He's Just A Friend Read Free

room and each bedroom had a morbid view of the Scottish Rite Temple’s asphalt parking lot.
    Mounted next to Fancy’s bed was a silver pole wrapped in red velvet. Fancy had danced on that pole countless times. Sometimes for her male friends. At other times she practiced new moves or simply entertained herself. Fancy taught herself to dance and move like women in the music videos on BET’s 106th and Park because rich men—the only kind she’d date—became bored a lot faster than the men who lived paycheck to paycheck.
    Ruffling her down-feather comforter, Fancy scurried across her king-size bed in search of her ringing phone. One more ring and her voice mail would turn on. SaVoy’s name registered on the display so Fancy quickly answered, “Hey, girl! What’s up?”
    â€œJust called to see what you’re doing tonight.” SaVoy always sounded happy. Fancy could picture her best friend’s bright smile.
    â€œGoing out. To a gala at the Ritz. With Desmond.”
    â€œYou really need to quit using Desmond. One of these days he’s going to get tired of you playing with his emotions and God only knows what will happen. He’s so nice to you, Fancy. And he’s perfect marrying material—for somebody else—so you should quit before you ruin him. Besides,” SaVoy pleaded, “you’ve partied with the pagans three hundred and sixty-four days this year. Surely you can give one day to the Lord. Forget the gala. Come go with me to church tonight and praise God.”
    Since Fancy didn’t go to church any other time of year, New Year’s Eve was definitely not the time to start. And as far as Desmond was concerned, the way Fancy saw it, she couldn’t use anyone who didn’t want to be used.
    â€œGirlfriend, you know I love you but this is New Year’s Eve. And from now on, remember this. You’ve only got one life to live. So stop wasting yours trying to live mine. Gotta go. Bye. Call me tomorrow. After three. Oh, yeah. Say a prayer for me.”
    â€œI always do. By—”
    Fancy hung up the phone and rubbed her growling stomach. There was still enough time to order delivery service on-line from ezdineinn.com so Fancy raced up seven steps—into the should-have-been bedroom that was her office—over to her laptop and charged one dozen oysters on the half shell from Spenger’s to her boss’s American Express card.
    Fancy didn’t cook or sew but her apartment was immaculate. Making her way to the adjacent bedroom that she’d converted into a closet, Fancy stood inside a space that resembled a miniature Saks store. Roll-away racks filled with expensive clothing were scattered about the room.
    Name brand shoes were stacked high on shelves. Fancy removed the frequently used stepladder from behind the door, and scanned the photos stapled to the front of each shoe box. “Ah, there you are. Come to Mama,” she said, choosing her designer stilettos with the rhinestone-covered heels.
    More shoes—jogging, hiking, aerobic, cross-country—and her Roller Blades, lined the floor, neatly flush against the baseboard, sorted by color. The two thousand dollars for her rent was paid. This month. Her hair weave and nails were freshly done, and her car was tuned up. Fancy’s men paid for everything, including the new pearl-white headboard and footboard, lingerie dresser, armoire, pillow-top mattress set, and the new vanity that had been delivered on Christmas Eve.
    Entering her master bathroom, smoke swirls hovered above a tub filled with hot water and her favorite black cherry bath salts. A homemade body scrub—one-half pound brown sugar stirred into milk and honey body wash—sat in a crystal bowl atop the white porcelain tub. “Ahhh,” Fancy exhaled as she nestled her head above the inflatable pillow and closed her eyes.
    â€œStarting tonight, I, Fancy Taylor, proclaim next year as my year