When I did the makeup part earlier, I’d had to make do.

What I wouldn’t do was make do with the single tube of lip gloss (by Asheeka’s report, shade: “Berry Promising”) that was rolling around in Ben’s drawer with black barber’s combs, Band-Aids that, for some reason, had found themselves box-less, nail clippers, used razors that should have been dropped in the trash, not in that drawer, random pills that found themselves out of the bottle, and the like.

That lip gloss was definitely not Benny’s.

Later, in a moment of alone time, I’d do what my doctor ordered: get some exercise, walk to the bathroom, grab that lip gloss, walk to the bedroom, and throw it out the window.

I turned off the hair dryer, put it on the basin, and used the roller brush to fiddle with the lock I was currently drying.

“This pains me to say, babe,” Asheeka started, sitting on the toilet seat and watching me. “Seein’ as that boy looks like that boy looks, but I’ve got three older brothers. My brothers have got their own brothers. By the look of the biceps on that man downstairs, not to mention other stuff on that man downstairs, he could hold his own. Ten black men show up at his door to get the woman he’s holdin’ captive out of his house, I’m thinkin’ that won’t go down too great for him.”

Asheeka was tall, big of chest, and abundant of booty, with short, straightened, styled-to-the-teeth hair and eyes that made you wish she’d find a man and have babies because children needed to see that kindness directed at them from birth to the last glance she gave them on her deathbed.

She also called work that morning to say she’d be late since she was taking care of me. When she was not calling down the inventory of Benny’s bathroom, she was reminding me my soon-to-be-ex boss would not mind if she was a half an hour late, or three hours late, due to the fact she was seeing to me.

This was because he liked Asheeka. This was also because he loved me.

I knew he loved me partially because he wanted to get in my pants.

Mostly he loved me because I was the top salesperson on his sales force. When I put in my resignation, I thought he was going to cry.

I understood this. I was a hot commodity. I could sell. It was a gift. I had the knack, even I had to admit that.

It started when I got my first job in sales at age twenty selling cars. The man who hired me did it as a joke. He wanted to watch me try to sell cars and he wanted to make fun of me with his boys when I failed.

What he didn’t get, as many car salesmen didn’t, was that there were some women who actually knew cars, and one of those women was me.

Another thing he didn’t get was that there were other women who bought cars on their own without a man attached to their hip and speaking for the both of them. Those women wanted someone they could trust, someone they could relate to, someone they didn’t think would screw them, and that was also me.

What he also didn’t get was that I was not hard on the eyes, I was not above flirting my ass off to make a sale, and ninety-eight-point-seven percent of the male population thought with their dicks.

So I killed.

But I didn’t stay at that job long, mostly because he was an asshole. Even though I’d shown him and wanted a goodly amount of time to crow about it and hit the top of the sales board month after month and crow about that to the good ole boys he employed, no one likes to spend time with an asshole. When another dealership made an offer, I took it.

Then I sold a car to a man who owned a huge office supply business who recognized my skills and he hired me away. I was later poached by my current boss who sold hospital supplies.

Since then, I’d had headhunters come to me frequently to try to lure me away.

I’d stayed for stupid reasons, holding on to a life that didn’t want me.

But I also stayed for good reasons. I liked my job, made better than good money, had great clients, a boss who wanted in my pants but, even so, respected me, and nearly all my co-workers were friends.

Two months ago a pharmaceutical company in Indianapolis approached and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Even though I had no pharmaceutical sales experience, I had hospital sales experience so I knew the drill and a number of the players. I’d be heading up my own team and my base salary would be nearly double my current salary. The area my team and I were going to cover was vast, which meant travel—an idea I liked.

The escape hatch opened, I decided to slide through.

But I was going to miss my boss, my clients, my co-workers, and especially Asheeka.

I prepared my hair in the brush for another blast of heat, aimed my eyes on Asheeka in the mirror, and told her, “You do that, old lady Zambino will come outta her house with her bowling ball. She might be eighty-two, but she’s got mad skills with that ball. So I’m not sure it’ll go too great for your brothers and their brothers.”

After delivering that, I blasted my hair with heat.

When I was done and moving on to new territory, Asheeka said, “I’m worried about you.”

She said this, I knew, because, while she was taping the clean bandage to me, I told her about what Benny was up to. Since then, she’d been biding her time, likely looking for when she’d have my undivided attention. As that was not happening and she actually did have to go to work eventually, she was winging it.

I turned my eyes from my hair to her and assured her, “I’m gonna be okay.”

“Boy like that can be persuasive,” she replied.

I knew that and was scared shitless of it.

“I’ll be okay,” I repeated.

“Honey.” She leaned toward me, putting her elbows on her knees, but her eyes didn’t leave mine in the mirror. “My next question should come with wine and relaxing music after we’ve had facials and our hair done, but I gotta throw it out there. And that question would be, why wouldn’t you want him to persuade you?”

I pressed my lips together and blasted the curl with heat.

When I switched off the dryer, Asheeka kept at me. “Avoidance? From Frankie Concetti? The girl who lets it all hang out?”

“He’s my dead boyfriend’s brother,” I said for the millionth time in less than two days. Though, this time, it was telling her something she knew already.

She nodded. “I see why you wouldn’t wanna go there. I totally see that. But I saw that boy down there, and when I say that, I’m not only talkin’ about the fact that he looks good enough to eat. It’s that he was sweet but firm when he told me I had to look out for you. Not fall for any of your shit when you tried to convince me you could do somethin’ on your own that I didn’t think it smart that you be doin’. And that I needed to get that pill down you ’cause you’re prideful and stubborn and tryin’ to hide the pain.” She paused, didn’t release my eyes in the mirror, and finished, “He cares, Frankie. A lot.”

“That’s not the point,” I told her.

“What is the point?” she asked.

“The point is, it’s just not right,” I explained.

“That’s not the point ’cause that’s bull-hockey.”

I fiddled with my curl and blasted it with more heat because I didn’t want to be talking about this again.

When I was done, Asheeka got right back in there. “You’re holdin’ a grudge.”

I looked back at her in the mirror. “Uh…yeah.”

She shook her head. “Only God can judge him and his family for the way they treated you. Here, on earth, the right thing to do is forgive. Harder to forget and that’ll mess with you, honey. That’s your cross to bear and that’s the whole thing about forgiveness. They gave you that cross and it’s you who has to bear it at the same time findin’ a way to forgive. That’s the reason forgiveness is divine. ’Cause someone wrongs us, we live with that wrong right alongside them, but it’s us who has to find the strength to let them off the hook. If they work for it, ask for it, only you have the power to offer it to them so their soul can be less heavy. And the right thing to do is use that power.”

“I am. I’ve already decided that. That’s why I’m not taking you up on the offer to rally your brothers. I’m gonna let them heal the breach,” I shared before I ended it. “Then I’m gone.”

She stared at me in the mirror.

I went back to my hair.

My arms were tired, I had a nagging ache that prolonged standing and moving was beating through the medication, and I knew I should give up on my hair.

But I didn’t.

Asheeka said no more. Just when I got down to sliding my fingers coated with elixir through my hair and putting another coat of mascara on, she walked into the bedroom and came back with a fresh nightgown.

I pulled it on over my undies and saw it was really cute. The one I’d chosen last night was kind of a caftan—flowy and comfortable, but full coverage.

This one had a high-low hem, the front of which hit me several inches below the knees, the back dip went nearly to my ankles. The neckline plunged to an empire waist, with gathering at the bodice and waistline that drew attention to the cleavage. And last, it was a bright coral color that looked great with my hair.

You could see the turquoise lace of my bra at the neckline but…whatever. It wouldn’t be the first time I showed hints of a bra, including to Ben and Theresa.

“Cute nightie,” Asheeka observed, giving it a once-over.

“Gina. She has an eye for cute,” I told her.

“Sexy-cute,” she told me.

I looked into the mirror. The cleavage was sexy. The material was semi-shiny and clingy.

Jeez, it was sexy-cute. Who knew Gina had that in her?