Wedding Chocolate. Adrianne Byrd
they stood with Keri.
Sometimes Isabella wished she was more like her best friend. For one thing, Keri was gorgeous. Whenever she walked into a room, everyone noticed. Then there was Keri’s no-nonsense attitude. She had no time for fools, or “dawgs” looking for a quick score.
“Take control of your life, Izzy,” Keri said. “Do something. Stand up for yourself. This is your chance before they marry you off and pump you full of kids. Call Randall tonight and tell him you can’t marry him.”
“But—”
“No buts. Do it now. Tonight!”
Isabella fell silent while a knot looped and tightened in her chest. “Time to get a backbone,” she mumbled.
“That’s my girl,” Keri encouraged. “Call him and then call me back,” she instructed.
Isabella nodded and then rolled onto her back. “But what if he’s not there?”
“Izzy!”
“Okay. Okay. I’m calling right now.”
“Good. You’re doing the right thing.”
Then why did it feel like she’d swallowed a fifty-pound lead rock? Isabella disconnected the call, and stared at the phone. Just call him, she told herself. Her hands itched and her fingers tingled, but still she couldn’t make the call.
Five minutes went by.
Ten minutes.
Twenty minutes later, Isabella reached for the phone, but after punching in one number, she hung up.
“I’ll call him tomorrow.”
Tomorrow she’d know what to say.
* * *
Derrick strolled through the doors of Herman’s Barbershop flashing a wide smile and bobbing his head in greeting to the Saturday morning regulars. For nearly twenty-five years Derrick had been coming to the small shop.
A few men tossed a “Yo, Derrick,” his way and he volleyed a “Whassup?” back at them.
Herman Keillor, a tall, robust man, who was in his early seventies, had owned the shop through some hellish times. Most customers came for his wonderful stories. Not only had Herman given Derrick his first haircut when he was just six, but the old man had often bragged about giving Derrick’s father his first one as well.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming this morning,” Herman boomed from across the room.
“I always keep my appointments,” Derrick said, shuffling across the room, dodging stretched out legs and chunks of shaved hair lying across the floor. “I do have a flight in a few hours, so we’re going to have to make this quick.”
“Bobby!” Herman shouted. “Get out here and sweep some of this hair up.”
A second later, Bobby, Herman’s seventeen-year-old great-grandson rushed from the back of the shop with a broom and quickly got to work.
Men in the neighborhood filtered in and out daily, but Saturday remained the shop’s busiest day. Six barbers, ranging from old school to new school donned burgundy barber jackets with Herman’s name scrawled on the back. Despite residing in a red brick building that had clearly seen better days, Herman’s Barbershop looked brand smacking new on the inside.
“Here. Have a seat,” Herman instructed and reached for a black cape.
Derrick took his seat in the offered leather chair and made himself comfortable.
Herman’s was the place to be to discuss women, politics and sports. It was a place where men were free to be themselves, get and give advice or just plain bond with one another.
On the suspended television set, some NASCAR race was well on its way, but none of the brothas were paying it any attention.
“Why do you have this stuff on?” Derrick asked.
“Cable is acting up. It’s either this or Sponge-Bob,” Herman cackled.
“Then never mind.” Derrick laughed.
The bell above the shop’s door jingled and Derrick looked up to see his buddy Stanley Patterson race inside.
The regulars greeted the lanky redhead with affectionate nicknames ranging from “Breadstick” to “Red” and even “Whitey.” A couple of the new clients glanced at Stanley as if they were wondering if he was lost.
“Hey, you beat me here,” Stanley said, panting. “I figured you and Meghan would still be celebrating your getting that award.”
That comment caught a few ears and Derrick groaned. “Meghan and I decided to move on.”
“What?” Stanley thundered. “Why? I thought you two had something going.”
“It just didn’t work out,” he said and hoped that would be the end of it.
It wasn’t.
“Did she find out about the others?” Stanley asked.
“My man Derrick be laying the pipe down for real,” Bobby chuckled with a note of admiration.
“Humph,” Herman grunted his disapproval.
“We had an open relationship,” Derrick stressed. Why was everyone forgetting about that major detail?
“Hey, you can pass her my way.” J.T., the neighborhood’s merchandise peddler, said while showing off a tray of fake Rolexes to potential customers. “I saw you two at Phipps Plaza some time back. You sure know how to pick them. Lawd knows you do.”
“You got that right,” Stanley cut in before Derrick had a chance to answer. “Thick and curvy with a booty out of this world.”
“Stan,” Derrick hissed, trying to shut him up.
“What, man?” His buddy laughed. “Everyone in here knows how you roll. You hook up with the finest women in the A-T-L. You’re the man.”
Bobby stopped sweeping to ask, “How do you do it? Do you have a line or something?”
Just like that Derrick was the center of attention. Bobby looked like he was ready to bust out a pen and paper to take notes.
“Nah. It’s nothing like that,” Derrick answered modestly.
Disappointment crept slowly across Bobby’s face and Derrick had the distinct impression the young man was suffering from a mild case of girl troubles. It wasn’t hard to guess why. Acne blanketed the boy’s face and his thick black-rimmed glasses looked as though they were a borrowed pair from his great-grandfather.
“It’s not important the number of women you get,” Herman said. Undoubtedly, he’d noticed Bobby’s sullen expression, too. “It’s finding that one special woman. This knucklehead—” he thumbed Derrick on the back of his head with a plastic comb “—is gonna realize that one of these days.”
Derrick smiled and shook his head.
“Be still,” Herman instructed.
Herman’s declaration didn’t seem to cheer Bobby any—in fact, it only won a few chuckles around the shop.
“I’m serious,” Herman insisted gruffly. “You young folks.” He tsked under his breath. “You just don’t know what’s important anymore.”
“And what’s that, old man?” someone questioned near the front door.
“Family,” Herman said.
Derrick had mouthed the same answer and shook his head again. The guy by the door must have been new to the shop. The regulars knew Herman never missed an opportunity to climb on his soap box about how young men today where turning their backs on the traditional black family.
“It breaks my heart seeing all these