Page 3 of The Need to Know

Deuce was security and maintenance for the property, a jack of all trades. He also witnessed quite a few instances where women tried to come to my spot and cuss me out. I guessed it was my fault, sometimes when I handed out VIP passes to the club paired with a smile, some women acted like I was handing out passes to my heart. Never that.

I got into my ride, turned on the radio, and hit the road for the place Pops had us meeting at.

“Good morning, Belmont, it’s ya girl, Paisley P, and today I got a question for you. Now, is it more respectable for a man to confess to cheating, or is it the same as you finding out? You ask me, it takes a real man to admit to his mistakes, but at the end of the day, cheating is cheating. What y’all think?”

I admired the sassy and strong radio DJ. She hadn’t given her personal take yet, but she didn’t have to for me to know what she’d advise: Dump him! In all my years of listening to Paisley P’s radio show, she was forever good at advising women to leave ain’t-shit dudes and keep it pushing.

As I drove along, I listened in as callers phoned up the station. You had your usual guilty men trying to make a point that women should believe in forgiveness and throw them a bone for being honest and up-front, you had your doormats who were certain “all men cheated” and that them admitting their wrong was better than finding out, and then you had your independent, headstrong women who weren’t putting up with shit and didn’t care if their men got caught or came clean, they were done either way.

“Okay, ladies,” Paisley began, taking a breath. I was sure she was sitting up, preparing to school us. “You want my take? It makes no difference whether you find out by snooping or catching him, or he tells you, cheating is cheating, and these men ain’t shit. I respect your honesty, but I’ma walk. Ten times out of ten, my babies, these men aren’t going to extend you the same courtesy if you slip, so keep it pushing to the next one. My time is valuable, and my emotions ain’t free.”

Gotta love Paisley.

“So, what if it’s the first time and he’s really sorry? Like he hasn’t slept in days and just looks stank?” her co-host, Kelvin, chimed in.

There was a pause, and though I’d never seen Paisley in person, nor knew what she looked like, I could imagine her sneering at Kelvin. “Okay, and…? Listen, I’m a bomb-ass woman. I run a business, I host this show, I’m loyal, and I’m a cheerleader for the right man. I am the f—king table, and if you step outside, you must want to be outside. So, take a seat, get comfortable, and live with your choice.”

Kelvin chortled into his mic. “Damn, P. It can’t be that easy to just walk away.”

“I’ve never met a man I’ve missed,” Paisley said.

“Sheesh, so you never get comfortable and let your guard down?”

“You’re, like, on a three-year grace period with me, and then I might like you.”

“See, that’s another thing. Say he’s put actual time in. You willing to just let all that go? Over a mistake? You never hear them out? You just wash your hands and be done-done?” Kelvin pressed more, clearly for our entertainment. I’d been listening to their show for about two years, so I knew Paisley like a sister almost. Once you crossed her, it was hard to get back into her graces. I respected that.

“Oh, I definitely allow them to explain. I like to watch them beg, I love to let them buy me things or pay my bills. I love it when they’re on their knees crying and just humiliating themselves,” Paisley said simply. “I love giving them an inkling of hope so I can look them in their eyes and tell them no.”

“Brutal,” Kelvin said.

I could hear the shrug in her response as she said, “Listen, I firmly believe that…cat is a gift⁠—”

“Cat is an amazing gift,” Kelvin was quick to co-sign—and he wasn’t lying.

“Exactly,” Paisley went on. “My body is a temple, and once you’re invited in, you’d be a fool to f—k it up.”

“See, Paisley is that friend ladies need to have, but men hate to see, ’cause you know she in they ear⁠—”

I found the bistro and pulled into the valet lane out front. I passed my car keys to a young man in a neat dress shirt and maroon vest and got out, going and tucking my shades in my shirt pocket.

There was an outdoor eating area, and right away I could spot my father. He was the only lone person among the families and couples seated on the veranda.

He got up and removed his sunglasses and hugged me as I approached him. Pops had money, but the man was as local and low key as they came. Outside of his wedding band and watch, he also wasn’t into jewelry. Pops, like me, was a simple man.

“Lookin’ good, lookin’ good,” he praised as we sat at the round wrought-iron table.

The smell of cinnamon was in the air, making me look over and catch a little boy biting into a fresh cinnamon roll. Tempting, but nah.

I browsed the menu, not wanting to get too wild before I hit the gym. I asked for a Greek omelette and some water before passing the menu over to our server, a young girl who was probably in college.

I ran a hand over my head. My waves were intact, but I was due for a fresh cut soon. “I gotta trim everything for Friday.”

Pops appeared thoughtful as he gathered his glass of sweet tea. “Friday? What’s Friday?”

I rolled my eyes. Here he go. “You trying it.”

Pops cracked a smile, a warm gleam in his eye. I was the only child of Luke and Naomi Marcuson. The product of their love and devotion to each other. In their fifties, they were still pretty much obsessed. Pops worshipped my mother and treated her like a queen. I had a good childhood in a loving home. Got to travel to Pops’s out-of-town business ventures, and learned the value of hard work as well.