ELLA
“Hi, Ella. This is Tippy. Of course you know the anniversary of my Jackson’s passing is coming up, and I’m sure you want to give some input on this year’s celebration of his life, as always. Give me a call back so we can discuss it. I know you’re in St. Louis, but you’re welcome to stay with me in Minneapolis while you’re here for the celebration. Hope to talk to you soon.”
The voicemail ended, and minutes later, I found myself still sitting at my dining room table, my breakfast untouched, the screen of my phone black, and tears streaming down my face. I just wanted to move on, to no longer be tied to Jackson or the memories that were tethered to him. I wanted to be more than just his girl, the one he left behind. I wanted my damn life back, my pre-Jackson “On One” Reynolds life back. But everything I did or was before and after him had been conflated with that singular relationship, as if I wasn’t a college graduate, a professional model, a damn individual. Hell, as if I wasn’t the daughter and niece of celebrities, as if my name on its own carried no weight.
Two years.
Only two years of my life were spent as this man’s girlfriend. Were they an intense two years? Yes. Did it make sense that his considerable fans had become obsessed with our pairing? I guess. But he was gone, I was still here, and I had moved on. Mentally, emotionally, even geographically, I had moved on. So why hadn’t everyone else?
My phone awakened so abruptly that I actually jumped in my chair, my eyes narrowing as the screen resurrected and my mother’s name appeared on it. An involuntary groan escaped my mouth. What next? Was some high school bully going to message me on social media offering me the chance to “be my own boss”? Damn!
I knew myself well enough to know that if I didn’t get in front of this feeling of irritation that was slowly overtaking me, I’d soon find myself in a dark place, in a hole that was hell to dig out of, so I picked up my phone, ignoring the new voicemail alert, and sent Mother Erica a simple text: Help.
ARMAND
This felt weird, probably seemed odd to my mom, too, but it was what I wanted even if I wasn’t sure why. I’d been seeing Mr. Charles once a week for a whole month. He suggested we bump it up to twice weekly, but I told him I just couldn’t do that shit. I swear I’d end up scratching my own eyeballs out if I had to talk about this stuff anymore than I already was.
We’d quickly gotten to the bottom of my issues, not that it would take a rocket scientist to figure it out. My anger was a side effect of having watched nigga after nigga beat on my mom. I guess seeing that kind of stuff would mess anyone up. Alvin Charles said trauma affects people in different ways. Some find themselves in the midst of an addiction, others grapple with depression or anxiety. But many, like me, see their trauma manifested through anger and violence. Those who might not have been fortunate enough to have the protections afforded me because of my profession find themselves in and out of jail. So I knew the why. Moving forward, we would work on the how—how to deal with the trauma, how to face my issues, how to be better.
Crazy enough, I actually wanted to be better but was still uncomfortable with the whole process, with talking about my shit. But back to the beautiful woman standing in front of me with a bewildered look on her face, her eyes sliding from the shiny foyer floor beneath my feet to meet mine. The front door was still open behind me, and as she stood there mute, I figured I’d stunned her into silence.
“Can I close the door…or you want me to leave?” I slowly asked.
“What?” she squeaked with furrowed brows. “Oh, no! I mean, you can close it. I’m just…are you sure?”
“Uh, if the offer still stands. You said the cottage was mine to use when I’m in St. Louis. I been staying at the Sable because I’m kinda leery about getting a place just to get traded and have to move. I was thinking I could just stay here.”
I could see the tears in my mom’s eyes as she reached up and cupped my face in her hands. “From the second I found out you were traded to the Cyclones, I was hoping you’d stay here with us. I just can’t believe it, though.”
I stared down at her and managed to give her an almost smile. “Believe it.”
“Boogie—”
She was cut off by a loud scream from one of her kids. Her head snatched away from me and back. “Pull your car around back. I’ll meet you at the cottage in a few minutes. Let me go see who is trying to kill who this time.”
I nodded and watched her leave the foyer, moving deeper into the house. Then I headed out the front door to my SUV and drove around to the back of the mansion where the garages were located. Situated at the rear of the property, far beyond the pool and gym complex, stood a much-smaller replica of the main house. When she finally let me inside with all four kids in tow, I saw that it contained a small living room, one bedroom, an eat-in kitchen, and a bathroom, about six-hundred square feet of space decorated in white and gray and dark blue. It was nice, uncluttered, neutral. I liked it. I liked it a lot.
As I moved from room to room, I could hear tiny footsteps behind me—Little Leland. That actually made me smile. When I returned to the living room, my mom was still standing in the front doorway wearing a track suit, a look of worry on her face. Little Layla stood next to her, holding onto one of her legs. The twins sat in a stroller. They could both walk but they were still small, and I was sure they couldn’t keep up with the other two.
“So…will this work for you?” my mom asked, her voice an octave or two higher than usual.
“He likes it. I can tell,” Little Leland piped up.
I glanced down at him and gave him a grin. “How you know, man?”
Little Leland shrugged his shoulders as he looked up at me. “I just do.”
Chuckling, I replied, “You’re right. I do.” Returning my attention to my mom, I added, “This is nice. I can vibe with it. Thanks for letting me stay here.”
“You’re my son. Of course I’m going to let you stay here, Boogie.”
I nodded, but I felt uncomfortable. Something about hearing her say I was her son with these other kids present felt…strange, and I didn’t even know why.
“Well, we’ll let you get settled. I know you’re grown and probably want to live totally separate from us, but you are always welcome to eat with us or just hang out anytime, okay?”
I nodded again and said, “Okay,” but I had no intention of hanging out in that house.
ELLA
I avoided everyone, including my wonderful family, because of Jackson’s death, or rather, my connection to him. It was the fear of having them bring up the relationship, or more truthfully, the image we portrayed. I just didn’t want to hear or think about any of it. I was over it and him, and I felt like shit for feeling that way, so the last thing I wanted or needed was to be reminded of any of it. However, there I was, sitting in my car outside my uncle’s home, preparing to visit his family.
Closing my eyes, I sighed before reading Mother Erica’s response to my “help” text.
I know you have a tough few weeks ahead of you, but remember who you are. Not only do you have generations of ancestors of the greatest ilk standing with you, but you also have a family that loves you. Seek comfort with your kin, daughter.
I trusted this woman who’d helped me back away from total self-destruction and took every syllable of each of her words to heart. So, I slid my phone into my purse and left my vehicle. An hour or so later, I was still there, sitting on my uncle’s overstuffed living room sofa smiling so widely at my cousins as they climbed all over him that my cheeks hurt. My stomach was happy because of the three slices of pound cake I’d eaten, a masterpiece mailed to my uncle from our Aunt Ever. And the heaviness that weighed me down earlier was gone.
“Kim! You still in the bathroom?!” Uncle Leland shouted as either Saint or Houston took a seat on his forehead. Those boys were going on two, and I still couldn’t tell them apart.
“No!” Aunt Kim called back. “I ran over to Armand’s to take him some cake. Just getting back.” She appeared in the living room, smiling.
“Oh, I forgot you said you were gonna do that,” Uncle Leland said.
“He stays that close to you guys?” I asked.
“My big brother lives back there!” Little Leland announced. He was wearing his father’s huge shoes, struggling to walk in them. I followed his little finger to the wall of patio doors that allowed a breathtaking view of the patio, pool, yard, and guest cottage.
“Oh, he does?” I asked, my eyebrows peaked.
Aunt Kim smiled proudly. “Yes! He just moved in the other day!”
My eyes remained glued to the cottage as I said, “That’s cool.”
“It truly is. I mean, he hasn’t really been interacting with us, but I’m just happy he’s near me. Armand isn’t the easiest person to get along with, but I love him and I’ve missed him.”
I nodded, turning my attention back to my cousins.