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For the ones who have used your magic to lift, protect, and illuminate everybody else… rest is our new resistance. Rest & shine, my loves. Rest & shine.
If you’re walking this road in any role or capacity, my great wish is that even as parts of this story may hit close to home, that they hit with hope.
“A woman is free if she lives by her own standards and creates her own destiny.” —Mary McLeod Bethune, educator, philanthropist, activist
I’m only now realizing that often when people say “it’s funny,” they really mean that it’s… sad. A sad reversal of fortune. To have always been the parent. And now to be…
Her mother. Her best friend. Her husband. All gone. One of the hardest parts of aging is being the one “still standing” when everyone else has found their peace lying down. And Mama has seen so many go.
“God gon’ always tell on you.”
Right now, I wish I could go back to being that child who counted on Mama and Daddy for everything. So far from the woman I’ve become who runs the world around her with a steady hand. I’m barely standing on wobbly legs and with a trembling heart, but I cannot afford to fail and I won’t let her down.
Look at God. He may not come when you want Him, but He always comes on time.
Girl, I don’t want your man. I mean… he’s fine as hell, but I don’t mess with taken dudes, no matter how fine and successful and funny and… despite him being all of that, that’s never how I roll.
Something about Hendrix drew me, though, beyond the obvious physical appeal. There’s a boldness to her that tricks you, as strength often does, into believing there’s no soft spots. No sooner had I adjusted to the bravado of her, I got to see the vulnerability.
“I sometimes wonder if taking care of him so well took too much out of her. If maybe she… I don’t know. It doesn’t do any good to wonder, but I do know she took better care of Pop Pop than she took of herself.”
“I’d choose quick. Here today. Gone tomorrow, instead of this endless half-here that my mother’s existence is becoming.” I turn to him abruptly, shame constricting my chest. “I don’t mean I want her gone,” I rush to say. “The exact opposite. I want all the time I can have with her. I’ll make it last as long as possible, but I don’t know that she would want that.”
We so rarely truly see people in their hurt. It’s even rarer not to flinch—not to look away from another’s pain.
Nothing ever happens by chance.
It’s not that we never talk about my mom dying, but grief is a wave, washing in and washing out. Sometimes calm, and others a riptide. I’ve seen it take my dad under before.
There was admittedly some relief with his passing. Relief for my grandfather, who would never have chosen the existence Alzheimer’s left him with, and for my mother, who absorbed the brunt of his care. Losing my mother was different. Like a thread ripped from a quilt that instantly unravels. She held our family together,
In my twenties, I was just running. Always in the streets and for what? In my thirties, I started asking big questions and looking for answers. Now I know exactly who I am and what I want. And I can finally afford myself.”
“You really don’t want kids?” The shock on her face doesn’t surprise me. I’m used to it. Why is it so hard to believe there are women in the world who don’t want to act as host for a human who may never fully appreciate their sacrifices, drains their hard-earned money, and forces them to make the difficult choices that men, even as fathers, never seem to face? “I really don’t.” I shrug. “Kids aren’t for everyone. Society tells us that, and there are a lot of abused, neglected, unloved kids in the world because women caved to antiquated gendered expectations. I like my life.”
“And what about companionship? A husband?” “I have the best friends in the world for companionship and I get dick whenever I want it.”
“Look, my best friends both have kids and wouldn’t trade them for the world.” I swing back and forth in my chair and tip back. “I see why it works for them, but I also see very clearly why it wouldn’t work for me. Besides, I love being the rich auntie who gets to go home to my nice, quiet expensive apartment after spoiling their kids.”
“I knew, but there was this little voice in the back of my head that said I could change his mind. That he’d love me enough to choose me over…” Over his own happiness? I don’t say it aloud and neither does she, but it’s loud in the room. Is that love? Expecting him to become someone else for you? Forgo what that person knows will make them happy to be with you? Is that trade ever even?
And I would give it to you because I care about you.” “Not enough, though, right?” To completely compromise what I want the next twenty years of my life to be? No, not enough for that.
Soledad: Uhhhhhhh… not sure. Naked? Me: Chile, ain’t nobody thinking about them lil’ titties. LOL! Just come. Yasmen: Sol, I’ll bring my drooping tits and my stretch marks. Fuck anyone who has something to say about it. Me: And I got a roll around the middle and a little FUPA. But you know I call it a FAP. Fat-ass pussy. Ayeeeee! Plus-size pussaaayyyy. Soledad: Hen, what’s really plus-size is your confidence.
Yasmen: Are our people doing this? Me: Yesssss. Black folks are there too. Naked and unashamed and steamy and eating sushi. I’m actually not too sure about the Black-to-other-folks ratio, but I just love pushing Soledad beyond her comfort zone because hilarity always ensues.
Soledad: I’m not sure how I feel about my sushi that close to somebody’s bare ass. Yasmen: They’re not preparing the food naked! Okay. I’m down! I’m actually low-key shocked that Yasmen is going along with this. Me: I dare you, Sol. Soledad: That’s not fair. You know I’m too competitive to let that go.
How do you articulate the ache of watching someone you love fade? It’s hard to put into words, and when I met Maverick, I didn’t have to. He already knew.
“You’re not his type at all.” “Not his type?” I should leave it there. I don’t want her thinking I am his type. “What do you mean?” “Well, he likes women who are…”
“We are not magic,” she says. “We are resilient. It’s not a wand. It’s work. We work harder and shine brighter to survive. Excellence for us has been a matter of necessity. In a climate where less than half a percent of venture capital funding goes to Black women, women founders still perform sixty-three percent better than all-male founding teams in the first round. With those odds, we can’t leave our success to chance and we for sure can’t depend on magic.”
“See anything you like?” I consider her in the light of lamps and moonbeams with her skin warm and deep chestnut against the vibrant pink of her dress. I see something I like much more than I should.
“I’d never felt that way before. Especially not for someone shorter than me. Ewww.” “Nothing wrong with short men. I’ve fucked a short man with a big dick. An excellent redistribution of inches if you ask me. Height won’t make you come.”
“When we first met him, you said he had BDE.” “He got the B and the D but no E. Dick included. Energy sold separately. I was like, bruh, you working with all them inches, and I still got to rub it out with the Rose when you leave? Sir, you are redundant.”
It’s not hard information to find, but sometimes when we have a lot going on, we just don’t occur to ourselves. And a friend sending you something you could have easily found on your own prompts you to act.
“Why do you say that?” “She just never seemed to quite fit.” She shrugs. “I don’t know how to explain it. Sometimes it felt like we had a guest in the house, not because she hadn’t always lived there. Something just didn’t feel like it connected between the two of you. Not that you didn’t care about her, because I could tell you did. She just never seemed like the one. Ya know? And you deserve the one.”
My two closest friends are the best moms, and I get why that’s right for them.” I let my gaze drift to the tarmac just beyond the window. “I knew pretty early on that I didn’t want that. When I was really young, I used to say I wanted kids because that’s what the world tells you. That’s what everyone expects, and you don’t always know how to be different at that age. You just fall in line. You’re still a child yourself when they shove a baby doll in your hands and say pretend you’re the mommy. Even that young they telegraph that this is what you’re supposed to do.” I run my finger along the
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There are women like me who are mothering in our own ways, but have never carried a child or been a parent. We’re teachers and mentors and social workers and godmothers. We find ways to pour love into the world, to shape the world for good without bearing a child. It’s not about our wombs. It’s about our hearts and how we share them. That is bodily agency—me getting to decide what I do with my body in this life.”
I’m not good at denying myself something I want. And I’m finally admitting to myself that I want Hendrix. Bad.
“It was one night.” I roll my eyes. “A very pleasant night actually, where she sucked my soul from between my legs and snatched my edges, but that doesn’t constitute a bi-awakening. I was never asleep. I honestly think most people are gender fluid. Society just locks us into these heteronormative roles before we have a chance to consider everything on the menu.”
“Well, I’m Judah-sexual,” Soledad preens. “I wouldn’t care what package he came in. I’d want him no matter what.” “Easy to say when he’s pounding you through the mattress every night,” I cackle. “With that big dick.” “Oh, my gosh. It’s not every night. We don’t live together yet.”
“Ain’t nobody coming near your butt. Men. Always scared somebody want to get in that ass.”
Seeing my friends makes me realize that I do want that someday with the right person. Maybe I have wanted it for a while and not acknowledged it because I know I’m not settling for no trash man. And let’s face it, most men are trash. I don’t feel like getting on an app or meeting someone new, or figuring out if I’m being catfished. I’m too old to be bothered with that shit, so maybe I hid from myself that I want someone to touch me, to look at me like that. Someday.
I want… more. Something else. The world isn’t designed for women like me. Women who’d rather be single literally for years than settle for a partner not worthy of her. A woman who doesn’t want to be a mother, and assumes the rich auntie role with panache, but occasionally feels left out on game night.
Tonight is Soft Girl Saturday. Now I could be out for dinner or at a party or a premiere. Even a strip club. Atlanta excels in bouncing titties and bare ass with wings on the side. I could be out in them streets, but I’m tired. I want a low-key night where I pamper myself. After the week… the month—okay, the year I’ve had—I deserve.
“You know I’ll take you however.”
“I’ll be ready.” What a lie. I’ll never be ready for this man.
I briefly tighten my arm around her waist and dip my head to catch the scent at her neck. It’s something fresh and clean, with top notes of fuck me against a wall.
She is the perfect blend of highbrow and hood-brow. At ease socializing and negotiating deals in rarefied air with the world’s wealthiest, but then completely comfortable in a Waffle House dressed down on a Saturday night. She moves between wildly different spaces, never pretending to be anyone but herself. Her level of authenticity is rare and compelling. She’s as at home in her own skin as anyone I’ve ever met.
It was spectacular. Spared no expense, drank like a fish.” Defiance enters her eyes. “Hooked up with anything breathing.” “Good for you,” I reply neutrally. Is she saying that to put me off? I don’t care who she fucked before. Once I have her, all other pussies and dicks will be laid to rest.
I can’t blame him. Even dressed down, she manages to look sophisticated. Fucking forty and looking that young and pretty and fly. No, I can’t blame Matthew for looking at Hendrix that way, but if he keeps it up, dude will be out of a job. That’s my girl. She just doesn’t know it yet.
I’m not inviting Maverick up. He’s not coming into my apartment. We’re saying goodnight right here in the car, and that’s it. “Nightcap?” he asks. “Sure,” I say unhesitatingly, shocking and kicking my own self in the ass.
“Show me,” he says, his voice harsh, edged with his own desperation. “Look me in my eyes when you come for me.”
