Aug 13
Eminem interview with NME in 2000 part 3 this is from theeminemblogspot.com
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Eminem interview with NME in 2000 part 3 this is from theeminemblogspot.com
The Detroit Diaries 🖤📖
Before I Knew — Part Two
Why the Fuck Does Everything Smell So Strong?
By ten-thirty that morning, I had decided three things.
One—
I was fucking exhausted.
Two—
My boobs needed to stop hurting.
And three—
Every smell inside the tanning salon had apparently been turned up to approximately nine thousand.
Which made absolutely no fucking sense.
I worked here.
I was used to this place.
The salon was basically my second home.
Black walls with hot-pink accents.
Leopard-print details.
A dramatic black-and-white damask loveseat near the waiting area.
A huge decorative mirror with TREAT YOURSELF — BECAUSE YOU’RE WORTH IT across the top.
Behind the front counter were shelves filled with tanning lotions in every bottle imaginable.
Designer Skin.
Australian Gold.
Swedish Beauty.
Supre.
Bottles shaped like perfume.
Sparkly bottles.
Leopard-print bottles.
Pink bottles.
Purple bottles.
Lotions that smelled like coconut, vanilla, fruit, bronzer and approximately seventeen other things at the same fucking time.
Normally?
I loved it.
Today?
I wanted to throw half of it in the parking lot.
I picked up one bottle somebody had left on the counter.
Immediately—
My stomach flipped.
“Oh, fuck no.”
I put it down.
Fast.
One of my coworkers looked over.
“What?”
“That smells horrible.”
She stared at me.
“You literally told somebody yesterday that was your favorite.”
“I’ve changed.”
“Since yesterday?”
“Yes.”
She laughed.
I didn’t.
Because my stomach was still rolling.
⸻
I grabbed my Dr Pepper and took a sip.
Better.
For about twelve seconds.
Then somebody opened a bottle of coconut tanning lotion nearby.
I froze.
Normally, coconut?
Loved it.
Today?
Absolutely fucking not.
“Can you close that?”
The girl looked at me.
“What?”
“The lotion.”
She screwed the cap back on.
“Why?”
“I can smell it from here.”
She stared at me.
“Jessica, I’m like fifteen feet away.”
“I KNOW.”
That was the fucking problem.
Everything smelled stronger.
Perfume.
Cleaning spray.
Tanning lotion.
Somebody’s body spray.
Even the warm tanning beds had a smell I’d apparently never noticed before.
My stomach rolled again.
I put my hand against it.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?”
Probably getting sick.
That had to be it.
⸻
Around eleven, I finally got a few quiet minutes.
No customers at the counter.
Rooms cleaned.
Towels folded.
Everything caught up.
I walked toward the waiting area and caught myself in the big mirror.
And stopped.
Because despite feeling like complete shit?
I looked fucking cute.
“Okay…”
I pulled out my little hot-pink Nokia.
The mirror showed everything.
My long black-and-platinum peekaboo hair fell in dramatic curls around my shoulders, platinum pieces framing my face against the darker underneath.
My eyes were done in smoky gray and silver with that soft pop of pink, thick black winged liner and enormous lashes.
Glossy petal-pink lips.
Pink gemstone nose stud.
Sparkling drop earrings.
My big diamond butterfly necklace glittering against my chest.
Black fitted lace camisole.
Tiny hot-pink shorts.
Huge metallic silver belt.
And those completely unreasonable zebra-striped platform heels with hot-pink heels.
My hot-pink purse was sitting on the loveseat behind me.
I turned slightly sideways.
Put one hand on my hip.
Held the phone up.
Click.
Looked at it.
“No.”
Again.
Click.
Too serious.
Again.
Click.
That one?
Cute as fuck.
I sent it to Marshall.
No caption.
Because I knew exactly what would happen.
⸻
My phone rang less than a minute later.
I stared at it.
Of course.
“Hello?”
“What the fuck?”
I started laughing.
“What?”
“You at work dressed like that?”
I looked down at myself.
“Like what?”
“Jessica.”
“What?!”
“The fucking shorts.”
I grinned at my reflection.
“You don’t like them?”
“That ain’t what I said.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“You know what the problem is.”
“Nope.”
“You got dudes coming in there?”
I burst out laughing.
“MARSHALL.”
“I’m asking.”
“Yes, men are legally permitted inside tanning salons.”
“Funny.”
I leaned against the counter.
“You jealous?”
“No.”
“You sound jealous.”
“I ain’t jealous.”
“You called me approximately thirty seconds after I sent you a picture.”
“Because I wanted to talk to you.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“And them fucking shoes.”
I looked down.
“What about my shoes?”
“Where the hell are you going dressed like that?”
“To work!”
“You look like you’re going to a club.”
“At eleven in the morning?”
“With you? Wouldn’t surprise me.”
I gasped.
“Fuck you.”
He laughed.
Then his voice softened.
“You look beautiful.”
And just like that, my stupid smile appeared.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I looked at myself in the mirror again.
“Thank you.”
“Send me another one.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because now you’re being greedy.”
“Baby.”
“Nope.”
“Jessica.”
“You get one.”
“That’s bullshit.”
I laughed.
“You’ll survive.”
⸻
Then my stomach rolled.
Fast.
My smile disappeared.
I put my hand against the counter.
“Fuck.”
Marshall heard it.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s nothing.”
“You sick again?”
I frowned.
“How’d you know?”
“You said your stomach felt weird this morning.”
“Oh.”
I rubbed my stomach.
“Yeah. Kinda.”
“You eat?”
“Not really.”
“Jessica.”
“What?”
“You gotta eat.”
“I know.”
“You been drinking that Dr Pepper?”
I looked at the bottle.
“Maybe.”
“That ain’t food.”
“Don’t attack Dr Pepper. It didn’t do anything to you.”
He laughed.
“Go eat something.”
“I will.”
“When?”
“Eventually.”
“Baby.”
“Fine!”
⸻
I went into the little employee area and found something to eat.
One bite.
Nope.
Second bite.
My stomach immediately protested.
I put it down.
“Are you fucking serious?”
My coworker looked over.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You look pale.”
“It’s my makeup.”
“No, it isn’t.”
I looked at her.
“Thanks.”
She laughed.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I think I’m getting sick.”
“Like flu sick?”
“I don’t know.”
I leaned back.
“I’m tired. My stomach feels weird. Everything smells like it’s approximately two inches away from my fucking nose…”
I shifted my camisole.
“And my boobs hurt like a motherfucker.”
She stopped.
I didn’t notice.
“And I’m fucking emotional.”
Still didn’t notice her expression.
“And I swear to God if somebody opens another coconut tanning lotion near me, I’m throwing it through the fucking window.”
She stared at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No. What’s that face?”
“What face?”
“That fucking face you’re making.”
She shook her head.
“Nothing.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Okay…”
And went back toward the counter.
⸻
About twenty minutes later, I was writing something down when my brain suddenly snagged on a thought.
My hand stopped.
Wait.
I stared at the calendar.
September.
I blinked.
Then started counting backward.
Slowly.
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
I counted again.
Maybe I had the dates wrong.
I grabbed my purse and dug around for my little planner.
Receipts.
Lip gloss.
Wallet.
Random shit.
Finally—
Planner.
I flipped through it.
August.
I stared.
And suddenly I couldn’t remember.
When was my last period?
I usually knew.
Not down to the fucking hour or anything.
But roughly.
Except now—
Nothing.
I started counting again.
My heart began beating faster.
“No, no, no…”
My coworker looked over.
“What?”
I didn’t answer.
Because another memory had just arrived.
Atlanta.
Marshall.
The hotel.
That night.
I stared at absolutely nothing.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
I looked at her.
Then down at my planner.
Then back at her.
“I think my period’s late.”
Silence.
Her eyes got huge.
Mine probably did too.
“No.”
She slowly said my name.
“Jessica…”
“No.”
“Have you—”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was gonna ask.”
“Yes, I fucking do.”
My hand went automatically to my stomach.
Still completely flat.
Nothing there to see.
Nothing there to feel.
But suddenly every weird thing from that morning lined up in my head.
Exhausted.
Sore breasts.
Nausea.
Smells.
Food.
Late period.
Atlanta.
Marshall.
“Oh…”
Fuck.
My phone started ringing on the counter.
I looked down.
Marshall.
Of course it fucking was.
My coworker looked at the phone.
Then at me.
“Are you gonna answer?”
I stared at his name flashing across that tiny pink screen.
Five minutes ago, I would’ve answered without thinking.
Now?
My heart was pounding.
Because for the first time all morning, the thought had actually formed completely.
Not flu.
Not stress.
Not bad food.
Not lack of sleep.
Pregnant.
I swallowed.
Then picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hey, baby.”
I closed my eyes.
“Hey.”
Pause.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
“You sure?”
I looked down at my stomach.
“No.”
His voice immediately changed.
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Jessica.”
“I just…”
I couldn’t fucking say it.
Not yet.
Not over the phone.
Not when I didn’t even know.
So I looked at my coworker.
She mouthed:
Take a test.
My eyes widened.
I shook my head violently.
She nodded.
I shook my head again.
She pointed toward the door.
I flipped her off.
“What’re you doing?” Marshall asked.
“Nothing.”
“Who you flipping off?”
I froze.
“How the fuck did you know?”
“Because I know you.”
I laughed despite myself.
And somehow that made the panic loosen just a tiny bit.
“I’ll call you later.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Promise?”
I hesitated.
Then looked down at my still-flat stomach again.
“I promise.”
I hung up.
My coworker was already grabbing her purse.
I stared at her.
“Where are you going?”
“To the drugstore.”
My eyes widened.
“Oh, absolutely the fuck not.”
She grabbed her keys.
“Yep.”
“No!”
“Jessica.”
“I AM NOT PREGNANT.”
She opened the employee door.
“Then the test will say you’re not pregnant.”
I stood there.
No comeback.
Because unfortunately?
That was annoyingly logical.
I looked toward the giant salon mirror.
At the girl who had stood there twenty minutes earlier taking a sexy little picture for her new boyfriend.
Same hair.
Same makeup.
Same hot-pink shorts.
Same heels.
Same Jessica.
Except now I couldn’t stop looking at my stomach.
My phone buzzed again.
A text from Marshall.
LOVE YOU. CALL ME IF YOU NEED ME.
I stared at it.
Then whispered—
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
Because there was now one question I desperately needed answered.
And depending on what appeared on one tiny plastic stick…
That selfie I’d just sent Marshall might’ve accidentally been the last picture I’d ever taken before I knew I was carrying his baby.
To Be Continued… 🖤📖
Next: Before I Knew — Part Three: Two Pink Lines
Eminem
marshall said to slim that he needs to take care of himself when hes not there, but all that slim heard was like honey you look cute today go to bed i love you. crazy shit happens
The Detroit Diaries 🖤📖
The Last Days in Georgia — Part Eight
Saturday — The Movers Are Here 📦🚚
At exactly seven o’clock Saturday morning, I woke up to a truck.
Not an alarm.
Not Marshall.
Not Coco.
A fucking truck.
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.
For approximately three seconds, I had absolutely no idea what was happening.
Then I heard voices downstairs.
A door opened.
Something heavy scraped across the floor.
And suddenly—
“Oh, fuck.”
Marshall moved beside me.
“What?”
“The movers.”
He opened one eye.
“What time is it?”
I grabbed the clock.
“Seven.”
Another noise came from downstairs.
Then my dad’s voice.
Then my mother’s.
Then somebody rang the damn doorbell.
I dropped backward onto the pillow.
“No.”
Marshall laughed.
“No what?”
“I changed my mind.”
“About moving?”
“About being awake.”
I pulled the blanket over my face.
“Tell everybody to come back at noon.”
“You hired ’em for seven.”
“Yesterday Jessica was fucking stupid.”
He pulled the blanket down.
“Come on.”
“I hate morning people.”
Another knock downstairs.
I groaned.
“WHO THE FUCK IS AT MY HOUSE AT SEVEN IN THE MORNING?”
From somewhere downstairs—
“JESSICA!”
I closed my eyes.
“My mother has supernatural hearing.”
Marshall was already laughing.
⸻
I finally dragged myself out of bed.
And then I remembered something.
Today I needed comfortable clothes.
Not cute-but-painful comfortable.
Actually comfortable.
Because yesterday had taught me a very important lesson:
My jeans and this baby were officially at war.
I showered quickly, brushed my teeth, washed my face and pulled my black-and-platinum hair into a messy bun, leaving loose pieces around my face.
I kept my makeup pretty simple but still me—smoky neutral shadow, black liner, mascara and glossy pink lips.
Then I got dressed.
A fitted gray ribbed spaghetti-strap camisole that stretched comfortably over the little curve of my stomach.
My distressed light-wash jeans.
And yes.
Those motherfuckers were already tight.
I stood in front of the mirror attempting to button them.
“No.”
I sucked in.
Bad idea.
“Fuck.”
I tried again.
Absolutely not.
The baby had apparently filed a formal objection.
“Fine.”
I left the waistband slightly loosened underneath my tank.
Problem temporarily solved.
On my feet went my gray fuzzy slide slippers, because I wasn’t putting real shoes on at seven in the damn morning.
I added my diamond stud earrings, nose stud and jewelry, and my tattoos were visible around my arms, hands and neck.
Then I looked at myself.
Gray tank.
Ripped jeans.
Fuzzy slides.
Messy bun.
Little bump.
Close enough.
I walked out.
⸻
Marshall was already dressed when I came downstairs.
And somehow he looked entirely too functional for seven-thirty in the morning.
His bleached-blond hair was slightly messy, and he had on an oversized white T-shirt, loose black baggy sweatpants, white Nike sneakers, his silver chain and diamond studs.
Simple.
Comfortable.
Very Marshall.
He looked at me.
Then immediately looked down at my jeans.
“What?”
He pointed.
“Those still don’t fit.”
“They fit.”
“They ain’t buttoned.”
“They’re experiencing technical difficulties.”
He laughed.
“Baby, you need clothes.”
“I KNOW.”
I pointed toward the living room.
“And apparently I need a fucking house too, because mine is disappearing.”
⸻
There were people everywhere.
Again.
But this time they weren’t shopping.
They were taking the shit that was actually leaving.
The movers had started with everything labeled MICHIGAN.
Boxes disappeared through the front door.
Furniture was wrapped.
Things were being carried down the stairs.
Someone had arrived to pick up the desk.
Another person was taking some of the remaining office furniture.
The filing cabinets were being emptied and moved.
The treadmill was going.
Weights.
The weight bench.
Basement equipment.
Shelving.
Random electronics.
Storage containers.
And then—
My bedroom.
I walked upstairs just in time to see somebody carrying one of my nightstands toward the hallway.
I stopped.
“Oh.”
Marshall came up behind me.
“You good?”
“Yeah.”
Then somebody started taking apart the bed frame.
I stared.
“Okay, that’s fucking weird.”
Yesterday the couch had gotten me.
Today?
The bed.
The room where I’d slept for years was being dismantled in front of me.
The lamps were unplugged.
Nightstands emptied.
Dresser drawers removed.
The bench moved.
The bed frame taken apart piece by piece.
Mattress stripped.
Suddenly that beautiful bedroom I’d walked into last night looked enormous.
Empty walls.
Empty floor.
Boxes.
Sunlight.
Echoes.
I folded my arms.
“Well.”
Marshall stood beside me.
“There goes the bed.”
“Yep.”
I looked at him.
“Glad we enjoyed it last night.”
His mouth twitched.
“Jessica.”
“What?”
“You said it.”
“I meant sleeping!”
“Uh-huh.”
I smacked his arm.
“Shut the fuck up.”
⸻
Coco was having an existential crisis.
She followed people everywhere.
Someone carried a box out.
Coco followed.
Someone came back inside.
Coco followed them back.
Someone moved a chair.
Coco inspected the exact spot where the chair had been.
I picked her up.
“Baby, they’re not stealing our house.”
Marshall looked around the increasingly empty room.
“They kinda are.”
I looked at him.
“Do not confuse her.”
He laughed.
I kissed Coco’s head.
“We’re moving.”
She stared at me.
“To Michigan.”
Nothing.
“You’re gonna live with Mommy and Marshall.”
Marshall looked over.
“She know what Michigan is?”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“Stop questioning my conversation with my dog.”
⸻
By late morning, the house barely looked like mine anymore.
The desk was gone.
The bedroom furniture was gone.
The filing cabinets were gone.
Office furniture was gone.
Patio furniture from the backyard was disappearing.
The treadmill was gone.
Most of the weights were gone.
Boxes marked MICHIGAN were loaded.
The things traveling directly with us were separated so nobody accidentally touched them.
Pregnancy paperwork.
Identification.
Important documents.
My jewelry.
Makeup.
Toiletries.
Medications.
CDs.
Personal photographs.
Coco’s things.
Tour clothes.
Anything I’d need before the movers arrived in Michigan.
Mom had checked the paperwork again.
Dad had checked the garage.
I walked through the house one more time.
Kitchen.
Living room.
Office.
Laundry room.
Upstairs.
Bedrooms.
Closets.
Bathrooms.
Everywhere I looked—
Empty.
I came downstairs and found Marshall.
“Okay.”
“What?”
“I have a problem.”
He looked concerned.
“What happened?”
“I have no fucking clothes.”
He stared at me.
“You got clothes.”
“I have SOME clothes.”
“You packed like seventeen boxes.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
I grabbed the waistband of my jeans.
“This.”
He looked down.
“These motherfuckers barely fit.”
“I told you.”
“And I got rid of most of the stuff I wasn’t wearing.”
“So buy clothes.”
I stared at him.
“Exactly.”
He laughed.
“You announcing this?”
“Yes.”
I grabbed my purse.
“We’re going shopping.”
“Right now?”
“As soon as everybody’s finished.”
“What you buying?”
“Not maternity clothes.”
He looked at my stomach.
I pointed at him.
“Don’t.”
“I ain’t said nothing.”
“I don’t need maternity clothes yet.”
“Okay.”
“I just need clothes that don’t make me feel like I’m being fucking strangled.”
He nodded seriously.
“Fair.”
“Stretchy pants.”
“Okay.”
“Bigger jeans.”
“Okay.”
“Loose shirts.”
“Okay.”
“Tank tops.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe sweatpants.”
“Okay.”
“Pajamas.”
“Okay.”
“Underwear.”
He paused.
I narrowed my eyes.
“Don’t.”
His grin appeared.
“I ain’t—”
“You were thinking something.”
“I literally ain’t said shit.”
“Your face did.”
He laughed.
I grabbed his hand.
“And bras.”
His eyebrows went up.
“Yes, bras.”
“I can help.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because your definition of supportive and my definition of supportive are probably two completely different fucking things.”
He started laughing.
“My boobs hurt.”
That shut him up for approximately half a second.
Then—
“I could—”
“No.”
“I didn’t even finish.”
“Didn’t need you to.”
⸻
By early afternoon, the last truck door finally shut.
I stood in the driveway watching it.
That was it.
Almost everything I was keeping was headed toward Michigan.
Everything else had either sold, been donated, been picked up or was scheduled to leave.
I turned around.
My house looked the same from outside.
That was almost the strangest part.
Same windows.
Same brick.
Same driveway.
Same front door.
But inside?
It wasn’t really mine anymore.
Marshall walked up beside me.
His hand found mine.
“You okay?”
I nodded.
“Yeah.”
And surprisingly—
I meant it.
I looked down at myself.
Then at him.
“Now take me shopping.”
He laughed.
“You really can’t wait?”
“Nope.”
“You tired?”
“Yes.”
“Back hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Stomach?”
“A little.”
“And you wanna go walk around stores?”
I nodded.
“Absolutely.”
“Why?”
I pointed toward my jeans.
“Because tomorrow I am not traveling halfway across the fucking country with denim cutting off circulation to my unborn child.”
He burst out laughing.
“That ain’t funny!”
“Baby—”
“I need stretchy shit!”
“All right!”
“And cute stretchy shit.”
“There it is.”
“Yes, there it fucking is.”
I pushed my sunglasses down over my eyes.
“Pregnant doesn’t mean ugly.”
“Never said it did.”
“Good answer.”
I grabbed his hand.
“And since I’m moving into your house, you should probably know something.”
“What?”
“I’m going to need closet space.”
He stopped.
I kept walking until his arm pulled me backward.
I turned around.
“What?”
“How much closet space?”
I smiled.
“Baby…”
His eyes narrowed.
“How much?”
“We’ll discuss that when we get to Michigan.”
“Jessica.”
I kissed him.
“Love you.”
He stared at me.
“Don’t use that shit to distract me.”
“I love you soooo much.”
“How much fucking closet space?”
I started walking toward my Escalade.
“COME ON! WE’RE GOING SHOPPING!”
“Jessica!”
I laughed the entire way to the truck.
Because yesterday I’d sold half my life.
Today I’d watched the rest of it get loaded onto a moving truck.
And now?
I was going shopping for clothes that fit the body I suddenly didn’t recognize yet.
Tomorrow I’d leave Georgia.
But today?
I needed some damn pants.
To Be Continued… 🖤📖
A Detroit Diaries 🖤📖
The Last Days in Georgia — Part Six
Whatever’s Left Goes
By the time we finished sorting through the last of the paperwork, I was officially done looking at shit.
Not emotionally done.
Done done.
I stood in the middle of my half-empty office with my hands on my hips.
“Okay.”
Marshall looked over at me.
“Okay what?”
“I’m done.”
“With what?”
“This.”
I waved my hand around the room.
“Everything that’s left that isn’t going to Michigan, already sold, or being picked up tomorrow is getting donated.”
Mom looked up.
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
I pointed toward the remaining boxes.
“I’m not doing another fucking yard sale tomorrow.”
Dad laughed.
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. I have negotiated enough over lamps to last the rest of my natural life.”
Proof walked through the doorway carrying a box.
“Fourteen dollars.”
I stared at him.
“Don’t.”
He grinned.
“You got fourteen dollars for that lamp.”
“It was worth twenty!”
Marshall started laughing.
“Why are we still talking about the fucking lamp?!”
Mom gave me the look.
I sighed.
“Sorry.”
At this point, that word had probably become meaningless.
I grabbed another empty box.
“Seriously. Let’s pack all this shit up.”
And we did.
Kitchen things nobody bought.
Random decorations.
Books.
A couple lamps.
Clothes I had decided at the last second I didn’t actually care about.
Shoes.
Bathroom stuff.
Linens.
Small appliances.
Office supplies.
Random things from the basement.
Whatever could reasonably fit into somebody’s vehicle was going.
The desk was staying because somebody had already arranged to pick it up tomorrow.
Everything marked MICHIGAN was staying too.
That stuff wasn’t going anywhere except our house.
I caught myself.
Our house.
I stopped taping a box.
Marshall noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
I looked at him.
“I just called your house our house in my head.”
His mouth twitched.
“And?”
“And that’s fucking weird.”
“Why?”
“Because two weeks ago I didn’t even know where your house was.”
He laughed.
“And now you’re moving into it.”
“With your baby.”
He glanced toward my stomach.
“Yeah.”
I shook my head.
“Our lives are fucking ridiculous.”
“Pretty much.”
I smiled.
“Okay. Our house.”
He leaned over and kissed me.
“Our house.”
Well.
Fuck.
That did something to me.
⸻
One Last Donation Run
The donation place wasn’t some random organization we’d picked out of the phone book.
My family had taken things there before.
It was locally owned, and we knew the people.
Which made me feel better.
I wasn’t watching everything I’d owned get thrown away.
Somebody else was going to use it.
That mattered.
We loaded everything we could fit into the vehicles.
My Escalade was ridiculous.
Boxes in the cargo area.
Boxes behind the seats.
Bags wedged wherever they’d fit.
Mom’s vehicle had more.
Dad had stuff.
My siblings and relatives took whatever they could fit.
Proof looked at the caravan we’d created.
“Y’all need a fucking moving company.”
“I HAVE ONE.”
“Then why are we doing this?”
“Because the movers aren’t taking my donation shit to Michigan so I can donate it there!”
“Fair.”
“Thank you.”
I climbed behind the wheel of my Escalade.
Marshall came toward the passenger side.
I looked at him.
“You riding with me?”
“Yeah.”
“Brave.”
“Why?”
Proof immediately yelled from another vehicle—
“DON’T LET HER DRIVE!”
I rolled down my window.
“FUCK YOU!”
Mom shouted my name.
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
“Sorry, Mama!”
Marshall climbed into the passenger seat laughing.
“You ready?”
I put the Escalade into gear.
“Yep.”
Music came on.
Loud.
I cracked my window and started following everybody out.
Normally, this was exactly the kind of drive where I’d have a cigarette going, music blasting, window cracked, one leg tucked up whenever I got comfortable.
But I glanced down at my stomach.
Then at the cigarette pack.
Then back at my stomach.
I frowned.
“Fuck.”
Marshall looked over.
“What?”
“I want a cigarette.”
He didn’t say anything.
I shoved the pack farther away.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“I ain’t.”
“You were.”
“I literally wasn’t.”
“Well, don’t.”
He laughed.
I turned the music up.
“There. Music instead.”
“Probably better.”
“Don’t get used to being right.”
⸻
The donation drop-off took longer than expected.
Mostly because apparently every box contained something somebody wanted to discuss.
I knew one of the people working there, so immediately it became:
You’re moving?!
Yes.
Out of Georgia?!
Yes.
Where?!
Michigan.
Then came the inevitable:
Michigan?!
“Yes! Why does everybody say it like I’m moving to fucking Antarctica?”
Marshall stood behind me laughing.
I pointed at him.
“It’s his fault.”
The person looked at Marshall.
Then looked again.
Then REALLY looked.
I saw recognition happen in real time.
Oh God.
Here we go again.
Their eyes widened.
I smiled.
“Yep.”
They looked at me.
“Is that—”
“Yep.”
Marshall laughed.
I grabbed another box.
“Don’t make it weird.”
That got everybody laughing.
We unloaded the last bags.
Clothes.
Kitchen things.
Decorations.
Books.
Household stuff.
And when the final box came out of my Escalade, I stood there looking at the empty cargo area.
Another piece finished.
“That’s it.”
Mom hugged me.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
And surprisingly?
I was.
“Somebody else can use it.”
That felt good.
⸻
Applebee’s 🍎
By the time we finished, everybody was starving.
Nobody wanted leftovers.
Nobody wanted to cook.
And I definitely wasn’t going home to make dinner in a kitchen where half the shit had just been sold.
So we all met at Applebee’s.
The entire damn family.
Again.
I slid into the booth beside Marshall and immediately leaned against him.
He looked down.
“You tired?”
“Fucking exhausted.”
Mom was across the table.
She didn’t even correct me.
I lifted my head.
“Did you just let that go?”
She looked at me.
“I’m tired too.”
I gasped.
“WE’VE MADE PROGRESS.”
Dad laughed.
Mom rolled her eyes.
I put my head back on Marshall’s shoulder.
Then winced.
He immediately noticed.
“What?”
“My stomach hurts.”
His expression changed.
“Bad?”
“No. Just uncomfortable.”
Then I shifted again.
“And my boobs hurt.”
His eyes moved.
I immediately pointed at him.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“I saw your brain.”
Proof nearly choked on his drink.
I laughed despite myself.
Then I tugged at my jeans.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“What?”
“These pants.”
I finally undid the top button underneath my hoodie and exhaled.
“Ohhhh.”
Marshall laughed.
“Better?”
“So much fucking better.”
I looked down at my stomach.
“You’re making Mommy buy new jeans.”
Marshall rested his palm gently against the little bump.
“You can get whatever you need.”
I looked at him.
“Careful saying shit like that to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I shop.”
“I’ve seen your house.”
“Exactly.”
He kissed my forehead.
I leaned against him again.
The server came around for drinks.
“Dr Pepper.”
Obviously.
Then food.
I looked at the menu for approximately thirty seconds.
“Nachos.”
Mom looked at me.
“For your meal?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all?”
I looked at her.
“Baby wants nachos.”
Marshall looked down at my stomach.
“Baby told you that?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Telepathy.”
He laughed.
“Don’t question our child.”
⸻
While we waited, another question popped into my head.
Because apparently my brain had finally decided to address the logistics of the life-changing decision I’d made.
I lifted my head.
“Baby?”
“Yeah?”
“Coco.”
“What about her?”
“Do you want me to bring her?”
He stared at me.
I stared back.
“To Michigan.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know!”
I sat up.
“I’m asking!”
“She’s your dog.”
“Yeah.”
“So she’s coming.”
My face softened.
“Really?”
“Jessica.”
“What?”
“You thought I was gonna make you leave your dog in Georgia?”
“No. I just…”
I shrugged.
“I don’t know. It’s your house.”
“Our house.”
I stopped.
There was that word again.
He said it like it was nothing.
Like there was absolutely no question.
I smiled.
“Our house.”
His hand stayed over my stomach.
“And Coco’s coming.”
“Okay.”
I leaned over and kissed him.
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Proof groaned from farther down the table.
“Jesus Christ.”
I ignored him.
Because another question had arrived.
“Okay.”
Marshall laughed.
“What now?”
“How the hell is my Escalade getting to Michigan?”
He blinked.
“Oh.”
“YEAH. Oh.”
I gestured dramatically.
“Are we driving? Flying? Is somebody driving my truck? Is it getting shipped? Are we riding the tour bus? What the fuck is happening?”
He started laughing.
“Curiosity is killing me.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
“You ain’t a cat.”
“Oh well.”
I took a drink of Dr Pepper.
“Tell me.”
He thought about it.
And that’s when we finally started making an actual plan.
The tour wasn’t magically disappearing because I was moving.
Marshall still had dates.
People waiting on him.
A schedule.
Crew.
Buses.
Everything.
So we’d coordinate with his people and the movers.
The belongings marked for Michigan would go directly to Rochester Hills.
My Escalade could be transported up separately rather than making me drive it hundreds of miles while pregnant and exhausted.
And Coco?
Coco would travel with me.
I nodded slowly.
“So I don’t have to drive all the way to Michigan.”
“No.”
“Thank God.”
“Thought you liked driving.”
“I do!”
I pointed toward him.
“But Georgia to Michigan isn’t running to fucking Walmart.”
He laughed.
“And I wanna be with you.”
His expression softened.
“You will be.”
“On the bus?”
“Yeah.”
“With Coco?”
He paused.
I narrowed my eyes.
“Marshall.”
He laughed.
“We’ll figure Coco out.”
“No, sir. Coco and I are a package deal.”
“I know.”
“Me, baby and Coco.”
“Got it.”
“Good.”
I settled against him again.
His arm went around me.
His palm returned to my stomach.
And sitting there in Applebee’s with my jeans unbuttoned underneath my hoodie, a Dr Pepper sweating on the table and a plate of nachos somewhere in my immediate future, I realized something ridiculous.
This was probably the first normal thing we’d done all day.
And even this wasn’t normal.
My family filled half the damn table.
Proof was arguing with somebody about appetizers.
Mom was tired enough that she’d temporarily surrendered the war against my vocabulary.
My entire house was practically empty.
Tomorrow somebody was coming for my desk.
Movers were coming.
My Escalade somehow needed to get to Michigan.
Coco was apparently becoming a touring dog.
And the man beside me—the man I’d known for a matter of weeks—had one hand resting over the baby we’d made before either of us had any fucking idea what we were getting ourselves into.
I looked down at his hand.
Then up at him.
“Baby?”
He smiled.
“What now?”
I smiled back.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
I kissed him.
“I just love you.”
He kissed me again.
“Love you too.”
Proof dropped his head against the table.
“I cannot do another two days of this shit.”
I laughed.
“You’re coming on tour with us!”
He slowly lifted his head.
His expression changed.
“Oh, fuck.”
Marshall started laughing.
I nearly fell against him.
“YOU JUST REALIZED THAT?!”
Proof shook his head.
“I gotta listen to this shit across multiple states?”
“YES!”
“Hell no.”
“Too late!”
And finally—
Our food arrived.
I looked at the enormous plate of nachos being placed in front of me.
Everything else disappeared.
I sat up.
“Oh, fuck yeah.”
Mom didn’t even look at me.
Progress.
Beautiful, beautiful progress.
⸻
Later, we’d go back to a house that barely looked like mine anymore.
Tomorrow somebody would come for the desk.
The movers would take what I’d labeled for Michigan.
We’d decide exactly how my Escalade was getting north.
I’d pack Coco’s things alongside mine.
And Sunday?
Sunday I’d leave Georgia.
But tonight, sitting underneath the too-bright lights of Applebee’s with my family crowded around me and Marshall beside me, Georgia still felt like home.
So I wasn’t going to say goodbye yet.
Not tonight.
To Be Continued… 🖤📖
Next — One of My Last Nights in Georgia 🌙🖤
Eminem interview with NME magazine from 2000 part 2. This is from theeminemblogspot.com
Eminem