Love Radio: Chapters 17–22

I can’t stop thinking about what Danielle told me before our date turned: I’m crazy about you. Danielle had been so stoic up until that point, so to hear those words come out her mouth means she even surprised herself.

One thing Dani is consistent with is how she’ll switch it on you. How she’ll go from being into me to going cold.

You’re a good person. It’s not an easy thing to say, because there are so many people in this world who aren’t. But you are; you care about your family so deeply, you love to help people find joy through love, and you have a knack for something that can truly make the lives of others around you happy.

You’re so generous and noble with your time.

And that was the compromising situation she put me in that I alluded to in the car.

Now that my heart has been torn into smithereens, the music hits different.

“I know you the love coach or marriage counselor or whatever you call yourself these days,” Malik says, “but you gotta learn how to ask for help, P. We want you happy. You taught me to stop being such a hypocrite. And even when you’re not around, you still forced me to step my game up, ’cause every time I was around Shida she was telling me how good you were treating Danielle and how I need to do better.”

One of the healthiest things I did during this time was read and write letters to authors who have kept me alive. Authors who are long gone, who’ve endured things unimaginable—racism, disappointment, pain, financial hardship, being harshly critiqued for telling their stories and so much more—and who stood in the face of their adversaries with defiance, with grace and intention.

“But I shared this with you first, because I wouldn’t have been able to go from a victim to a survivor without you fostering my love for reading. I found myself in these pages, these books.”

I even thought about calling him once his airtime was done, but his ex-girlfriend beat me to it. Mercury must have been in retrograde.

And there’s a fine mist of hair spray residue in the air.

If you haven’t been to a hair show before, I don’t know what rock you’ve been living under, but Detroit is the mecca of shows, the place where hairstylists go off.

Esi glides across the stage wearing a gorgeous corset, with a long, mermaid-style skirt adorned in kente cloth.

I remember stealing my dad’s laptop (sorry, Papa) and watching YouTube video after YouTube video, being mesmerized by Hair Wars.

The ferocity, the sass, the poise. The show was unapologetic, the confidence was thrilling, and it was just for us.

Either way, everyone is up out of their seats by the end of the performance, decked out in only the way Black people can be—decadent, overdressed, and flawless.

The girl to the left of our beloved point guard has her hair down in curls and does a little tease with her hair, shaking it to and fro for everyone to see, her hair color changing with each shake and flip of her hand. Her hair looks almost psychedelic and the audience claps.

What they can’t see that I can from backstage is that his stylist is also a barber and etched a full basketball hoop and rim in the back of his head, which is also embellished with orange and beige color.

Out walks Jaylen in six-inch stiletto boots and a mink coat, pounding the runway like they just stepped out of Milan Fashion Week.

They prance to the front of the stage, rip their jacket off, and throw it into the crowd (to a friend, of course), shake their imaginary hair, and extend their hands out to summon their models like a band director summons their troupe, and the models emerge from the back of the crowd.

The dress is lined with frills and matching fingerless gloves, my nails done up with a gold shimmer, rhinestones, and a cutout heart at the center.

But I continue to channel my Diana Ross as I walk off with the class and grace Esi bestowed upon me for the night.

My mom screams and we fall out on my parents’ bed, our laughs boisterous and unrestrained and full of relief.

“Like how bad?” she asks.
My voice goes solemn. “I’m not failing…”

Her falls have caused her memory to lapse some.

We’ll work together, so we can slowly help each other become more self-sufficient. We’ll work on a plan to have my closest people help me whenever I need it. And you’ll show me how you do certain things, so I can learn on my own, or ask someone else to help me.

She never gave up on me. She never accepted my impulse to settle. She saw beneath my complacency and called out my jitters.

Write about me in one of your books, write about us. That will be your love note to me. A way to subtly let me know you never forgot about me.

I know he’s for real happy for me, and it makes me giddy.

“For real, P?!” I pout. He laughs.
“You’re so easy to get riled up. I missed it.”