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and faking a swing to Derrick’s head.

      “That’s skill, my brothah. I got skills.” And then, “Tootie was something else, a sex addict before they invented the term.”

      “Sure was. Always classy though,” King responded. “Even though we all knew who was doing her, it wasn’t like she was a ho, you know?”

      “Yeah, Tootie had that way about her. And she was just like a man. She’d do the do and then beat you out of bed, shower, dress, and be ready to go home.”

      “True that. Messed with a brothah’s ego a little bit, almost made me feel like the ho sometimes!”

      Both of them knew that feeling. Derrick reflected on who he was then, and who he was now. “We were different men back then, young, foolish.” He thought the same of Tootie—Janeé—who’d obviously changed more than her name. “And she’s married? Is the man German German?”

      “He’s white, if that’s what you’re asking,” King replied. “Supposed to have money, runs some financial company or something.”

      “How old are their kids?”

      “I didn’t ask all that. But you know, me and Tootie had a couple of close calls. I even thought she had an abortion right before me and Tai got married. She denied it, but to this day I don’t know for sure if at one time she didn’t carry my child. We were, uh, very active let’s say, but then again, she was active with a lot of dudes.” King looked pointedly at Derrick.

      “Guilty as charged,” Derrick said, a bit of macho mixed in with guilt. Tootie had been a favorite notch on a young man’s belt. “All of us were fortunate to not make a baby. I wasn’t even thinking about protection back then.”

      “Nobody was, man, you kidding? I never liked putting the raincoat on. I’m pretty sure she was on the pill anyway, all the action she was getting.”

      “I know one thing, we better shift this conversation. All this talk of Tootie is messing up my swing, not to mention my trying to let old things that have passed away, stay away.” Derrick swung his iron just over the ball, lining up with the hole, now barely five feet away. Taking a deep breath and settling into his stance, he lined up once more, swung, and sank the ball. He looked at King smugly. “Now, that’s what I’m talking ’bout.”

      The conversation shifted to church matters, and their co-officiating plan for Hope’s wedding ceremony. Both were glad the wedding would be short and simple. They joked about Cy’s few remaining hours as a free man, but agreed he was a blessed man, too. King liked Hope, liked her spirit. Plus, she was fine. Cy had done alright for himself. An hour later, they neared the eighteenth hole. They finished without tallying scores; the game had been for the fun of it all.

      Once in the parking lot, Derrick lifted his bag into the trunk of his pearl Jaguar. King followed suit. Derrick easily navigated the midday LA traffic as the two longtime friends enjoyed a companionable silence.

      “I don’t know about you,” King said after a bit, “but all that walking worked up my appetite. I’m about ready for that steak place you’ve been bragging about.” King’s stomach growled as if to underscore the statement.

      Derrick smiled, but said nothing. He was thinking about Tootie being back in Kansas, hoping King’s passion for his old flame had truly burned out. Little did he know, but King was thinking about Tootie, too, about how on fire their sex was back in the day. But King knew the lesson of fire better than anyone: if you played with it, you could get burned.

      9

      Worth the Wait

      It had arrived, February 14, Hope’s wedding day. She lay staring at the ceiling, hardly able to believe that the moment was here. She yawned, stretched, ran her hand over Cy’s empty pillow. Cy, his father, and her father had spent the night in Cy’s cousin’s suite at the Ritz-Carlton. They, along with a couple of Cy’s business partners and classmates from Howard University, had held a bachelor party. She could only imagine what that crazy group had put together for him. Knowing the wild shenanigans that often took place, she’d had only one thing to say to him about it: “What happens at the bachelor party stays at the bachelor party.” Cy had assured her nothing would happen that he couldn’t share with her, or her mother for that matter. That had elicited a smile from the bride-to-be. Hope, her mother, Mrs. Jones, Frieda, Frieda’s mother, and four of Hope’s longtime friends from Oklahoma had enjoyed a bridal shower in the penthouse. They’d had it catered by P. F. Chang’s, Hope’s new Chinese food favorite, and amid great food and goofy presents, had laughed, cried, played games, and basked in Hope’s contagious happiness.

      Hope rolled over and gazed out the floor-to-ceiling bedroom windows. With no nearby building as tall, their penthouse allowed privacy without having to close out the stunning ocean view. It was early, the sky still holding hints of night. But as she continued to look out over the ocean, wisps of light blue, orange, and pink emerged. This was going to be a beautiful Valentine’s Day.

      After returning from the bathroom and morning ablutions, Hope picked up the poem she’d tweaked the night earlier. She sat on the bed and began reading it again, out loud:

      “God’s gift to me was you, His undeniable treasure, Your value beyond numbers anyone could measure, A blessing designed by Spirit, such an awesome wonder, What God has joined together, man can’t put asunder, You’re the one….”

      A tear fell. And then another. Hope set down the poem and covered her eyes. Thank you, Jesus, thank you, God, she prayed inwardly. More tears fell, tears of thanksgiving, and relief. Over the years, when doubt crept in, she’d feared ending up old and alone in a quiet, one-bedroom senior’s complex, playing backgammon and cards with the neighbors, two or three cats for company. She cried harder. It was happening! She was getting married!

      Suddenly a pair of arms went around her. She relaxed immediately, smelling her mother’s familiar perfume.

      “Sh-h-h, now it’s gonna be all right, baby,” Mrs. Jones crooned softly. Hope leaned her head against her mom’s shoulder, willing the tears to stop. “You can’t believe it, can you?”

      Hope shook her head no.

      “God is faithful, Hope. I always told you that one of these days, when the time was right, he would come along. And now he’s here. God is good.”

      This powerful truth made Hope start crying anew. She tried to talk through her tears. “I’m, j-j-just so th-th-thankful,” she sobbed. “I can’t believe I’m getting m-m-married.” Hope had revved up into an all-out boo-hoo.

      Frieda burst into the room. “What the hell, oops, excuse me, Aunt Pat. Girl, what is the matter witchu?” She sat down on the other side of Hope. “I guess you’re trying to get your eyes all red and puffy so you can look like some kind of baboon up there at the altar, have Cy think Queen Kong is walking up to meet him; is that it?” Her words had the desired effect as Hope’s sobs turned to laughter.

      “No, fool!” Hope answered, grabbing a pillow and attempting to hit Frieda upside the head with it.

      Frieda jumped up and grabbed another pillow. “No, you’re the one who needs some whup’ass…in here crying like somebody died.”

      “You’d better not, you’re gonna hit Mama!” Hope snuggled under her mom for protection.

      Pat pushed her away, laughing. “Oh no, don’t be trying to get me to protect you. Take yo’ whuppin’ like a woman, a soon-to-be married woman. In fact”—she reached over and grabbed a smaller, decorative pillow—“take two whuppin’s.”

      Hope rolled to the other side of the bed, grabbed two small pillows, threw one at her mother and one at Frieda. Frieda ducked and it almost hit Jackie, Frieda’s mother, who walked in at just that moment.

      “What in the w—?”

      “She’s trying to hit you, Mom,” Frieda warned, “said she was gonna get you back for beating her at bid whist

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