Page 16 of Only a Gemini Will Do
One week later.
What startedas a three-hour drive to Tampa turned into more like four and a half, thanks to traffic and my frequent stops for bathroom breaks. It got to the point where I strongly considered buying a pack of Depends and let whatever was going to happen, happen. I hadn’t made the long drive since Fourth of July weekend with Kareem and his brother in tow. But this time, my body felt much different. It was almost like I was driving with an invisible passenger in the car.
“Okay, road trip playlist. Hit me with some nostalgic shit,” I muttered, switching from my favorite podcast to music.
I was in the mood to hear something that reminded me of my early twenties—my college days, when all I had to worry about was getting into the club while it was free before eleven and having a few dollars to grab some fries off the dollar menu after the let-out to soak up the alcohol. All before I lost my damn mind, had freaky sex with a felon, and became someone’s baby mama.
I couldn’t help but wonder what my friends would say when the truth came out. There would be screaming. Or crying. Or both at the same time. Our trio could go from deep conversation to roasting each other in seconds, so really anything could happen.Damn, I hope they don’t get all snotty and emotional. I didn’t bring tissues. Should I have brought something besides the pie to tell them about the news, like a baby onesie that said ‘hey auntie’ like Killmonger did in Black Panther?I wondered, glancing over at my sweet potato masterpiece strapped into the passenger seat.
Too late now. Just let it happen naturally, raw and uncut.
My thoughts drifted to the three of us standing around Brit’s kitchen. The minute one of them offered me a glass of wine and I declined, I knew it would only be a matter of time before someone connected the dots. Telling them about the baby would probably be the easy part. It was telling them about Kareem that would do me in.
Fuck. I’m supposed to be the responsible one. I hope they see me the same and don’t judge me too hard.
I rested my hand on my stomach, trying to ease my worries. I had a habit of thinking of the worst possible scenarios and letting the negativity fester. The truth was, I’d known my girls all my life, and I knew they’d love me and my baby regardless. Aside from Soleil, this baby already had two aunties who wouldn’t hesitate to spoil them rotten. I couldn’t wait to see their faces.
Brit’s second-floor apartment was settled in a sunny corner of Tampa in a modern building with palm trees as tall as giraffe necks swaying in the light breeze outside. I knocked before taking a step back and smoothing my free hand down the oversized burnt orange cardigan, scarf, and leggings I had on while holding the sweet potato pie with the other.
I heard Beyoncé’s country album blasting through the door before Kaneesha opened it a few seconds later, revealing Brit’s two-bedroom apartment with an open-concept area that flowed from the living room straight into the kitchen. The scent of fresh stuffing and other fixings hung in the air as Beyoncé’s vinyl spun in the corner.
“Happy Friendsgiving, beauties! I brought dessert and my eating leggings,” I announced with a smile.
Kaneesha pulled me into a side hug, careful not to upset the pie. “Hey, girl, hey! Where the hell have you been?”
“What do you mean? I texted y’all like every hour I was on the road.”
She folded her arms across her chest. Neesh was a couple of inches shorter than me with warm, milk chocolate skin and long, bone-straight hair that stopped at her thin waist. She had a wide, bright smile, a pointy nose, and a slim build.
“I’m not talking about today. I’m talking about in general. You’ve been ghosting us like a bad Tinder hookup, and I’m ready to fight about it.”
Kaneesha had always been the life of every party, whether she was invited or not. And probably the reason half of them ended early. Somebody’s nigga was always up on her, which always had bitches ready to fight. Neesh wasn’t the type to back down either. She cussed like a sailor and had a mouth like a loudspeaker, which was the reason she was one of Georgia’s up-and-coming radio morning show hosts. My girl had been through her share of messy breakups and was now in her soft girl era, even though she was still always ready to throw hands.
“Look at you. I’ve been here for two seconds, and you’re already being dramatic. I haven’t been ghosting y’all. My wi-fi has just been shitty over the past few weeks,” I commented before setting the pie down on the kitchen counter. “Where’s Brit?”
“Down the hall in the bathroom, plucking her chin hairs,” Neesh shouted before cackling.
“I heard that, bitch!” Brit hollered from down the narrow hallway. “And it’s chinhair, not hairs. It’s literally one fucking hair, and every time I see it, I feel like a billy goat, so I pluck it. It’s been like fifteen years,” she confessed as she dashed into the living room.
Brit was the glue of our trilogy—the hard-shelled thug with the warm, nurturing center. She grew up on the same country backroads as me, and as the eldest of four and being the only girl, she’d been “the nurturing one” ever since she was six years old. She was the host of this year’s Friendsgiving, and I knew the control-freak in her was taking things way more seriously than Neesh did last year when everything she served had a charred layer on top.
Brit had sienna brown skin and long, honey brown faux locs twisted up into a high bun on top of her head. She was my height, but had more curves and a bigger bust than I did, and her makeup and lashes were almost always done—even when she was rocking a bonnet.
I trekked over to greet her with a laugh and a warm hug, careful not to hug her too long so that she wouldn’t feel or notice my baby bump. “Not a billy goat.”
“That’s what I said,” Kaneesha added with a giggle.
“Yes, a billy goat. Baa, bitch,” Brit replied with a chuckle, flashing her pearly whites and dimpled smile. “Or whatever sound those mothafuckas make. C’mon, let’s go into the kitchen.”
Kaneesha and I followed Brit into her kitchen, where a mahogany apple-scented candle burned next to the sink. The fridge was covered in magnets from places she’d traveled to over the years and a photo booth strip of the three of us from last year’s Friendsgiving in Georgia. The oven was working overtime, cooking the food and heating the entire unit simultaneously. The counter was filled with mixing bowls, dusted flour, spilled oil, and casserole dishes.
“So, what’s on the menu this year?” I inquired. “I’ve got dessert covered as always.”
The mention of my pie made Brit cheese from ear to ear. “Mmm, yassss. Bring that pie here,” she replied, leaning in to geta good whiff. “I know this shit is gon’ slap harder than a song from Kirk Franklin and the Family in the nineties,” she declared.
I giggled. “And is.”
“Seriously, girl. I need your mama’s recipe. This pie smells like it was handcrafted in heaven by the aunties Pattie Labelle and Tabitha Brown themselves.”