Her Man: Chapter Two

I Called Her Boyfriend Behind Her Back.

I woke up Saturday morning with my phone underneath my titty. Don’t ask. I don’t know how it got there. I went to sleep holding it, apparently rolled over sometime during the night, and woke up with one corner of my iPhone digging directly into my left breast. Normally, this would’ve been the most irritating part of my morning. It wasn’t. The most irritating part of my morning was Malachi. More specifically, the messages Malachi had sent me the night before.

Ask Nia where we really met.

And ask her who I was with when we did.

I stared at those two messages for so long my screen went dark. Then I unlocked it and stared at them again. Now, I know what y’all are thinking because I was thinking the same thing. Bitch, ask Nia. Simple. Easy. Call your best friend, tell her that her boyfriend has somehow acquired your phone number like a fucking bill collector, send her the screenshots, and ask her what the hell he’s talking about. That is what a good friend would do. And I am a good friend. So naturally, I took screenshots and did absolutely none of that. Not immediately, anyway.

First of all, I was pissed. Not curious. Pissed. At least that’s the word I used because “curious” would’ve required me to admit that Malachi had successfully gotten inside my head, and I refused to give that nigga the satisfaction before I even brushed my teeth. Because forget whatever mysterious Lifetime movie bullshit he was talking about. How the fuck did he get my number? I had never given it to him. I went back through our Instagram messages to make sure I wasn’t losing my mind. Nothing. I checked old group chats. Nothing. I even searched his number in my contacts just in case I saved it at some point and forgot. Nothing.

So either Nia gave it to him, which I seriously doubted, or Malachi had gone looking for it. Neither option made me feel particularly warm and fuzzy. I was still sitting there looking at the screenshots when my phone rang. Nia, of course. I damn near threw the phone. I let it ring twice before answering.

“Hello?”

“Biiiitch.”

Her voice sounded like somebody had scraped it across concrete, and I relaxed a little.

“Good morning to you too.”

“I’m dying.”

“You say that every time you drink.”

“No, Jenny, I’m serious. I think somebody poisoned me.”

“You drank Casamigos, Hennessy, and whatever that blue shit was you put in your cup.”

“It was Hpnotiq.”

“That shit still exists?”

“Apparently.”

I laughed despite myself, and just like that, she was Nia. Regular Nia. Hungover Nia. My best friend Nia. She started telling me about the rest of their night after she got off the phone with me. Apparently she’d thrown up in Malachi’s bathroom, accused him of hiding her charger, found the charger in her purse, cried because he wouldn’t order her mozzarella sticks at two in the morning, then passed out wearing one lash. I was laughing so hard by the time she got to the lash that for maybe thirty seconds, I forgot. Then she said his name.

“Malachi talking about he never letting me drink like that again.”

My eyes went straight to the screenshots.

“Mm.”

“He cooked breakfast though.”

“Of course he did.”

“He made French toast.”

“That nigga cooks every time he fucks up.”

There was a silence. Not long, maybe half a second, but I caught it.

“Fuck up what?” she asked.

Shit.

“Your stomach,” I said quickly. “You just told me you threw up half the liquor aisle.”

“Oh.”

See? Technically not a lie. I was getting really good at those.

“He made eggs too,” she continued. “And turkey bacon. I’m about to tear this shit up.”

I could hear movement in the background, a cabinet closing, water running, then Malachi’s voice somewhere farther away. I couldn’t make out what he said, but my stomach did something weird. Not butterflies. Don’t start. It was more like that feeling when you see a police car behind you even though you know damn well you weren’t speeding.

“You still there?” Nia asked.

“Yeah.”

“What you doing today?”

I looked at the screenshots again.

“Nothing.”

Fourth lie. See how easy that shit happens? That’s what nobody tells you about lying. People act like you wake up one morning, stretch, brush your teeth, and decide you’re going to become a deceitful bitch. You don’t. Most of the time, you tell one little lie because telling the truth feels unnecessarily complicated. Then the lie creates another situation that requires another little lie, and before you know it, you’re keeping records like an accountant.

“Come over later,” Nia said.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe means no.”

“Maybe means maybe.”

“It has literally never meant maybe when you say it.”

“Then why you ask?”

“Fuck you.”

“Love you too.”

She laughed. “All right. Let me eat. I’ll call you later.”

“Okay.”

“And Jenny?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

That caught me off guard. I don’t know why. We said it all the time.

“Love you too.”

She hung up, and I sat there with the phone still against my ear. That should’ve been the moment I called her back. I know that now. Hell, I knew it then. Instead, I opened my messages with Malachi. Nothing new. I typed Who gave you my number? and deleted it. Then Don’t ever text me again. Deleted that too. Finally, I typed Who was she? and stared at it for a few seconds before deleting that one too. Nope. Absolutely the fuck not. I tossed my phone across the bed and went to shower.

By noon, I had cleaned my kitchen, washed two loads of clothes, reorganized a drawer that did not need reorganizing, watched half an episode of Girlfriends, and learned absolutely nothing because Malachi’s stupid-ass message was still sitting in the back of my brain. So I called Tiff.

Now, if Nia was my sister, Tiff was my cousin who would help you hide a body but complain the entire time that you should’ve killed the person closer to her house. Tiff knew everything. I mean everything. Not because people intentionally told her everything. That would’ve made sense. Information simply found Tiff. You could tell that girl you were pregnant on Monday and by Wednesday she’d somehow know the baby’s blood type. She answered on FaceTime wearing a bonnet and eating cereal.

“What?”

“Damn. Hello.”

“You called me.”

“I can hang up.”

“You won’t.”

I smiled. “What you eating?”

“Cinnamon Toast Crunch.”

“At one o’clock?”

Tiff looked down at the bowl. “Damn, Cinnamon Toast Crunch got a watch now?”

“Okay.”

She squinted at me. “What you want?”

This was the problem with friends who knew you.

“Nothing.”

“You don’t call me on Saturday afternoon to discuss cereal.”

“I call you all the time.”

“You send TikToks. Different.”

I should’ve prepared better. Instead, I tried to sound casual.

“You remember when Nia first started talking to Malachi?”

Tiff stopped chewing. Not dramatically. She didn’t drop the spoon. She didn’t widen her eyes. There wasn’t thunder in the background. She just stopped chewing. And that was enough.

I sat up straighter. “What?”

She started chewing again. “What what?”

“That.”

“What?”

“That little pause you just did.”

“Girl, I’m eating.”

“You stopped eating.”

“Because you asked me a question.”

“So answer it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I remember when they started talking.”

“Where did they meet?”

Another pause. Oh, bitch.

“Tiff.”

“What?”

“Where did Nia meet Malachi?”

“Why are you asking me?”

There are moments when you can actually feel a conversation change shape. This was one of them. Five minutes ago, I was being nosy. Now I knew there was something to be nosy about.

“I was just thinking about it.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“That ain’t an answer.”

“Why are you acting weird?”

“I’m not acting weird.”

“You are absolutely acting weird.”

She took another bite of cereal and looked away from the camera.

“Tiff.”

“Jenny.”

“Where did they meet?”

She sighed, and I swear to God, that sigh pissed me off more than anything she could’ve said because it sounded like everybody knew something except me.

“I’m not getting in that,” she said.

I frowned. “Getting in what?”

“Exactly.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That fake mysterious shit. You know I hate that.”

“Then stop asking questions you don’t need answers to.”

Now I was really sitting up. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means that’s Nia’s business.”

“Nia is my best friend.”

“And?”

“And if there’s some shit about her boyfriend that I should know, why wouldn’t she tell me?”

Tiff looked directly into the camera. “I didn’t say there was.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She groaned and put her bowl down. “Jenny, listen to me. Whatever you’re doing, don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

My heart started beating a little faster. Not because I was scared. Because now I was irritated. There is nothing more annoying than somebody warning you about a situation they refuse to explain.

“Did Nia know Malachi before they started dating?”

Tiff looked away again.

“Tiff.”

“That’s not my story to tell.”

Wow. Confirmation. Not an answer. Worse.

“Tiff, what the fuck?”

“I love you. I love Nia. I’m not getting in the middle of y’all shit.”

“There is no ‘y’all shit.’”

“Then leave it alone.”

She picked her cereal back up, clearly deciding the conversation was over.

Except it wasn’t.

“Was there another girl?”

Tiff froze. This time she didn’t even pretend, and I felt something cold move through my stomach.

“Who told you that?” she asked.

I didn’t answer.

Her entire face changed. “Jenny.”

“Was there?”

“Who told you?”

“Answer me first.”

“No. You called me. Who told you?”

I should’ve lied. Instead, I said nothing. And apparently silence is a language because Tiff understood me perfectly.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Tiff.”

“I gotta go.”

“Girl, don’t fucking hang up.”

“I’m serious. I’m not doing this.”

“Doing what?”

But she had already ended the call. I stared at my own face on the black screen. Well. That was productive. I lasted exactly eleven minutes before calling Nia. She answered on the fourth ring.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. What you doing?”

“Watching Malachi lose money on FanDuel.”

I heard him in the background.

“I can hear you,” he called.

“Good,” Nia yelled back. “Stop betting on niggas you don’t know.”

“They’re professional athletes, Nia.”

“And do you know them?”

I smiled. This was normal. That was what made everything feel so fucking strange.

“Anyway,” she said. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. I was thinking about something.”

“What?”

I got up and walked into my kitchen even though there was no reason to. “You remember when you first met Malachi?”

There was a tiny silence.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Where was that?”

“Why?”

“Damn. Why everybody keep asking me why?”

“Who is everybody?”

Shit.

“Nobody. I’m just asking.”

“You know where we met.”

“Remind me.”

She laughed, but it sounded different now. “At that lounge in Buckhead. I told you this.”

“With your coworkers?”

“Yeah.”

“He bought you a drink?”

“Yes, Detective Jenny. He bought me a drink, we talked, I gave him my number. Why are you interrogating me?”

I leaned against the counter. It was exactly the story I remembered. Not mostly. Exactly. Same lounge. Same coworkers. Same drink. Same number. Like she had read it from somewhere.

“Nobody’s interrogating you.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“I don’t know. It came up.”

“With who?”

Fuck.

“Tiff.”

Wrong answer.

Nia got quiet. “Tiff said something?”

“No.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing.”

“Jenny.”

“She didn’t say anything. I asked her something earlier and it made me think about when you and Malachi met. That’s it.”

Another lie. Fifth? I had lost count already.

“What did you ask Tiff?”

“Girl, why are you getting defensive?”

“I’m not defensive.”

“You sound defensive.”

“I’m asking you a question.”

“And I’m asking why you’re acting weird.”

“I’m not acting weird.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

We sat there breathing at each other for a few seconds before Nia laughed. It was forced as hell.

“You know what? I’m too hungover for your weird ass today.”

I laughed too. Also forced. “Go drink some water.”

“Go find something to do.”

“I will.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

She hung up. This time I didn’t sit there wondering what I should do. I already knew. I opened Malachi’s messages, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard for a few seconds before I typed:

Who is Ari?

I hadn’t gotten her name from Tiff. I hadn’t gotten it from Nia. Malachi had never said it. But I had seen it before. That was the part I never told y’all. Months earlier, back when Malachi was still just Nia’s new boyfriend and I had no reason to care about anything he did, I was doing what every woman with an Instagram account and working fingers has done at least once. I was lurking. Not on Malachi. On Nia.

She had posted a picture of them together. Cute little date-night picture. His arm around her waist. Her smiling like she’d won something. One of the comments underneath it said:

ari.bby: wow.

That was it. Just wow.

Nia deleted it before the end of the night. I remembered because I thought it was weird, then I forgot about it. Until right fucking now. Malachi read my message almost immediately. The little Read appeared underneath it, but he didn’t respond. Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Then two. The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.

Finally:

So she really never told you.

My stomach dropped.

Told me what?

He called. I stared at his name and let it ring once, twice, three times before declining it. He called again. I declined that one too. Then a message came through.

Jenny I’m not trying to play with you. This is too much to explain over text.

I typed back:

Then don’t explain it.

His response came immediately.

You asked me.

I hated that he was right. I hated even more that I wanted to know. So I called him.

The second he answered, I said, “You got five minutes.”

He laughed. Like really laughed.

“Why you laughing?”

“Because you called me.”

“You told me to call.”

“I said it was too much to explain over text.”

“Malachi.”

“All right, all right.”

His voice sounded different without Nia around. I don’t know how to explain that. Softer, maybe. Less performative. When he was around us, he always had this slight boyfriend voice. Not fake exactly, but polished. Like he was aware he was somebody’s man. This sounded like him. Or at least I thought it did.

“Who is Ari?”

He was quiet for a second. “My ex.”

I closed my eyes. “And?”

“And what?”

“Don’t piss me off.”

“I’m not.”

“Why would Nia need to tell me about your ex?”

“Because Ari wasn’t just my ex.”

I waited.

“She was Nia’s friend.”

There are certain sentences that rearrange every memory around them. That was one. I thought about Nia telling me about the lounge in Buckhead. The coworkers. The drink. The number. I thought about her crying barefoot on that curb. I thought about all the questions. Do you think he’s fine? Has he ever DM’d you? Would you tell me if he tried something? If Malachi ever tried to fuck you, would you tell me?

“Oh,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“How close?”

“They were cool.”

“Cool like Instagram cool or cool like actual friends?”

“Actual friends.”

“Best friends?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“And you were with Ari when you met Nia?”

“Yes.”

I started pacing. “So you cheated on Ari with Nia.”

He sighed. “It’s complicated.”

I laughed. “Oh, fuck you.”

“What?”

“It’s always complicated when somebody did some fucked-up shit.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t do fucked-up shit.”

That stopped me. Most men, when confronted with their own bullshit, immediately begin constructing a PowerPoint presentation explaining why technically they are innocent. Malachi didn’t.

“I hurt Ari,” he said. “I’m not gonna lie to you and make Nia the villain. I was fucked up back then too.”

“Too?”

He went quiet.

I caught it.

“What did Nia do?”

“Jenny.”

“No. Don’t ‘Jenny’ me. You’re the one who brought this shit to me.”

“I know.”

“So talk.”

He exhaled. “Nia knew we were together.”

I sat down.

Of course she did. I don’t know why that part shocked me. Maybe because Nia had spent the last year acting like infidelity was something Malachi invented specifically to torture her. Maybe because I had watched her cry. Maybe because she had looked me directly in my face and asked if I would ever betray her with him. And maybe because somewhere underneath all of that was a thought I didn’t want to touch yet. If Nia had been Ari’s friend, then Nia knew exactly what she was accusing me of becoming.

“How long?” I asked.

“What?”

“How long were you fucking with Nia while you were with Ari?”

“Couple months.”

“Couple months?”

“It wasn’t like that the whole time.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means me and Ari were already fucked up. Breaking up, getting back together, arguing. Me and Nia started talking.”

“While you were still with Ari.”

“Yes.”

“And Nia knew.”

“Yes.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I told you.”

“No, you didn’t tell me shit. You sent me cryptic-ass messages at one in the morning like a serial killer.”

He laughed. I tried not to. I really did. But it was funny, and a little laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

“There you go,” he said.

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t act like we cool.”

“I didn’t say we were.”

“You sound like it.”

“How am I supposed to sound?”

“Like somebody whose girlfriend is my best friend.”

Silence.

That one landed.

“Fair,” he said.

No argument. No defense. Just fair. It annoyed me because assholes are easier when they act like assholes. We kept talking. Five minutes became ten. Ten became twenty. He told me about Ari. Not everything, because I didn’t believe for one second that any man telling a story about his ex was giving an unbiased documentary account, but enough. He and Ari had been together almost two years. They fought constantly near the end.

Nia knew Ari through mutual friends and eventually started being around more. Malachi and Nia started texting. Ari found out. Friendships ended. People chose sides. Screenshots got passed around. Messy. Embarrassing. Exactly the kind of shit Nia would tell me about somebody else while conveniently forgetting she’d ever participated in it herself.

“So why didn’t she tell me?” I asked.

“You gotta ask her that.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“She lied.”

Malachi went quiet. I hated how saying it out loud felt.

“She told me y’all met at some lounge in Buckhead.”

He laughed once. Not a funny laugh. “Yeah.”

“You knew she told me that?”

“I figured.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what she tells people.”

That pissed me off all over again. “So everybody knows this shit but me?”

“Not everybody.”

“Tiff knows.”

“Tiff knows everything.”

I laughed. “See? Exactly.”

And then he laughed.

Somehow we ended up talking about Tiff for ten minutes. Then Nia. Then relationships. Then why I was always single. I don’t even remember how the conversation got there.

“I’m single because I like being single,” I told him.

“That’s not true.”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t like being single.”

“Nigga, you don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

“You know absolutely nothing about me.”

“I know you pretend not to care about shit you care about.”

I got quiet.

“See,” he said.

“See what?”

“That.”

“That don’t mean shit.”

“It means I was right.”

“You’re irritating.”

“You’re defensive.”

“You’re dating my friend.”

That was my emergency brake. Every time the conversation got too comfortable, I pulled it. And to his credit, he backed up every time.

“Yeah,” he said.

We talked for another twenty minutes. Forty-seven minutes total. I know because when we finally hung up, I stared at the call duration like it was evidence from a crime scene.

47:13.

What the fuck do you talk about with your best friend’s boyfriend for forty-seven minutes? Apparently a lot. And no, we were not flirting. Not really. There were no compliments. No sexual shit. No “what you wearing?” No “send me a picture.” Nothing like that. We just talked. Which, looking back, might’ve been worse. Because somewhere around minute thirty-five, I forgot I was supposed to hate him. Somewhere around minute forty, I forgot I was supposed to be investigating him. And somewhere around minute forty-five, I realized I liked talking to him. That realization scared the shit out of me. So naturally, I ruined the moment.

“You need to stop contacting me.”

He got quiet.

“I mean it, Malachi.”

“I know.”

“This shit is weird. Nia is my friend.”

“I know.”

“You keep saying you know, but then you keep doing weird shit.”

“I know.”

“Stop saying that.”

He laughed softly. “Okay.”

I rubbed my forehead. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“Then why did you get my number?”

Silence. Finally, the question I had been asking since I woke up. He took too long to answer.

“Malachi.”

“I asked Tiff for it a while ago.”

My mouth fell open. “Tiff gave you my fucking number?”

“She thought it was for Nia.”

“That sneaky bitch.”

“She didn’t know.”

I made a mental note to cuss Tiff the fuck out later.

“So why did you want it?”

Another silence, longer this time. I already knew I wasn’t going to like the answer.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“You have Instagram.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

My stomach tightened. “Then what do you mean?”

He exhaled. “Jenny.”

“No. Say whatever you’re about to say.”

“I like you.”

Just like that. No emoji. No drunk excuse. No disappearing message. No room for me to pretend I misunderstood. Just four words that should’ve made me angry. And they did, mostly.

“Don’t ever say that to me again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“You’re with Nia.”

“I know.”

“And that’s my best friend.”

“I know.”

“So whatever little idea you got in your head about me, kill it.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“I said okay.”

I waited. Part of me expected him to argue. He didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have said it.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

“I’ll leave you alone.”

“Good.”

Another silence passed before he said, “Goodnight, Jenny.”

“It’s three in the afternoon.”

He laughed. “Bye, Jenny.”

“Bye.”

I hung up and sat on the edge of my bed staring at my phone. Forty-seven minutes and thirteen seconds. I should’ve felt relieved. He had apologized. He said he would leave me alone. Boundary established. Problem solved.

I put my phone down. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty. No message. Good. That was good. Exactly what I wanted.

I picked my phone up anyway.

Nothing.

I opened Instagram. Nothing. Checked my texts again. Nothing.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was when I realized I had a much bigger problem than Malachi liking me.

I wanted him to call back.

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