Browngirl Lost

 The Browngirl Takes the Stage

The hallway stretched before me, dimly lit and charged with anticipation. Suddenly, my publicist, Clarke, halted me, her hand a firm barrier against my forward momentum. She turned, expression serious, and took a deep, deliberate sniff of the air around me as if trying to discern my innermost thoughts. I instinctively recoiled, but she stepped closer, wrinkling her nose and reaching into her bag.

“Dawn,” she said, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made me nervous, “Why do you smell like weed? Here, spray this on you before you step onto that stage.”

A fresh, floral scent enveloped me before I could even register her words. “Uhhhhh… that’s because I smoked a joint in the car,” I confessed, my hands trembling at the thought of facing the crowd. “You know I’m scared as hell right now. I have no idea how I got here.”

With a dismissive wave, Clarke put the spray back in her bag. “You wrote a book people loved, and now they want to hear from you. This is Day One of your tour. So, I need you to pull it together and get ready to shine, baby girl.”

I shrugged, a knot of uncertainty tightening in my chest. “But I told you I didn’t want to do a tour. Public speaking isn’t my thing; sales have been great, so why mess up a good thing?”

“Do you want to go back to corporate America, or do you want to keep living this location-independent lifestyle you’ve created for yourself, where you can smoke a joint before noon? Choose one, I’ll wait.” She placed her hands on her hips, her playful defiance making it hard for me not to laugh.

“Alright, alright. Bring on the tour,” I relented, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

“That’s what I thought! Now, let me run down the details. As you requested, people will be seated at tables, not in rows. Each table will have your signature drink, and we’ve arranged a sweet and salty treat table.”

A crucial detail was missing. “What about my edibles table?”

Clarke rolled her eyes dramatically. “Yeah, when I saw that request, I thought you lost your mind. So no, there’s no edibles table. Buuuuut… if you do well today, I had my guy drop off a little something for you to enjoy later. Now, have you decided what stories you’re sharing?”

“Yeah, I want to start with ‘Browngirl Lost,’ transition into ‘Shocking Tale,’ and cap it off with ‘I Choose Death.’”

Clarke giggled, probably remembering the night I called her higher than giraffe pussy that inspired the last one. “Dawn, that one will be perfect. Lastly, do you want to do a Q&A after each story or at the end?”

“I think discussing after each story will be more organic.”

“Alright, if the discussions run long, just do ‘Browngirl Lost’ and ‘I Choose Death’—you can save ‘Shocking Tale’ for the radio interview.”

“Got it. Do I have time for another joint, you know, to ease my nerves?”

She cut her eyes at me with a disapproving look. “Girl, you have a problem. When this is all over, we need to talk about that. You’ve got two minutes to get your ass on that stage. Don’t rush through it; keep your eyes up and smile. Not that goofy, nervous smile, but a genuine one.”

I nodded, but the thought of those two minutes made me queasy. I almost backed out completely, but Clarke, sensing my struggle, leaned in.

“Stop overthinking it, sis; you’re going to do great. Channel that Browngirl spirit I know and leave it all on the stage.” She gave me a big hug then pushed me toward the curtain. I stumbled through the entrance. When I stepped in front of the crowd, I stopped breathing, and my heart skipped several beats. A sea of faces—men and women alike—all staring back at me, waiting.

“Time to give them what they came for… The Browngirl,” I reminded myself, standing up a little straighter and putting on my best non-goofy smile while letting the adrenaline run through me.

“Hey, hey, hey! Welcome to the ‘Don’t Trust Me, I’m Single’ tour! I am The Browngirl, creator of The Browngirl Experience, and your host for this afternoon. Y’all are in for quite the ride because I’ve been through it all.”

“This isn’t going to be your standard book reading; these stories I’ll be sharing are some of the most intimate moments of my adult life. I can’t just talk about these memories with strangers; I need you all to be my friends for the next few hours. Can you do that?”

The atmosphere shifted, smiles spreading through the audience. Shouts of “Yeah, girl!” floated back, igniting a spark of confidence within me.

“Good! I can’t be friends with folks I can’t drink with, so pour yourself a drink and sip with me as we take this journey together.” Raising my glass, I encouraged others to do the same. “The first story I’m sharing is called ‘Browngirl Lost.’ It’s the tale that birthed The Browngirl.”

January 28th: A Day of Reckoning

4:00 a.m.

I woke with a jolt, my hand instinctively reaching for my phone. No missed calls, no messages. Nothing. Propped on my elbows, I scanned the hotel room. Untouched chocolate-covered strawberries and a bottle of champagne—silent witnesses to my shattered expectations.

Refusing to believe I’d been stood up on our anniversary, I dialed his number, praying he’d answer, praying he was okay. Voicemail.

“Not again,” I whispered, wiping away a tear.

Heavy-hearted, I slid out of bed, gathered my things, and began erasing the evidence of my romantic plans—the wasted potential of a night that had meant the world to me. As I tossed the remnants of our would-be celebration into the trash, I caught my reflection in the mirror. The light blue lingerie, his favorite. My hair was tousled and free, the result of a restless night spent tossing and turning, avoiding the scarf he always criticized. My nails were manicured, a nod to his preference. I’d even gained a few pounds because he liked plus-size women.

The woman staring back felt like a stranger. How had I lost myself trying to be his ideal woman? I could have wallowed in self-pity, but I chose to move forward. I went home to my bed.

7:20 a.m.

The custom ringtone yanked me from sleep. His name lit up the screen. Every fiber of my being screamed at me not to answer, but love—or something like it—compelled me to pick up.

“Hello?” I tried for a detached tone, but the weight in my heart made it difficult.

“Hey, baby. Where are you? I went to the hotel, and they told me you checked out.”

“I’m home, in my bed.”

“I thought we were having a romantic rendezvous at our spot.”

“We were, last night. But since you stood me up, I packed my shit and went home.”

“I didn’t stand you up,” he insisted, his voice already defensive.

I laughed, a bitter sound. “Really? Because when someone doesn’t show up when they said they would, that’s exactly what standing someone up means!”

“Baby, you know I had that bike event. You said it was cool to meet up later,” he said, the excuse flimsy and unbelievable.

“So, your bike event ended five minutes ago?”

“Nah, but I drank too much, crashed at my mom’s, and went straight to our spot when I woke up. You weren’t there.”

“You’re lying. You don’t think I drove by your mom’s house on my way home?”

“What time did you come through?”

“It doesn’t matter! You chose your boys over me on our anniversary. I hope you had fun, you selfish bastard!”

“I didn’t stand you up! Stop saying that!” He shouted, anger lacing his voice.

“But you did,” I countered, my own heart pounding.

Silence. He hung up. I sat there, stunned, before desperately redialing. Voicemail. Again. Impulsively, I grabbed my keys and drove to his house.

7:40 a.m.

Standing at his door, I felt lost. What was I doing here? I caught my reflection in the glass. The woman staring back was wild, unrecognizable.

Ignoring the warning signs, I knocked softly. No answer. I knocked again, louder, more insistent. Still nothing. I turned to leave, but a surge of desperation stopped me. I tried the doorknob. It opened.

Alarm bells screamed in my head. Every instinct told me to go home, but I stepped inside, calling his name from the bottom of the stairs. “You up?!”

Silence.

I climbed the stairs, each step bringing a fresh wave of painful realizations. Five years squandered in a one-sided relationship. Four months playing detective. Three weeks convincing myself titles didn’t matter. Two days—a celebration of a love that existed only in my imagination.

Outside his bedroom door, my hands shook. I slowly turned the knob and peeked inside. He was alone. Relief mixed with a deeper sense of disappointment washed over me. He turned, his face hardening with anger.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?”

I froze, searching for words.

“Your door was open,” I offered weakly.

“That doesn’t mean you can walk in here like this! Get out!”

My heart raced, but I refused to back down.

“What’s with the attitude? You didn’t get stood up by someone you loved. You didn’t spend your money on a fancy hotel room. You didn’t decorate this room with my favorite things. I did that for you! You never showed up! You never showed up!” Tears streamed down my face.

He ordered me out again, his voice cold and dismissive.

“Do you even love me?” I asked, my voice breaking.

Silence. Then, he moved towards me and deliberately closed the door in my face.

I stood there, stunned. The door had been slammed shut on the reality of our one-sided relationship.

8:42 a.m.

Freshly showered, eyes swollen from crying, I faced my reflection again. “Who are you? Where did you go?”

No answer. Just sad eyes staring back.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to find you, starting right now.”

I picked up a pair of scissors and began cutting the relaxer out of my hair.

The Reckoning and the Revelation

8:46 a.m.

The journey of this brown girl was about to begin anew.

As I reflected, I looked up and surveyed the room. Women were wiping their eyes, and men shifted uncomfortably. And then I saw him—my past- right before me. He stood at the back, a six-foot-five chocolate Adonis, radiating an effortlessly magnetic energy that tugged at my heart.

My heart raced. What was he doing here? What would he say?

I barely registered Clarke’s voice as she turned the spotlight back to me, giving me a moment to breathe. “Whew! I don’t know about y’all, but that story gave me the chills. We will let The Browngirl take a minute for some water, then open the floor for a Q&A. If you have questions, line up at the mic!”

As the DJ spun Jill Scott’s “Golden,” I retreated behind the curtains with Clarke. She nudged me, curious. “Is that him? I can’t remember.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “He’s in line. I don’t want to do this. Can we say we’re short on time?”

Clarke shook her head firmly. “Oh no, girl. You need to put on your big girl panties and face this. You’ve worked too hard to let this man ruin it. But if you want a minute, take it! I don’t even care if you need to smoke a joint in the bathroom. But you’re going back out there!”

I laughed despite myself. “So now you’re encouraging me to smoke? What happened to me having a problem?”

“Bitch, you better stop playing with me. Get back on that stage or I’m laying hands on you!”

I chuckled. “Alright, alright, I’m going!”

As I was about to step through the curtain, I turned back to Clarke. “Thank you. I owe you big time for this.”

Taking a deep breath, I stepped onto the stage. My gaze landed on him—first in line at the mic. What fresh hell was this? I forced a smile, fidgeting as I went to my seat, determined to look confident while feeling anything but.

“Hey y’all, I’m back! I hope you enjoyed “Browngirl Lost.” This was the hardest story I’ve ever written. This is where the messy parts of me come to light, and yes, I was in my thirties when all of this went down. So I’m fully aware that judgment is coming my way. Bring on the questions—but like my sis Erykah Badu says, ‘Remember, I’m an artist, and I’m sensitive about my shit.”

A familiar face emerged first. My heart skipped. “Hi Browngirl, I’m DeSean, and I have three questions for you if that’s alright.”

“Hi, DeSean! I’ll try my best to give you three answers,” I replied, mustering my most authentic smile.

“Did you ever see your ex again after that day?”

My heart skipped a beat. Why would he ask a question he already knew? “Umm… no, I didn’t,” I said nervously.

A lady from the audience chimed in, “Girl, you’re telling me you just walked away after five years?”

DeSean tilted his head, looking at me like he always had, encouraging me to reveal more. “Well, girl, I did—blocked him on everything, changed my number, and moved out of state. Didn’t come back for almost five years.”

He smirked, a knowing glint in his eyes. “That didn’t seem a little drastic?”

“Is that your second question?”

“More like 1.2, for clarity,” he smiled.

“For clarity, no, it wasn’t drastic. I needed to leave because I would have gone back—like I always did. I wasn’t sure if I could survive the pain of loving someone who didn’t love me back.”

“Did you ever tell him you loved him?”

That question pierced the air, leaving me breathless. “DeSean, don’t do this—”

But he pressed forward, “Dawn, you’ve painted me as the villain in your version of our story. You conveniently forgot we agreed to keep it casual. I never heard you say things changed, so let me ask again—did you ever tell me you loved me?”

The room fell silent. My heart raced. I saw people reaching for their phones. Clarke started moving towards DeSean to intervene, but I shook my head. I wanted this, needed this—this conversation was long overdue.

“We were inseparable! We spent every holiday and every family function together. How could you think I didn’t have feelings for you? Why would I keep you around just to be casual?” My voice rose with passion, resonating through the crowd. Women cheered. The men remained quiet and watchful.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he challenged.

“I wanted you to choose me,” I confessed, my voice cracking. “I was scared,” I continued, “Afraid that if I told you how I felt, you’d walk away… and I was already in love with you. I figured if I proved how great a woman I was, you’d eventually choose me—but you never did.” I paused to steady my breath. “If you didn’t want me, why keep me around for so long?”

“I did love you,” he confessed, the weight of his words palpable.

My brow furrowed. “Then why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“I showed you.”

“You showed me? How?”

“By always being there, the way you admired your father. I shared my secrets with you; you knew me better than anyone. Family was important to you, so I included you in mine. I protected you at every party, never losing sight of you.”

His revelations rocked me. “I didn’t know you felt that way. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know how. I thought if I was just a good man, you’d open up about wanting more. But you never did.”

This was it: two souls who loved deeply, yet neither had the courage to say it. Tears threatened to spill as the reality of our history collided with the present.

“Lack of communication is what ruined us,” I said softly.

“It did,” he agreed.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, genuinely.

He shook his head. “You have nothing to apologize for. You loved me the best way you knew, and so did I. We just weren’t ready for that kind of love.”

DeSean walked toward me. Clarke guided me off the stage, and I met him halfway. I was uncertain but resolute. When we stood inches apart, he pulled me into the tightest embrace. My tears flowed freely as I let it all out. Every unspoken word of the past years poured from my soul. I cried for the woman I lost, trying to prove my worth. I cried for the man who never learned how to love me properly. All of this unfolded before a room full of strangers.

Then, in a quiet tone only I could hear, he said, "Let love find you. You deserve to have it all."

And just like that, I found the closure I didn’t even realize I needed.

Moral of the story: If you are too scared to tell someone you love them, then you’re not ready for that kind of love. Stand in your truth, embrace your desires, and let love guide you home.