Back to November

BACK TO NOVEMBER

" I am stronger than the betrayal I've experienced. Other people's actions do not define me. I'm learning to forgive for my peace of mind. I am focused on moving on and finding happiness." I blink at my reflection. Words of affirmation my therapist has suggested I tell myself every morning. I don't believe a word of it, but I try to convince myself and just go with it.

Feign believing.

I don't think I'm stronger than the betrayal I endured. I'm bitter and broken-hearted. I'm not focused on moving on and finding happiness. I want revenge. I want my husband to suffer like I've suffered. I want him to feel the wrath of a woman scorned.

I hold my head high and dab away the tear forming in the corner of my eye, careful not to mess up my makeup.

Then, I inhale and hold my breath for three long seconds before letting it go.

I'm meeting with an author today. This is simply one thing noted on my revenge list: Write a tell-all book.

Standing beside Donovan as his trophy wife with no mouthpiece, I've been quiet for too long. I want to be seen. I want to be heard. I will tell his beloved groupies what it's really like being married to him. I will tell people who care how I finally got the strength to walk away from a traumatic relationship.

I'm not good with words, so my assistant found someone to write my story for me. Her name is Priscilla Miles. She's a faceless best-selling author, a woman who hides her identity. Just drops impressive books in our laps that always end up on the best-sellers list. I'm excited to work with her and to see the face behind the books. Finally . I'm halfway to her house when my sister, Marley, calls, interrupting the Jhene Aiko song flowing through the car speakers.

"Sis, you okay?"

"Why are you always asking me that?"

"Because… well, never mind. Where are you?"

I sigh, irritated and longing to return to Jhene crooning about being triggered. "I'm on the way to meet my ghostwriter."

"Priscilla Miles. I've been trying to get an interview with her for a while now."

My sister, the big-time editor of her own magazine, is always looking for the next big story. But I don't blame Marley. Priscilla Miles is a mystery everyone wants to figure out.

I think about Priscilla's Instagram and how her face is never exposed. She only posts candles, gourmet coffee in the cutest mugs, aesthetically pleasing backdrops of nature, or an elaborate stack of books.

"I think she's extra as fuck," I quip. "But, then again, maybe she's like me and hates people."

"Hey now! You do not. You love me!"

I roll my eyes.

"Besides, you're lucky she wants to meet in person. She could have easily held your sessions over the phone."

"Month's worth of meetings over the phone is crazy. This is my life story. We have to get personal."

"True. I get it."

"Her agent made me sign an NDA. No pictures, no videos, no revealing her identity to others. I mean, who the fuck cares?" I snap, gripping the wheel and turning into Priscilla's neighborhood.

Marley gasps. "What if she's famous? What if it's Rihanna writing those books? Maybe that's why she hasn't released an album in the past eight years. She's writing books under a pen name!"

I try to fight the urge, but the corners of my lips lift, and a laugh escapes from my mouth.

Marley gasps again. "Was that a laugh?"

"No," I grumble.

"It sounded a little like a giggle."

" Please." I know I've been a Bitter Betty these past few months but with good reason. "And RiRi is not writing books. She's taking care of those gorgeous babies. Listen, I gotta go. I'm about to pull into her driveway."

"Okay, I love you."

"Love you too."

The house is gorgeous. It looks like something out of an Architectural Digest magazine, but it definitely isn't somewhere Rihanna would reside.

I ring the doorbell, and a middle-aged woman in jeans, a white Oxford shirt, and an apron answers the door.

My smile is tight-lipped. Nervous. Maybe this is a mistake. But after I think that thought, my agent's voice rings in my brain. "Being a single mother is not for the weak. This book will be a nice nest egg for you and the kids."

The woman gives me a genuine smile and steps back, allowing me to enter. "Hello, Mrs. Sheppard," she greets.

"Please, call me Jinni." I don't mean for my tone to sound so snippy, but hearing the last name Donovan gave me made me cringe.

" Jinni . I'm Miss Quinn. Please come in." The name jars me as I step over the threshold.

Miss Quinn?

"The meeting will be in his office." The woman starts down the long hallway, but I pause.

" His ?" I question aloud.

"Yes. Didn't they mention that Priscilla Miles is—"

"I thought you were Priscilla Miles." My face contorts in a mixture of surprise and irritation.

The woman who isn't Priscilla Miles chuckles. "I'm afraid not. I—"

"I'm sorry, I thought I was meeting with a woman."

"It's a common mistake. If you want to continue, I can escort you to his office."

I frown, wondering if this is all some kind of joke or a set-up.

A man?!

I'm hesitant, but eventually, I tell Miss Quinn I will continue. "It's not a problem."

It's more of a shock than anything. And when I round the corner to see who Priscilla Miles is, my flabbers are gasted.

"Barrett," his name leaves my mouth in a flustered murmur. My legs feel like overcooked spaghetti noodles as I try to keep my balance and my knees from shaking.

"Hello, Jinni. Good to see you again."

Priscilla Miles is Barrett James.

He stands, smooth and dapper, behind an antique desk, looking more handsome than the last time I'd seen him.

Fifteen years ago? Sixteen?

Time ceases as we drink each other in, our eyes locking on a familiar gaze that had always been hard to break away from. My face can't hide the shock I feel, but Barrett is so composed, his body leaning on the edge of his desk, his hands in his pockets. He's cool, calm, and collected. He knew I was coming. He'd been waiting for me.

Miss Quin clears her throat. I forgot she was in the room. "I'll prepare the refreshments."

When she leaves, Barrett straightens his stance.

"I know, you're probably shocked," he says.

" Shocked isn't the word. I'm a little offended. You could have said something."

"I could have. I'm sorry. I didn't know how to tell you, and I was afraid you wouldn't have come if I did."

"I guess you still know me well."

His charming smile warms my cheeks. My heart throbs, and so does that delicate spot between my legs.

Barrett is taller, his shoulders broad, and his arms ripped, toned, and riddled with art. I stare at the tattoos covering his muscular arms and remember the day he'd gotten a particular one. A pepperoni pizza with a missing slice. It was an odd tattoo but appealingly done—cheese oozing in a 3D effect with the pepperonis shaped like hearts. Barrett sees me staring at it and then looks at my wrist, where I have the missing piece of his pizza pie. The pepperonis are in heart shapes.

"Why a woman?" I ask Barrett, bringing us back to reality.

He laughs. "Not just any woman. My mother. This was something she wanted to do before she passed on. Be a writer. I am writing for her."

"Why not just use your name?"

"Because the stories are hers."

I nod and take a sip of my iced tea. We are set up in a large, open sunroom with cookies, finger sandwiches, and mixed fruit. "A few months after she passed on, I stumbled upon a box of notebooks with all of her outlines and manuscripts for future books. I am writing them for her since she didn't get a chance to fulfill her dreams. I've grown to love telling stories. And it's taught me passion and purpose."

I think this over. Thinking of how courteous and loving the gesture is. "And the Instagram page?" I ask, thinking about how feminine the photos are. I can't imagine Barrett, such a manly man, posting such aesthetically pleasing shots.

"I hired a content creator to run it for me. She even responds to the followers."

There is another break of silence as I absorb all of this information. This man has lived for years as a recluse, writing his mother's stories.

I think about my story and all the secrets I must share with Barrett.

"Maybe this isn't a good idea," I tell him.

"What? Me writing your tell-all?"

"Yes."

"I get it. Trust me, I understand. But try to understand that no other writer can capture your voice like I will. I know you , Jinni."

"You used to know me."

Barrett scoffs.

"How can I trust you on this? How do I know you won't try to sabotage this for me because of what I did to you."

"Because I'm not that type of guy. And you know it."

I want to tell Barrett I no longer know what kind of guy he is. The boy he was when we were both 16 could be completely different from the man he is now. "How can I be sure?"

"Because I still love you, Jinni. I never stopped."

His revelation surprises me. I don't know what to say or how to respond, but I lower my head in shame as if I've done something awful.

"I'm sorry," Barrett says, looking as embarrassed as I feel.

"You're fine. I'm sorry. I shouldn't. We shouldn't."

I rise from the couch, grab my purse, and turn to leave, but Barrett is next to me before I can even leave the room. He places his hand on my arm and pulls me gently.

The electricity that sparks through me makes my heart skip a beat, and my eyes spring open. I glance at Barrett to see if he feels it, too. The look he gives his hand and how quickly he removes it tells me he had.

"I notice you keep skipping over an important time in your life. Is it on purpose?" Barrett asks one day. It's been over a month since we began working on this book. We are sitting on a quilt in his backyard that looks more like a whimsical garden. Fresh autumn flowers hang out of a picnic basket, wine glasses and a carafe with chilled water and cups sit next to it, and a red bottle of Merlot in a fancy bucket of ice.

"What do you mean?" I ask, feeling heat flush through my chest.

He studies me with a sly grin. "Do you remember the time we spent together?"

"I do." I nod.

My mind travels back to November. To the year Barrett and I unwittingly fell in love.

I remember the day we met and how patient he was with me after I broke up with Donovan. I realize now that what I felt with Barrett was real love, and what I had with Donovan was only lust.

I remember Barrett revealing that he no longer wanted to be my friend. I remember feeling confused by my so-called love for Donovan and my feelings for Barrett. I wanted Barrett. Should have stayed with Barrett. He was good to me. Always good to me.

Our last night together was agonizing. I was faced with a dilemma. Donovan had apologized. Wanted forgiveness. Wanted my heart back. I had to admit the weeks I'd spent with Barrett made my heart fall for him, too.

The night was chill, the autumn season bringing night at a blistering rate. I invited him into my room, his mood somber, and I hadn't even told him my decision. He already knew.

"You're going back to him," Barrett told me. He stood before me, looking down at me with sadness in his eyes.

" What ?"

"You've been distant lately."

I didn't answer.

"I love you, but I guess that's not enough."

"I love you, too."

"But you want him more."

"It's complicated."

"What we have isn't. And what we have, it will never be over." He tucked my hair behind my ear, then wiped the falling tear from my eye with his thumb. "Because what we have is real, Jinni."

I cried in his arms, uncertain of my choices but knowing where my heart was pulling me. "I'm sorry," I told him.

"It's okay. We will find each other again."

Barrett hugged me tighter. His head dropped to the crook of my neck, and he kissed my skin softly. I moaned, pulling him closer to me, my heart aching because I knew this would be our last moment like this. Barrett's lips found mine again, swallowing my moans with a deep, passionate kiss.

"Let me taste you one last time," he murmured, his fingers sliding in and out of me. My back leaned against the wall, and I lifted my leg over his shoulder, the other barely able to keep me standing; I was shaking so badly. Barrett dropped to his knees and buried his face into my wetness, wasting no time licking up my sopping juices. I cried out, grateful that my parents weren't home. His tongue sliced into the slit of my pussy and circled and sucked my clit until my body convulsed.

I was breathless and panting, waiting for him to enter me. To fuck me like crazy. But he stood and stared at me, studying my face as if he wanted to remember every part of me. I reached out to pull him into my arms, but Barrett stepped back, wiped his mouth, and walked away.

When I finish telling Barrett what I remember, he chuckles. "I told you it could never be over between us."

Working with Barrett is nostalgic. I am excited about the days I get to meet with him. I put extra time into my wardrobe. I realize I'm being silly to be taken by something so minuscule. But I also know I haven't been excited about a man like this in years. I'm deprived. Vulnerable. Barrett's attention gives me butterflies. And he's not even doing anything. He's just writing my story, doing his job. He hasn't flirted with me once. He's just learning things about me. But I want to learn about him.

It takes four months to complete my memoir. America seems to have fallen in love with me. Apparently, there are women who can relate to being in marriages with a narcissist who cheats on them religiously.

I've been on several talk shows and labeled a survivor of a mentally abusive relationship.

My memoir has skyrocketed to number one on the charts and hasn't even been released. It's all a surreal feeling, really. But I can't lie; the love and encouragement from these women have helped my confidence tremendously. I'm forever grateful to my fans.

Fans!? Look at me, sounding like I'm giving an awards speech. But I'm grateful to them and everything that makes me love myself more. It's unbelievable to me right now. All this fame from being vulnerable with telling my story.

"Are you excited?!" Marley squeals as we both get our feet massaged for our pedicures. "A new chapter in your life starts tomorrow."

I close my eyes and smile. She is right. My book launch party is tomorrow. Ironically, so is the finalization of my divorce from Donovan. I don't know how I feel about it all. Bittersweet, I suppose.

"I'm nervous."

"You will be fine, trust me. You gotta believe that good things can happen to you, Jinni."

I sigh. "Easier said than done. I've been miserable for so long. I don't know how to handle all these good things ."

"Take baby steps, sis. And know… you deserve the moon and stars. Hell, throw in the planets, too. No more fuck boys and no more mediocre shit from now on."

Just the thought of me wasting so many years with Donovan makes me cringe. I have no desire to be with him again, which is wild because there was a time when I thought I couldn't live without him. I don't regret what I went through with Donovan. I feel like it's made me the woman I am today. A stronger, more courageous, and optimistic woman. It is like I've forgotten myself being with Donovan, and the light is finally back, shining down on me and reminding me who the fuck I am. Who I was all along.

Barrett's call is surprising. He never calls me. We only talk during our scheduled visits at his place.

"Congratulations," he says.

"Thank you. And thank you for helping me find my voice. You told the story through my eyes so vividly. It was almost like you were there with me."

"I sort of was," he laughs.

"Well, you know what I mean."

"We should celebrate before the event. Just you and me."

My relationship with Barrett has been interesting. The discomfort has melted away, and we've become more like friends. I would say the rekindling has helped us get to this point. The bonding and my sharing, particularly every journal entry I can muster, probably has a lot to do with that as well.

"Okay, I'd love that."

"Great. I know, technically, you're still a married woman. So, I'll be a gentleman. But tomorrow… I want to change that if you'll let me."

I blush. "Let's see how this friendly dinner celebration goes first."

Barrett laughs. "Noted."

On the morning of my book launch party, I wake up, shower, perform my facial routine, and stand before the mirror to speak the words of affirmation I've grown to memorize.

"I am stronger than the betrayal I've experienced. Other people's actions do not define me. I'm learning to forgive for my peace of mind. I am focused on moving on and finding happiness." I smile at my reflection, my eyes glistening because I mean every word this time.