I check myself into a hotel. I know it’s a place that Azmir can easily access me, tracking my card, but I just need time to clear my head. I’m in a great deal of pain and attempting to process it the best way I know how. Alone.
I swear I’m here but an hour before my phone begins blowing up. It rings and pings of calls and texts. Azmir is in the lead, but my mother, Yazmine, and Chanell are just behind him. Hell, even Kim texts with a prayer. I feel like a bullet has been shot through my soul. Azmir has been so much of my life for over a year, even when I’ve fought against it. His circle has become my circle; my victories are won parallel to his. For Christ’s sake, our once vanishing mothers are now roommates. I set my phone to silent. I need time to think.
For four days, I stay at the hotel. I barely go out. I’ve called out of work and canceled all of my weekly appointments via text, taking the cowardly route. I’m too tender to speak to anyone, I don’t need to be influenced either way. I just need quiet. And I’m content until I receive a note under the door to my room. It’s handwritten by Azmir saying he knows where I am and is happy that I’m safe, but if I don’t want him around, I’ll have to at least have to pick up the phone and take calls from someone so they know I’m okay.
So that he knows I’m okay!
That unexpected letter is what causes me move back to Redondo Beach with Samantha and Yazmine.
~~~~~~~~~~~
“Are you sure you don’t want more, beloved?” Yazmine asks, taking my bowl.
I shake my head. “No, I’m full,” I murmur as I tuck my legs beneath me and pull the blanket over my shoulders.
Across from me, my mother watches curiously. We’re outside in the yard that Yazmine has transformed into a botanical oasis. There are flowers strategically planted all around the small yard. She even has potted ones around the lip of the Jacuzzi that they not making use of. She has flower beds encompassed by stones and even installed a small fountain in the far corner, against the fence.
“It’s very peaceful out here,” I murmur. “You guys have turned this place into a home.”
“I gotta give Yazzy all ‘da credit. She just tell me what to do,” my mother replies.
“So, you guys really hit it off, I see. That’s great,” I say, staring at the water trickling down the quiet fountain.
“You know, Azmir put that in.”
I glance over to Samantha quizzically.
“Yeah,” she answers my silent question. “He came over a couple months ago and help ‘da man put it in. He come ‘round here to check on us a lot. He good like ‘dat.”
Yazmine comes back out with a saucer of pie and hands it to me.
“What’s this?” My mouth begins to salivate at the smell of tan mush.
“Bean pie. Ya’ momma told me how you go coo coo for her sweet potato pie. I told her you should love my bean pie then. She say bean pie is different from sweat potato. I say not really. I wanna see what you say, beloved,” Yazmine challenges.
By this time, I’m swallowing my second forkful, going for my third. With a stuffed mouth, I garble out, “Well…you’re both right. This isn’t sweet potato pie; it’s spicier. But I do love it! It sure is delicious.”
They laugh equally. Yazmine slaps my mother’s thigh. I inhale the pie, fighting myself not to ask for a second serving.
“How are you guys making out with the security detail?” I ask curiously.
They have to be half past crazy with it as I am. John has been doing his usual shadowing of me since I left the hotel. I have a sneaking suspicion that he stood guard outside of my hotel room while I was there. Only this time I don’t mind. Now that I know the type of man I’ve married, I find it a necessary inconvenience.
“We used to it now,” Samantha notes.
“Yeah, beloved. We feed ‘dem our leftovers. They like ‘da trees outside; they just there,” Yazmine adds.
Interesting.
“I spoke to Azmir earlier,” my mother murmurs.
“You know the IRS is now tryna’ get at him? I can’t believe ‘da trouble ‘dat pig putting him through,” Yazmine hisses.
Azmir has been in the news lately about his affiliations. Nothing significant has hit the circuit, but the IRS audit has been on the rumor mill. If I’m honest with myself, I’ll admit to being worried about him. I wonder how he’s making out. If he’s he eating? Where’s he sleeping? Is he thinking about me?
It’s been nearly two weeks since I left him out on that beach. I’ve returned to work, counseling, dance, and Bible study. But I haven’t gone back home. He stopped texting and calling when I moved my things in here a week ago. I’ve had plenty of time to think, and while I don’t believe I’m dismissive of his major infraction, I know that I can’t live without him. Does that make me some type of post-accomplice to his drug world. Am I like First Lady Drug Lord?
Was he a real kingpin?