“I’m not overreacting. I’ve never lived alone, either, Mother.”
Trinity stood. Walked around the island. Swatting at a bug flying in the air, Trinity asked, “Are you being his best friend right now? Seriously.” Trinity held Monet’s hand. “No matter how good you are to him, a man gets tired of the same thing, baby.”
“Same thing or same woman?” Monet questioned, pulling her hand away from her mother’s.
“No matter how great the sex is, they get bored of having the same pussy the same way. Calling him twenty times a day. Why, Monet? The two of you have been together for twelve years.” Circling back to her seat, Trinity picked a banana from the bowl. “He doesn’t have a prenuptial. Half of all he owns is yours. Trust your husband to do whatever he’s going to do, and whatever you do, do not show up in Atlanta without his permission or with my grandbabies.”
Peeling the fruit from the bottom, she pulled away each leaf, then broke the banana in half before eating it.
Monet’s phone rang. Quickly she retrieved her cell from the bowl, placed it next to her ear. Sniffling, she answered, “Hey, baby.”
“I apologize for hanging up on you earlier, but that was my boy, Theodore, calling. I’m leaving the bar en route to the stadium. Theodore got us tickets to some event, and after that, he wants me to stop by his store so his partner can design me my own clothing line. That’s good news. Don’t cry,” Kingston said.
“I’m not,” Monet stated, quieting her sniffs.
“I’m going to find the perfect home for us, baby,” her husband claimed.
Monet looked at her mother as Trinity consumed the last of the banana, then spoke to Kingston. “Theodore who?”
Kingston hesitated, then answered, “Ramsey. You don’t know him. He goes to my church. He invited me to his store. His partner is going to design a clothing line for me.”
“What’s his partner’s name? First and last.” Monet’s memory didn’t require a pen and pad.
“I don’t know,” her husband answered.
“You don’t know?” she stated.
Kingston firmly replied, “No.”
“Well, I can’t wait to meet our new friends. Take as much time as you want. We’re good. Besides, I don’t need to mess up the girls’ perfect attendance and have them mad at me, too.” Monet placed the call on speaker.
Trinity nodded, then whispered, “Good response.”
Rolling her eyes at her mom, Monet insisted, “Say hi to your best friend. She’s right here.”
“Hey, baby,” Trinity said.
Placing her cell on the island, Monet walked a few feet to the nearest full-length mirror. She turned her back to her mom and focused on her own image.
“Hey, Mama-T,” Kingston replied with enthusiasm. “Thanks for helping Monet with the kids.”
What man wouldn’t want all of this? Monet fingered the edges of her golden-brown highlights; not a strand was out of place. A part centered atop her head. Her hair, smoothed to the sides and slicked to the back, was gathered into a long, loose-waved ponytail that was all hers.
Looking at her mother’s reflection through the mirror, Monet noticed her mother staring at her.
“You know, once I find a house that my wife approves of, I have to buy you a home in the same neighborhood.”
Trinity’s smile curved high, making her cheeks lift. “Take your time and find really nice homes for your families. I’m heading up. The girls owe me an oral book report. I’ll let you talk to your wife.”
“Have a good day, Mama-T. You know I love you. Thanks for having my back. And tell my wife, she’s my best friend.”
“You do know I’m right here,” Monet told Kingston as she watched her mom effortlessly climb the steps until she was no longer visible.
“Love you more!” Trinity shouted.
Retrieving her phone, then stepping out on the patio, Monet sat in a lounge chair beside the pool. She texted the travel agent—Cancel all plans—then removed the call from speaker. “Baby, can you at least give me a time frame? Or come home for a few days and tune up your pussy?”
Jokingly Kingston sang, “Your mama’s gon’ take our kids out of the house because I’ma beat my pussy up ’til you scream my name.”
“That was a great freestyle, but what are we waiting for?” she stated, relocating to their bedroom on the first floor, then locking the door. Monet eased out of her purple thong, let her maxidress fall to the floor. She slid her fingers along her clit, then moaned, “Mmmm. You just made her wet. FaceTime me so I can show you.”
“I’m driving, Monet. And I only have a few minutes to talk,” her husband said firmly, declining her request to video. “I’m meeting back up with some church friends after the game, so this is the last time I can talk with you today.”
“Friends, huh? Every week it’s the same thing. You don’t know those people, Kingston. A couple of months and you’ve joined a church, and whoever these so-called friends-slash-drinking buddies are, y’all do this every Sunday. Now it’s twice on a Sunday. I don’t trust them. Besides, I thought you were meeting up with Lilly the Realtor today, remember her? Kingston, are you cheating on me?” Disgusted and sexually frustrated, Monet put on her dress.
“The only lips of any kind that mine have touched are yours, baby.” Kingston sounded sincere.
Monet stepped into a fresh pair of underwear. The heaviest sigh escaped her mouth.
“Don’t do that. Lilly had to reschedule. I’m getting out of the car to meet up with Victoria, Jordan, and Chancelor,” he confirmed. “And, yes, we do meet up every Sunday.”
Monet flopped onto the edge of the firm mattress. “I thought you were headed to a stadium.”
“Yes. After I leave the bar. Keep up,” he said, then laughed.
Her husband was the one who needed to keep up with his lies. “Where are you? What’s the name of the bar?” she questioned, waiting to add the location to her mental Rolodex. “One better. Drop me a pin with your location.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s always some new spot,” he told her.
Changing her tone, Monet calmly mentioned, “It’s cool, Kingston. Do you.”
Her husband had gotten to a point where he couldn’t recall his lies. Monet wasn’t naïve.
“I’ll have Lilly e-mail you the houses. I just need a little more—”
“Shut up! I’m beginning to believe there is no Lilly.” Monet began crying. “I’m the one combing hair, washing clothes, dropping and picking up our girls from school, cleaning, homework, dental appointments, bedtime stories. I’m not going to be fine until we are living under the same roof. Going to sleep and waking up together. You hear me? Together. If you don’t want me to come to Atlanta, you need to come home for at least a week so we can discuss face-to-face how we’re going to move forward.”
“Pretend I’m still under contract. That’ll help,” Kingston said, then added, “Muah!” right before he ended the call.
Monet dried her tears. Self-pity wasn’t going to bring her husband home. Atlanta was not that far. If she took the first flight out in the morning, Trinity or her girlfriend Bianca could pick up the girls from school, and Monet could be back home in time for dinner.