Cam raised a hand before I could comment. “Go upstairs. Write. Take a nap. Then go to the-place-that-must-not-be-named.”
I journaled before and after my radio shows. It helped me channel the frustration I felt after some of my callers asked for advice. Instead of giving them a good kick in the pants, I had to coddle them. If I told listeners the truth about their messy-ass decisions, my ratings would plummet. But in my journal, I could tell them exactly how it is and the root of their issues. I could be the real me.
Cameron leaned down and kissed my forehead. Despite the ninety-degree, sweaty-balls heat Georgia’s infamous for, he still smelled like my Cam: spicy and woodsy and solid. He was all man and all mine. I grabbed his plain gray tee and inhaled deeper. He didn’t comment on this—he was used to it, and I think he liked it.
“Okay, off I go.” I started up the three flights of creaking stairs. My flip-flops slipped on the freshly shampooed carpet. Reaching the top, I tugged the thin white cord to pull down the attic steps, and the creak and groan from it unfolding sounded like a waking dragon.
I took a deep breath and smiled. The smell was like opening an old book. Despite its musty smell, the last owners had modernized the space and included a daybed and a set of built-in shelves above a desk. It was exactly how I envisioned an attic-office but was too untalented and lazy to execute. While I loved yelling at the doomed couples on HGTV, I was not a DIY girl.
The hardwood floors were a mix of light and dark wood, and the ceilings were higher than usual for an attic—so high, in fact, that I could jump and not touch the vaulting. I admired the tall, wide, and recently polished bookcase left behind by the previous owners. My fingers easily glided along the shelves.
I spotted the rocking chair Cam had catty-cornered near the window. I’d badgered my mother into giving me my grandmother’s rocking chair, tugging on her sense of legacy in passing down a fifth-generation item. I loved that damn chair and had penned all my worldly knowledge, angst, bad poetry only a teenager could understand, sitting in it. I moved the rocker near my desk and parked my ass in the chair. A faded Polaroid picture had been propped on my desk.
“Cam,” I groaned. “You pushy SOB.”
The faces of my closest friends stared back at me. We’d been friends since our freshman year at Emory University. At our college orientation, we gave each other the black people nod. You know, the slight chin dip that conveys, “Yes, I realize there aren’t too many of us around and if I see you running away from something I’ll do it, too, no questions asked.”
I slid my thumb across the Polaroid and read the caption on the bottom of the picture. “The Brown Sugarettes Mastermind Group.” We were still close, just older and sadder adult versions.
Sienna’s gorgeous smile caught my attention first. She was a few inches taller than my five-foot-six height, modelesque, and a second-generation immigrant from Kenya. Beside her was Nikki, who rocked a choppy asymmetrical bob with gray streaks. With her brown skin, she looked like the punk version of Storm in X-Men. That woman was all the way rock-and-roll and even snarkier than me.
Surprisingly, she had become the saddest version of herself in our adulthood transition. Her streaks were replaced by a respectable shade of dark brown, and while she still rocked shorter locks, the edge had disappeared, replaced by a suburban mom hairdo.
Nikki had two sweet kids she adored, but she’d confessed to me that if she had a do-over, she would’ve waited ten years before becoming a mom. She’d wanted to be a musician, and she was so damn talented I was willing to bet she could still go for it even now.
My attention drifted from Nikki’s face to mine. My hair was shorter then. I’d chopped off my relaxed hair right after breaking up with my college sweetheart and decided to grow dreads. They were now past my bra strap. At the time I chopped off my hair to be defiant. My ex loved my long tresses and would stroke them after we made love. I’d wanted a separation from the silly girl who’d fallen for the player.
Beside me was Kara, wearing her signature smirk. She’d most likely just finished kicking someone’s ass on either the tennis or basketball court. Kara’s always been my opposite: highly competitive and singularly focused. What can often make people with single focus dangerous is how they can swing between genius and lunacy. Fortunately, Kara’s steadily in the middle, and her competitive, type-A personality kept us on track and boosted all of us to do our best.
The Mastermind group had been my idea. I was bitching to my friends about being snubbed by an exclusive writer’s group on campus, despite my excellent grades and recognition from professors. The next day, there was an episode of Oprah about the law of attraction. I’d been fascinated and read anything about it. After a few books, I noticed a theme about meeting up with other ambitious people for support.
We were all highly motivated, and although our goals were supremely different, we were still able to help each other.
We hadn’t talked about our group or met since a year after graduation. But this picture staring at me, with our hopeful, yet confident smiles, churned my insides. What happened to us? Was I the only one who felt like a failure?
I pulled the phone from my pocket to send a group text for a get-together soon. After a flurry of messages back and forth, we decided to meet at Kara’s place in a few weeks. A decade later, it was time for us to face our dreams.
But for now, I needed to write and then get ready for tonight’s show. Deferred dreams could wait. Work could not.
* * *
An hour later I walked through the double doors of the radio station. “Hey, Greg.” I waved to the security guard. I waited for his usual greeting of “Evening, Raina,” and he didn’t disappoint. I hustled past and gave him a slow, exaggerated wink while I waited for the ancient elevator to shake, rattle, and close.
A few fans of Raina’s Fireside Chat called me the black Delilah, I guess because we’re both famous radio hosts who heal the lonely, despondent, and brokenhearted with a perfect song. I love Delilah, and I used to listen to her on the cheap radio I’d won from selling the most candy in middle school, but I never wanted to be Delilah.
If I’d stolen my persona from anyone, it was my late Grandma Jean. You broke? Stop spending all your damn money on smokes. Need to lose weight? Put the fork down and walk your ass ’round the neighborhood. Your man cheating on you? Leave his lying, no-good ass.
She came from the school of the Old Testament and an eye for an eye. So before you leave his no-good ass, burn some shit up. Grandma’s wisdom would be too explicit for radio, so I’d polished up her Southern colloquialisms, added a dollop of kindness, empathy, and occasional sternness, and suddenly I was the friend whispering encouragement in your ear at one o’clock in the morning when sleep wouldn’t come. I’d created my own style.
But I’m not sure how I got here. I’m sarcastic, moody as all hell, and just as acerbic as Grandma Jean. She didn’t believe in twisting herself in knots over a man or anyone, for that matter. Nor did she believe in the institution of marriage—she kicked out my grandpa when Mama was a teenager and never looked for his sorry ass since. Those were her words, not mine. She ingrained her sense of independence, self-contentment, and self-awareness in me, and I wouldn’t be the woman I am today without Grandma Jean.