A year ago today, Torian was a ghost.
Hahna’s Facebook page reminded her of this fact. Was there a filter on Facebook to delete the bad memories and only remind you of the good ones? She slowly scrolled the page and remembered. That fateful morning, she’d woken up to a note. Five words had changed her life.
Baby, I can’t do this.
Hahna had no idea what this one thing was that Torian couldn’t do, because his note wasn’t specific. She had a few ideas, though. He couldn’t be faithful. He couldn’t commit. And he damn sure couldn’t tell the truth.
Or maybe it wasn’t just one thing. Maybe Torian couldn’t do any of the things she wanted him to do—or be any of the things she wanted him to be. Just because he was a chocolate-covered demigod who made her quiver with a glance; and just because he’d showered her with expensive shoes and jewelry and vacations; and just because they’d probably make cute kids—it didn’t mean that Torian Jackson truly wanted to have a life with her.
So, he’d disappeared, and he’d left a note as a good-bye.
Hahna placed her phone facedown on her huge cherry-wood desk. The desk she’d splurged on when her consulting firm, the Data Whisperers, exceeded twenty-seven million dollars in annual revenue. The desk that made her office smell like old money, even though the money that bought it was brand-new.
Hahna walked over to the large bay window that she’d had custom-installed to give her a panoramic view of the lake and magnolia trees behind the old-style Buckhead mansion that she’d renovated and turned into her company’s main office. She met with clients there and gave them gracious Southern hospitality. Sweet tea, biscuits and honey, and proposals that opened their eyes to all the ways their small companies could use the data they hoarded on laptops and tablets.
Hahna gazed out the window, twirled her right index finger through her honey-colored curls, breathed, and found her peace. Those small actions had become muscle memory for her. She’d made it a habit to calm herself when anxiety threatened to consume her spirit.
Sylvia, Hahna’s assistant, stepped into her office. “Hahna, I ordered the car service to take you to the airport. Is there anything else you need me to do before I get out of here for the weekend?”
Hahna looked over at Sylvia and smiled. It was only Thursday, but Hahna was giving Sylvia a long weekend because she was taking one. Her annual spa retreat with her best friends, Twila and Kimberly. They would make her forget Torian, the ghost, and make new memories for her Facebook timeline.
“You’re free to go, Sylvia. What do you have planned for the weekend?”
“My grandbaby is coming over, and we’re making jewelry and having a fashion show.”
Hearing Sylvia talk about her granddaughter made Hahna feel warm inside. The idea of doing fun activities with a little person was a dream that Hahna used to have—before she hit forty and her ovaries decided that they wanted to turn their full-time job into a part-time I-show-up-when-I-feel-like-it gig. And before she had a ghost boyfriend.
But this weekend was not about the ghost, or her sometime-y ovaries. Spending time with her girls was about rejuvenation, restoration, and relaxation. Some of her favorite r words.
“You have a good time with your beautiful granddaughter. I’ll see you on Tuesday morning.”
“Tuesday? You’re being generous.”
“I decided that I won’t be back until Tuesday, so you get the benefit of my wanderlust.”
Sylvia laughed. “Wander on, baby, but be careful about that lust. Don’t come back here from that island with one of those green-card seekers.”
“I can’t import a man? You don’t care about me importing furniture, but you won’t let me bring back some hot chocolate.”
They shared a long laugh that felt good. Laughing, along with breathing, twirling her hair, and gazing out of her bay window, held Hahna together when her cracks started to show. That’s why the spa retreats were so important. She was going to laugh, probably at Twila’s antics, breathe in the ocean air, and twirl her hair while gazing upon every fine piece of sculpted chocolate that passed her on the beach.
“You don’t need to import a man, sweetie. God is going to send you one.”
Hahna accepted this as fact because Sylvia believed it, not because she had any evidence of God being concerned with her singlehood. This blessed man who might fall from the heavens was clearly on God’s time.
“I know. If I put out positivity, I will attract positive energy.”
“Unh-uh. Don’t start talking to me about the universe and attracting. You know good and damn well, I’m talking about Jesus. ’Bye, chil’.”
Hahna chuckled some more as Sylvia muttered, My sweet Jesus and Oh, the blood of the Savior, all the way down the stairs. Sylvia loved the Lord but would also cuss you out about Jesus.
Hahna walked back over to her desk and shut down her laptop. For a half second, she was tempted to bring it with her, but then she quickly changed her mind. There wouldn’t be any relaxing, rejuvenating, or restoration if she was checking emails all weekend. Plus, if any emergencies popped up while she was out of the country, her staff was more than capable.
Corden, Hahna’s senior data analyst, peeked his head into the office.
“Oh, good,” he said, “you’re still here. I thought you were gone already.”
“Almost. The car service will be here in a bit. What’s up?”
“Just a teeny-tiny client issue.”
Hahna read Corden’s body language. His usually tucked-in button-down was half out of his skinny jeans. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and his nostrils were flared. This was not teeny-tiny. He wouldn’t be standing in her office, fifteen minutes before her car whisked her away to vacation, if it was.
“Do I need to sit down?”
“No . . . well, maybe . . .”
“Shit.”
Hahna sat down, placed her hands on the desk, and waited. She hoped it would be quick. She didn’t want to miss her flight.
“Aliyah mistakenly sent table data from Shale Accounting to We Work Employment Agency. It was an honest mistake, but the data had sensitive personally identifiable information of Shale’s customers. Should we disclose the data breach?”
“Shit, shit, shit.”
“I know.”
Hahna never strategized on this type of thing without sleeping on it first, but there was no time to sleep on it this time.
“We have to disclose it. To both parties. We Work and Shale. The issue is how we do it. We don’t want them to lose confidence in our processes.”
“Right. So, Aliyah was sending a dashboard with sample table data over to Shale’s database analyst for review. She started typing the name Regina, but Renaldo popped up. She was going so quickly that she didn’t realize the email address was wrong.”
“Have we already asked We Work to delete the data?”
“Yes, we sent a communication that said the information was sent in error, and we requested that they delete it as soon as possible.”
“So, here’s how we will handle Shale. First, create a new secure process for sharing data with their staff. I suggest we use our secure upload site. Then, explain what happened, and assure them that their customers’ data is secure.”
“Are they going to believe it?”
“I’ve got a good relationship with Julian Cortez, one of the partners at Shale. I think that I will be able to smooth over any rough edges when I get back.”
“Thanks, boss, I hate to bring this up right before you leave for the beach.”
Hahna relaxed in her chair, although she was anything but calm about this situation. If Julian and the other partners at Shale felt strongly about this data breach, then they could end up losing one of their biggest clients.
“Also, finish their damn dashboard this weekend. I don’t care how many hours y’all have to work. Take some days off next week when I get back. We can’t deliver bad news without that dashboard being completed. And I mean ready to go, not in pilot mode. How close is Aliyah to finishing?”
“She’s close. I think if I work with her, we can deliver the dashboard and the email on Monday.”
“You’re not just blowing smoke up my ass, are you?”
“No. She has been testing every page on the dashboard and is only working out a few quirks. We’ll get it done. Go enjoy the beach.”
“I’ll try.”
“No, you will. Did you get that bathing suit you showed me?”
“The low-cut white one?”
“Yes, that one. The husband maker.”
Hahna cracked up. The swimsuit was sexy, and she’d asked Corden what he thought. The man had impeccable taste, and although he had a longtime fiancée and a daughter, he felt more like a girlfriend than a male subordinate.
“It’s in my bag, Corden, I don’t know if I’ll be bold enough to put it on.”
“If Twila sees it, you will. You have fun, honey. I’m gonna go catch Aliyah before she leaves and let her know it’s gonna be a long weekend.”
“Thanks for holding this together.”
“This is what finances my comfortable lifestyle. We’re not losing this client.”
Hahna jumped up from her desk and hugged Corden. He had been with her from the start and was as invested in the Data Whisperers as she was.
“Have fun, boss lady.”
Corden left Hahna’s office to round up Aliyah, and Hahna exhaled. That could’ve been a vacation-cancelling emergency. If it had happened a couple of years ago, no one could’ve convinced her to get on a plane. But she had developed her staff, and she trusted them.
Hahna gathered her luggage from the closet when she heard the SUV pull up in the drive downstairs. As soon as she got to the airport, the shenanigans would commence.
Relax. Rejuvenate. Restore. Her mantra for the weekend, even if/when Twila pulled up with drama.
Twila had stopped at the adult store on a whim, on her way to the airport. Now she wished that she’d done this the day before. She had no idea what to select in this toy emporium, not to mention their flight to Saint Lucia left in three hours.
“Can I help you find something?”
The deep voice that asked the question came from a sinfully fine man. Golden bronzed skin with hazel eyes that were probably contacts, but she didn’t care. Locs down to the center of his back, probably faux, but whatever. He should’ve been her man. Then she wouldn’t be in the store looking for a penile replacement.
“I don’t know where to start,” Twila said. “I’ve never been inside a store like this.”
Twila lied. She didn’t want him to think she was desperate or that no one wanted her, because she had options. Plenty of options. The options were unemployed, not-all-the-way divorced, old and boring, but still, when it came to scratching an itch . . . they were options.
But she’d been inside several stores like this shopping for bachelorette party gag gifts and whatnot. Just not for something to please herself. Mostly ’cause the singles ministry at her church said masturbation was fornicating with yourself and that those orgasms were from the devil.
So, Twila was no longer in the singles’ ministry.
“Well,” Golden Bronze said, “it depends on what you like. Do you want clitoral stimulation or penetration?”
Twila swallowed hard and looked around to see who’d heard Golden Bronze. He was talking too loud about what her vagina wanted. Right now, what she wanted was to turn on one heel and run. She should’ve brought Kimberly with her, because she’d know how to answer these questions without falling apart.
“I . . . um . . . guess I don’t have a preference.”
Twila wasn’t a virgin, but for as many options as she had, her body count was pretty low. She could count the men she’d been with on one hand, and the ones who were decent lovers on two fingers. She had no idea what women meant when they said the words mind-blowing sex. But she wanted to know.
“Let me show you some that can give you both sensations.”
“Okay . . .”
Golden Bronze led Twila to a wall of fake penises, some in pastel colors, some in flesh tones. Some had beads, some had little appendages with butterflies on the ends. Twila blinked, and then blinked some more. The flight part of her fight-or-flight reflex was about to kick in. Didn’t they have any female workers at this store? Would Golden Bronze think she wanted him if she picked the jelly penis that was the same color as his skin?
Golden Bronze took one of the penises from the wall. She wondered if this challenged his masculinity at all—handling fake penises. Maybe he was gay and was used to handling them. Oh, my goodness, I’m lusting after a gay man.
“This one,” Golden Bronze explained, “is self-thrusting and has a clitoral stimulator as well. It has eight thrusting speeds and ten vibrating settings. It will give you a mind-blowing orgasm.”
“It will?”
“I’ve used one on my girlfriend. She loved it.”
Twila relaxed. Thank God her gaydar wasn’t broken. She needed that in Atlanta.
“Well, okay. I’ll take that one, in umm . . . dark brown. How much is it?”
“This one is on sale today. It’s one hundred twenty-nine dollars.”
“What? Over a hundred dollars for a fake jelly penis?”
Golden Bronze doubled over from laughing, but Twila was serious.
“I mean, I’m going to Saint Lucia. That’s probably someone’s income for the month. Shoot, I could probably buy some real penis for the whole weekend.”
“You probably could. But Mr. Fake Jelly won’t get you pregnant or give you a disease you can’t give back.”
Twila snatched the package from Golden Bronze. “Just gimme this. Thank you.”
Still laughing, Golden Bronze led Twila to the register, where they also talked her into buying lubricant (did she look like she had sandpaper vag?) and toy cleaner. The employees acted like there was nothing to be embarrassed about, but then they sold jelly penises all day long.
“We put two packs of batteries in there for you,” Golden Bronze said. “I don’t want you to run out while you’re on vacation.”
“Thanks,” Twila said as she grabbed the bag off the counter.
She couldn’t get out of that store fast enough, but since this weekend was all about getting her relax on, she’d trust Golden Bronze that this little (kinda large) battery-operated boyfriend was going to blow her mind.
She wondered if it was waterproof. ’Cause Mr. Fake Jelly was about to get all this ocean action.
Kimberly glanced at the clock in her bedroom and felt a tiny bit anxious. Three hours until her flight to Saint Lucia with Twila and Hahna, but she wasn’t done packing. They’d picked a late afternoon flight, so traffic wouldn’t be an issue, but she still only had about twenty minutes left to decide.
To swimsuit or not to swimsuit.
She liked the idea of walking out onto the beach and straight into the crystal-blue waters of the Caribbean Sea, with her ample cleavage and juicy buttocks getting all the sunshine they could stand. But she also felt a little self-conscious when she pranced on the beach beside her tiny friends. No. They pranced. She jiggled.
Kimberly sighed and took her Torrid swimsuits from her dresser drawer and stuffed them in her luggage along with her cover-ups. If she didn’t bring swim attire, Twila and Hahna, with their body-positive selves, would just force her to find one on the island that inevitably wouldn’t fit properly. Because for some reason island gift stores thought one-size-fits-all included two hundred fifty pounds of black girl magic.
Every year for the past five years, Kimberly had promised herself that she’d lose weight for their girls’ trip. Every year they chose some beachfront location. What about Paris? London? Ain’t no beach in London. And it never failed, that she hated the pictures that Twila and Hahna posted on social media. The comments were always sweet.
You go, girl!
You wearing that swimsuit!
But Kimberly just wanted, for once, to have small arms, a flat stomach, and thighs that didn’t rub together until her skin chafed. Was that too much to ask?
And she hated to share anything about her weight-loss journey with anyone. Even the other big girls were split. Some said she should love her body. Others were where she was—on the diet roller coaster and having either a win or a loss. And the ones who’d actually done the work and had the after picture where they looked oh-mazing, she hated them the most. They made her feel guilty about her laziness and lack of discipline.
The thin girls, like Twila and Hahna, were even worse than the pre- and post-big girls. They mostly didn’t know what to say about weight loss, and they didn’t understand the struggle. And when they started to apologize for the insane amount of food they consumed while she ate chicken Caesar salad at every meal—Kimberly didn’t feel body positive at all. It reminded her that she was almost allergic to all of the foods that she loved. She couldn’t eat a plate of lasagna and not gain seventy-eight pounds. She couldn’t have a glass of wine without throwing herself out of ketosis. Because, yeah, ketosis was where you had to be to lose weight on a no-carb diet, else you were depriving yourself of food for no reason.
Kimberly hated that she was an expert on weight loss, but still fat.
The f-word. She was fat, although nobody wanted to say that either. Now she was plus-sized, fluffy, big and beautiful, and one of the ladies at the office had called her robust. Ro-freaking-bust. Kimberly hadn’t even known how to take that. If the woman wasn’t one of the partners at her law firm, she probably would’ve cussed her out for that. Robust.
Outside of the stresses of beach attire, Kimberly was looking forward to this trip. She needed this trip. Her work crush, Jason, had flirted with her incessantly for two years, but never once asked her out on a date. At least she thought he was flirting. But maybe he wasn’t, because a week ago, he’d announced his engagement—to the office intern. They were having a Memorial Day wedding, and everyone was invited. The intern was twenty-three years old, and he was forty-seven. He was taking a child bride. Probably wanted to have a bunch of kids with his exposed-to-the-elements, probably radioactive sperm.
To make matters worse, Jason had whispered to Kimberly on his way out of the office. There’s still enough of me to go around. She’s a pony. I might need a thoroughbred.
Thoroughbred. As in a big, grown-ass horse? That was worse than robust.
Then, on top of everything else, Kimberly was working the hell out of her side hustle. Her natural hair care products had gone viral after she’d got all her naturalista sorority sisters to model their hair regimens on social media. But the side hustle, along with her ridiculous main hustle workload, was too much some days—most days.
Anyway, Kimberly needed some peace. She wanted a full body scrub with something that smelled like coconut, sunshine, and better days ahead. She wanted cocktails that made her forget caloric content, ketosis, and grown-ass horse references. She needed to hear Twila and Hahna’s struggles, so that she knew she wasn’t alone.
That’s what their spa weekends were for—pure, gently intoxicated bliss. And Kimberly was here for it. She just hoped that next year, they would find a good spa location in Denver, Colorado.
No beaches in Denver.
Hahna inhaled the island air, a mix of ocean and lush green vegetation, as the bellhop drove her, Twila, and Kimberly to their over-the-water bungalows in an oversized golf cart. The check-in process had been easy, just like their flights. Easy, breezy was going to be the theme for this trip. Because that’s what she needed. Drama need not knock on her bungalow door.
“You ladies are here alone?” the bellhop asked.
“We’re here with each other,” Kimberly said.
“Ohhhhhhhh. . . .” the bellhop said. “Well, my name is Peter. Anything you need, and I do mean anything, please make sure that you ask for me.”
The way Peter wiggled his eyebrows and his pelvis let Hahna know that his “anything” included sexual favors. She rolled her eyes and continued to gaze out at the landscape. Why were men always offering unrequested sex?
“You think we’re down here to get our groove back?” Twila asked.
“Aren’t you?”
“My groove is just fine and in one piece,” Kimberly said.
“Well, speak for yourself,” Twila said. “I might just call you, Peter. Depends on what you’re working with.”
“I am working with a lot. You’ve never seen this much work.”
“I’m sure I have, Peter. All you men think your junk is the greatest, and there’s always better.”
“One man’s junk is a bad girl’s pleasure,” Peter replied, except he said girl like gyal with an island twang.
“Boy, you talk a good game, you better be ready.”
“You talk big, big too, and you’re such a little one. I may want to try your friend. The quiet one in the back. She’s got more for me to hold on to.”
Peter winked at Kimberly in the rearview mirror, and she promptly blushed and looked away. Hahna giggled, and felt a fun mood settle right in her spirit.
“I’m not here for your junk,” Kimberly said. “I’m here to relax.”
Peter was right about Twila, though. She was a little one. She was barely over five feet tall and needed a fine tailor to fill out a size zero waistline. But then she always needed that tailor to let out the hip area, because her waist-to-booty ratio was unreal. Size below zero waist and size eight hips and booty. Most men looked at her like an amusement park ride they had to try out.
“How you just gone be offering it to everybody in this little golf cart?” Twila asked. “You just messed up your chances with me, big fella.”
“Oh, no,” Peter said with fake sorrow that made Hahna burst into laughter. “There’s plenty of Peter to go around.”
“Boy, if you don’t get us to our finely appointed lodgings, there will be hell to pay,” Twila said. “I need a cocktail.”
Up over the next hill, the path finally opened to a road that went down the center of the beach. The over-the-water bungalows were Twila’s idea. She wanted to see fish swimming under her feet. Hahna kept thinking about the open ocean floor beneath her and got a little nervous about sleeping on top of it.
The bungalows were beautiful, though, and not very far from the shore. The narrow road was built right over the water, with the bungalows connected like little branches from a tree trunk. The drive in the golf cart was a bit unnerving since it was dark outside.
“Which one is ours?” Twila asked.
“The big one on the left,” Peter said. “Two bedrooms, one master and one single king size.”
“I call dibs on the single,” Twila said.
Hahna glanced at Kimberly and smiled. Twila never had to call dibs on the single room. No one wanted to share with her. She liked to walk around in her naked glory, randomly clapping her behind, and she snored. Plus, she took all day in the bathroom. Anytime there was a room-sharing situation, Hahna and Kimberly were always together, ever since the three of them had met in college.
Peter pulled the golf cart right onto the little narrow piece of road that led to the cottage. He jumped out and opened the golf cart doors and then went to remove their luggage from the back. Hahna and Kimberly had both packed sensibly—one bag apiece. Twila was extra, and extra came with more baggage.
Inside the cottage, Hahna and Kimberly walked straight into the huge master bedroom while they waited for Peter to bring in the luggage. One of the walls was a giant slidi. . .
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