Forever. (This. Is. Not. Over. Book 3) (2 page)

I’ll tell ya, Jacob is gorgeous
; olive skin, dark hair, dark brown eyes, a square jaw, a perpetual case of five o’clock shadow and a gritty smile. Marlon, on the other hand, is an all-American boy; a clean cut, country clubber who dresses in Polo, is perfectly lean and chiseled and always wears a warm smile. That’s it; it’s settled. I love Jacob and I love Marlon and selfishly, I’m not willing to give either of them up. Jacob’s a fun place to fly high with, Marlon’s a sanctuary to land on.

Let’s be honest, I have to think about life after college and I’ll be graduating in a few months. I’m not trying to sound like I’m better than anyone but my family has always been members of Boston’s
black elite. (I hate to say the word ‘elite’ when talking to regular people, but really, I don’t know what other word to say. Oh, and I didn’t mean anything by that ‘regular people’ comment, so please don’t take offense to that, kay?  Thanks a bunch!) The black elite is a group that you literally have to be invited into—sorta like a frat or sorority. When you’re a kid, you’re a member by your parents’ association. But after college, you aren’t allowed into their functions, nor are you allowed to call yourself a member of the elite, until you’ve been personally asked to join them.

Your membership depends on five criteria: your choice of career, your willingness to perform extended hours of community service, your ability to contribute hefty amounts of finances to select causes, your dedication to upholding the image of a pristine
black Bostonian, and your lineage—either a wife or husband must be a Boston native for a couple to gain membership into the elite. I am adamant about gaining my own membership after college; I’m just not too sure if dating a white guy is going to get me what I want. Ya know? Marlon seems driven but if he’s talking about moving to Boston that means he’s forgoing the financial perks and connections of his family back in Philadelphia. Marlon and I would be starting our empire from the ground up. Jacob will move back to Boston and sail right in on the coattails of the Blairs. So, what’s a girl to do?

“
Tell her to turn around
,
” Malcolm whispers to me with a smirk and a wink before he turns and walks out, his shoulders scarcely fitting through the bedroom door. Mmm. I like Jon, don’t get me wrong, but I think Danny could have a little fun with that Malcolm. I’m just saying.

“Okay, so I’m about to go grab dinner with Rena
,” Danny says. “Call me later.”

“’K
, bye. Love ya.”

“Love ya too.”

I end the call and look at Jacob who’s now taking pictures of himself with a camera designated specifically for his Evidence class. He’s in law school and the camera is one of the props he uses for assignments; however, every chance he gets, he’s whipping it out and taking pictures of the two of us. After all, we’re in love.

“Here, come sit down on me
,” he says, as he reaches his hand out for me.

“You and these darn pictures.”

I take his hand but instead of sitting on his lap, I straddle him. Jacob brings out the animal in me.

“Don’t be coy
, Jasmine Harlow,” he whispers to me as I purposely grind myself into his lap. Jacob was my first
partner
; Marlon was my second. Both of them deserve standing ovations in bed, though that would likely hurt Jacob’s pride more than Marlon’s. Jacob likes to think that whatever he does is a miracle that has never and will never be successfully accomplished again. This can range from acing a test to making me orgasm on the nights that I visit Yale. But truthfully, between you and me, Marlon makes me orgasm just as much. Jacob rides rough; Marlon digs deep. Different ride; same destination.

“I have an idea
,” I say as I lean over, push his ever-present package of Oreo cookies out of the way and grab two Post-It notes.

“What’s that?”
he asks as he watches me write on them.

“I’m tired of the same old pictures
,” I say and stick my tongue out of my mouth, ardently writing ‘Black Girls Rule’ on his Post-it note. “There.” I hand it to him. He turns it around and reads it.

“Hell
, yeah.” He yanks me towards him and crashes his mouth onto mine, engulfing my entire mouth in his. Typical Jacob. I bite his bottom lip before laughing and pushing away.

“And this
is my sign.” I grab my note and— “Wait,” I say before locking eyes with him and then sliding out of my shirt.

“I’m in love
,” he says as he watches me throw it to the ground. I unsnap my bra. “I’m in heaven.” I let it slide to the ground. “You’re an animal.”

“Ready
, white boy?”

“Please tell me your pants are next.” I lean over and touch his lips with mine.

“They are,” I say against them.

“Hold that goddamn sign up so we can take this goddamn picture.” I laugh and grab my Post
-It note as Jacob leans over and presses the rewind button on the stereo. Slick Rick’s “Teenage Love”
starts blaring again.

“Ready, baby?” I scream out over Slick.

“Let’s do this shit, babygirl! Let’s give it to ‘em gritty! One! Two! Three!”

Flash
.

Back To Now
…

(
now
.)

“Merry Christmas!”

“Please.” I roll my eyes at the Salvation Army Santa and tread through two feet of snow towards my hotel. I’m staying at the Ritz Carlton. The damn
Ritz Carlton
. I have a condo and a husband and two daughters and yet, I’ve been exiled to the Ritz Carlton.

             
“Want a candy cane, miss?” a little boy asks. He has on an applejack hat, a scarf, a plaid Victorian-era cravat and a peacoat. He smiles at me, the moon reflecting in his twinkling eyes. The chilly air gives him rosy cheeks. He looks sweet.

             
“Get lost,” I notify him. Nobody has time for that shit.

             
“Oops, goodness, pardon me,” a shopper says as she bustles past me on the crowded sidewalk. “I’ve gotta get home to my kids.” She smiles at me over her shoulder. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year!”

             
“Beat it,” I say as I wrap my scarf around my neck tighter, but she’s already gone.
Gone
.

             
Story of my life.

             
So here’s the recap of my life if you’re willing to hear a terribly sad story where I come out looking like both a sleaze and an asshole:

1.                
   Jacob courted me, screwed me and then left me.
   
2.               
   I dated Marlon, married Marlon and had his children.
   
3.               
   Three weeks ago a random picture popped up from the dead.
   

That third point is why I’ve been sleeping at the Ritz Carlton for nearly a month. I took a picture with Jacob that was both silly and fun and childish and
so
not me. And to be honest, I was practically
forced
to take it. Anyway, this picture found its way into the hands of a conservative reporter from
The Boston Globe
. As soon as I opened my mail and laid eyes on a picture of me holding up a sign that read: ‘White Boys Rock’, I nearly dropped dead on the spot. Years ago, I posed for that picture butterball naked in Jacob’s bedroom. Call it a Christmas miracle or a case of Marty McFly’s disappearing family in
Back To The Future
, but Jacob was mysteriously erased from the picture altogether. So there I am in this picture, naked, holding onto a sign that extols the rockability of white guys and I’m married to a black man. Not only am I married to a black man, I’m married to Marlon—the Trump of Boston. To make matters worse, the reporter isn’t even demanding money; this asshole is just waiting for the right moment to take down ‘the liberal trash that Malcolm Blair, a certified RINO (Republican In Name Only), frolics with’, he says. He’s waiting for the right moment.

My father’s a pediatrician who has wiped the asses of Boston’s brattiest rich kids. My mother’s a gynecologist who has looked up the skirts of the greatest socialites
throughout greater New England. My husband has sold homes to all of these people. And I’m in that picture, naked, holding up a sign that says ‘White Boys Rock’. I could just
die
. Right here, right now. I could just throw myself in front of these cars zooming down the street and end my life.

Wait.

That may be a thought.

I stop walking and look towards Avery Street with
its dirty slush and reckless cabs. I can just end this right now. Can’t I?  Resolving to end something always starts with the first step.

I take the first step. I’m just waiting for the right moment.

Jasmine, were you seeing Jacob when we were dating?

I take the second step and bump into someone. “Sorry
,” they say. “Merry Christmas!”

Were you? I want to hear you say it.

I take the third step.

Why, Jasmine?

I take the fourth step.

Everyone already knows about this picture.

I take the fifth step.

Jasmine, I can’t take this shit again. You have to go.

I take the sixth step.

Jasmine, Laura has problems. We were best friends once.

I take the seventh step.

You can’t blame her; she has problems. But don’t worry, Nat and the guys will get you out of this.

I take the eighth step.

Mommy, why do you visit us at
Nanna and Grampy’s house every day and not at home?

I take the ninth step.

Mommy, why does Daddy look sad?

I’m just waiting for the right moment.

The toes of my boots are slightly over the edge of the sidewalk. Just two more steps, the eleventh step, at the right time, could end this. I look at oncoming traffic. Waiting for the right time. My heart isn’t even thumping. I’m not even nervous. I’m not even afraid to die. Why should I live? If I don’t have my dignity, why would I stay here?

I wake up each morning and make my family toast and coffee or hot cocoa. I get them all dressed for their day, approving hair bows and neckties. I bustle them out
of the condo with the help of the nanny, Gertrude. Marlon heads to work; Pearl and Tiffany are delivered to my grandparents’ brownstone by Gertrude. I take a breather and make a mimosa and an egg white omelette stuffed with feta cheese, black olives and sundried tomatoes before searching through my catalogue of cookbooks. I was a nutrition major in college; preparing home cooked and nutritious meals is my forte. For the greater part of the day, I’m at a fresh air market or a local grocer scrounging up the ingredients for
Prosciutto and Foie Gras Roulades with Fig Compote
. Then I’m rushing to make it home before Marlon and the girls walk in at seven.

During the day, I have one ear to the phone
, chatting it up with Dena about how Nat just seems like he’s going through the motions of love because that’s what he’s supposed to be doing. I’m giving her advice while drinking a glass of Cab and grating fresh Cheshire cheese. I have Sirius ‘Heart and Soul’ on while I bustle around the kitchen. Occasionally, I’ll throw my iPod in the radio’s receiver and crank of Deborah Cox’s
Did You Ever Love Me
. Some days, I sing that at the top of my lungs thinking about …

I should do it. I should jump right in front of these cars.

Laura will never pay for what she’s done to me. She’s crazy. She can’t help it that she’s crazy. At least that’s what Dena tells me. Laura’s jealous of my friendship with Dena; she sent that picture to a reporter at
The Globe
because of it. I have no idea where Laura is. I can’t get to her. I’ll never have a chance to confront her. I can’t fight her. I’m powerless. But she’s crazy. She’s not to blame. I’m to blame for taking that picture. This is
my
fault. I own this.

I should just throw myself in front of these cars right now. I take the tenth step off of the curb. All I need it one more step. I’m doing it. I’m
—

“Jasmine.” Dammit. I bring my foot back on the curb and close my eyes. Now my heart is thumping. I place a hand over it and then turn around. And who do I see walking over towards me
in a black wool tailored coat with his hands in his pockets?

Malcolm.

“It’s safer to cross at the light.” He looks at the stoplights a hundred yards away and points to them. He then looks back at me and smiles.