Dr. Dangerfield allowed her gaze to meet each of the three women, while the question hovered in the air.

  LaQuandra had a blank look on her face.

  Brenda regarded the therapist with a questioning look.

  And Krista, bless her heart, simply appeared uninterested in anything being said. Because, frankly speaking, these bitches were crazy. All this foolish talk of smothering husbands and killing baby mothers . . . Lord Jesus! They needed lots of prayer, and a good cleansing to purify their murderous souls.

  “Krista,” Dr. Dangerfield said gently. “I’ve noticed that for the last half hour or so you’ve sat here very quiet. Is there something you’d like to add to the discussion?”

  Krista shook her head. “No. Not particularly.”

  Of course not, LaQuandra thought as she rolled her eyes up in her head. This country-ass bitch thinks her shit doesn’t stink. Girl, bye.

  LaQuandra was certain there was a crack in Krista’s little happy world, somewhere. And she couldn’t wait to bear witness to it all crumbling down around her. But, of course, she wasn’t wishing her any ill will. Oh no, never that. She was simply being realistic.

  “Aren’t marriages supposed to be about compromise?” LaQuandra asked, locking her stare on Dr. Dangerfield.

  Dr. Dangerfield nodded. “Oh, absolutely. There always has to be a degree of compromise for any relationship to work. However, there needs to be a balance. When compromising becomes one-sided and you find yourself giving into things that you don’t believe in, things that do not sit well with your spirit, then it becomes a problem.”

  Brenda tooted her lips. “Mmph. I’m always compromising.”

  “Girrrl, welcome to my wondrous world,” LaQuandra quipped.

  “Then that’s seriously pause for concern,” Dr. Dangerfield emphasized. “You cannot become so caught up in creating a world that you believe your partners should live in for the sake of forgoing your own dignity and your own self-worth.”

  “All I need is for Isaiah to grow a pair of balls when it comes to that trifling bit—baby mother of his. If she were out of the picture, life would be just duckie.”

  LaQuandra caught Krista shaking her head, smirking.

  “Umm, something funny, Kara?” she questioned.

  “It’s Kris . . . ta,” Krista corrected. “And, yes. Sad to say, something is funny—you. It sounds to me like you’re angry with the wrong people. And seems to me you’re blaming the wrong person for your unhappy marriage. That woman is a threat to your marriage because you have allowed her to be.”

  Scowling, LaQuandra set her jaw tight. “Excuse you?”

  “I saaaaaid it sounds to me like you’re . . .”

  “Oh I heard what you said,” LaQuandra clarified. “I’m just trying to understand why you’re even here, interjecting your opinion, when you obviously believe you have such a wonderful marriage.”

  Krista shrugged. “Well, sorry to say. I do. I mean. It’s not perfect. No marriage is. But I can honestly say it’s nowhere near as dysfunctional as yours.”

  “Dysfunctional? Bitch, please. Who the hell are you to call someone dysfunctional?”

  Krista scowled. “I didn’t say you were dysfunctional. I said your marriage was. Big difference.”

  “Bitch,” LaQuandra spat, “that fucking weave you’re wearing is dysfunctional.”

  Brenda nearly gagged. Ohmygod! LaQuandra is really doing the most. But, ooh, I love it.

  Dr. Dangerfield clapped her hands together, and her diamond-encrusted bangles clanked. “Ladies, please. Stop this. Let’s exercise a little class and decorum and mutual respect for one another. Please.”

  Krista grunted. “Mmph. Well, you can’t expect someone to be respectful when they apparently can’t respect themselves. Class is something you either have or you don’t. Sorry, hon. Class can’t be bought. And it damn sure can’t be borrowed.”

  LaQuandra sneered. “Girl, bye. I have more class in my pinky finger than you’ll ever have. I’m an educated black woman and—”

  Krista half scoffed, half laughed. “And you still don’t respect yourself. Perhaps you should request a refund for all that education because the moment you open your mouth, nothing but ghetto spills out of it.”

  LaQuandra’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Bye, Felicia. All I know is, you had better be glad I’ve changed my ways, because trust. The old me would hop up from this chair and lay hands on you.”

  Krista’s nose flared. “Sweetie, I’d love to see you try it. I will lay my Bible down and beat your—”

  “No, Ice Queen. How about you lay it down to suck a damn dick,” LaQuandra snapped. “A good man deserves a damn good dick suck.”

  “Ladies. Ladies,” Dr. Dangerfield calmly said. She wasn’t one to raise her voice or yell at a bunch of grown women. “Threats of violence will not be tolerated anywhere on this island. This level of disrespect is not acceptable.”

  “Well . . . and neither is Miss Goody Two-Shoes’ opinion of me,” LaQuandra snapped. “Like I said, I’m an educated woman. And I don’t appreciate some frumpy ole scared-to-suck-her-husband’s-dick trick talking to me like I’m trash.”

  Krista laughed. “Trash is what you are. You’re a miserable soul. And you’re still from the hood, hon. Face it, girl. You’re a fraud. But it’s okay, sweetie. I’m going to pray for you.”

  “No, hon,” LaQuandra retorted. “Save your prayers for yourself. You’re going to need them more than I do.”

  “LaQuandra,” Dr. Dangerfield interjected. “I believe what I hear Krista saying is that you seem to be blaming everyone else for your unhappiness instead of taking responsibility for it. To be miserable, to be unhappy, to live in chaos, is a choice.”

  What Dr. Dangerfield said fell on deaf ears, as LaQuandra said, “The only thing I’m unhappy with is Isaiah’s baby mother. Like I said before, she’s the problem.”

  Brenda and Krista both gave LaQuandra blank stares.

  Dr. Dangerfield sighed inwardly, and then glanced up at the wall clock. Their ninety-minute group session was finally coming to a close. Thank God for small miracles.

  “Well, ladies,” Dr. Dangerfield said thoughtfully. “I will leave you with two things to consider. The first, if you want change, then start with yourself. And, the second, you and only you alone can decide if your relationship is feeding your soul. Or bleeding it.”

  Twenty-Three

  “What would you say is a major concern in your marriage?” Dr. Dangerfield asked Brenda in her session with her and Roselle. Brenda and Roselle were seated on a white leather loveseat, holding hands—the picture-perfect couple, while Dr. Dangerfield sat in a white leather duchess chair.

  All this damn white.

  Brenda admired the lavish décor (clearly, a ton of money had been paid to some interior design team), but it needed a pop of color in here, some reds or oranges, something loud to liven it up. As beautiful as white was, it felt so sterile to Brenda. Doesn’t she like anything other than white? she thought. And then she glanced over at the beautiful pink floral arrangement and then over at the waterfall, with sheets of beautiful blue water splashing endlessly down into a basin filled with shimmering stones, before her gaze caught the red-bottomed soles of Dr. Dangerfield’s four-inch, white crystal-spiked heels.

  Mmph.

  Every so often a mist of lavender-scented air wafted out from some invisible vent, filling the room with a peaceful calm.

  Brenda shifted in seat. “Roselle and I have a great marriage for the most part,” she stated. She really believed that to be true. “We’re very compatible. And I believe for the most part, we not only love one another, we like each other too.”

  “But . . .?” Dr. Dangerfield asked, waiting. There was always a but somewhere lingering at the end of every “he’s-so/she’s-so wonderful” story.

  “But, honestly. I’m tired of his cheating.” She let Roselle’s hand go, and Dr. Dangerfield watched as Roselle shifted in his seat and then tried to take hold of it again. “If Roselle could learn to keep his thing in his pants, we’d have the perfect marriage.”

  “Is that so? Define perfect,” Dr. Dangerfield insisted.

  “Well, nothing is ever really perfect, per se,” Brenda quickly corrected. “But our marriage would be better. We’d be closer. Our chemistry is already through the roof, but I believe if he wasn’t out there cheating all the damn time . . .” Brenda shook her head. She felt herself becoming agitated. “The only thing we ever really fight about is his cheating.”

  Brenda was simply tired of sharing his dick with other bitches. All she wanted from this Doctor lady was for her to get Roselle to see that he was potentially about to lose her behind his bullshit. Or not.

  She—

  Wait.

  Was that what she really wanted? To leave him? It wasn’t like he cheated allllll the time. It wasn’t like he had a steady sidepiece. And he’d never fucked any of her sisters or friends—well, none that she was aware of.

  Still. Was she really willing to give up on her marriage? Did she really want to walk away from everything she and Roselle had built together simply because he liked sampling new pussy on occasion?

  She couldn’t answer that. And, honestly, she wasn’t ready to.

  Roselle glanced at his Rolex, a gift from Brenda two Christmases ago. She’d saved all year just to make the extravagant purchase.

  Dr. Dangerfield took the couple in for a brief moment, then landed her gaze on Brenda. “That must be exhausting. Constantly in conflict over your husband’s infidelity.”

  Brenda sighed, and then she shot Roselle a dirty look. “Very. I’m tired of having to confront other women.”

  “Then why do you feel the need to confront them? They aren’t the problem. They aren’t the ones disrespecting your marriage.”

  Dr. Dangerfield glanced over at Roselle. He looked cool, calm, and collected, but inside, he was bracing himself for the blowup. Brenda was definitely going to flip from zero to a hundred. He glanced at the clock. He’d give it fifteen more minutes, before she went off.

  “They are the problem,” Brenda said, shifting again in her seat. “They know he’s married and they still chose to fuck him. So, yes, I confront them.” And she’d fought a few, too. Yet Brenda decided the therapist didn’t need to know that part.

  “How do you know that these women know your husband is married?”

  Roselle’s eyes met Dr. Dangerfield’s. “Because I tell them—all of them. I don’t ever mislead them to think that it’s ever gonna be more than a lay. Am I wrong for that?”

  Dr. Dangerfield cocked her head in question.

  “Am I?” Roselle repeated.

  “The question should be, are you wrong for cheating on your wife?” she said.

  Roselle’s eyes stayed firmly on Dr. Dangerfield’s, but he was talking to Brenda when he said, very softly, “Of course I am. Dead wrong.”

  “Are these emotional affairs?” Dr. Dangerfield asked. Emotional affairs were much harder to let go of, and much harder to work through. “Or strictly physical?”

  The question was for Roselle, but Brenda was quick to answer.

  “Physical. I know for a fact I’m the only one who is ever going to have his heart.” She shifted her body to face Roselle. “Correct me if I’m wrong here.”

  “You right,” Roselle admitted. “The only woman I’m ever gonna love is you. I’m loyal to only you, baby. You already know this.”

  “There’s always a reason why people do what they do,” Dr. Dangerfield stated. “And men cheat very differently than women and for very different reasons, most times. But speaking of loyalty—because I heard you say that the only woman you are loyal to is your wife. Is that correct?”

  Roselle nodded. “No doubt.”

  Dr. Dangerfield clasped her hands in her lap. “Well, here’s the thing about loyalty, Mr. Woods. Loyalty is the foundation of true love. In a relationship, loyal partners aren’t thinking just only of themselves; every decision that they make, every behavior that they display is with their partner in mind. Loyal partners are conscious about how their choices will affect their spouses. So they keep their interactions with the opposite sex strictly professional and they exercise appropriate boundary setting. Loyal partners are not allowing themselves to get entangled in a web of lies and deception . . .”

  Brenda twisted her lips. “Mmph. You better preach.”

  Roselle frowned. “Hold up. I put my family—my wife and our kids, first, before all others. Period. I don’t give a fuck about them other broads. I fuck up sometimes”—Brenda gave him a hard stare—“okay, okay; most times. But that doesn’t mean I love you any less, baby.”

  Brenda sucked her teeth. She knew Roselle loved her, but she felt like dragging him over the coals nonetheless. “Then why do you keep cheating on me, if you love me so damn much? What is it that those other bitches are giving you that you can’t get from me—at home?”

  Roselle shrugged. “Nothing really.” And that was the truth. “I enjoy the chase. Variety. Can I be honest?”

  Brenda rolled her eyes. “I thought that was what we were here to do, Roselle.”

  Roselle shook his head. Then glanced at the clock again. Countdown. Ten minutes or less. “The thought of new pussy excites me.”

  Brenda snorted. “Nigga, the only pussy that should be exciting you—and keeping you excited—is the one between my legs, you yellow motherfucker.” She huffed. “ ‘New pussy’ excites you, neeegro, please. You can kiss my ass with that. How many times have I invited new pussy into our bed?”

  Roselle swallowed. “Plenty.”

  “And how many times have you invited some new dick into our bed?”

  Roselle gave her a look that said, “what the fuck?”

  Dr. Dangerfield decided to sit back and see how it all unfolded.

  “Is that what you want? Another muhfucka in our bed?”

  Brenda gave him a smug look. “Maybe.”

  Roselle shook his head. “Nah. I’m not tryna hear no maybe shit. Either you do or you don’t.”

  “I said maybe. Is that a problem?”

  “You must’a bumped your damn head if you think I’ma be in bed with another muhfucka, letting him smash you.”

  “Oh really? But it’s okay for you to put your dick in whatever wet-hole is willing to open for your nasty-ass. Fuck that, Roselle. If you can fuck new pussy whenever you feel the urge to, then I should be able to go out and catch me some new dick whenever I want to.”

  Roselle’s jaw twitched.

  “So, what are you suggesting?” Dr. Dangerfield interjected. “An open marriage?”

  Brenda glared at Roselle. “Maybe. He knows I am very open-minded. I don’t have a problem with him screwing another woman. My problem is, him doing the shit behind my back. And my biggest problem is him running out and fucking some white woman.”

  Roselle scoffed. “Oh, okay. So all roads lead back to that, I see.”

  “Yes,” Brenda snapped. “All roads lead straight to that white bitch. Of all the beautiful black women out here, you had to go out and fuck some skinny white bitch.”

  Roselle met her glare, but said nothing.

  “So had she’d been a skinny black woman,” Dr. Dangerfield probed, “would that had made a difference?”

  Brenda inhaled. “Yes,” she pushed out. “No. Shit, I don’t know. I mean I would have still been angry with his ass, but not livid to the point of putting him out and trying to run him down in my car.”

  Dr. Dangerfield forced her lashes from blinking. “Excuse me? Am I hearing you correctly? You tried to . . .?”

  “Exactly,” Roselle stated. “She was way outta line for that.”

  Brenda scowled. “Outta line my ass, Roselle. At least I didn’t bleach and burn your shit, too. I neatly packed your shit and put it out on the curb. You’re lucky I didn’t run you and that bitch down like I wanted to.”

  “C’mon, Bren,” Roselle said calmly. “And fuck up your life? What about our kids? Your salon? I know you were hurt, but damn.”

  Brenda sighed. “In that moment, I didn’t give a fuck.” She shook her head. “All I saw was red. Now, I’ll admit. I’m glad I didn’t get to either one of you, because you’re right. I have kids to think about—even if you don’t—and a career, and a life outside of you and your cheating.”

  Dr. Dangerfield pursed her lips. “And what was it about your husband cheating on you with a Caucasian woman that had you so enraged?”

  Brenda gave her a hard stare. Black women had been fighting since the beginning of time; fighting to hold on to their men. First, slavery, where their men had been snatched from them, then drugs and prisons, and now—more than ever, they had to worry about their men running off to be with some white woman. She couldn’t believe that this obviously educated, seemingly strong, black woman was sitting here asking her that. Did she not know the plight of . . . She shook her head quickly deciding she wasn’t in the mood to educate or enlighten her.

  “I watched my father walk out on my mother and his three daughters,” Brenda offered, “and I saw what that did to her. A strong black woman who held her man down, bore his children, loved him through all of his failures, praised him on every accomplishment, helped put him through grad school—she wrote his papers, researched his thesis—while she worked two jobs and still made sure his meals were cooked, his clothes were pressed and his house clean. She would come home dog-tired and still she made time to stroke his ego, rub his back, nurse his ailments, and sex him down . . .”

  “She sounds like an amazing woman,” Dr. Dangerfield said thoughtfully.

  “She was.” Brenda sighed, and then she shook her head, feeling the sting of fresh tears. “She’d never recovered from that level of betrayal. She died broken-hearted. And that bastard still lives and breathes with his precious little white whore.”