CHAPTER 5
’Tis the Season of Giving—Raina
I opened up the family-size bag of potato chips, dumped it into the white plastic bowl, grabbed a paper towel roll, and hustled back into the living room. We had another Mastermind meeting, and this time, it was at my house.
My friends were gathered in a semicircle, armed with magazines, poster boards, scissors, glue, and booze.
Kara frowned at my whack snack display. “Please tell me you have dip, and no, hot sauce doesn’t count.”
I placed the paper towels on the table. “I think you know the answer to your question.”
“Do you have any fruit or cheese?”
“Nope and nope. Well, I do have cheese slices and the squirtable cheese.”
Kara’s expression went from mildly irritated to supremely pissed. My friend did not play with food.
“I don’t know why you even asked.” Sienna munched on a granola bar. “That’s why I bring my own food when we have girls’ nights at Raina’s.”
“Hey, now! The chips are just the appetizer. I ordered a pizza, wings, and I even got a veggie pizza just for you, Sienna.”
Sienna looked relieved. “Oh. Well, that was thoughtful of you.”
“I try.”
So I wasn’t the best hostess. Nothing was homemade and I never had bottled water, per Kara’s bougie-ass preference, or vegetarian options outside of the occasional celery and carrots that came with our wing order. And to Nikki’s great disappointment, I don’t know how to mix a cocktail to save my life.
Whatever. Hospitality wasn’t my calling, but I could damn sure whip up a vision board party, which was what the meeting was all about. I’d read somewhere that visualizing your perfect life and putting it in a high visibility area was a powerful way to attract your dreams. Not that I particularly believed in laws of attraction, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a daily reminder and focus on what I wanted out of life.
After I dumped the bowl of chips on the table, I sat on the floor and selected a cutout of the most recent New York Times best sellers list.
Nikki pasted an ad for American Idol to represent her singing career, while Sienna arranged pictures of interlocking wedding bands, a baby nursery, political ads, and the Obamas.
Sienna looked at my facial expression, the one I hadn’t realized I was wearing, and laughed. She knew what I was thinking. There would be no weddings or babies on my board.
Kara sipped on the wine she was wise enough to bring while cutting out words from a magazine. She looked at my board. “Nothing for radio?”
“Hell to the no.” I shook my head. “I’m so over that job. Did y’all hear my show from last Tuesday?”
Kara and the others shook their heads.
“Some little girl, and yes, I said little girl, because a real woman wouldn’t do this, confessed to being a side chick to some married woman who’s in the closet. Homegirl spilled all the tea, told me her lover’s name, occupation, everything. Hell, if I hadn’t stopped her she would’ve blurted the woman’s Social Security number.” I waved my scissors in the air. “Then she had the audacity to request R. Kelly’s ‘Trapped in the Closet.’ I’ll be damned if I play that pedo’s music on my show.”
Sienna reached for her drink. “You can’t be serious? God, some people are just awful.”
Nikki paused mid-cut. “I deleted all that bastard’s music from my playlists. I’m not exposing my babies to that pee-wielding pervert.”
“You have the craziest callers.” Kara plucked a chip from the bowl.
“Yeah, well, that’s the reason why my job isn’t on the board. Enough about that.” I dismissed the topic. “Does anyone have progress reports?”
“I do.” Nikki leaned in and waved at us to get closer. “So the gig at a coffee shop . . . they want me to perform every other Saturday now,” she whispered.
“It’s okay. Cam can’t hear you downstairs.” I pointed toward the downstairs stairway.
“What? That’s awesome!” Sienna said at full volume and gave Nikki a high five. “Can we come see you?”
“Yeah. I’m on every Thursday starting at four o’clock, Saturdays at five. Don’t tell the menfolk, of course.”
“So you haven’t told James about the gig? And have you made a decision about the band yet?” Ms. Bucket of Cold Water, Kara, asked.
“I haven’t. I’m still figuring things out.” Nikki jerked her shoulders. “Anyway, who’s next?”
I took the heat off my best friend. “Well, nothing as exciting as Nikki, but I signed up for an online writing class.”
Kara went next. “I joined a wine study group.”
Sienna’s shoulders drooped. “Nothing for me. Christopher hasn’t responded to my calls or emails. But I’ll likely see him at the Mayor’s Ball.” Her lips thinned. “He can’t avoid me forever.”
“Or you could find someone else,” I suggested. “He isn’t the only campaign strategist in Atlanta.”
“He’s the best, and I want him.” She sprinkled glitter on her board and avoided eye contact.
“I bet you do want him,” I mumbled under my breath.
“You want that D.” Nikki snickered.
Sienna tossed a glue stick at Nikki. “Shut. Up. You know what I meant.”
“Sure we do.” Kara surprisingly joined in on the fun.
Sienna bit down on her lip, I could tell she was wrestling to remove the smile on her face. “I hate you guys.”
I reached over to hug my friend. “Aww, we know you love Keith too much to think about another man’s penis. Now, y’all need to hurry up and finish. I’ve gotta go in early for work tomorrow.”
“Are you serious? I’m not even halfway done,” Sienna protested.
“And this is why we will never have a meeting at Raina’s house again.” Kara pointed at me. “Agreed?”
Nikki, Sienna, and Kara all nodded together. “Agreed.”
* * *
I should’ve known today was going to be a clusterfuck. We had our boring-ass Monday-afternoon meetings for the entire station. No amount of caffeine or free coozies or donuts could make up for my getting approximately two hours of sleep.
Usually we started the meeting several minutes behind schedule because one of the hosts for the popular morning and midday shows would try to out-diva each other with crazy requests or stories about their listeners.
Before I could even step foot into the meeting, Colin, one half of the morning show, stepped into the elevator with me.
“What up, Rae-Rae?” He lifted his fist to give me a bump.
He received the silent treatment and the side-eye for several reasons. One, Colin was a middle-aged white guy. Thanks to Facebook, I knew he enjoyed country music (nothing wrong with that, I used to get my Shania Twain on), hiking, and brewing his own beer. I also know the closest contact he’s had with anything black was his Moleskine hardcover notebook he carried around like a security blanket. So, no, Colin, you may not bump fists with me, and you may not call me Rae-Rae. In the interest of keeping my job, I exercised my right to remain silent.
Colin cleared his throat and then turned his attention to the elevator door. He moved on to the subject of his wife and dog. I decided to contribute to that conversation because, honestly, his wife was nice and his dog had been friendly when he brought them to our last company picnic. Also, this was my way to silently teach Colin about how to converse with black people.
I should log this under my volunteer hours.
The elevator dinged and I rushed from the enclosed space. After the painful ninety-minute team meeting, I crashed on the sofa in the back, since my show would start in two hours, and tried to take a nap. I couldn’t sleep because again—the cheap-ass owners refused to crank up the heat. I guzzled down Earl Grey tea, donned my happy cat fuzzy socks, and geared up for my calls.
It was two weeks before Christmas, the most emotionally exhausting time of the year. During this season, I was extra sensitive and attentive. When I was a radio host in college, a freshman had called in. Her entire family had died on the way to visit her at college, and she wanted to be with them. I talked her off the ledge and we still emailed each other, even to this day. She is now married with two kids.
The holidays reminded people of those they lost, of what they didn’t have—the opposite of the reason for the season. I had to be on my A-game because one bad piece of advice could send someone jumping from a bridge into I-75 traffic. I even abstained from playing hangman from Thanksgiving until the New Year.
Which bought me to my caller. “Hello, raindrop!” I greeted my listener. “Who am I speaking to?”
“Bradle—I, um . . . mean Daniel from Midtown.”
More like Bradley from Buckhead, but whatever.
“My family left me, Raina.”
“I’m so sorry. Do you want to talk about it, or put in a request?”
“Both. And I’d like to request ‘Please Come Home for Christmas.’”
We got that request a lot, usually from douchebag boyfriends. Massaging my temples, I prayed for patience. Perhaps he was different. “Tell us your story, Daniel.” And prove me wrong.
“I just want my family home. I’ve got a boy and a girl, and my wife took them away from me. I want to win them back. I want my wife to love me again. I sent her an email, told her I planned to call you tonight. I’m hoping you can help me.”
“I can’t guarantee anything, but you have my ear.”
He sighed and continued. “I just wish my wife would’ve given me a chance to explain. She didn’t have to involve the kids and take them away. Hell, I didn’t mean anything by it. She didn’t mean anything to me. I just needed to blow off some steam.”
Cheater. Called it. In my peripheral vision, I caught Jamie with her two fingers in the shape of a gun, pretending to blow her brains out. Her auburn strands swished from the dramatic action. She and I were on the same page on cheating, especially after she caught her boyfriend of two years with another woman. Rhonda’s face was blank, serene even. I shouldn’t be surprised—the woman only cared about advertising dollars. Damn, I wish I had my whiteboard.
“She was just an indiscretion.”
“Daniel,” I interrupted, gentling my tone. “Sounds like a bunch of excuses to me. If you want to win your family back, try apologizing. Own up to your mistakes.”
And keep your dick in your pants! I refrained from saying the latter. The FCC would so not approve.
“That’s what I was getting to, Raina.” His voice sounded clipped.
“My apologies, Daniel. Please continue.”
“Right. So, here goes. Baby, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for cheating on you. I never should’ve touched our HOA president.”
“Good,” I managed to choke out.
“Whew. That felt good, Raina.”
“I’m glad. Thank you for calling and good luck with—”
“I have some more confessions.”
“Well, I can’t absolve you from anything, so maybe you should speak to your wife—directly.”
“No, no. I’m sure she’s listening. If not, I’m recording us. Baby,” he deepened his voice, sounding like the B-version of Mike from Boyz II Men during the begging bridge break. “I’m sorry for screwing that girl from my trip. I’m sorry that I messed around with your old college roommate, but most of all, baby—I’m sorry for giving you herpes.”
“What!” I yelled. “You gave your wife herpes? There is no cure for herpes, Daniel.”
Rhonda was waving her hands in the air. Jamie’s blue eyes widened. I had no fucks to give. None. There would be no gentle raindrops, but a thunderstorm.
“I know. I know. I mean, we both have it now, so we might as well stay together, right? So, anyway, if you could play ‘Please Come Home for Christmas,’ the R-and-B version because I need to put a little soul into it.” He chuckled.
The asshole chuckled. My temperature spiked, which was a feat, given the cold radio station. He was talking, but I wasn’t listening.
All I remembered was the countless nights my mother cried herself to sleep when she thought I’d dozed off. Or when we scrimped and struggled while my father had another family. Cold nights when all we had were blankets and each other. We were so poor, my mom had to move us in with Grandma Jean, and they did not get along. My mother and I were in the same position as Daniel’s family.
I hoped that motherfucker was lonely for the rest of his life.
“Sure, Daniel from Midtown. I’ll put in your request to play ‘Please Come Home for Christmas,’ even though you gave your wife and mother of your kids an STD. Herpes, after all, is the gift that keeps on giving.”
Rhonda waved her hands and mouthed Go to commercial.
I couldn’t. I was on a roll, and this raindrop was gonna learn today. “Oh, and Daniel’s wife, if you’re listening: Please don’t come home for Christmas, Martin Luther King Jr. Day, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter, Memorial Day, Labor Day, Halloween—”
“Wait a minute, now,” he yelled.
“No, Daniel. You are the worst of the worst. And you have the audacity to call my show, like I’m some sort of Catholic priest, to confess your dirty-ass deeds and give a shitty apology to your wife? Nuh-uh, partner. You need to own the fact that you’ve forever altered your family’s life. You—”
A commercial blared from the headset. Rhonda had cut me off.
Damn. I rocked back in my seat. I cussed on the air.
“I mean, what were you thinking, Raina?” Rhonda ran her fingers through her platinum blond hair as she paced the floor.
I was seated on a lumpy paisley couch, half shocked and half proud of what I’d said. “He called in and asked for my opinion and I—”
“No. Oh, no, no, no. You do not get to turn this around. He didn’t want your opinion, he wanted you to listen. To say a soothing word or two and play a darn song! That’s your job, and you’ve done it beautifully, well . . . up until now.” She waved her hands. “Now we’re going to have the owners and the FCC up our behinds.”
“We?”
Rhonda tilted her head as if I were on something. Something real strong, by the looks of her deep frown.
“Yes, we. I’m the producer. And my job, along with Jamie’s, is tied to yours. But you didn’t think about us, did you? It’s one thing to play your immature judgmental games silently, it’s a whole ’nother thing to say what you think.”
Clasping my hands together in prayer, I gritted my teeth. Say what I think. That’s been the issue. I’d always censured myself. Always said what people wanted to hear, but not the right thing. I was tired of giving piss-poor advice. Tired of pretending people weren’t awful. Tired of excusing bad behavior. I had a bullshit meter and, apparently, it had a low threshold. “Look, Rhonda. You’re right—”
“I know I am.”
“I’m not finished.” I raised a finger for silence. “You’re right about me not being thoughtful regarding you and Jamie. It wasn’t fair, and I didn’t think about you two. Honestly, all I could think about was that an immoral man wanted me to excuse his behavior. I know my brand is to be sweet and kind and nurturing. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not that person.”
Rhonda’s lips twitched. “Never occurred to me.” She sat on the couch beside me. “Look, I know you aren’t the Raina we’ve marketed you to be, but no one forced you to do this, and there’s nothing wrong with the job. Do you know why people love you?”
“Because I kiss their asses?”
“Because you listen. Some people don’t have a friend or a listening ear. Or someone who won’t judge them for their choices, however bad they may be. Your voice and your words give them hope.” She exhaled, a long, frustrated, worried exhale and leaned back, head cradled on the top of the sofa. “Maybe I’m being Pollyanna, but your work, our work, is important.”
I grabbed her hand. She looked up in surprise, her blue eyes bright with emotion.
“I’m sorry, Rhonda.” I twisted the bangles around my wrist. “I don’t want you or Jamie to feel like I don’t value you.”
I tried to move my hand away, but she held tight. “So, what’s the next move? Should I pack my bags and prepare to never work in a top market again? I’d make a cute hobo.”
Rhonda shook her head. “I honestly don’t know. Best case scenario, you’ll have to apologize to Daniel and the listeners. Suspension is pretty much guaranteed.”
Damn, that sucked. I’d just bought a house with Cam, another thing I hadn’t considered during my rant. He was a pilot, a captain at that, and could afford taking care of the mortgage by himself. My savings had been wiped from the down payment. I really should’ve let Daniel, the herpes wielder, go.
“Worst case is that I get my ass fired, right?”
“Right.”
“Right,” I repeated, my voice weak and unsure. Suddenly, I appreciated the job I never wanted.
“If I get suspended or fired, let Jamie step in. She’s sharp and has a great sense of humor. Just let her be herself and not the old Southern grandma shtick I had going.”
Rhonda nodded.
“Okay, I’m gonna go. I’m sure they’ll make their decision by tomorrow, but I plan to get knockout drunk, so call me if I need to stay sober.”
“Roger that,” she said in a voice that belied her jealousy of my plans.
* * *
“If it makes you feel any better, I’d never give you herpes.” Cameron wrapped his arms around me after he slid into bed.
I lifted my head to look at the time: eleven a.m. Right after I left the studio, I’d called him, but he was still in the air. He must’ve heard my rambling voicemail, chock full of tears, curse words, and lamentations about my soon-to-be-jobless status.
“You’re taking the whole thing in stride.” I heard the sleepiness in my voice and cleared my throat.
“It’s not so bad.”
“Not so bad?” I snorted. “You didn’t hear what I said.”
“Yeah, I did. I had a layover and listened on your station’s radio app.” He pulled me close, my back flush against his chest.
“You were right to say what you did.” His mouth was near my ear. “The guy was an asshole, and if the station can’t see that, then they don’t deserve you. They deserve a robot. Someone willing to push a button to generate a nice response to dumb shit.”
Warmth spread in my chest and traveled to my stomach at his praise. “Why, Cameron, are you trying to seduce me into falling in love with you?”
“Nah. I’ll settle for a blow job, though.”
I chuckled and rolled away so I could turn to face him. I cupped his stubbled cheek. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing.” He grabbed my hand and kissed the center of my palm.
The ringing phone interrupted our intimate moment. I rolled over to the nightstand and looked at the screen.
“Rhonda,” I mouthed, as if she could hear me.
“Pick up. Face the music, babe.”
I shrugged and feigned nonchalance. But honestly, my heart was flopping around like a seal at Sea World.
“Hey, Rhonda. What’s up?”
“Hey, Raina. You know why I’m calling, so I’ll get right to it.”
“Okay.”
“The top brass are pretty pissed. They wanted to fire your ass, but I came prepared with the numbers from the show and how we’ve diversified our listeners. They compromised. Do a nice apology. Ninety-day probation, and Jamie will cover for you. Non-paid, of course.”
Fuck. I needed the money. “Thanks, Rhonda.”
My tone must have been not-excited because Rhonda followed up with, “You have a job and you have a loyal following. Be grateful for that.”
“You’re right. Thanks for pointing out the silver lining.”
“Don’t thank me, thank your listeners. Apparently, we had a huge social media storm between last night and this morning. Check your Twitter and the radio station’s Facebook page. People are eating up what you said. Especially women.”
“Wouldn’t I tick off my loyal listeners if I apologize?”
“You aren’t getting out of that apology, Raina.” Rhonda’s voice was hard.
I know I was pushing it, but I’d rather drink castor oil than apologize to that grimy asshole.
“You need to apologize for the delivery of the message, but not the message itself. You know what, I’ll craft the apology. You just read it like a news release or a promo.”
“I can do that.”
“You have no choice. Now enjoy your vacation and stay out of trouble.”
I ended the call and took in Cameron. He’d scooted his back against the leather headboard, arms crossed and eyebrows wrinkled.
“What is it?” I asked. “I know you heard the call, but it’s not all bad. I’ll be back in action in three months. I don’t have a lot of savings, but I—”
“It’s not about the money, babe. You hate that job. Now all of a sudden you’re acting like you can’t live without it.”
I pushed myself up to sit beside him. “We just bought a house, Cam, and we need the money. It’s called adulting.”
“You need to take this time to figure out what makes you happy, not go back to the same rat race.”
I shrugged. “Not being poor or jobless makes me happy.”
Cam didn’t respond. Just gave me his trademark stare downs.
“Okay, fine. I know what makes me happy. Writing. I’m still fleshing out my characters.”
His biceps flexed against his crossed arms and he shook his head again. What the hell was up with him? I’m not trying to be a starving artist.
“You’ve got a ready-made book. You write in your journal every day after work. It’s what you really want to say to your listeners who need to be called on their shit.”
He’s right. I repeated the sentiment out loud.
“Of course I’m right. Take this time to clean up your notes and write. You can edit it so you won’t get in trouble with the station. Make it about personas, like the cheating spouse or the clueless friend that lets a girl or guy run over them.”
“Right,” I said again. “That’s actually a good idea.”
“Babe, you got the full package when you got with me.”
My mind whirled with possibilities. The great thing about writing nonfiction was that I could write a proposal first. If I had a few bites from publishers, I could snag an agent. I already had an audience in a top market and a solid following online. The big issue was, my listeners wouldn’t be my new audience. They loved the fake Raina. But, according to Rhonda, I got a lot of praise from women on social media. Maybe they could be converted.
“There’s smoke coming from your head. What are you thinking about?”
When I quickly told him my plan, he grunted in approval.
“Yeah, I say you check it out. See if it becomes viral, if it already isn’t. If you decide not to return, you can introduce your audience to the real you.”
“I’m not ready to quit my job just yet. Let me do some research, write a proposal.”
“Good plan. You can brainstorm some ideas with your lady group.”
I rolled my eyes. “We’re not ladies. We’re masterminds!”
“My bad.” He twined his finger around my dreads.
My mood rose from the lower pits of hell to cloud eleven hundred. I could do this, I could really become an author.
I moved away from the headboard, put myself between his legs, and gave him what I knew was a sexy smile. “You have a choice. Eternal gratitude or blow job.”
His eyes ignited. “I think you already know the answer.”
I did. I stroked him, just the way he liked it, light squeeze, slow and measured. My man liked to be wined, dined, and seduced. Lowering my mouth, I took a lick at the answer.
From the intake of breath and grip on my hair, I knew I’d guessed correctly.