“Reggie, look, I’m sorry that you’re feeling so badly and I know you need to talk, but I have to go. Why don’t you take a nice, long soak and try and take your mind off what’s his name. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?” Silence. Dominique remembered Reggie’s last breakup and how some designer suits became cloth confetti thanks to his skill with sewing scissors. “Reggie, don’t even think about doing anything crazy like going over to that man’s house or out with your instigating friends. I need you bright and early tomorrow and the day’s going to be a beast. We’ll both need to be on top of our game.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be in tomorrow,” Reggie lamented between sniffles.

“Don’t start with me, Reggie!”

“I can barely breathe, Boss.” His voiced had now dropped to a raspy whisper.

Dominique pulled into the drive-through and rolled down her window.

“I want the number three, Mommy!”

“Welcome to McDonald’s. May I take your order?”

“I gave that man everything. Every part of me,” Reggie emoted, and then began crying again.

“I’m sorry you’re hurting,” Dominique replied.

“Hello, are you ready to order?” The question crackled through the drive-through speaker.

“Mom, I want the number three with a strawberry shake instead of soda.”

“Just two weeks ago he sang “I’ll Always Love You” and said I was his soul mate!” Reggie held out the word like he was Don Cornelius in a Soul Train flashback.

Reggie’s lost his mind and now I’m getting ready to lose mine!

“Welcome to McDonald’s. May I—”

“Hold on a minute,” Dominique barked into the speaker.

“Mommy, I want a—”

“I heard you, Justin.” Dominique threw the words over her shoulder. “Reggie, I’ll call you back.”

Three hours later, Dominique sat back against the headboard of her king-size four-poster, canopied bed—the one she’d had shipped from Europe after seeing it in a magazine. Her home definitely was her castle, a fact that had been very important to this former South Central projects-dweller when she’d become able to afford a place of her own. This abode was understated elegance with a little opulence sprinkled throughout. Her bed wasn’t simply a place to sleep, it was a masterpiece—a place to be seen sleeping. It was made from rare pommelle sapele lumber, shrouded in silk, and draped with a politically incorrect chinchilla spread. Dominique had purchased this bed to celebrate her release from what she vowed would be the last nonproductive relationship of her life. She’d further vowed that no man would sleep in this bed unless he was “the one.”