Today was a good day. And not because Ice Cube was rapping on the “oldies” station, the name some disrespectful person in radioland had given 90s music. Today was the big “M” day—moving day—and the biggest day I’d ever had.
I breathed in the freshly painted walls and looked around the room, taking in my new home. I wanted to explore: push buttons, open and shut cabinets, play with the thermostat, and revel in the fact that my mom wasn’t here to yell at me for running up the bill.
I toyed with the wood blinds that covered the windows in the living room and peered out. The neighborhood was quiet, neat rows of cookie-cutter houses, even-spaced rosebushes and even-height trees. Even the kids who skipped rope in their driveway were quiet. Everything seemed perfect.
This was the complete opposite of the run-down apartment complex on the outskirts of Atlanta where I grew up. Ten-year-old me would’ve been ecstatic at the upgrade, but thirty-two-year-old me was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
My boyfriend Cameron and I were moving to our four-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath home in the ’burbs of Atlanta, though technically it was Cameron’s house. Thanks to my poor decisions in college, I had no power and bad credit. Free pizza for credit cards. Damn, I’d been greedy, stupid. Stupid and dependent on a man.
And I could tell from the excitement that made Cameron bounce with every step and the light that ignited his already warm eyes that he was just tugging me down the path of adulthood. Suburbia. Everlasting commitment. Marriage.
What in the hell have I gotten myself into?
My palms were a soupy mess, I wiped them on my shorts, while my heart pounded against my chest.
The screechy squawks of packing tape being ripped off cardboard and the sound of occasional grunts coming from Cameron, who was unpacking boxes and shifting furniture, forced tendrils of guilt down my spine. He was grinding away getting things done while I sat motionless, alternating between Disney Princess happy and trembling like a frightened kitten.
My phone buzzed, and I grabbed it from the pocket of my cutoffs. Nikki’s name flashed across the screen.
I pressed the answer button, but before I could greet her, she said, “How’s your scary ass doing?”
“I’m good. Just getting things organized.” I lied easily to my best friend from college. And like all best friends, she knew I was full of shit.
“You’re a damn lie.”
“What’s up, Nik?” My annoyance was clear in my tone. “You know I’m busy.”
“The girls and I were talking . . . and anyway, I volunteered as tribute.”
The girls she was referring to were my two other best friends from college, Sienna and Kara. We were always up in each other’s business, so I wasn’t surprised they’d gotten together to discuss God knows what.
“Volunteered for what?”
“Volunteered to talk some sense into you. We know you have cold feet about moving in with Cam.”
What did they think I would do—run away from home? I squelched down the flare of irritation that prickled my skin. My friends meant well, but I wasn’t in the mood for the all men aren’t like your daddy lecture. I knew that already. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be doing a bunch of domestic shit like buying mulch and analyzing a dozen gray paint samples with stupid names like Mole’s Breath.
A roll of sweat trickled from my neck onto my chest. I used my hand as a fan. I was pretty sure the sweat was from the heat, not anxiety.
“Hellooooo, Raina? You still there?”
“Yes.” I modulated my tone to my late-night radio personality I used for my job. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“Sure you aren’t. And don’t take on that bougie-ass radio therapist tone with me. You’re talking to a friend, not a caller from your show.” She smacked her lips. “Anyway, can you talk?”
I looked at my guy, who was whistling as he drilled studs above the fireplace to mount our big screen TV.
“Not right now,” I whispered.
“Good. You can just listen. Cam is a great guy, and this is a good step. You’ve been together for six years, and he’s been more than patient with your crazy ass. Who else would propose three times, get rejected, and then buy a house with you?”
“First of all—” I stopped myself when I caught Cameron’s attention. His eyebrows crinkled, and his eyes scanned me. I knew he was checking to see if everything was good. I gave him a smile and thumbs-up. “It’s Nikki. She’s just wishing us good luck.”
“No, I’m not. I’m convincing your crazy-ass girlfriend to calm down,” Nikki yelled over the phone line.
He nodded. Thankfully I was far enough away that he couldn’t hear my opinionated friend.
“Tell her I said hello.” He loved my friends, but Nikki was his favorite. The way we bickered and teased each other, we were more like sisters than best friends. Cam had often joked that we needed our own reality show, but today I wasn’t in the mood for the Raina and Nikki comedy hour.
“Hell, he should just do the James Grayson plan and knock you up.” The former wild child was referring to her husband, whom she’d married after an unexpected pregnancy.
“Shut up.” Instead of using my usual sharp tone when it came to Nikki’s craziness, I lightened it up and added a fake, airy laugh. I put my hand over the receiver and returned my attention to Cameron, who was still focused on me. “She’s so crazy. Let me just step outside real quick and then I’ll help unpack.” I blew him a kiss and he caught it. “Be right back.”
“Hello? Raina. Raina,” my friend said in a singsongy voice while I made my escape out the door, down the porch steps, and a little past the curb near our mailbox.
“Shut up, you psycho. Say what you need to say so I can get back to unpacking.” I whispered despite my distance from the house.
“So you aren’t zoning out? Thinking about an escape plan or comparing Cam to your bum-ass daddy or comparing yourself to your mom?”
“What if I am?” I challenged her. “I’m just being smart.”
Naïve women like Ma gave second and third and fourth chances to men who didn’t deserve even one. I liked to think I was different, but it turns out that Ma’s dark skin, oval face, and Coke-bottle shape weren’t the only things I’d inherited. And like her, decades-old daddy issues were firmly shackled around my ankles, and attempting to loosen them had just tightened them more.
“There’s nothing wrong with being smart, but he hasn’t given you or us any red flags. And you know I can sniff out crazy.”
“Yeah, but people change.”
“True. And if he changes for the worse, you’ll deal and I’ll break his knees with my bat. Unwind the bubble wrap you’ve got tight around yourself and live a little.”
“Why, thank you.” I rolled my eyes. “What would I do without you?”
“I honestly don’t know. But as your bestie godmother, I’m here to save you from your damn self.”
“Ooh-wee, Mommy! You said ‘damn,’” I heard Nikki’s little girl, Bria, say in the background.
“Don’t say ‘damn,’ precious. And I wasn’t cursing. I was talking to Raina about a beaver building dams in her new neighborhood.”
“Oh, can I meet him?”
“No, baby, he’s rabid.”
“Rabid?” Her little girl sounded alarmed. “What’s rabid?”
“He’s crazy. Sniffs his own butt.”
“Speaking of being a damn lie . . .” I muttered.
Nikki must’ve covered the phone because what she said was muted.
She got back on the line. “All right, girl, I’ve gotta go, but before I do, I’m gonna give you a dose of your own medicine and tell you the deal. Just because you’re living together doesn’t mean you have to get married or have kids anytime soon. Just enjoy this new chapter in your life and move forward one day at a time. Okay?”
I instantly felt soothed by Nikki’s words. I could do this, and it was sound advice. The very same recommendation I’d given out myself to my listeners.
As a radio host, I’ve heard my share of heartbreaking stories. There are a lot of crazies who call in. But there’s a pattern in the female callers—women who turn away good men due to their past scars. I could change, and I had to—for Cameron and for myself.
I sighed. It was heavy, yet cathartic. “You’re right.”
“I know I am.” Nikki softened her tone. “And you’re welcome.”
“I didn’t say thank you.”
“You want to and I accept. Anyway, I gotta go make the kids their lunch. Talk soon.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll text y’all after I get settled. Kiss your babies for me.”
“You’ve got it. Bye, girl.”
I ended the call and returned to my new home. The movers had neatly lined up our boxes against the walls in all the rooms. I walked to the middle of the room, sat on the floor cross-legged, and began unpacking lamps, books, and pictures. I was interior-design challenged, but even I got excited thinking about decorating my first home.
Cameron finished installing the mounts. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the bottom of his tee. “Hey, what’s that?” He jerked his head toward a small, flat package near the couch.
I pushed myself from the floor and rushed to hide the gift that was meant to be a surprise for Cameron. I slid it behind another box with my foot.
“None of your business.” I gave him a sly smile, and my voice had an edge of mystery that I knew made him curious.
“We live together now. What’s mine is yours.” He’d lowered his voice an octave in the way he knew was panty-dropping. If he didn’t drop his Barry White act in 2.5 seconds, I was liable to jump him.
He tossed me a smile that melted my insides. Cameron’s gaze drifted back to the box.
“Hey! Don’t look over there.” I stretched my arms high and waved them in the air. Cameron’s gaze went from my hands to my neck, and then lower.
I dropped my arms and covered my chest. “Quit staring at my boobs.”
“I wasn’t staring at your boobs. I was staring at your heart.”
I smiled. “Yeah. I’ve been told I have some sexy ventricles.”
Cameron pointed at me. “Stop distracting me with your boobs and your brain. Tell me, what is it?”
“Okay, I’m done teasing you. You know it’s yours. Open it.” I clapped my hands. He was so going to love my gift.
Cameron stepped over tools, boxes, and bubble wrap and headed straight for me. He grabbed me by the waist and gave me a smile that tripled my heartbeat. His six-foot-four frame always made me feel small and protected.
“What?” I licked my lips and held my breath.
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”
His warm breath tickled my neck. I shrugged in a way that I hoped looked playful. “No big deal. The condo was getting too small anyway.” Despite my playful tone, my voice croaked and my mouth twitched. I turned away to hide my conflicted expression, which I imagined made me look like a deranged clown.
I took a big gulp of air and suppressed the urge to drop my head between my knees. My lungs shrank and I inhaled and exhaled deeply until I didn’t have to concentrate on breathing again.
His strong hands stroked my cheek and traveled leisurely to graze my bottom lip. His honey brown eyes, tinged with worry, peered into mine. “You okay?”
I closed my eyes, trying to shut off the panic, and nuzzled into the warmth of his calloused palm. He didn’t ask more questions because he knew the answer: I was freaking out. Despite it all, his hands remained steady and sure.
Cam was my giant teddy bear and had always been that way since the first day I’d met him. It was summertime and I was out at a concert with my girls—swaying my hips and sipping my drink—when something had brushed against my skin and zapped me. And it wasn’t the hot Georgia sun. The source was a sight to behold—a beautiful black god built like a linebacker with large, strong arms, a thick neck, and chestnut-brown skin that seemed like it had been perfectly baked under the sun. The crooked, cocky smile he’d given me highlighted his chiseled jaw, which was covered by an expertly cut five o’clock shadow. Despite all of this, his bright brown eyes were what had drawn me in like a moth to a torch.
Despite his tall, bulky frame, he walked over with the fluidity of a panther. He asked for my name, and when he said “Raina,” there was so much intensity to it that I knew this wasn’t just going to be one night.
I smiled at this memory and kissed his hand. Firmly rooted back in the present, I was confident that I’d made the right decision.
“I’m okay.” I breathed in deeply, this time successful in feeling calm. I reached for the package and gave it to him. “Open your gift.”
“Okay, baby.” He winked, then grinned as he quickly did away with the tape and pulled the red and black jersey out of the packaging. Cam’s smile morphed into a comical “O” expression, and his eyes bulged when he saw the Sharpie marks scrawled above his favorite football player’s number.
“How did you . . . ?” His voice was unnaturally high.
“Let’s just say Mr. Jones is a fan of my show.”
“Baby.” He reverently laid out the jersey on the sofa and pulled me close. “This,” he swiped my mouth with his tongue, “is the best gift,” he nibbled my lips and kissed me deeply, “ever. Kinda puts my gift of cigars and Scotch to shame.”
Reaching beneath his shirt, I caressed his warm skin. “How about we bust out the cigars tomorrow?”
“Sounds good. I want to get my entertainment system up and running, and I know you’re going to the attic. Go ahead and get your Murder, She Wrote on before you go to work.”
“Gah.” I thumped his chest. “Don’t remind me that I have to go in.”
Work paid the bills but taxed my soul. I didn’t want to be in radio broadcast. I was supposed to be a New York Times best-selling author by now.
Twenty-year-old Raina would be disgusted with my life. What happened to the girl who formed a Mastermind group with her friends in college? We swore to each other that we’d follow our dreams, keep each other on track.
He squeezed my shoulders. “I’m not going to lecture you right now, but you need to think about quitting that damn job. You know I have your back.”
And be a kept woman? No, thank you.
Cam raised a hand before I could comment. “Go upstairs. Write. Take a nap. Then go to the-place-that-must-not-be-named.”
I journaled before and after my radio shows. It helped me channel the frustration I felt after some of my callers asked for advice. Instead of giving them a good kick in the pants, I had to coddle them. If I told listeners the truth about their messy-ass decisions, my ratings would plummet. But in my journal, I could tell them exactly how it is and the root of their issues. I could be the real me.
Cameron leaned down and kissed my forehead. Despite the ninety-degree, sweaty-balls heat Georgia’s infamous for, he still smelled like my Cam: spicy and woodsy and solid. He was all man and all mine. I grabbed his plain gray tee and inhaled deeper. He didn’t comment on this—he was used to it, and I think he liked it.
“Okay, off I go.” I started up the three flights of creaking stairs. My flip-flops slipped on the freshly shampooed carpet. Reaching the top, I tugged the thin white cord to pull down the attic steps, and the creak and groan from it unfolding sounded like a waking dragon.
I took a deep breath and smiled. The smell was like opening an old book. Despite its musty smell, the last owners had modernized the space and included a daybed and a set of built-in shelves above a desk. It was exactly how I envisioned an attic-office but was too untalented and lazy to execute. While I loved yelling at the doomed couples on HGTV, I was not a DIY girl.
The hardwood floors were a mix of light and dark wood, and the ceilings were higher than usual for an attic—so high, in fact, that I could jump and not touch the vaulting. I admired the tall, wide, and recently polished bookcase left behind by the previous owners. My fingers easily glided along the shelves.
I spotted the rocking chair Cam had catty-cornered near the window. I’d badgered my mother into giving me my grandmother’s rocking chair, tugging on her sense of legacy in passing down a fifth-generation item. I loved that damn chair and had penned all my worldly knowledge, angst, bad poetry only a teenager could understand, sitting in it. I moved the rocker near my desk and parked my ass in the chair. A faded Polaroid picture had been propped on my desk.
“Cam,” I groaned. “You pushy SOB.”
The faces of my closest friends stared back at me. We’d been friends since our freshman year at Emory University. At our college orientation, we gave each other the black people nod. You know, the slight chin dip that conveys, “Yes, I realize there aren’t too many of us around and if I see you running away from something I’ll do it, too, no questions asked.”
I slid my thumb across the Polaroid and read the caption on the bottom of the picture. “The Brown Sugarettes Mastermind Group.” We were still close, just older and sadder adult versions.
Sienna’s gorgeous smile caught my attention first. She was a few inches taller than my five-foot-six height, modelesque, and a second-generation immigrant from Kenya. Beside her was Nikki, who rocked a choppy asymmetrical bob with gray streaks. With her brown skin, she looked like the punk version of Storm in X-Men. That woman was all the way rock-and-roll and even snarkier than me.
Surprisingly, she had become the saddest version of herself in our adulthood transition. Her streaks were replaced by a respectable shade of dark brown, and while she still rocked shorter locks, the edge had disappeared, replaced by a suburban mom hairdo.
Nikki had two sweet kids she adored, but she’d confessed to me that if she had a do-over, she would’ve waited ten years before becoming a mom. She’d wanted to be a musician, and she was so damn talented I was willing to bet she could still go for it even now.
My attention drifted from Nikki’s face to mine. My hair was shorter then. I’d chopped off my relaxed hair right after breaking up with my college sweetheart and decided to grow dreads. They were now past my bra strap. At the time I chopped off my hair to be defiant. My ex loved my long tresses and would stroke them after we made love. I’d wanted a separation from the silly girl who’d fallen for the player.
Beside me was Kara, wearing her signature smirk. She’d most likely just finished kicking someone’s ass on either the tennis or basketball court. Kara’s always been my opposite: highly competitive and singularly focused. What can often make people with single focus dangerous is how they can swing between genius and lunacy. Fortunately, Kara’s steadily in the middle, and her competitive, type-A personality kept us on track and boosted all of us to do our best.
The Mastermind group had been my idea. I was bitching to my friends about being snubbed by an exclusive writer’s group on campus, despite my excellent grades and recognition from professors. The next day, there was an episode of Oprah about the law of attraction. I’d been fascinated and read anything about it. After a few books, I noticed a theme about meeting up with other ambitious people for support.
We were all highly motivated, and although our goals were supremely different, we were still able to help each other.
We hadn’t talked about our group or met since a year after graduation. But this picture staring at me, with our hopeful, yet confident smiles, churned my insides. What happened to us? Was I the only one who felt like a failure?
I pulled the phone from my pocket to send a group text for a get-together soon. After a flurry of messages back and forth, we decided to meet at Kara’s place in a few weeks. A decade later, it was time for us to face our dreams.
But for now, I needed to write and then get ready for tonight’s show. Deferred dreams could wait. Work could not.
An hour later I walked through the double doors of the radio station. “Hey, Greg.” I waved to the security guard. I waited for his usual greeting of “Evening, Raina,” and he didn’t disappoint. I hustled past and gave him a slow, exaggerated wink while I waited for the ancient elevator to shake, rattle, and close.
A few fans of Raina’s Fireside Chat called me the black Delilah, I guess because we’re both famous radio hosts who heal the lonely, despondent, and brokenhearted with a perfect song. I love Delilah, and I used to listen to her on the cheap radio I’d won from selling the most candy in middle school, but I never wanted to be Delilah.
If I’d stolen my persona from anyone, it was my late Grandma Jean. You broke? Stop spending all your damn money on smokes. Need to lose weight? Put the fork down and walk your ass ’round the neighborhood. Your man cheating on you? Leave his lying, no-good ass.
She came from the school of the Old Testament and an eye for an eye. So before you leave his no-good ass, burn some shit up. Grandma’s wisdom would be too explicit for radio, so I’d polished up her Southern colloquialisms, added a dollop of kindness, empathy, and occasional sternness, and suddenly I was the friend whispering encouragement in your ear at one o’clock in the morning when sleep wouldn’t come. I’d created my own style.
But I’m not sure how I got here. I’m sarcastic, moody as all hell, and just as acerbic as Grandma Jean. She didn’t believe in twisting herself in knots over a man or anyone, for that matter. Nor did she believe in the institution of marriage—she kicked out my grandpa when Mama was a teenager and never looked for his sorry ass since. Those were her words, not mine. She ingrained her sense of independence, self-contentment, and self-awareness in me, and I wouldn’t be the woman I am today without Grandma Jean.
But you wouldn’t know it from my current occupation. The pseudo radio therapist was someone I made up. I’d played around with different personalities on my college radio station as a joke. I got a call from a scout after college, and now the joke was on me because I’m stuck.
My producer, Rhonda, gave me a nod through the window panels, signaling the show was about to start. I scanned my small studio no bigger than half a dorm room. My U-shaped desk included a computer and all of my necessities. Green tea, because it made me wise: check. Fuzzy socks, because the GM at the station, who didn’t give a damn about his staff’s comfort, blasted cold air all year long: double check and a toe wiggle. A notepad for when I was inspired to write between commercial breaks: checkity-check-check. And last but not least, my handy whiteboard, also known as my sanity. Some nights I played hangman with myself. If my producer was in a bad mood, which wasn’t often, she’d join the game. The magic phrase that pays never changed: “Kill Me Now.”
I know, how millennial of me. Some of my callers were sweet, and I affectionately named them my raindrops. But a good majority were the cause of their own problems, and they wanted a song to magically fix it.
“Sure, Noah from Buckhead. I’ll put in your request to play ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’ for your wife, even though you got caught banging your secretary.” Some callers got the full K-I-L-L at once.
My producer’s pale fingers jutted in the air. “In three . . . two . . .” The “one” was silent.
I pulled in a breath away from the mic and then leaned in. “It’s midnight, and you’re listening to the smooth sounds of WBXL radio. I’m Raina, and I can’t wait to hear from my raindrops today. Before we kick off our calls, I want to read you an email I received last week from one of my listeners.” I pulled up the email on the computer screen.
My throat squeezed shut, remembering Grandma Jean’s death. One moment she was watering her plants in the backyard, the next she was dead of a heart attack. I didn’t know which option was worse, the unexpected suddenness of someone being here today and gone tomorrow or knowing your loved one has limited time left. This poor girl was alone. At least I had my mother. I pressed my fingers against my eyelids.
Keep it together, girl.
I cleared my throat. “Grandmothers are precious. My grandmother passed when I was in my early twenties, and it was devastating. She was my rock like your Nana is yours. I can feel the agony pouring from your email . . . but, Elise, I think you’ve already made your decision. Go home. Take care of Nana. Don’t let her sway you. Stand your ground and her anger will pass. I don’t know if you’re religious, but I do believe in heaven, and Nana sounds like a pretty sure bet to get her wings when it’s her time. I also want to remind you to enjoy your grandmother. Read her stories, sew by her bedside, do the things she’s done with you.
“When she passes on, know that you’re never really alone. She’ll be there when you walk down the aisle and when you give birth to your children. And when life gets too much, give me a call or email. I’ll be praying for you, Elise. Be strong. Be brave. I’m going to find a special song for you and Nana.”
I played the song already queued, “I Hope You Dance.”
I took a deep sip of tea, hoping the hot liquid would eliminate the painful lump rising in my throat. I remembered when my neighbor’s dog had died and I had cried as hard as his owner because I’d loved that damned dog. Grandma Jean held me up and dried my tears with an old handkerchief she seemed to use for every occasion, whether it be swatting a fly or spit-shining my face.
“Whatcha crying for? We all gonna run out of birthdays. We pass on from here and on to the next. No sense in crying about it.”
My producer gave me the okay signal, and I forced myself to relax. Rolling my neck, I sent a quick prayer up for Elise and then geared up for the barrage of callers.
I glanced up and waved to my broadcast assistant who fielded our calls. After placing someone on hold, she looked up, waved, and smiled broadly at me. She was brilliant, and my favorite—I was willing to bet she would host her own show in a few years.
I waited for my call tag, which sounded so soulful and deep, like a cross between Toni Braxton and Anita Baker. I’m still proud someone thought enough of me to sing my name for seven full seconds.
“I’m back, raindrops, and I’m so excited to hear from you. We have . . .” I listened for Jamie to give me the name. “Rudy James from Woodstock. He’s from the OTP. That’s ‘outside the perimeter,’ for those of you new to Atlanta. How are you, Rudy?”
“I . . .” A deep voice sighed. “I’m good, Raina. I’m just a little emotional today.”
I nodded and gave him a “mm-hmm.” I’d practiced and perfected that “mm-hmm” over the years so it sounded soft, warm, and comforting, like homemade apple pie. Cameron wasn’t impressed by my trademark psychoanalyzing sound, and it was banned from our home.
“And, well, I’m thinking about Jeffrey.”
I perked up. Tonight could be two-for-two for being able to help people who actually needed advice.
“Tell me about Jeffrey. Who is he to you?” I asked.
“I have . . .
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