I drain the last of the first bottle and return to the kitchen for the second. Then I remember Daiya Prince, my best girlfriend from college. We’ve been friends for so long, I shouldn’t lump her in with my college friends. She’s my sister. But this is one story I still haven’t told her.
How do I tell her I slept with my boss?
I love a good time like the next woman, and one night I decided to party with my L.A. friends, which differ from my girls, like Daiya.
My L.A. friends and I hang out to attend industry parties, blow off steam, and every once in a while, I get wasted. The night I met Denzel, we went to a movie screening and immediately transitioned to the after-party.
I was throwing them back, celebrating my new promotion. Then a fine brother walked into the club, and he chose me. I could hum and ho about me seeing him first and how I wasn't hanging on his every word, but that would be a damn lie. Because the man is gorgeous, that’s a fact I won’t deny him.
He sent over bottles of the best champagne to my table while undressing me from across the room all night. Then I slipped away from my colleagues to visit the ladies’ room and found him waiting outside the door for me.
I thought I won the damn lottery until Monday morning when Mr. Wilson, the studio CEO, introduced Denzel around the department. And this negro thought he was about to get an assistant and ass.
Oh, hell, naw!
I wish I could scrub that night from my memory. It was awful. I chalk it up to the law of averages. No one wants to hit a dud, but it’s bound to happen.
Now every time I see Denzel, I mentally roll my eyes because he’s a visual fraud. Walking around looking like a whole damn meal and his ass ain’t even a snack.
I’m talking about no stroke game.
None.
I haven’t touched a man sexually since that night. It has been three long years of sexual frustration, and every time I think I'm about to give and get my itch scratched in, I remember Denzel’s lame ass. It was that fucking traumatic.
This is my life. And I don't shout it from the skyscrapers, but I'm tired of this unhealthy cycle of my job taking every ounce of my energy and time. My family is back in Raleigh, North Carolina, and my girls are scattered around the country.
Days like today make me question whether I’m meant to be here and if I’ll ever make the type of television that I enjoyed growing up. In my mind, Sex in the City could have been four brown-skinned girls in red bottoms. I dream of the day we have shows on more channels than Black Entertainment Television or the OWN Network—which is cool. But I want a shot at them all.
What are your options, Quanesha?
I shake my head and swoon a little. Maybe opening the second bottle was a mistake.
Quanesha Montgomery is the old me straight from North Carolina. My family owns a soul food restaurant, but my parents couldn’t afford to send me to college. However, my brains could.
Quanesha held me down. Helped me land a full ride to the University of California, Los Angeles. She’s my wild side that loves a good party and hanging with friends. She’s the one that got me in all this trouble with Denzel—at the party flirting and giggling all over the man.
Then there’s Q. Rachelle Montgomery.
My upgrade.
The 2.0 version.
The Hollywood edition.
My college mentor pressed me about the change. I fought it because I knew the drill. Anything with an "esha" sound is pegged as ghetto, hood, or from the other side of the tracks. I never had an issue with my name until I took my mentor’s advice. I sent out a single resume with Q instead of Quanesha, and I landed a job with a studio.
It’s bullshit. But it got me in the door. And I’m not above playing the little political games that come with this industry, however, what I won’t do is fuck my way to the top. And Denzel’s hinted, more than once, about a repeat, and once was one time too damn many.
I could run to Human Resources, and I’d be replaced in twenty-four hours. There are hundreds of people waiting in line for my shitty-ass job, and all the executives know it.
I’ve experienced it all. Not getting invited to events, working twice as hard for half the pay, working my way from the bottom to the… Well, I’m still at the bottom after seven years. It’s an occupational hazard. I'm good at my job, and now they refuse to see me in another light.
I sigh. Tired of going in circles.
Maybe this is all a sign that it’s time to call it quits and return home. Work at the restaurant for a while until I figure out my next move. It feels like my dream hangs on Denzel. He's my boss, the man in charge, the show's co-creator, and the man who approves my checks.
How can I make him forget he saw me naked and give me a damn chance? Because I’m not sleeping with him to get in that writer’s room.
I drop my head back. My situation looks worse by the second.
And what’s worst is I never, EVER, would have slept with him if I knew on Monday, he'd be my boss. That's the quickest way to get a reputation. And I'm all for sexual choice, one-night stands, a different penis for every day of the week if it's your thing. It's your body.
I’m like The Isley Brothers, do what you wanna do.
But I—Quanesha Rachelle Montgomery—will be known for my work, not my cookie.
I guess this little monologue means I’m not quitting.
I need help, some backup. I reach for my phone, and the wine has me queasy. I blink until the screen is visible, and I text Daiya.
Me: Can you pray for me? I go to an online church. But I don’t think it works.
Daiya has a direct line to the Man upstairs. Plus, I know she won’t judge me. We get each other like that. She was the first real friend I made in college.
I moved on campus as a seventeen-year-old eager to start life, and the others saw me as a kid. But not Daiya. She was my dorm hall monitor, and eventually, we became best friends. She showed me the ropes at UCLA. I showed her how to blend in with “the worldly”—according to her very strict religious parents.
My folks love Jesus too, but we pretty much held membership at Bedside Baptist. We pray over meals, send out tithes, and that’s the extent of it until Easter, Christmas, and Mother’s Day. The holidays are only because my grandmother demanded attendance. But out here, I'm on my own.
I’m about to tag Daiya in.
Daiya: Quanie? Is someone playing on your phone?
Me: No, sis. I need you. Can you pray? Like they used to do back in the day.
I laugh, adding a GIF of a Black woman shouting in a church. A vision of Daiya cocking her head to the side, squinting like a disapproving mother, floats through my hazy mind.
Daiya's Madea—an old lady from Louisiana with too many rules and too many restrictions. I'm the wild child, willing to try just about anything once. Opposites from our clothes, to our language, to our professions. But we work.
I love her like she’s my blood, and I’d cut anyone who dares to cause her harm. And that’s why I know I need her sound perspective and hopeful disposition to help me see how I plan to navigate around this fool. Because quiet as it's kept, Daiya's holy, but she's always packing.
I laugh and feel better already. I sit up, ready to mess with her a little.
Me: Do you think I still have time to write to Santa Claus?
Daiya: Santa Claus?
My phone rings, echoing in my head. Yeah, I’m done with wine for the night. She’s trying to FaceTime, but I refuse to let her see me like this. I close the bottle and manage to push the green button.