Page 41 of This Could Be Us
“I like that!” Yasmen scoops up some more preserves. “Sol, you should totally make a peace cobbler. I’d eat it.”
“You eat everything,” Hendrix laughs.
“Truth.” Yasmen grins, popping some Gouda into her mouth.
“You know what I’ve really been thinking about doing?” I ask, not waiting for them to guess. “Clearing out Edward’s newly demolished man cave and making it my space. My she shed. You know I love a good DIY. Maybe claiming that space will help me reclaimmyself. I didn’t even realize Edward was taking so much from me. I want all my power back.”
“I love that idea,” Yasmen says. “And I like you planning as if this house will remain yours, because itwill. It’s gonna work out. I feel it in my bones.”
“So we’re waiting on the accountant to confirm what CalPot wants to do?” Hendrix asks. “When will we know if they’re gonna take the evidence in exchange for leaving you alone?”
“He thought it might be today.” I take a long gulp of my drink. “I guess it’s tonight now, so maybe tomorrow? Whatever he says, it only relieves the pressure temporarily. It unfreezes our accounts and whatever money is there. We actually sometimes make two mortgage payments at once, so I have a little cushion on the house. And the court-assigned trustee says until there’s a conviction, they can help some with the house payments. All in the name of reducing the impact on the girls. But with Edward’s job gone, I need to find steady income long term. I’ll need a way to support us once Edward is behind bars.”
“Oh, you have a lot of income, honey.” Hendrix gestures to the charcuterie board and my living room. “Everything you cook, the house you decorate, the life hacks for cleaning, and all you know about domestic world dominationisyour income waiting to happen.”
“Yeah, Sol.” Yasmen licks preserves from the corner of her mouth. “Your business is right here under your roof. This life you’ve made for your family has been a labor of love. Why not start actually getting paid for it?”
“You know,” I say, brushing crumbs from my jeans, “even when I was at Cornell getting my degree, I knew I wanted to be home someday—that when I started having kids, I wanted to stay home with them.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Hendrix says. “But someone as driven as you, as ambitious as you, it surprises me that you didn’t want more.”
“More than what?” I ask, injecting the words with a slight challenge. “Giving shelter to the people you love most, making sure they are well fed, well adjusted, happy? Ready to navigate the world? Thathasbeen fulfilling to me.”
I shrug and go on.
“I know neither of you are wired this way, but I always have been. We used to split the summers, my sisters and me, between myabuelain Puerto Rico and Lola’s grandmother—Grammy we called her—in South Carolina. Grammy told us that back in the day in Greenville, it was illegal for Black women to stay at home.”
“What do you mean, illegal?” Hendrix frowns.
“They passed an ordinance requiring Black women to work. During the First World War, Black soldiers would send money home to their families. For some of their wives, it meant they didn’t have to work outside the home for the first time.”
“What was wrong with that?” Yasmen asks, sitting up, leaning forward.
“When white women in town asked them to clean their houses and look after their kids, they didn’t need the money and refused.” I laugh, shaking my head. “They couldn’t stand that, though, so they literally passed an ordinance requiring the ‘negresses’ to work outside the home, giving them back their nannies and domestics.”
It’s quiet for a few moments as we all sit with the injustice of that and nibble from our charcuterie board. We’ve come a long way.
“Other women have always been allowed to stay home,” I say. “To make their homes and their families their life’s work. Not us. When Grammy told us that, it struck a chord in me. It was like 1918, and we were still being denied even the privilege of saying no to working for someone else. I’ve always known I didn’t want to work for anybody but myself.”
“Then work for yourself,” Hendrix says with a shrug. “You need the money now and you’ve got the seeds of an empire right here. Get your UGC, your GRWM, and that AMA. Put all the letters on all the platforms to work.”
“I don’t even know what any of those letters mean,” I laugh.
“She’s right, Sol,” Yasmen says. “You know I was skeptical about Deja being a natural-hair influencer, but even I can see that if she wants to make a living doing it, she could. We’re in a unique time right now. Where you can get paid to wash your face and make your coffee and share all the life hacks you’ve cultivated over the years running your home like an enterprise.”
“Makeit an enterprise,” Hendrix urges. “We’ve talked before about you becoming an influencer, a content creator. Brands reach out all the time asking my clients to do posts and ads on their socials. I might beable to connect you with a few for a little boost to begin. Given what I’ve seen, you could grow fast.”
Hendrix manages talent, including several popular reality TV housewives, so she knows of what she speaks.
“While you think about that, we’re low on vino.” Yasmen hoists her empty glass and starts to get up. “We need reinforcements.”
“No, sit.” I wave her back to her seat on the floor and stand. “It’s still my house for now. Lemme enjoy it while I can.”
“That’s not funny,” Hendrix says. “It’s gonna work out and you’re keeping your house, but while you’re up, could you also restock the olives?”
I roll my eyes and smile all the way to the kitchen. I’m glad I told them the full story of Edward’s betrayal. Going through this is bad enough. Going through it alone? I can’t even imagine.
I’m headed back to the living room with a fresh bottle of wine and Hendrix’s olives when the doorbell rings. Through the large glass doors, I see Judah Cross standing on the front porch. The warm light carves out shadows beneath his high cheekbones and melts the dark chocolate of his eyes.