The Ex Chronicles

After closing the door to the apartment, she turns to Darius. He smiles a big, wide grin and opens his arms.

He really is beautiful. And she’s missed him so much. Instead of stabbing him with her keys, she steps into his arms. His muscular biceps, outlined by his tight thermal top, envelop her. He smells the same, like musk and wet dreams. His dreadlocks frame her face as he puts his cheek against hers. They stand like this, not saying a word, as Miles roams the tiny apartment finding familiar smells. Precious feels the outline of Darius’s body, his dick hardening against her.

It’s the same thing all over again. He sang this sad song for a month after she walked in on him and that white girl.

He lifts her chin and looks into her eyes. “You know you overreacted. It’s you I love. You know that. I asked you to marry me. I’ve never asked anyone else.”

Precious pulls her chin out of his hand but hasn’t the strength to pull away. “How can I ever trust you again? How long have you been lying to me, fucking other women?”

“We were getting married in a few months. I’d be spending the rest of my life with you. It was a last-fling thing. If you want me to promise I’ll never do it again, okay—but baby, what’s done is done. I want you back. I miss you. I hate myself for missing you but I do.” Darius tightens his arms around her.

“I don’t know . . .” Precious feels her resolve slipping. She can’t think straight so close to him. They were together for two years. It’s been three months since she’s gotten laid. She wants him. She always wants him. They’re so good together.

They stand there in silence for several minutes. Then Darius slips his hand inside the waistband of her sweats, between her legs, and smiles against her cheek.

Precious knows she shouldn’t do it. He’s bad news, bad, bad, bad. But he’s so bad he’s good. Knowing better, but not caring, she steps back and pulls off her hoodie. She kicks off her sneakers, steps out of her sweats, and stands there in her panties and wifebeater.

Darius smiles and looks her up and down. “Mmm, you’re still so sweet and juicy,” he says. Slipping the rubber band off his wrist, he ties his hair back up off his face, then says, “Now mine.”

Precious still wants him. It has always been like this with them, a physical attraction so strong, just standing near him makes her heart pound. Even after his betrayal it hasn’t changed.

She pulls his top over his head and his sweats off as he steps out of his sneakers. He stands for a minute in his Jockeys, watching her. Then he takes her hand and pulls her toward the bed.

This is how Precious finds her ex’s mouth between her legs. He looks good enough to eat; she apparently is.

“Yeah, that’s good,” she moans. “Just like that. Just like that. . . . Oh, yes . . . yes. . . .”

As he lies in the V between her thighs, the muscles in his back, ass, and legs ripple as he lifts her hips up to his mouth. She knows she is lost. He is the man of her dreams. The man she prayed for. The man she was going to have kids with, the house, and the dog—all of it. And he showed up, they fell in love, and they were to be married. How can she possibly start over with someone else?

She still loves him; loves everything about him—his walk, the dimple in his cheek when he smiles. The way he used to fall asleep still inside her. How they’d talk five times a day and he’d hide little gifts around her apartment. How could they not have another Christmas together, or another Thanksgiving gorging themselves on turkey and pie?

This is how they end up back at square one, in her bed, their clothes on the floor, Miles eating her favorite sandals and Demon hissing at him from the windowsill. It’s just like old times.

Two hours later, Precious enters Bella’s Prince Street loft and throws the grocery bag at her. “It’s all your fault!” she yells.

“I hope you used a condom, P. He’s probably gay.” She’s wearing a THANK YOU FOR POT SMOKING T-shirt, a tight denim skirt accentuates her curvy figure. “What straight man do you know eats fruit salad?”

Bella sits on one of the four Barcelona chairs in the large, airy room, slipping off her zebra flats. “It was just a matter of time. Sex with your ex is a prerequisite until you move on. Even if it makes you feel like shit.”

“Jesus. You’re right.” Precious hangs her head and sits down across from Bella. “Why are you always right?”

“Because I’ve spent most of my life in therapy. Where’s the Aleve?” she asks, riffling through the bag. Precious pulls the container out of her pocket.

Bella opens the bottle with her teeth as she limps across the loft to the open kitchen and goes to the Sub-Zero fridge. Yelling across the counter, she asks, “How much do I owe you?”

“Hmm, coffee, oranges, whitefish salad, bagels, Aleve, self-respect . . . five thousand dollars. And you can stop pretend-limping,” she yells after her.

Miraculously healed, Bella returns with two mimosas and sets them on the table. She then hands Precious a fifty-dollar bill and says, “Keep the change for dragging your ass out of bed.” Then she hands her a five and says, “Here, go buy yourself another guy.”

Precious looks at the five. “Prices have gone up, you know. They’re no longer two for five.” She fakes a Chinese accent. “Twoforfive. Twoforfive.”

Precious shrugs. “I’m black and a woman. I can say anything I want. Now, where’s my coffee, cracker?”

When Bella goes into the kitchen to make coffee, Precious walks over to Bella’s laptop and opens iTunes. She finds the bossa nova playlist. Astrud Gilberto’s warm voice fills the loft. When she sits back down Bella has put a tray of bagels, tomatoes, whitefish salad, and two cups of coffee on the Barcelona table.

“She’s not. She’s off, a family thing. Probably another christening; every month seems like there’s a new niece or nephew.”

“I can say whatever I want, I have black friends.” Bella shrugs then goes into her bedroom. Returning with two big Barneys bags, she sets them down in front of Precious.

“All yours—a couple jackets, two pairs of shoes, assorted T-shirts, and two DVF wrap dresses you’ll look great in if you ever decide to wear a dress. There’s a pair of Seven jeans I can’t get into anymore. And the pièce de résistance”—she pulls out a pair of tall black boots—“sexy riding boots to go with the jeans. And they’re flats, so you might just wear them.”

“It’s the least we can do. You’re such a pretty girl. Under your baggy, shapeless clothes you’ve got a body I’d pay to have and probably someday will.”

An hour later, the front door opens. Precious raises a brow at Bella, who shrugs and goes to the hallway. A moment later she returns with Julius.

Julius is carrying his ever-present saxophone case. He sets it down in the hall and walks into the room. Looking at the food on the table, he drawls in his heavy Creole accent, “I guess I’m in time for brunch.”

Julius smiles sheepishly. “Bell, could you do me up a plate, Sugar? I just got off a gig and I’m wiped. Gonna crash in a few.”

Bella looks at Precious. “And this from the woman who just fucked her cheating ex-fiancé,” she says drily.

Bella sits down. “I’m sorry, Precious. But it’s always easier telling other people what to do. Isn’t it?”

Bella sighs and gets up. Precious follows her into the kitchen. “C’mon, Bell. You’re a completely different person when you’re with him. You smoke and drink like a chimney fish, and you spend too much. Doesn’t he make any money at these gigs? Why doesn’t he ever pay for anything?”

Ignoring her, Bella opens cabinets, looking for a plate and a glass. She pours a mimosa from the pitcher, then slices a bagel, spreading it with whitefish salad.

“Precious,” Bella snaps, “you’re my friend and I love you, but back off. It’s my life and my money—”

Bella drops the knife into the sink with a clatter, then turns to face Precious. “You don’t mind when I spend it on you.”

Precious meets her gaze evenly. “Yeah, but I’m always there for you. Where is he when you’re too drunk to get home, or you had a hard time with your folks and need someone to talk to? You can never reach him when you want to see him. But he’s got a key to your fucking apartment”—Precious stiffens when Julius clears his throat from the doorway. He brushes past her and takes the plate from Bella, kissing her. “Am I interrupting something?” he drawls.

Precious drains her glass, amazed that something so evil can still move and speak. “No, I was just leaving.” She turns to Bella. “Thanks for brunch and the clothes.” Then she walks back to the living room, grabs her bags, and leaves the loft.

Julius puts the plate on the counter when he hears the door slam. He pulls Bella toward him, tangling his fingers in her hair.

“I’m hungry, but not for food right now, Sugar.” He’s massaging her breasts inside her T-shirt. Bella’s head falls back. The three mimosas she drank are relaxing her. She hasn’t seen Julius in two weeks. She’s horny. His dick is hard between her legs. He lifts her onto the counter and pushes her skirt up. He told her not to wear any panties when he called earlier and she’s not. Then he unzips his pants, pulls her hips toward him, slips inside her, and starts to fuck her hard, the way she likes it.

At home that night, Precious curses herself. Downing another gin and tonic, she can’t believe she backslid and did the worst thing imaginable: She slept with her no-good, two-timing ex. And it was good, so very good. She needs help.

She has a mask and steams. She plucks, waxes, pumices, loofahs, and clips. She showers, then oils every inch of her body, all in preparation for bed—alone.

“I am beautiful and talented, the best me that I can be,” she recites, closing her book of affirmations. Nonsense, she thinks, switching off the light and pulling Demon onto the bed. I’m horny and pathetic and the only thing keeping me from calling Darius is that it would be too late for him to leave when I was done with him. He’d be here in the morning, taking up all my time and energy.

So yeah, I’m beautiful and intelligent, wearing socks and pajamas, my hair in twists and a cat on my tummy. I’m the best me that I can be even though I spent the evening getting hammered to prove to someone something they’d never even know about. It has to end.