Sample chapter

Beware the bushes 

Don’t ask me how I ended up in the bush, but that’s where our story starts. Ok, maybe it doesn’t start there, but it’s certainly where it got interesting. You see, I was pretty sure that my husband—let’s call him dickhead, cause why should he get to have a name in my book—was up to something shady, and had been for a while. It started with the usual clues: coming home late from work with no explanation, smelling freshly showered after a full day out of the house, credit card receipts for stores he “couldn’t remember going to”.

   Yeah, I know. Affair.

   Duh, I’m not stupid. But ya girl is not the type who likes to look stupid. If I was gonna ruin this man’s life over whatever shit he was pulling, I needed to know exactly what it smelled like. So yeah, I followed him. I don’t care if it’s crazy. I did it. I own it. 

   Sue me. (Please don’t.)

   Anyway, there I was—in the bush, trying to see through one of the dirtiest windows I have ever encountered. And don’t get me wrong. I’m not classist—at least I don’t think I am. I don’t care if your window is dirty. But this hoe was sleeping with my husband, so I will judge if I want to. And that’s exactly what I did. I judged her for everything. Not just her dirty window, but the shape of her front bushes, the uneven lines in her lawn, even the Jesus plaque I could see hanging on one of her living room walls through the window.

   What kind of hoe let’s Jesus watch them screw someone else’s husband? A dumb hoe, that’s what kind. I couldn’t wait for them to come outside so I could tell her exactly that. Right after I busted them both upside the head, of course.

   Nah, I wasn’t gonna hurt them. At least, not initially. Deep down, I just wanted to know the truth. Whatever it was; however devastating—I just needed to know. Which is why I had followed dickhead to begin with. After my therapist told me to put the tracker on his car, of course.

   OK, maybe she didn’t tell me to, but when I suggested it, she sure didn’t tell me not to. And that was good enough for me. She had her chance to tell me I was crazy and as far as I was concerned, her failure to do so was a diagnosis. Justified is how I imagine it read on her little clipboard. And whatever it took was the medicine I had decided to self-prescribe.

   You need to understand, Dickhead wasn’t some random guy I met in a bar and married after a couple of months of mind-blowing sex. Dickhead and I had known each other for years. We had gone to high school together. Sung in the choir together. Not the school choir. The church choir…where his dad was the pastor. We weren’t just high school sweethearts. We were soulmates. Chosen by God, ordained to change the world together. Or so I thought. Otherwise I never would have left the melanated blessing that was Spirit Tabernacle for his dumbass Daddy’s church.

   So imagine my surprise when he turned out to be just like every other guy. A lowdown, no good, cheating, user, pig. Hence my little nickname for him.

   It was the worst betrayal of my life. Or at least I suspected it was. Technically, I didn’t know anything for sure yet. But I mean, why else would he be in some stranger's house at 10:30 in the evening instead of at home, tearing it up like he could have been. And boy, let me tell you, he could have been. Cause one thing about Dickhead, he did the thang. Every time, without instruction and never leaving any crumbs behind.

   That’s beside the point. We aren’t here to talk about Dickhead laying pipe. Well, I guess we are, but not with me. Because, like I said, there I was—crouched inside of a huge bush, trying to ignore the hundreds of spiny branches that were stabbing into my soft flesh so that I could catch a glimpse of whoever Dickhead was climbing inside of in this strangers house. I don’t know exactly how long I was there. With each passing hour, my legs grew more and more tired. My muscles screamed for relief, but my Momma aint raise no quitter. I was not going back home just to spiral back into that deadly cycle of anxiety and depression that I had been pretending I wasn’t struggling with for months. I needed answers. And I mean… I knew. Like I said, I aint dumb. I knew what he was in there doing, but knowing and knowing weren’t the same thing and I needed to know.

   I didn’t manage to get much out of the window peeping. Dickhead walked by once, and I thought I was about to get the dreaded show I had come for, but unfortunately, even when he didn’t know I’m around, he lived to piss me off. He grabbed a glass from the coffee table and headed back to whatever part of the house their disgusting—but probably skillful—sin was taking place in. Filthy sinners.

   “Need to hydrate?” I muttered to myself, even angrier. I had come here for answers and all that I was getting for my effort was a dead leg and lower back pain that would be sure to punish me for the rest of the week.

   Eventually, my patience—or inability to walk by that point—paid off. I heard the click of the front door opening, followed by two muttered voices as Dickhead and Hoe left the house. I couldn’t quite make out hoe’s voice well enough to get a clear mental picture of what she looked like, and I didn’t have a clear view of the walkway from where I was. And for some reason, even though this was exactly what I had gone there for, I couldn’t bring myself to let them know I was there. So I stayed hidden.

    And then hoe spoke. In the deep, familiar drawl of one of Dickhead’s college friends, Josh.

   My body could kiss my sweet Black ass. I didn’t care how badly my legs hurt or how loudly my back screamed for me to be careful getting up, I had work to do. I popped to my feet and was out of the bushes before I had expended a single breath. Neither Dickhead—yes, if Josh wants to share my man, he can share my man’s nickname too—seemed to have heard my escape from the bushes. They kept walking toward the car, totally unbothered by me heading toward total meltdown behind them.

   I couldn’t believe this. When it had been some cute little intern from Dickhead’s job, I knew exactly how badly I would hate him for it. In that scenario, he was the disgusting abuser that I could bust upside the head and hate for eternity. But this? Josh? One of his oldest friends. Someone who had spent significant time in our home? Eating food I made for him? One of the people he was closest to?

   That wasn’t some abuse of power that I could hate him for. There was a part of him I had clearly never seen, and I didn’t know what to do with that.

   Although, looking back… maybe I did know what to do with that. Because the next thing I knew, I was standing on the hood of his car with bruised knuckles, a clump of his hair at my feet and a convenient case of amnesia—just in case my therapist asked me how it went later.

   Dickhead.