Page 4 of Broken Clocks
Laying the phone face down on the stainless-steel countertop, I distracted myself by shoving a spoonful of banana pudding into my mouth and thinking about mundane shit—things that didn't hurt. Like how this pudding was damn good, but still not as good as my granny's. She made hers from scratch and baked it. This was a close second, though. It came from the Italian restaurant down the street. The old white lady who owned it was mean as hell, but she could cook. She seasoned her food like she had some Black in her. Or maybe some Asian. Them motherfuckers could throw down too.
My phone rang again. I peeked. Not him this time—her. My best friend.
The pudding turned sour in my stomach.
I pushed it away and mentally prepared to answer. Even though I said I wouldn't. She'd already left two voicemails threatening to come over if I didn't pick up. That was the last thing I wanted.
"Hello."
"Hey, Sis." She sounded cheerful.
I hated when she called me Sis. It made my ass itch.
“She never treated me like a sister—more like the fat best friend who made the pretty girl look prettier.” I was so over it—and over her.
Too bad it took me nearly twenty years to realize it. And now I didn't know what to do about it. It felt fucked up for me to say fuck twenty years of friendship, especially when I'd let her treat me any type of way for so long.
"Hey, Sinica," I deadpanned into the phone, rolling my eyes heavenward. I sent a silent plea to whatever deity was listening—praying for strength. Strength not to hang up. Strength not to curse her out. Strength not to tell her how I really felt about her.
I already knew what was coming. She was about to ask me to do something wedding-related—and that shit always annoyed the hell out of me.
I told her from day one, "You want me in this wedding, keep me uninvolved in this wedding." I tried to avoid it at all costs, for many reasons. Mainly because we didn't see eye to eye when it came to anything. I was a jeans, t-shirt, and Converse type of girl. She was couture and Loro Piana.
To keep us from butting heads during the six months leading up to the wedding, I only promised to show up for the dress fitting and bachelorette party. The dress issue had been solved weeks ago. I agreed to squeeze my size-16 ass into a size-14 dressbecause that's as large as the designer made and it had the nerve to be ugly. I was only wearing it because she paid for it. My paralegal salary didn't cover $500 dresses I'd only wear once.
The bachelorette party was two days away. I wasn't in the mood, but I was going.
I half-listened to her one-sided conversation until she finally gave up on small talk and got to the point.
"Can you please go with me to the caterers? You know how to talk people into doing what you want—or, in this case, what I want. Please!" she whined.
No sat on the tip of my tongue. She was hard-headed. I told her I didn't want to be involved, but she still guilt-tripped me into the cake tasting and gown selection. She even tricked me into going lingerie shopping. It pissed me off. Spending a Saturday looking at another woman's pussy hanging out of crotchless panties was not my idea of a good time.
I didn't say no because I knew she'd just piss me off more because she was going to keep calling nonstop. If that didn't work, she'd show up at my house. That wouldn't end well. In the mood I was in, I'd be liable to beat her ass for the old and the new.
I exhaled a frustrated breath. "Okay, Sinica. When?"
"Awwww, thank you, thank you, thank you! I'll be there in an hour. And wear something nice," she gushed and hung up before I could take it back.
I hadn't expected her to say today, let alone in an hour.
This bitch...
I got up from the island, dropped the banana pudding in the trash.
"Let's get this over with." I sighed.
I made my way upstairs, pulled out a simple pair of panties, my good bra, black tights, and a black V-neck sweater. The color matched my mood. It was simple—and that would piss Sinica off. She hated simple, but I was petty. The thought of her being annoyed pleased me. Put some much-needed pep in my step.
Unwrapping my waist-length locs, I headed to the shower.
Chapter Three- Eshe
I was a living testimony of how you could still feel lonely in a room full of people—and I was. Because the way sadness had me in a chokehold made no fucking sense, but I just couldn’t shake it off. It clung to me like a second skin, a constant reminder of everything I was going through.
I needed help.
In the middle of the club’s VIP section, with music about popping pussy thumping through the speakers and the weight of my sorrows pressing down on me, I closed my eyes and did something I hadn’t done in a long time—I sought solace in a prayer.
