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She smiles prettily. “I’m glad you’re finally moving on, but it’ll end in disaster if you can’t be honest with yourself.”
“It’s horrible, but you can’t forget what he did yesterday.” She wags a finger. “See, that’s your weakness. You keep letting tragic backstories fool you into thinking evil people are good.”
And also, one day, I am going to get myself a boyfriend.” “When? You barely leave the house.” “Not the point. I’ve been trying my luck on those dating apps. One day, I’m going to swipe right on a guy who doesn’t think a great pick up line is ‘do you want to see my Wiener?’”
If going through a tragedy gave everyone a free pass, we would live in a totally uncivilized society.
“I’m not afraid of the popo!” I channel my inner Madea, picturing myself as a six-foot cross-dressing man in a granny dress and sand sacks for breasts. Hauling my body around, I shriek, “I ain’t afraid! So let me go!”
Heartbreak feels like a thousand sharp arrows digging into the skin. It smells like mustard and soggy bread. It sounds like a voice that used to whisper promises of forever.
If this is what love is—if this pain and betrayal is what it has in store for me—then I want no part in it.
“No one can free you. You’re the only one who can get out.”
How long have they been together? How is he already proposing? He dragged his feet with me. We were together for so long and all he did was talk about marriage. He never once acted on it. It was just a promise. A carrot dangling on the edge of a stick.
“It’s okay to cry, Kenya.” “I’m not crying,” I argue. “You don’t have to be Miss Sunshine all the time. No one expects you to keep all that hurt in. No one.” She pats my hair and soothes me. “It’s okay to cry.”
“Ugh, I’m so jealous. It’s been years since I’ve gone out on a date. I don’t even need a millionaire. Just a regular guy with a nice smile and an easygoing personality.”
“If he comes after my heart, he’ll have it. That man gets everything he wants. Even if he has to tear down the world to make it happen.”
Women are tricky. They’re allowed to critique their relatives, but no one else can point out the flaws.
“They drained you and they didn’t pour anything back,” I whisper. “And you still found more to give.
“Kenya, you decide what you allow and who you allow into your life. No one can force you to accept their bad behavior. If they care for you, if they love you, they’re going to show it. It’s not going to be a one-way street. And if it is, that’s not family. That’s a manipulator.”
“Kenya, I went along with your lie because I knew you weren’t comfortable meeting me. I want to make an effort to respect your space. To respect your independence. But I also want you to know that I will burn the world down if it’ll keep you warm.
