Chicago, IL
September, 2018
"To keep one hundred, girl you ain't no saint." Bryson Tiller, "Don't".
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"Yo, what the fuck is you eating shorty?" Harlem questioned as he scrunched up his nose at Whitley. She looked over at him and rolled her eyes as she continued to dip her Hot Cheetos in peanut butter. She could feel his eyes on her as she bit into the chip and double dipped. "Take a picture, it'll last longer." Whitley smirked. She put the top back on the jar and took a sip of her Arizona Tea which was sitting on the floor.
"I'm tired of sitting up in this house all day, not doing shit. Can we go out?" Harlem asked his fiancé. For the past week, Whitley had been feeling "moody" and "sick". He figured it was just a virus or Ebola was coming back or something but only Whitley knew the real truth.
"Why today babe? Who goes out on a Tuesday." She glanced at her Apple Watch. "At 7:54 p.m."
"Man, the clubs stay lit on the weekdays. And who said I wanted to go to a club? What if we just went to a show or something, we can go see a play or-"
Whitley scuffed, immediately interrupting him. "What the fuck do I look like going to go see a play? We're not in our 70s, Harlem. That's old people shit. That's what my grandmama and 'nem do."
Harlem kissed his teeth and blew out a breath. "Damn, yo' lazy ass never wanna do shit. But I bet if I was Kenyon, yo' black ass would hop and skip to go do something with him." Whitley snapped her head towards him and crossed her arms over her chest.
"Stop bringing him up. I thought we moved past that."
"Naw, you moved past that, I didn't." Whitley bit on her acrylic nail and rolled her eyes. Every time they got into some sort of argument, he was always bringing up her haunting past, throwing that shit in her face. It hurt to say the least.
"Look," She began to say.
"If you're about to say sorry, I'm not tryna' hear that shit. I'm good off that." Harlem made it known. All she ever did was say sorry, but quite frankly, sorry didn't fix shit. Whitley sat silently waiting for him to blow up, but he didn't. A couple of months ago, he would've let her have it but he was a changed person now.
"Harlem-" She blew out a shaky breath, she could feel tears well up in her eyes but she blinked, trying to get rid of them. She couldn't change what she had done but she could change their future.
"What?" He snapped. "If you don't wanna go out, that's cool, I will. You can stay here for all I care." He jumped out and headed towards their master bedroom. He was hoping that she would follow him and encourage him to not leave, but she didn't. She just sat on the couch with her head facing the window. Before walking into the bedroom he poked his head into his daughters room, well, her daughters room to see if she was sleeping.
"Daddy?" The little girl rubbed her eyes as she sat up in her Frozen themed bed. His heart hurt hearing her call him that but she as still his baby regardless.
"Yeah baby?" He stepped into the room and sat on the floor next to her bed.
"You and mommy okay? I heard yelling." Harlem smiled in the darkness and brushed her curly hair from out of her face. She was a spitting image of Whitley and that bitch ass nigga Kenyon. She had brown skin and dark eyes like her mother but her facial features weren't his.
"We're okay baby. Get some rest. You have a big day tomorrow, right? My baby's got a dance recital." He kissed both of her cheeks and then her nose.
"I love you daddy." She said as she laid back down.
"I love you too babygirl."
Once he left her room he went into his room to find something to wear. He didn't know if he wanted to go to a club or go to a poetry slam. He'd figure it out.
"I don't know why you let her call you daddy, when she has her own." Whitley's voice echoed off the bedroom walls as he pulled on his pants and fastened his Gucci belt.
"That nigga ain't no daddy Whit. And you know that."
"I know but still. I don't want her to get confused."
"So what you tryna' say, huh?" He turned around to face her, his muscles flexing. To say Whitley wasn't turned on would be a huge understatement.
She began to fiddle with her fingers. "I- nothing. I'm just saying."
"Well whatever you saying not making sense right now." He turned to look at himself in the vanity mirror as she put on his Polo shirt and unraveled his black durag, brushing his waves down with his hand.
"All I'm saying is I just think it's best if you don't have her call you daddy because she calls her biological dad daddy. She's going to get confused and start asking questions that-"
"That what? You aren't ready to answer too?"
Whitley opened her mouth to speak but closed it back. Harlem was right. Hell, he was always right.
"Yes." She simply responded.
"Well, let her ask then. Your wrong doings, not mine." She shrugged like the situation didn't matter and then walked past her to get his Jordan's.
"See, that's our fucking problem now. You're always throwing that shit in my face. I don't know how many times you want me too apologize but I'm sorry. Okay? We went to counseling, I thought you would've gotten over it by now."
Harlem raised his eyebrows and then chuckled. "Gotten over it? Are you delusional? I'm not doing this with you right now Whitley. You must want me to put my fucking hands on you tonight huh? And who the fuck you think you talking too like that anyway? You done lost yo' gotdamn mind girl. Dead ass."
"Girl?" She stepped closer to him. "I ain't no fucking girl B. I will beat the fuck out chu' right here, right now. Don't play me like I'm some fucking punk nigga. Watch yo' mouth."
Harlem towered over her, just staring at her. He nodded his head slightly, not saying anything but his eyes spoke a thousand words.
"You right. I'ma be out yo' way shorty. Do you." He grabbed his keys off the dresser and left their bedroom like nothing ever happened.
Whitley plopped down on the bed and screamed in her pillow. If it wasn't one thing, it was definitely another.
