Put Your Diamonds Up! (19 page)

“No, I don't, sweetheart. Please.” He sounded frantic. “Please, London. Stop crying. And come out. I could never hate you. I love you.”

“Yes, you do. I know you do! I just want to close my eyes and never wake up. I want everything to be over.”

I was sinking in anguish. Being swept under by emptiness. I couldn't move. I felt paralyzed. My arms, my legs, everything felt heavy.

“London, please. You've got to come out of there.” He violently shook the door. I could hear the alarm in his voice. I'd never heard him like this. Frightened. Scared for me. Nervous. Maybe I was imagining it. Maybe I wasn't. Maybe I needed it to be real.

But it was. Real. The minute the door swung open and my father scooped me up into his arms and carried me out—not caring who was looking or how many cameras were flashing, while I screamed and sobbed and held on to him for dear life—the minute I looked into his face and saw his own tears brimming in his eyes, I knew. It was real.

And he knew.

I was at the end.

He was losing me to it.

The raging war inside of me.

I'd given up.

I'd dropped my white flag . . . and surrendered.

D
ear Diary,

Jazmine Sullivan's “Lions, Tigers, & Bears” is my theme song at the moment. I'm listening to it now and I've had it on repeat all week. And every time I hear it, I get lost in it and a million
wanted
unwanted thoughts of Justice bombard my mind and demand all of my attention.

I've tried everything.

Apologizing...

Texting him.

Calling him. Over, and over, and over again. All from different numbers and each time he blocks me.

Replacing the windshield that I kissed with a brick.

Replacing the entire car with a brand-new 2015 black Maserati with a red bow on top.

He sent the car back. Bow still intact.

I've done it all.

And still . . . nothing . . . but dead silence.

This is killing me.

And seeing Knox and being with Knox is no longer soothing me and distracting me long enough to keep my thoughts at bay.

And yes, I love Knox . . .

But Justice . . .

Maybe everybody is right.

I refuse to be single. Seriously, why would I choose to be without a boo? I know chicks who would slice their wrist to have a dude, but everybody thinks I should just choose to be alone? And then what?

Just because I have a man and a few side jawns does not make me a ho. And I'm tired of being called one. I like sex, yes. I like boys, yes. But am I easy? No. I'm not in a relationship with every dude I run up with. How desperate is that? Seriously, I'm not one of these needy chicks who's emotionally open and on the prowl to be every boy's wife. I know the difference between those you're supposed to bed and the one you're supposed to wed. Why do you think I hold on to Knox so tight?

That's my husband.

I'm his wife.

Period.

It's just that at the moment, I'm sixteen and choosing to live my life.

What's wrong with that?

And my mother—this stupid broad, around here committed to a man who's cheating on her every chance he gets—of course she doesn't understand. Like really, that ain't fly. That is so, so whack. Everybody knows my father keeps a stable full of hoes and that his office is his stroll. And instead of my mother attending to her man, she's posted up all in my grill and all in my business, telling me what I better do. Kick rocks and drop! When you get a handle on your man then you can step to me. Until then, have several seats . . . waaaaay in the back!

I got this.

Besides, ever since Spencer and I went on that faux run—when we thought she killed Justice—and I returned home two days later, Shakeesha's been acting funny. I sit down for breakfast and she gets up. Leaving me, my daddy, and the chef looking stupid. The other day my daddy—this hoodbugger—said to me, “Seems you really messed up this time.”

I was a cross between pissed and shocked. First off, I didn't like him coming at me all sideways. And why do I always have to be the one to do something? Shakeesha turns it up too. Trust. And second, my daddy never, ever starts a conversation with me. The most he says to me, if he's not spazzing because of some unwanted press, is “How much is it, daddy's girl? You can have the world.”

That's it. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Our relationship is based on staying away from negative press and finances. Period.

Anyway, he went on to tell me how he admired me and that I reminded him of himself at my age.

I almost hit the floor with that. Dead to the bed! I couldn't believe he'd actually noticed me long enough to compare me to him. And just as I'd thought I was about to have the best conversation with him, his phone rang, and a woman's voice echoed “Hey, baby,” and in two seconds flat he was up from the table and out the door.

Meanwhile, in the spa room his wife is clueless . . .

But whatever . . . that's not my problem...

Missing Justice is my issue...

I'm not about to sweat him.

And to think that the last time we were together it was the perfect date...

He'd called me . . . randomly... and said, “Why don't you come and chill with me?”

“Chill with you?” I know he could hear me grinning through the phone.

“Yeah.” I heard his smile. “Chill with me. I was thinking 'bout you and I wanted to take you out for a minute. Meet me at my spot and I'ma take us for a ride.”

I did.

And we ended up at Twin City Roller Rink in East Oakland. Of all places. And he knew I didn't do the hood, but he promised me a good time—media- and drama-free. “Yeah, but will I need security?” I'd asked him.

He laughed . . . and oh, what a sexy laugh! “Love . . . ”—I loved it when he called me that—“the most you'll get in the hood are some giggles and waves from a few little girls. Other than that, nobody will be on it like that. I promise. Now, if this was Hollywood or L.A., then you'd need to be afraid.”

I believed him.

And just like he promised, I got no more than a few giggles and waves . . . and truthfully, I'd never felt so free. There were no paparazzi hanging in trees. Nobody pointing, whispering, and giggling about me. I was with my baby, and while we danced and skated—well, I danced and he watched me—I teased him with the roller-skating version of the wobble. Then I topped that with the running man.

I skated over to him. “You didn't know that I could bust it like this, did you?”

He placed his hands on my waist. “I never doubted your skills, love.”

“So why do you keep looking at me with a side grin?”

“ 'Cause I'm loving this. I'm loving being with you like this. You're not all amped up. You're just chill.”

“That's 'cause I'm here with you.” I slid my arms around his neck. And we slow danced while skating.

“You think we could be like this forever?” he asked.

“Yes, baby.”

“Then I'ma need you to leave your man . . .”

Whomp . . . whomp . . . whomp, straight crickets after that. And no, I didn't answer him then. And yes, I answered him later that night—when he was sleeping and I eased out of his apartment—leaving a Yeah Boo letter behind.

Leaving Knox was not and would never be up for discussion.

Then why isn't it enough... ?

Knox used to be fun . . . but what we used to laugh at he no longer finds funny.

Now he gets pissed when I'm on the blogs or in the gossip rags.

There was a time when I could tell him anything... everything... and now... I don't know what to tell him.

He's always complaining.

He's always telling me how to act and what to do.

I got a nagging mother for that. I get enough from her!

And dear God, his routine! Strangle me now! Shower by 6 a.m. Gym by 7 a.m. Class by 8 a.m. Return to the dorm by 3 p.m. Chill with Midnight from 3 to 5 p.m. Eat dinner by 6 p.m. Do homework by 8. Chill with his frat brothers by 9. Call me by 10. Tell me he misses me. Loves me. Then sweats me about where I've been, who I've been with, and why I haven't called him, blah . . . blah . . . blah . . . End nag session with me by 12. Talks sweet and tells me he loves me again by 12:15, and by 1 a.m. he's in the bed asleep.

This is Knox. All day. Every day.

Yawn . . . stretch . . . yawn!

Nothing new. Nothing different.

Just stale.

And to think, if I wanted some excitement out of him I'd have to tell him my period is late.

He'd be sure to lose his mind then.

But I'm not in the mood to watch him squirm.

So I'ma just leave it alone.

Am I the only one who thinks it's an impossible task... ?

I dropped my blue Tiffany pen and watched it roll over the page to the edge of the bed as I lay back, arms stretched above my head, and prayed that the urge to track down Justice went away.

It's Thursday. He plays the Kit-Kat Lounge and if I leave now...

No.

Eff that.

I'm not sweatin' him.

I'll get through this.

The blaring of my ringing cell phone interrupted my thoughts.

Ten p.m.

Knox.

As usual.

I rolled my eyes up in my head. “Hey, poo!” I answered my phone and added the extra amp for good measure.

“Wassup? I missed you today.”

“Awwwl, poo. I missed you too. I was just thinking about you. Watching the phone and waiting for it to ring.” I twisted my lips.

“Why didn't you call me earlier?”

“I don't know, baby. I was so wrapped up in this homework and everything. You know Logan stays sweatin' me.”