After the wedding, Journey left Atlanta to go on a world tour with Dame, but we actually missed talking to each other every day, so Dame's assistant introduced us to the wonders of video chatting on Skype. I called her when I couldn't stand not being in love. I think she called me when she wanted to remember what it was like before she found it.
“He can't marry her, Journey! Not Scarlet. Scarlet? Not Scarlet! No. He can't.” I collapsed and banged my head on my desk to add a little drama.
“Well. Why?” Journey asked. She was sitting before a backdrop of finger paintings and family photos. Since the wedding two years before, Dame and Journey actually had the twinsâtwo little boys (Jessie and Justin)âand a baby girl, Apache. Journey released her first album,
Black Warriors
, and it became an instant classic, but she wanted to take time off to raise the children around their father. That meant that they basically lived in hotels. She tried to keep some semblance of regularity by hanging the children's artwork and pictures everywhere they went.
“I told you before, she's a faker. A phony. She's trying to . . . I don't know . . . get Ian to marry her,” I said.
“So you don't think she loves him?” Journey asked.
“No. I don't know . . . Maybe.”
“Does he love her?” She leaned in with a little more interest.
“No!” I sucked my teeth. “I don't know . . . Yes? But only because he doesn't know who she really is.”
“And you do?” Journey reached down to pick up Apache, who'd just started walking and was grabbing for the keyboard. “Look, you keep saying how much you don't like her, but you can't say why and you haven't even told Ian how you feel about her.”
“Because I can'tâ”
“You can't find anything
really
wrong with her.”
“It's just a feeling in my gut that this is wrong. That she's wrong. That she's wrong for him.”
One of the twins showed up beside Journey at the laptop. They both looked just like Dame.
“Then who's right for him, Rachel?” Journey flashed an accusing frown.
“Don't get on that again. There's nothing between Ian and me. He's my best friend.”
“Well, you be his best friend and just support him. Be there for him. Instead of being all suspicious about this being the worst thing for him, help him make it the best thing for him. Can you do that?”
“Whatever. Yes. I mean, if this is what he wants . . . whatever,” I said. “Marry the fake-ass Angela Davis.”
The little boy climbed on the desk in front of Journey and peered into the camera at me. He came in so close all I could see was his mouth.
“Boy, back up from the camera,” I heard Journey order before she pulled him back. Then the other twin showed up.
“I hungry, Mama,” he said as Journey hustled him back into her lap.
“Oh heavens!” Journey said, trying to manage both of them at the computer and not looking like she was going to be successful. With all of her responsibilities literally mounting up in front of her, my emergency seemed so trivial. “Look, Rachel, duty calls. I need to feed these little people.”
“OK.”
“But listen, before I go, there's something else I want you to consider.”
“What?” I asked.
“Why this bothers you so much.”
“He's my bestâ”
“No, no, no,” Journey said. “I don't mean that. I mean, maybe this is less about Ian getting married and more about you
not
getting married. You said it yourself last week. Another year alone. Another Christmas. Another New Year's. Just be certain that you're not trying to stop your friend from getting engaged simply because you're not the friend who's getting engaged.”
Â
The lobby of the midtown hotel where Ian had reserved the suite for Scarlet's birthday party was so full it looked like it was the spectacular New Year's Eve celebration I'd missed the night before. Techno-pop washed into the grand entrance through invisible speakers and a matching modern decor of art deco leather couches and random abstract sculptures provided the perfect backdrop for a thick crowd of leftover partygoers, whose chatter seemed to erupt into uproarious laughter every thirty seconds.
As I snaked through the maze, careful not to drown in someone's martini or tip over in the red six-inch platform heels I'd need to hop out of in three hours and slide on the flip-flops I was carrying in my purse, I realized that the gathering was almost all black men. Impeccably dressed. Irresistibly fine. The brothers were everywhere. It looked like a single black woman's dreamâwell, any woman's dream. And the few sisters (white and black) who were sprinkled into the mix were beaming like lottery winners, holding onto whatever brothers they could catch.
Taking note, I put my meanest platform stiletto walk into action. I'd pinned my loose natural curls up in a pompadour bang, summoning a bit of Afro-chic glamour, and slid on a simple little black halter dress that let my red heels do all the talking. I knew I looked good when I walked out of the house. And now here was the test of my evaluation. Journey always says, “Anytime is a good time to meet a great man.” Unfortunately, most single sisters, especially the successful single sisters, are guilty of giving up on the day-to-day meeting opportunities that present themselves. So they rush when they leave the houseâput on little to no makeup, jogging pants, Uggs, and T-shirts that are so old you can hardly read the lettering. They put hats over their hair, shades over their eyes, and frowns on their faces, and go out into the world like they're ready for war. And then wonder why they haven't met anyone or had a date in years. Of course, this is the extreme, but I know I've been guilty of at least five of these counts on a daily basis. Now, taking Grammy Annie-Lou's advice that “Even a barn needs a little paint,” I try my best to look my best even when I feel my worst. While I'm the judge and jury of what exactly that best look is before I leave the house, once I'm on the go there's a new sheriff in town. Now, I know I'm a complete neurotic mess, but there's something about the whole process of just knowing men will look at me that all the way fucks with my mind when I'm walking by. I'm always like:
1.
What if they look for a second, frown unmoved, and turn away? Death sentence! Does that mean I need to go to the gym? Dye my platinum edges? Stop wearing this darn pink lip gloss?
2.
What if they look and smile, but don't say anything? That's better than the death sentence, but a smile isn't getting me anywhere. I didn't spend thirty minutes on my hair to go home with a bag of smiles. Do I try to slow down awkwardly and start up a conversation with a total stranger? He smiled. Right?
3.
What if they look, smile, and call me over? This may seem like the best-case scenario, but it fucks with my head more than the other two. Do I walk over like some needy puppy, making it obvious that I'm on the market and so thirsty to meet a man that I'll stop and talk to random dudes in public? What if I trip? What if I have a booger in my nose?
4.
What if no one looks? Now, this is the single-woman's holocaust. You're so lame, you're invisible. Casper. Harry Potter under his magical cape. No one can see you. You've spent hours getting dressed only to realize that no one cares that you're there and, well, no one cares if you leave. Do you then inject yourself into someone's path of vision? Or sit and pretend to enjoy your own company?
Journey says I'm going to have to get over this, that thinking so much only lowers my confidence (how I walk into a room, stand at a bar, and smile while just on my own) and that males thrive on this female confidence. It's what attracts them most. So, twisting through the crowd of men in the lobby at the hotel in my killer red heels, the sugary-sweet positive angel on my left shoulder thought, “Confidence, confidence, confidence,” but the what-the-hell-were-you-thinking-walking-out-of-the-house-in-hooker-shoes devil on my right shoulder backed that up with, “Did he just turn his back when he saw me?” and “Oh . . . was that a smile? I knew these shoes were working! Maybe I should go over and say hello. . . . Oh . . . That wasn't a smile. Maybe he has gas.” Managing my neurosis somewhere in the middle, in my mind I winked and lingered at the smiling brother a bit, but in reality my nerves sent me rushing to the receptionist so I could get the number to Scarlet's party suite.
“Big night, huh?” I said after giving the woman behind the desk Ian's last name and turning back to drink in the brothers as she looked at her computer.
“Leftovers from last night,” she said. “It's a fraternity. They had a ball.”
“Really? Wish I had an invitation,” I joked, remembering my disaster on the living room couch. Certainly, one of these men could've used my services. “It's not every day that you get to see so many fine brothers in one place like this.” I saw two of the men greet one another with a fraternity handshake. Their linked-up arms were so muscular and strong it sent tickles up my spine. Lord, it had been so long since I'd felt a touch like that. “Dang,” I started, turning back to the receptionist, who looked a little less impressed than me. “I love fraternity men. Maybe I should call some of my girlfriends down here. You think they'll be here all night?”
“Probably,” she said flatly. “But don't bother calling your girls.”
“Why? What?” I spied the dazzling menfolk once more and then turned back to the receptionist. “What? Oh no. Don't tell me. They're gay! It's Atlanta! I should've known,” I discerned aloud. In my voice there was a mix of surprise and acknowledgement with a dash of quick understanding. Suddenly, in my mind anyway, I could explain why I'd gotten no cat calls during my stiletto-clad cat walk through a sea of men. Of course no one wanted to holler at me! They're all gay!
“No, they're not gay,” the receptionist said.
“What?”
“Not gay. They're not gay. They're transgendered.”
“Trans-what?”.
“Transgendered.” She nodded toward the group, signaling for me to get another peek. “Those fraternity boys used to be sorority girls.”
As Grammy Annie-Lou would say, my mouth was picking up flies. That's country people speak for: it was wide open as the landscape before me redeveloped into a new reality.
Armed with the party room number, I'm sure my face was painted in colors called shock red and crimson awe as I made my way back halfway through the strange promenade to get to the elevators. All those muscular arms, perfect jawlines, tight bums in designer suits, the delicious opus of masculine energy was . . . a group of women turned men? I traded my previous saunter for a humble creep. I couldn't care less if no one looked at me now. Wait . . . they weren't checking for me either. . . .
Â
Ian opened the door before I could knock.
“I thought you were coming earlier,” he barked in a tight-jawed whisper.
“Umm . . . can I get a hello first?”
Ian was just as I had left him. All height and all muscle. He was six feet nine and so naturally in shape I never once heard him mention going to anyone's gym. When we'd met during orientation freshman year at Florida A&M, I was sure he was a basketball playerâI think the team even tried to recruit himâbut Ian Dupree's head has always been in his books.
“Yeah . . . whatever . . .
hello
.” Ian quickly pulled me into the suite. There was a little sitting area set up before a hallway that led to the main dining room. I could see that the room was already half full.
“People are already here?” I asked.
“It's eight fifteen.”
“The party started at eight,” I pointed out with surprise in my voice.
Ian gave me one of his looks. He had baby cheeks and penny-colored eyes that matched his skin. He was more cute than handsome. We'd become fast friends after that orientation at FAMU. He loved that I was from the country and didn't ever know anything he was talking about. I loved that he was from New Orleans (a big city to me) and seemed to know everything no one was talking about. With one of his books in his back pocket, we'd walk through campus debating the world. He had all the information. I had the neurotic opinions. Ian never seemed to notice all the girls standing around looking at him with thirsty eyes. I'd play into it. Laugh like he'd just said something really funny, link arms with him, and stare past their needy ciphers like we were so connected we couldn't see them. My roommate said I had a crush on him, but really I just liked the attention of walking around the yard with the cutest guy on campus and I figured I was keeping Ian single until the right woman came along.
“Come on, Ian. Who comes to an eight o'clock party before nine in Atlanta? If the invitation says eight, that means they'll still be setting up at eight. It's just courteous to get there at nine.”
“Sure,” Ian said. “Well, Scarlet's friends got news of the proposal, and by seven thirty they were lined up outside like it was the running of the bulls.”