Mama's Little Girls

twenty

Onika Maraj
3 June 2019
Maraj & Cooper LLP

I leaned into my desk, a fortress of legal briefs, case files, and coffee-stained Post-its. For the past week, my office had become my sanctuary, my punishment, and my salvation. Work had been like a glass of whiskey—keeping me numb, detached, and just focused enough on other people's problems to forget my own.

"Onika?" Alani's voice drifted from the other side of the door, soft but persistent. She my best friend and my secretary, but right now, she sounded more like a mix of concerned mother and disapproving sister. "Can I come in?"

"Sure." I called, clicking out of an email draft about a pending case.

Alani pushed the door open and stepped inside, leaning against the frame. She had a warm, patient gaze, but it was laced with that subtle judgment she saved just for me. That look that said, 'I love you, but I'm going to ask you about things you don't want to discuss'.

Alani walked in and sat in the chair opposite my desk, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap, sizing me up.

"So." She started, slowly, almost as if she were testing the water. "How are you really doing?"

I shrugged. "I'm fine. Got a new case this morning, and it's a big one. I don't have time to be anything other than fine." I said it with enough confidence to sound believable, but she wasn't buying it.

Alani knew my tricks better than anyone. She'd known me since college, since late-night cramming sessions and greasy dorm pizza—the Onika that wasn't put together. She'd been there for the big moments, the high-profile wins, the heartbreaks. She'd seen it all.

"You know that's not what I meant." She said softly, her gaze steady and unflinching. "Are you doing okay, though? I mean after last week?"

"After Beyoncé, you mean?" I tried to say her name like it didn't sting, like it didn't settle heavy in my throat, but it did. Saying her name felt like pulling a Band-Aid off too soon.

Alani nodded, her expression a strange mix of pity and judgment. She'd had her reservations about Beyoncé. Not just because of who Beyoncé was, but because of who Beyoncé wasn't—someone in my tax bracket, for one thing. Alani's judgment was subtle, but Porsha? Well, she'd been outright vocal about it. She never missed an opportunity to remind me that I deserved someone who could match my lifestyle, my ambition. Although our lifestyles differed, she had ambition. And yet, somehow, Beyoncé had been enough for me, for a short while.

Not that I'd admit that out loud.

I forced a smile and pretended to shuffle through some papers. "I told you, I'm fine. Work is what I need right now. Focusing on cases, billing hours—it's all helping. Trust me."

"Yeah, I'm not so sure about that." Alani said, leaning back in her chair, her eyes narrowing in that way that told me she was about to launch into one of her little interventions. "You're avoiding it. You're avoiding thinking about her. That's not the same thing as being fine."

I looked away, my fingers idly tracing the edge of a file. Alani didn't know half of it. She didn't know about the nights I spent staring at the ceiling, wondering.

"It's been a week, Lala." I said, my voice a bit sharper than I intended. "I can't exactly sit around wallowing, can I? I have cases. Clients. People relying on me. Beyoncé isn't one of them anymore."

Alani raised an eyebrow. "She was one of your clients, though. And more."

"Was." I repeated, forcing myself to focus on the past tense. It had to stay that way. "She was."

Alani sighed, crossing her arms and leaning back. "I wasn't for her in the beginning, and I'm still not, but I'm only not liking the way all of this has made you. Did she say something to you?"

I could feel the familiar frustration bubbling up, the bitterness of truth Beyoncé had told me. Yet, I couldn't truly be mad at her, no matter how upset the situation made me. Beyoncé was someone real, grounded, and so far from the world I lived in every day. That's why when she said things to me, I really listened.

"Look." I said, recalling what she said to me. "She made implications that I was weak minded. That I couldn't make decisions without people in my ear."

"And that's why it ended?" Alani asked, cutting right to the heart of the matter.

I wanted to laugh at the irony. "It ended because of me. Simple as that."

She scoffed, the kind of laugh that dripped with disbelief. "You're not weak minded, first of all. Second, you're a strong independent black woman. You don't listen to anyone about anything. I mean, Porsha and I were trying to hold you back from her but you still pursued her." She said. "I mean, with Sean it was different, but he ended being terrible in the end."

I could feel my jaw clench, the anger surfacing before I had a chance to bury it. Alani wasn't wrong, and that made it worse.

"Alani, I don't want to talk about it." I said, my tone firmer this time. "I've made peace with it. I need to move on."

She looked at me, her face softening. "Maybe you should move on. But maybe you need to let yourself feel it first, too. Just a thought. I don't fully believe you're over Sean, so getting over Beyoncé is going to be harder."

Before I could respond, the phone on my desk rang, and I was grateful for the interruption. I picked it up, the familiarity of work settling around me like armour.

"Onika Maraj." I answered, my voice slipping into its professional tone, steady and unbreakable.

"Ms. Maraj, I'm calling regarding the case for Mr. Thompson. He has some new information."

Of course he did. The Thompsons were messy clients, a couple embroiled in a bitter divorce where every new revelation seemed designed to hurt rather than help. Exactly the kind of distraction I needed right now.

"Set up a call with him for later today." I said, jotting down a note and already mentally cataloging the Thompson case files in my drawer.

When I hung up, Alani was still there, watching me, her expression softer but still tinted with that mix of judgment and compassion.

I looked down at my desk, at the organised chaos. It had been my life for so long. Work, success, ambition. Beyoncé had been the first thing to disrupt that rhythm, in a while, to make me question what I was working toward.

With her, it had been easy to let go, to be less. Less guarded, less ambitious, less of everything that felt like a shield but had become a prison.

She shook her head, a hint of sadness in her eyes. "You deserve more than this. More than hiding behind your work."

"Then maybe you should go tell Beyoncé that." I muttered, half-joking, half-serious. "Because she didn't seem to think I deserved more than what I already have."

Alani sighed, leaning forward and resting her hands on the edge of my desk. I'm sure she was speaking about something interesting, but I just stared at her, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. I didn't need a lecture on love and compatibility right now. Especially not from Alani, my home wrecking friend.

I needed to bury myself in work, to drown out every thought of Beyoncé and every reminder that maybe, just maybe, I'd lost someone who'd seen me more clearly than anyone else ever had.

"Lala." I said, my voice gentle but final. "I appreciate the concern. Really, I do. But I'm fine. I just need to get through this case and keep moving forward. That's what matters right now."

She opened her mouth to say something, but stopped, her gaze softening. "Okay." She said finally, standing up and smoothing her skirt. "I'll start making a new roster of eligible bachelors for you. No down-low brothers or rapping dudes, I promise."

In her voice resided a cadence of playfulness. I picked up a pen, throwing it in her direction as she left my office.

🖤🖤🖤

Thoughts?