Flip Side of the Game by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker Page A

couldn’t continue to take this. Was this what was called being in the doghouse? Was this nigga playing me? But you know what? Fuck him! Yeah, fuck him! Vera got this.
    I ran some bath water, splashed in some Bath and Body Works’ raspberry bath oil, lay back, turned on the shower radio, and closed my eyes. WBLS was playing the Quiet Storm and Natalie Cole (of all goddamn people) was singing about how to keep a good man, ’cause all of sudden she’s catching hell.
    As soon as she went off, here comes Xscape singing “Who Will I Run To.” I had to laugh. Why the hell is a group named Xscape singing about who will they run to? Hell, just leave. Get it? Escape!
    Oh my God, and this was the killer, Whitney Houston’s, “Saving All My Love for You”! Oh, no she didn’t! Whitney had officially lost her damn mind. She was gonna have to save her love, ’cause Bobby couldn’t stay the fuck outta jail. I knew I had a lot of nerve, but these brokenhearted bitches were gonna have to shut the fuck up!
    Before I could turn the radio off, the phone rang. While getting up to answer the phone, I couldn’t quite lift my leg up high enough, so I tripped getting out of the tub and slid on the floor.
    â€œHello?” I said, trying not to sound desperate. “Vera,” Roger said, “listen.”
    I said this nice and slow, “What . . . the . . . fuck . . . do . . . you want?”
    â€œHold the hell up. Why are you talking to me like this?”
    I just hung up and jumped back in the tub. I couldn’t stop thinking about Taj. Technically, I should’ve been mad as hell, but I was trying to be a big girl about the situation and not sweat it. I must admit your girlfriend was pissed.
    Just then the phone rang again. I got out the tub, grabbed a towel, and answered the phone.
    â€œHello?” It was a telemarketer. What the fuck! To hell with this. I had more things to do than to be soaking in the tub and thinking about Taj. Hell, he wasn’t my man.
    An hour into doing absolutely nothing, I lay on the chaise in my bedroom and pressed play on the DVD. I decided to watch Love Jones , which was totally the wrong move, because as soon as Lorenz Tate started reciting poetry, I got pissed the fuck off. But I was forced to watch the whole movie. What else was there to do?
    I thought I heard the phone ringing, but when I picked it up, I realized it was the phone on the TV. Then I thought I heard the doorbell ringing, and when I jumped my fat ass up to answer the door, I realized that it was for the Brownstone next door. Instantly, I got pissed off. That’s when I could have sworn that the phone was ringing again, but then I thought about how, technically, the shit hadn’t rang but twice since last night, and it was now six o’clock in the morning, so my phone must have been broken.
    I called the operator and said, “Hello, this is Vera Wright-Turner.” I gave her my phone number. “Uh, my phone isn’t working.”
    â€œReally? What seems to be the problem?” the operator said.
    I realized at that point that I had officially lost my mind. “Sorry to bother you. It seems to be okay now.” I hung up the phone and then called Shannon.
    â€œHey, Shannon.”
    â€œHey, boo. What’s up?”
    â€œNothin’, chile. Men, girl.”
    â€œMen? Oh, hell no,” she said. “I know the playette can’t be complaining about men.”
    â€œWho said I was complaining?” I snapped.
    â€œYour nasty-ass attitude.”
    â€œWell . . .” I decided to just spill it. I had to talk to somebody. “Taj was over here, and I was talking to Roger on the phone.”
    â€œHe caught you?”
    â€œYeah, girl,” I admitted.
    â€œThen yo’ ass was dead wrong.”
    â€œDead wrong? I’m not married to him!”
    â€œAnd you won’t be getting married doing dumb shit.”
    â€œDumb