Forever. (This. Is. Not. Over. Book 3) (6 page)

Jasmine was beyond e
cstatic to be selected as a contestant for Miss Black Massachusetts and damn near tackled me on my bed when she flew up to Yale with her acceptance letter. Right now, her smile is the widest I’ve ever seen. Her dimples are the deepest they’ve ever been. Her hair, a river of jet-black waves, is trailing right between her shoulders. And you better believe she never lets it touch a pillow unless said pillow is satin or silk. I keep a stash of silk pillowcases at Yale just for her, but you’ll still find her sleeping with a hat on (or ‘satin cap’ as she likes to call it) and she never misses a biweekly appointment. The last time her hairdresser rescheduled on her, she asked me for legal advice. She’s beautiful, she knows it, and she takes care of herself because of it. She’s proud to be here. She made me write down all the questions I thought the judges would ask her and put them in my Red Sox hat. I’d randomly pick one out at a time and quiz her. She’s been practicing her answers for months. And though she has no idea what the real questions will be, she already told me she’ll bring all of her answers back to her college major, Nutrition.

Jasmine, what do you think is the reason behind the conflict between the United States and the Middle East?
I just think everyone’s hungry. Consider what lack of nutrients does to the body and brain and why it will cause aggression and even war. The effects are …

Jasmine, what do you think about the rise of
black men in the US prison system?
Well, it’s a proven fact that most crimes are committed on an empty stomach. Even I have to apologize sometimes for things I’ve said while hungry. If you’re hungry and need to feed your family, you’ll do anything, won’t you? I’m sure that’s what’s going on; men wanting to make sure their families eat. Listen to these stats about nutrition and how it’s so important to consume the right food before you commit a crime…

Jasmine, why do you think feminists abhor these scholarship pageants and still refer to them by the antiquated name of
‘beauty pageants’?
Well, I think that the feminists would be fine with these pageants if we just invited them to lunch. I think what they are really worried about is whether we girls are eating. Look how thin women have to become in this country to be considered beautiful. But what’s being beautiful without being healthy? Nutrition is important and let me tell you why...             

Yes, she’s excited, her pageant dress is Chanel, her shoes are Dior, and her father bought her Clive Christian No. 1
perfume for today. She’s excited as hell.

But still, she didn’t invite me.

I’m in my second year of law school, the hardest year of schooling I’ve ever endured. I left a weekend of studying just to see Jasmine Harlow become Queen Jasmine. But still … she didn’t invite me.

“I would just like to say that this beauty pageant has set the female race back a good one-hundred and fifty years
,” a girl says from behind me.

“Danielle, shut your ass up
,” another girl says. I turn to Mac, a smile on my face.

She came.

This is the real reason why Mac came. I was flying into Boston to watch Jasmine just so I could be here for a day that she was so excited about. (Though I wasn’t invited, I can’t stress that enough.) Mac knew that Danielle would likely be here, but even if she didn’t come, he was happy watching fifty black girls smile, wave and blow kisses. For him, this is just God’s teaser of what heaven is like. If you ask me, Mac coming here tonight was a bold move simply because Danielle has turned feminist. That’s a fact that annoys Jasmine, since she’s now convinced that Danielle judges her based on her traditional views about women and beauty pageants and blowing kisses.

“I bet she won’t even notice you
,” I whisper to Mac.

“Shut the hell up
,” he whispers back. At the same time, Mac and I turn and …

Red hair.

It’s her.

She has on a dress; grey, hits her knees. She also has on a pair of heels that make her an easy six
-feet tall. But this is Danielle Rouge—tall heels that are as thin as sewing needles don’t bother her. She’s cruising down the aisle towards the members of Boston’s black society.

And she has a crew.

I look at Mac and smile. Danielle’s with another girl and two guys. I wonder which one is Jon. All Jasmine will tell us is that Danielle and Jon go to Xavier University, the only historically black Roman Catholic college in the country. Other than that, she refuses to answer questions about the guy.

“Danielle, get your little ass in here and hurry up!” Mac and I turn to see
Dr. Elise Rouge standing, hurrying along Danielle and her crew.

“This pageant is against the very essence of who I am
.” Danielle says as she heads towards her people, who are about three rows ahead of Mac and me. Danielle breezes past me, conjuring the smiles of those nearby who understand how important she, her family and the society she belongs to is. But this is Danielle Rouge, she never gives anyone direct eye contact because she couldn’t give a shit less about them, and now she’s walking as if she doesn’t even notice that anyone else has arrived. The smell of vanilla lingers after she passes Mac and me, who are sitting closest to the aisle.

“Damn, she smells good
,” I hear Malcolm say to himself.

“Huh?” I ask him.

“Nothing.”

“I heard you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hi, baby!”
the girl with Danielle says before leaning over to a guy who’s seated and planting a huge kiss on his lips.

“Move, Rena!” Danielle whispers. “I have to sit down and watch Jasmine degrade herself.”

“Danielle,” Attorney Jackson Rouge says as he stands, giving his daughter a warning look before giving her a hug.

“Sir,”
one of the guys with Danielle says as he reaches out his hand to shake Attorney Rouge’s hand. Jon. Gotta be. He doesn’t look too excited to be here. Then again, he doesn’t look bothered to be here either. He looks like a laid-back type of guy.
Shit, where are we again? Are we at a Miss Black Massachusetts Beauty Pageant? Is this pageant necessary because the majority of black women are unrepresented in the American culture of beauty, and it’s a scientific fact that black girls will choose white dolls over black dolls when asked which one is the prettiest? Yeah? Oh, okay. Just checking.
There’s no doubt about it, he’s the polar opposite of Danielle. I watch him as he adjusts his tie, wincing as if in pain. That’s when I look at Mac and see his eyes are narrowed in on Jon with the worst look of contempt on his face that I’ve ever seen.

“What does she see in that guy?” I lean over and whisper to Malcolm. “I mean, come on. He’s gotta be about 6’5”
! Who the hell wants someone that tall?”

“Fuck you, Jake.”

“What are you about 6’2”? Hmm … that’s about three inches shorter. Isn’t it? Did I do the math right?”

“Shut the hell up.” We watch Attorney Rouge shake
the hand of another guy standing next to Jon. This one smiles, nods, says hello to everyone around—a Senator Joe Biden of Delaware smile on his face. “She’s wearing the necklace.” Mac says.

“Huh? Who?”

“Red. She’s wearing that necklace I bought her.” I look at Danielle who’s now shaking hands with Attorney Carmichael ... and now with Dr. Burgess and his wife. “What now?” Malcolm says, breaking my concentration. I look at him and watch him check his cell phone. Judging from Malcolm’s face, that’s none other than Laura.

“What happened?” I ask as I look back at the others.

“Laura,” he says before letting out a deep breath. “She has someone she wants you to meet … a sorority sister … oh, it’s General Yates’ daughter … Gwyneth … I don’t know, call Laura and see what the hell she’s talking about.” He slides his phone back in his pocket and then we both watch Jon and Dr. Elise Rouge hug as Rena takes a seat next to the guy she just tongued down. Danielle has taken a seat next to her father. But who is this guy who’s unaccounted for? Who is this Joe Biden of the group who’s about 6’3” or 6’4” and conjuring up smiles from the other black society members? Who is this guy who’s taking the time to shake all of their hands? Who is this muthafucka?

“Hmm
,” Mac whispers to me as he looks at Joe Biden. “I wonder who that is. Don’t you?”

Face to face.

I jump out the cab right in front of the Starbucks on Tremont and there he
is trying to catch it before someone else does. He’s just come from work; there’s a briefcase in his left hand, a cup of coffee in the other. And now here we are: face to face.

I should say something to him. I should. The moment is, to say the least, strange. He knows about his wife and me and yet
we’ve never had a conversation about it. I see him walk past my office door during the week, heading straight to Malcolm’s office. Both of them trying to pay this conservative journalist off or at least find some dirt on him to return the blackmail and cancel Jasmine’s debt. Both of them have been working overtime. Malcolm has made it clear that I’m not needed or wanted on this assignment. Jasmine’s husband has asked for Malcolm’s services and his services alone.

Marlon wants to be her savior.

He wants to show her that he can do what I do. He can save things. He can fix things. He can handle things. He’s tough too. Those Blairs aren’t the only ones who can save the fucking day. He wants to be her hero. He wants her to start worshipping him instead of me.

Can I be honest with you? Marlon is my worst nightmare. He’s a Philly boy who made his own shit happen in Boston. He not only set up his own business
(like me), but he went so far as to move away from his family to prove that his success is his alone. And when you pass through Beacon Hill, his success is apparent
. Marlon Kyles Real Estate
is blasted in Rockwell Block letters along 242 Bowdoin Street. I started
Blair
and Associates
; Marlon started a business where only his name is front and center. A business where he only fucks with the best of the best. He started his business; he married Jasmine Harlow and he gave her his babies. He’s done the shit that I wanted to do. I’d never admit this to another living being but he’s the fucking man. Let’s just face it.

But Marlon Kyles has one problem
. Would you like to know what that problem is? Okay here it is, Marlon’s only problem is that he has no idea that he’s the fucking man. He thinks
I’m
the fucking man.

I nod towards the cab, imploring him to take
it.
Here, go ahead, I’m done with it. It’s yours now. I’m the fucking man.

“Fuck you
,” he says to me before throwing his briefcase inside the backseat. I give him a smile and he gives me his best Philly gritty face. I’m being sardonic; I’m trying to bother him. The truth is that I’m not done with his wife. I will never be done with his wife and his wife will never be done with me. Never. But saying that will surely start an argument. So I turn, head towards Starbucks … and wait for his wife to arrive.

Jasmine

(
christmas
.
past
.)

We’re at Danielle’s parents’ place
. Tonight’s their annual Christmas party!

“
I have such magical memories of the Annual Rouge Holiday Party.” I say to Malcolm as we walk up to the front door of Baton Hall, the official (and historic) name of the Rouge manor. One can never forget the elegance of such an event that was temporarily suspended once Danielle’s parents moved to Texas. The first year they left, we here in Boston wondered if we should even celebrate Christmas at all. Without the Rouge’s holiday party, what was the point of it?

“I figured you’d appreciate coming back here.” Malcolm says.
Security at the front doors doesn’t bother to check for Malcolm’s name on the guest list. With a smile and a nod, they simply let us both in. Within an instant, as we step through the French doors and over the threshold, we’re bombarded by the sounds of Christmas jazz and drunken laughter. And, as it appears, Malcolm and I seem to have walked into a scene in which we are all but invisible; not a soul acknowledged our entrance. And why would they? The jazz girl is crooning, the ensemble band is rocking, everyone’s drunk and there are more important people here than Malcolm and me. This is, of course, my worst nightmare. For so long I’ve longed to be an active member of this set and yet here I am, a former Queen of Massachusetts, still considered one of the most unimportant people in the room—second only to the help.

These elites here, dressed in ball gowns and tuxedos are
informally known as The Boston Board of Blacks around the political arena. Or simply, The Board: black professionals and politicos that mayors and governors and presidents turn to in order to reach the entire Black population of Greater Boston. These elites here are the group I am
destined
to be a part of.