For some reason, I’m startin’ to feel sick, and wish I wouldna brought the subject up, again. Sittin’ here thinkin’ ’bout this— fifty grand or not, I don’t think I could go through wit’ it. I’m sure she’d be a great mother, and do a great job raisin’ it on her own. And I know wit’out a doubt she’d give our…I mean, her child, the best of e’erything. But would that be enough? What happens when he or she starts askin’ questions and wants to know who their father is? What is she gonna tell ’em? Yo, son, ya father’s dead? I don’t know who the nigga is? He was some bum muhfucka who didn’t wanna be in ya life? He was some good dick I paid to knock me up? Or would she end up marryin’ some nigga who raises him or her as his own? Fuck that! A child should have its biological father in its life, too. I never really gave havin’ a child any serious thought ’til today. Hell, I never really thought ’bout anyone other than myself.
“So does this mean you’re considering it?”
I shrug, takin’ a deep breath.
“And you should.”
I stare at her. “So what happens if I say no?”
“Then I guess we keep doing what we do until I work out an alternative plan, or find a suitable donor.”
“I feel you. Well, I don’t wanna get ya hopes up.”
“Trust me, you won’t. It was only an idea. Whatever you decide is fine with me. I’m giving myself five years to be pregnant, so I have more than enough time to figure it all out. Who knows, Mr. Right may find his way into my life and sweep me off my feet. In the meantime, are you available the week of February tenth, or not?”
I pause for a minute, tryna remember what day we’re leavin’ for All-Star.
“That works for me,” she says, markin’ it in her calendar. She slips it back into her bag.
I smile, pourin’ myself some more green tea. I raise my cup. “To good times and good fuckin’.”
She raises her cup of sake. “Exaaaaaaactly.”
I glance at my watch, then lick my lips and slowly pull in my bottom lip. “So dig, baby…you think we gotta ’nough time to get another round in before my flight?”
She eyes me seductively, flaggin’ the waiter. “Check, please.”
“I’m soooooo sorry to hear about your grandmother, baby. And I apologize for leaving all those nasty messages. I was wrong for that. When you weren’t at the airport and then didn’t pick up when I called you, I started thinking the worst. I thought you were ducking me.”
I’ve been back from L.A. for almost three days—ten grand richer, I might add—and this is the first time I’m actually speakin’ to Vita. For some reason, hearin’ her voice is already startin’ to get on my fuckin’ nerves. I take a deep breath, slowly blowin’ it out. She’s been goin’ on and on ’bout how fucked up she feels ’bout comin’ outta her neck sideways. And of course, I make her feel even more guilty doin’ it.
“Never that, baby,” I tell her, rollin’ my eyes. “But I’ma keep it gee. I was kinda fucked up for a minute hearin’ those messages. I was like, ‘oh shit, I forgot to hit Vita up.’ I had so much on my mind wit’ my grandmother dyin’, I couldn’t think straight. We were really close so…” I pause, frontin’ like I’m tryna keep from breakin’ down. By the time I finish givin’ her my sob story of losin’ my grandmother and bein’ all fucked up over it, boo-hooin’ ’n shit, I’ma have her offerin’ to cop me another plane ticket to ATL. Listen, think what you want, but would you rather I hurt this Potato Head’s feelin’s and tell her that I wasn’t fuckin’ beat for her ass, that’s why I didn’t come through? Y’all muhfuckas need to get over it. I’ma do what I do, regardless.
“…Umm, listen, this’s been hard on my whole family, feel me?”
“I feel you, baby. I feel so bad, though. I wish there was something I could do to help you get through this.”
“You understandin’ and bein’ here for me is more than enough,” I tell her, grabbin’ my keys and headin’ for the door. I’m meetin’ Akina at the Jersey Gardens Loews over in Elizabeth to check out that flick
