Mama's Little Girls

thirty-nine

Onika Maraj
9 October 2019
Midtown Condo

I paced my living room, the familiar walls of my condo feeling foreign, tight, like they were pressing in on me. I had felt this mixture of anxiety, anger, and hurt, and I knew how to handle it. I wasn't sure if I even wanted to handle it, though.

After the disaster with Porsha, the accusations and the hurtful truths she'd thrown in my face, the layers of anger I felt at Beyoncé had surfaced.

I knew she'd be here soon, and I hadn't told her what the conversation would be about. I could only imagine her face when she'd walk in, easygoing and confident, probably with that little smirk she gave me when she thought I was overthinking something. She wouldn't expect the ambush waiting for her, but I wasn't even sure if this could be called an ambush; it was more a reckoning. And if we had any chance of surviving this, I needed honesty.

I kept playing over the moment in my head: Porsha, pushing that folder across my desk, practically gleaming as she told me about Beyoncé's past arrests, the mugshots, the charges for things I'd never thought to ask her about. I had barely skimmed the documents, just enough to see that the mugshots were real, the charges real, enough to make my stomach drop. But beyond that, I'd stopped, not because I didn't want to know but because I needed to hear it from Beyoncé, to give her the chance to explain herself, to tell her side of the story.

I made the mistake of not listening to her once, I wanted this to be different.

The knock came, soft but assertive, and I felt my heart jump in my chest. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down as I went to the door. When I opened it, there she was, as I'd expected, smiling faintly and holding a bottle of my favourite wine, her expression relaxed, oblivious to the weight that hung between us.

But I couldn't even bring myself to smile. I barely acknowledged the wine, waving her in with a curt nod and gesturing to the couch. She glanced at me, noticing my pull away from her, but she didn't press. She sat down, letting the bottle rest on the coffee table, her posture easy, leaning back in that way that showed she felt comfortable here, like she belonged.

I stayed standing for a moment, letting the distance linger between us before I moved to the opposite end of the couch.

The space was deliberate, a boundary I needed, and the way her eyebrows shot up, a faint smirk tugging at her lips, told me she'd noticed.

There was that look again, that amused, slightly teasing expression, like she thought this was another one of my dramatics. I almost hated her for it, almost let my temper rise to match hers, but I knew this wasn't the time. I had to keep my emotions in check, to keep myself focused. This was too important for games or temper.

For a moment, we sat in silence. I could feel her gaze on me. Finally, I looked up, meeting her gaze, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease just a fraction as I held her stare.

I crossed my arms and leaned back on the couch, tilting my head to the side, waiting. "You gonna say something, or should I just guess why you never told me?" My words seemed vague but I had a feeling she knew what I was talking about.

She swallowed, her mouth opening as though she was about to start. I didn't have the patience for it tonight.

"Beyoncé. Just say it. Whatever it is, just say it."

"Alright." She exhaled, finally, shoulders dropping slightly as she looked me straight in the eyes. "I didn't think I'd ever have to explain this to you. I didn't think it would come up, to be honest. And yes, that's on me."

She paused, but I wasn't about to let her stall. "So why didn't you just tell me?" My voice was calm but edged with an anger that was impossible to hide. "If it wasn't anything to hide, then why did you keep it a secret?"