

  For this particular showdown, on this particularly cold evening, Troy was sitting in the first pew on the last night of First Baptist’s annual revival. The pastor was at the altar, but not at the pulpit, playing host to the revival’s guest speaker, the Reverend Bigsby Bigelow-Goode, a fire-and-brimstone big-tent revivalist, who’d been sent up north by Kyle’s grandfather. It was Saturday evening and the last hour of the sixth night of the revival and Troy’s ears were ringing from all of the tambourines chinking around her. Every time Bigelow-Goode said anything on a high note, the room shook with the noisy instruments, and Troy was five clinks away from turning around and snatching one from a church mother seated behind her. While First Baptist was a large church, sitting inside the pews every night for hours during the revival made it mid-sized. And then even smaller because every space in the aisle was taken by a metal seat to accommodate the growing crowds bused in from around the city. It was 10 p.m. and the floor was sweating, the wooden walls popping in. Children of every age, even teenagers, had given up and fallen asleep in the pews, some on the floors. It was a pressure cooker of praise and if the Holy Spirit didn’t whisper in someone’s ear, it might be their conscience telling them to “go outside and get some air!” before they fainted.

  “An, an, an, an youa…youa…youa betta fear the Lord! Fear him!” Bigelow-Goode s
houted so loud only static went into the microphone with his spit. Far into his seventies, he was wearing a little white suit that was two sizes too small and two decades old and two seasons early. While his shoes were a mismatch in brown, his cotton-top Afro mixed just fine with the suit. “For the wraff of the Almightay isa comin’ and i’s gonna destroy the devil an alla alla alla…” There was clinking and cheering. “I said alla evila mena that don’t knowa the Lord!”

  Troy’s body was tired to the bone. She was sinking in. Trying to pay attention, waving her handkerchief high now and again and standing up sometimes, but really fading. For the last six days, six different holy men had said the same holy message in a different holy way and she was worn down. She looked at Kyle to break her thoughts of snatching the tambourine. He was shaking his head along with everyone else. A believer. Not doing like she was. He didn’t seem tired. Didn’t seem pushed in and choking. He was right there with Bigelow-Goode, and so far away from Troy.

  “An evra, evra man, wombman, and chile had betta get right in the good book before that happins!”

  The lady with the tambourine behind Troy fell out. Someone hollered, “Hallelu-JAH.” Bigelow-Goode hopped off of the altar like a rock star and ran down the sliver of aisle left, tapping heads as he went along, shouting mercies and prayers, saying he could save souls and you had to be willing. Troy watched as the heads of every single person he touched fell back hard into the arms of people around them. They were entranced. Away. In the spirit. Getting the spirit.

  Kiona, who was sitting beside Troy, was crying and grabbing onto Troy’s hand.

  “Praise God!” Kiona cried, her grip tightening. She looked at Troy. “Do you feel that? Do you feel the spirit in here? It’s all around. Everywhere.” Kiona was weeping now, thumping her feet along, two beats faster than the drummer, who’d caught the pacing of Bigelow-Goode as he scurried around the room.

  One by one Troy watched everyone in the room fall out. Kyle was crying. And then, in a second, it seemed liked everyone, everyone in the church was either on the floor, picking someone off of the floor, or jumping for joy. Everyone but Troy.

  She gave show the way she knew how, but Bigelow-Goode had his eyes on her from the moment he noticed the biggest diamond he’d ever seen shining from her ring finger. Bigelow-Goode hopped like a bandleader to the front of the room with a crowd of deacons riding close behind him. He leapt and hollered out for the Holy Ghost and then he was there, in front of Troy, his hand high like a witness about to slap truth on the Bible.

  “The Lord told me to come right, right now!” He pointed to the ground. “Right here with the First Lady of First Baptist.”

  The room went still. Kyle’s shoulders raised tensely as he looked at his wife.

  “Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus,” someone cried and then prayers were mumbled lowly like ancient chants, but somehow everyone knew that all eyes and thoughts were on Troy.

  Kiona’s hand slipped away and Troy felt as alone as she had at birth. What she wanted more than anything, Bigelow-Goode claimed he had, claimed he was giving away. Salvation. New life. It didn’t matter if she was tired or in pain, if he was speaking a Swahili she couldn’t understand or saying a bunch of things she didn’t even believe. She wanted it badly. Wanted to drift off the way Kiona had described. To find herself in God’s hands.

  His hand was still raised. Troy looked at it like a child. She wanted to know what to expect. What to feel. What to do when the moment came. She waited for him to say something. She wanted to respond. But then, after he screamed something in another tongue to another someone Troy couldn’t see, Bigelow-Goode’s hand came crashing into her forehead with a slap. He held it there as the deacons took positions around her, waiting for the fall back. And he pushed. And prayed. And pushed again. And prayed. All of this was happening and Troy was still waiting for something. She closed her eyes and tried to pray. Tried to receive it. To feel something other than a sweaty, soft palm on her forehead. But inside there was nothing but her own thoughts.

  “Jesusa!” Bigelow-Goode hollered. “Jesusa, release the demons from the woman’s heart. Release the evil of Satan from her soul. Jesusa!” Bigelow-Goode was speaking in English now and Troy understood every word, but she didn’t feel a thing. Nothing. And the harder he pushed at her forehead, the stronger her back seemed to become.

  Troy opened her eyes and looked at Bigelow-Goode. He was staring into her. His beady eyes red with sweat. He released her forehead and slapped it again. This time it was so hard, she screamed.

  “Ouch!”

  

  “Just go wait in the car,” Kyle said without looking at Troy after the service had finally ended when Bigelow-Goode fainted and had to be carried out of the church like James Brown.

  Troy felt so empty, so empty and lost, after failing to fall beneath Bigelow-Goode’s hand that she didn’t even bother to be angry with Kyle for the dismissal. She took a folder he handed her holding Saptosa’s mock copy of the next day’s program for his approval and walked, her head low, to the car.

  While Tasha and Lionel chose fighting words to perfect the art of their war, silence was proving to be the weapon between Kyle and Troy. After Kyle returned to the car, an hour later, they drove halfway home in a quietness that was only broken by pebbles and glass crunching beneath the wheels of the car.

  “I just don’t know why you had to get involved,” Kyle said and he didn’t curse like Lionel but a “the fuck” was felt in everything he said.

  “I wasn’t trying to get involved,” Troy said. There was no reason for her to ask what he meant. She knew. “He came to me. I was just standing there!”

  “You had to look at him or something.”

  “Are you saying I wanted that to happen? That I wanted to embarrass you? Embarrass myself in front of all of those people?” Troy stared at Kyle but he kept his eyes on the road. “Oh, I guess I was supposed to pretend to get the Holy Ghost too! Jump around the church and scream and holler. Is that what you wanted?”

  Kyle shook his head.

  “I’m getting so tired of this. This whole thing is running me into the ground, Troy,” he said. “My spirit. It’s running me down. I can’t find any peace anywhere.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to say,” Troy said. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what else I could possibly do to make this work. I’ve tried to impress everyone. To make everybody happy. To take care of everything. I don’t know what else to do.”

  “I told you what to do,” Kyle said weakly.

  “What?”

  “Take care of me.” He looked at Troy and tried his best to show her everything he was feeling, thinking, missing in his eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re so busy worrying about the people at the church, you’re not worried about me,” he said, “about my needs. We haven’t had sex in weeks. You run away whenever I touch you. We hardly talk anymore. Everything is about this. Everything is about the church.”

  “But that’s what you need. That’s what you want.”

  “I never said that. Your journey with God needs to be about you. Not what you want to do for me. Every person goes to God alone,” Kyle explained and he felt so much pressure building up in his head he was beginning to see spots on the road. “Look, let’s not talk about this right now. I have to get ready for my sermon when we get home. I can’t do this.”

  Wounded, Troy sat back in her seat and looked down at the folder of programs Kyle handed her earlier. To keep her mind off of her anger and everything she wanted to say, she opened the program to read it. Under the announcements and testimonies, she saw a name that nearly snatched her eyes out.

  “Myrtle? Myrtle Glover?” She looked at Kyle. “Why is her name on here? Why is she on the program?”

  “It’s nothing. I don’t want to talk about it,” Kyle answered.

  “Nothing? You don’t want to talk about it? I’m just asking you a question. Why is she on the program?”


  “It’s a testimonial. We do it every year. She asked if she could speak. I put her on the program. That’s it,” Kyle said sharply. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Troy clapped the program closed and looked out of the window. What was Myrtle up to now?

  

  As any good lawyer would, Tamia had immersed herself in her case, so much so that at work she remained locked up in her office for hours, at home she seldom answered the telephone—unless it was Malik, and when it was time for bed, she never once had a visitor. While she and the residents who slumbered beneath her bedroom were perfectly fine with the new arrangement, one New York baristocrat18 wasn’t quite as content. And when Tamia entered the Bentley waiting before the entrance of her posh pad one morning, she discovered just who that baristocrat was.

  “Charleston!” she screeched as if the man seated in the car was a common stranger who hadn’t been bankrolling her chic morning adventures.

  “Whoa, don’t reach for your pepper spray,” Charleston said, holding his arms out defensively as Tamia got into the car.

  “I’m sorry, I just didn’t expect you to be…”

  “I know; it’s just my car and everything.”

  “You know what I mean,” Tamia said. “You haven’t been riding into the office with me, so I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I’m not the only one being incognegro.”19 Charleston accusingly peered at Tamia. “You haven’t been answering my calls, and when I stop by your office you aren’t there. This was the only way I could reach you—a sneak attack.”

  “I’ve just been really busy. It’s nothing personal.” Trying to appear relaxed, Tamia shrugged her shoulders and looked out of her window.

  While she assumed this would break the ice and help them transition to another topic, seeing Tamia’s back only infuriated Charleston. Three women (two of whom were together) had sexted20 him that very morning, promising memorable trysts if he’d come by for a morning drive, and here Tamia was acting as if his company was promised to her…or anyone. He looked at the tips of his freshly manicured fingers and laughed.