The Next Best Thing Read online

  “Diva squad to the rescue!” Simone said, wafting in wearing her usual colorful, neo-soul garb. Tonight she wore an ethnic-inspired sundress, matching head wrap, and ballerina flats.

  “That’s right, so off your ass and on your feet!” Yvette ordered, and I had to blink a few times to get my eyes adjusted to the rock-star getup she was wearing.

  It looked like Yvette had gone on a shopping spree in Macy’s junior’s department. Her outfit consisted of low-rise jeans, high-heeled clogs, a rhinestone belly chain, and a tight midriff T-shirt that said “Hot Chick” across the front of it. Clearly, she had forgotten that she is thirty-four years old and that her size (eighteen) equals her daughter’s age.

  It was useless to continue arguing. Not only was I outnumbered, but Nadia was already popping the top on one of the many bottles of Veuve Clicquot Champagne I had left over from the wedding; and once that girl gets in party mode it’s like trying to stop a freight train with a caution sign.

  “Okay, everybody listen up!” I said. “I will agree to go out with you heifers on one condition—”

  “Which is?” Simone asked.

  “That there be no talk about Roland, weddings, or anything related to any of the above,” I said.

  “Deal!” they shouted in unison. Probably because I have already talked their ears off enough about that whole situation.

  “We will definitely drink to that,” Nadia said, handing each of us a glass of champagne. “Let’s just enjoy the night and each other, okay, ladies?”

  “Agreed!” the four of us said, as we clinked glasses.

  My only thought as the divas ushered me into my bedroom to help me get dressed was that it was going to be one hell of a night. These women were already high energy enough, but when you added alcohol to the mix, watch out! Ain’t no party like a diva squad party ’cause a diva squad party don’t stop!

  We all said that we were down for whatever, and Yvette took full advantage of that by insisting that we go to Club Heifers, her favorite nightspot. The number one rule at Heifers is that you have to be at least a size fourteen to get in, hence the name.

  This weight requirement was not a problem for Yvette, but I’m a size twelve. Nadia and Simone are sizes four and eight respectively, which added together don’t even add up to fourteen.

  “Sorry ladies,” a bald, hulking doorman said to Nadia and Simone. “Fourteen and up, only!”

  Yvette sidled up to the guy, and purred, “Come on, Eugene. These are my girlfriends.”

  Eugene pocketed the twenty-dollar tip Yvette gave him, and violà! We all gained entry past the velvet rope.

  Inside Club Heifers, the ratio was around two hundred women to twenty men. And they weren’t even quality men at that. The chubby-chasers were all either over fifty, overweight themselves, unattractive, short, nerdy, creepy, or some combination of the above.

  Nadia, Simone, and I might as well have been invisible. The only attention we got was from some of the other heifers, who kept shooting us dirty looks, angry that skinny bitches were infringing upon their territory.

  Yvette, on the other hand, was the belle of the ball up in there. She was out on the dance floor doing her signature dance move, which is to twirl her wide hips in a suggestive manner, and spank her own ass.

  No sooner had she finished dancing with one guy than another would come and take his place.

  “Look at her,” Simone said with distaste. “Carrying on like that old bitch in the club, who we all said we’d never be.”

  “She’s just making up for lost time,” I said. “She’ll be alright once she gets it all out her system.”

  Yvette became a mother at seventeen, and now that Alicia is on her way to college in the fall, Yvette is going through a phase where it is all about her.

  After dancing six songs straight, Yvette finally left the dance floor and joined us at our table.

  “Why am I the only one out there dancing?” she asked, patting her perspiration with a cocktail napkin.

  “Because these men are here to get their big girl fantasies fulfilled,” I said. “And nothing else will do.”

  “You got that right!” Yvette laughed facetiously. “Skin and bones ain’t on the menu up in here, baby!”

  “Whatever!” Nadia said, taking offense. “All I know is that I’m picking the next spot.”

  “Okay, this is what we’re going to do,” I said. “Tonight, each of us gets to pick a spot.”

  “That could take until the wee hours of the morning,” Simone protested.

  “Well, we’re out here now, so we might as well make it an all-nighter,” I said, surprising everybody, including myself.

  “Uh oh, listen to you!” Yvette said. “It damn near took an act of Congress to get your ass out of the house, and now you wanna party all night long.”

  “My girl!” Nadia said, slapping me a high five. “Let’s get out of here, and let me show you ladies how I get down.”

  The four of us jumped back into my Navigator, and ended up downtown at Club Suede, where the atmosphere was so festive we all came to the unanimous decision that no other stops would be necessary; this was where we would be partying for the rest of the night.

  Club Suede is a nightspot that prides itself on being the plushest club in the city, which caters exclusively to the grown and sexy. The club is practically Nadia’s second home, and she led the way to the VIP area where we were seated in a plush, semicircular banquette.

  “Jill, could you start us off with a round of mai tais please?” Nadia asked the hostess.

  “You got it, girl,” Jill answered, and was back in less than three minutes with a tray of frothy, fruity concoctions served in super-sized glasses.

  The drinks were so strong that not even ten minutes later, Yvette suddenly shouted for no reason, “Roland is a god-damned fool!”

  “There she goes…” Simone said, referring to the fact that Yvette was becoming increasingly agitated, which is how she always gets whenever she’s had too much to drink.

  “It’s okay, baby.” I patted Yvette’s hand, trying to calm her ass down. “Let it go.”

  “I mean, I wonder what possesses a nigga to do some stupid, disrespectful shit like that?” Yvette said.

  I looked at Nadia and Simone, incredulous. “Didn’t we agree not to make this a topic of discussion?”

  Nadia shrugged and rolled her eyes. “You know how she is when she gets to drinking.”

  “She has been drinking, but she ain’t that damn drunk. Stop talking about me like I ain’t here,” Yvette said, and then belched.

  “Hell, we know you’re here with your loud ass mouth,” Nadia shouted over the music.

  “Never mind all that,” Simone said to me, raising her glass in the air. “Tori, my sister, here’s to strength, courage, and the birth of possibility.”

  We all toasted to that. I thought it was sweet, but Yvette snickered and shook her head.

  “Girl, you need to light an incense and go meditate somewhere.” Yvette laughed in Simone’s face. “That Sister Souljah unity act is getting on my last nerve.”

  “All right now,” Simone warned. “Don’t let me get started on you.”

  “You know better!” Yvette snapped. “Anyway, Tori, you would have been better off if you had married James. Now, that motherfucka loved your ass to death! He would have never shit on you the way Roland did.”

  “Oh, it’s ironic that you brought James up,” I told Yvette. “I ran into him outside of the Peachtree the other day, and guess what? He’s a fucking bum! Literally!”

  “For real?” Yvette said. “Damn, that’s messed up.”

  “That just goes to show that all things in the universe are in divine right order,” Simone said. “And every breakup is God’s way of saying that he has something better for you somewhere down the line.”

  “And that’s exactly why I don’t sweat none of these knuckleheads,” Nadia said. “If you wanna go, go! ’Cause I’m gonna make damn sure that the next man is
better than you anyway!”

  “Hear, hear!” Simone raised her glass in agreement.

  “Ooh! Y’all let me out, I gotta pee!” Yvette said, scooting her way out of the booth, which caused me and Simone to have to jump up and let her out.

  “Can’t take her ghetto ass nowhere!” Nadia said.

  “I don’t know about you ladies, but I feel like dancing,” I said, rocking to the beat of a T-Pain remix.

  “Me, too!” Nadia said. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Simone opted to stay at the table to wait for Yvette, while Nadia and I walked down to the common area, where it was so jam-packed, I was sure some kind of fire law was being violated. The swell of the crowd swept Nadia and me in separate directions, and I spent the next five minutes drifting in a sea of sweaty bodies.

  I finally made it to the edge of the dance floor, just as Missy Elliott went off and a slow jam came on. Some random guy grabbed my elbow and gestured to the dance floor, but I turned him down because I wanted to dance to something up-tempo, and wasn’t in the mood for bumping and grinding with a total stranger.

  So I squeezed, turned, and maneuvered my way through the crowd, until I finally made it to the bar for a cool, refreshing drink. Once I got there, I was surprised that my shoes had only been stepped on twice.

  I told the bartender, “A mai tai, please,” and slid fifteen dollars in front of him, as he slid the drink in front of me.

  Since it was so crowded, I did not want to take the chance of spilling the drink on me or anyone else, so I hopped up on an empty stool and scanned the bar area, searching for a guy to get my swerve on with. While I was searching, Simone emerged from the crowd and joined me at the bar.

  “There you are!” she said, taking my drink from my hand and taking a sip.

  “You having fun?” I asked.

  “I’m having a ball!” she said, grooving to Kanye’s latest hit song. “I just got through dancing with a cutie that almost made me forget that I have a man at home.”

  Simone has had a man at home for the past nine years, though they haven’t gotten around to getting married yet.

  Rasheed is a poet, playwright, painter, musician, and just an all-around renaissance guy who does everything except bring home a steady paycheck. The two of them are neo-soul cute and very Love Jones together. And because Rasheed loves Simone so thoroughly, she doesn’t mind being the sole breadwinner while Rasheed pursues his creative endeavors.

  “Oh, there’s Reggie from my writer’s group!” Simone said, pointing out a good-looking guy with horn-rimmed glasses. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, and wore a New York Yankees baseball cap, with a charcoal gray Armani suit and crisp white Air Force Ones.

  “What else do you know about him?” I asked, and Simone was all too eager to fill me in on Reggie’s background as far as she knew it.

  Apparently, he is a screenwriter who recently completed a fellowship with the Academy of Arts and Sciences, and has been making the rounds in Hollywood, where there is talk that Columbia Pictures wants to buy one of his scripts for John Singleton to direct.

  “Come on, I’m gonna hook you up,” Simone said, ushering me over to Reggie’s table despite my efforts to stop her.

  Reggie smiled big when he saw Simone approaching.

  “Simone! What’s up, girl? I haven’t seen you in a long-ass time.”

  “Too long, right?” Simone said, giving him a hug. “I hear you’ve been taking care of business, though.”

  “Oh yeah, got to, got to…” he said, while looking me up and down. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  “I most certainly am,” Simone said, pulling me front and center. “Reggie, meet my best girlfriend, Miss Tori Carter. Tori, Reggie Tyler.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, offering a handshake. “Congratulations on your success.”

  I felt naked as Reggie’s gaze roamed from my feet to my head.

  “Tori,” he said, gazing into my eyes. “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

  You would think that after thirty-three years, I would know how to take a well-deserved compliment, but I was grateful that the room was dark so that Reggie could not see the flush in my cheeks.

  I told him, “Thank you,” and when I looked over to my right I noticed that Simone had conveniently disappeared, taking my mai tai along with her.

  Reggie shooed one of his buddies away, and offered me the vacant seat next to him.

  “Would you like some champagne?” he asked, referring to the bottle of Ace of Spades that was chilling in an ice bucket.

  Reggie turned one of the flutes that came with the setup, right-side up, and poured me a glass.

  “I hear you’re on the verge of selling a script,” I shouted over the loud music. “What’s it about?”

  “Oh, it’s about an ex–Black Panther who tries to restart his life after serving almost twenty years in prison. The title is The Revolution Was Televised.”

  “Hmm, sounds like it might be controversial,” I said. “I can’t wait to see it.”

  “Yeah, it’s definitely going to rattle some cages and get people thinking, you know? If all goes well, it should be released in about a year or so.”

  “Good luck!” I said, crossing my fingers for him. “I’ve heard how hard it is just to get a toe-hold in the film industry; especially for black folk.”

  “Oh, most definitely,” he said. “That goes without saying. But once I get all the way in there, my goal is to somehow open the doors even wider for other minorities to come in after me.”

  “Bravo!” I said, clapping for him. “I respect that. Not saying any names, but some of us forget to keep paving the way, which is partly why we don’t have more power and control than we do in this day and age.”

  “Sad, but true,” Reggie said, refilling his champagne glass. “But you know, Spike Lee is one of my mentors in that respect; but it’s unfortunate that as much as he’s done to advance opportunities for us in Hollywood, it’s still not enough.”

  “Well, just do me a favor and keep consistently writing brilliant roles for our veteran black actors, because Lord knows they deserve better roles than they’re being given,” I said.

  “I like you!” Reggie said. “You have what is the dopest combination in the world to me, and that’s beauty and brains. Do you have a man?”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t,” I said.

  Reggie leaned in close to me. “Well, we’re just gonna have to change all that, huh?”

  “Maybe so,” I smiled. “But then again, you’re moving to L. A. soon, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged. “That’s why they have frequent flyer programs, right?”

  Hey, now!

  Mary J’s bouncy new tune came on, and there was a rush to the dance floor.

  Reggie asked, “Would you like another drink?”

  “No, thank you, but I would like to dance,” I said.

  “Let’s do it,” he said, taking my hand.

  I felt safe and protected as Reggie effortlessly navigated the crowd and guided me out to the dance floor.

  He turned out to have pretty good rhythm. We danced and flirted with each other for four songs straight until the music slowed down to a Mariah Carey ballad.

  I turned to leave the dance floor, but Reggie gently grabbed me by the waist and pulled me closer to him. “Just one more dance. Please?”

  I nodded, and allowed Reggie to envelop me in his arms while I wrapped my arms around his back. My head came up to the middle of his chest, and he held me just right: not too far away and not close enough where I could feel the outline of his package. I deeply inhaled the scent of his Burberry cologne, and sighed.

  15

  If I never see another bottle of champagne in my life, it will be too damn soon.

  I woke up this morning—or rather this afternoon, feeling like I had been beaten up and tossed out of a moving vehicle at a hundred miles an hour. My head, my neck, my back—everything hurt. It didn’t
help that I had forgotten to close my blinds last night and now the living room was bathed in sunlight, which was torturing my eyes.

  The last thing I remembered clearly was all four of us coming back to my place where we drank, laughed, and bashed no-good men, until the wee hours of the morning. It was fun. At least it was at the time. But now, I’m paying for it. Big time.

  I knew a cold washcloth would do my throbbing head some good, but it took a few minutes for me to work up the strength to get my ass up off the couch. When I finally did, I almost tripped over Yvette, who was camped out on my stowaway futon. My girl was knocked out and snoring so loud that I placed a pillow over her face to drown out some of the noise. It didn’t work.

  I went into the bathroom, and loathed what I saw in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, wild hair, and smudged makeup. Not a good look. Especially since I heard that every time you go to bed without washing makeup off your face, it ages your skin seventeen days. This aging is irreversible and it adds up, so if you go to bed 30 times without washing the makeup off you have aged yourself almost two years. Ugh! I quickly washed my face with Neutrogena and cold water, hoping that it wasn’t too late to deduct a few days off that seventeen.

  When I went back into the living room Yvette was sitting up on the futon, trying to get her bearings.

  “Tori’s got a man…” she teased as she stretched.

  “Puh-leeze!” I said, but secretly wished it was true.

  “Shit, I was checking you out with ol’ boy last night,” Yvette said. “You still got game, girl!”

  Reggie and I had flirted and danced the night away, then exchanged numbers, agreeing to keep in touch and go out sometime.

  I must admit that I like Reggie. A lot. Not only is he attractive, but he also has an aura about him that makes him irresistibly sexy.

  I don’t want to get ahead of myself like I have sometimes been known to do, but I can definitely see myself with a rich, famous screenwriter for a boyfriend.

  “Where is Simone, by the way?” I asked, starting to clean up some of the mess we made last night.

  “Girl, you know she had to run home before that fool put out a missing persons report on her,” Yvette laughed.