A Life More Complete by Nikki Young Page A

“Fuck!”
    Moving with ease to my bedroom I pull
on a black wrap dress and grab a pair of black pumps carrying them with me as I
exit the closet. The room is still shrouded in darkness as I stumble toward the
bathroom. I pull my hair into a messy knot at the nape of my neck and secure it
with a hair tie, slipping a red flower pin next to the knot. I coat my lashes
in mascara, bronze my cheeks and brush my teeth with as much silence as I can
manage. I look at myself in the mirror and hope I look as good in the dim light
as I will on camera. I make my way to the bed, bending down I whisper into Ben’s
ear as his eyelids flutter.
    “Ben. I gotta go. It’s early. Don’t
get up. I’ll call you later. Love you, baby.”
    “Where are you going?” he mumbles.
    “The Los Angeles Police Station. I’ll
explain later.”
    “You’ve started answering your phone
in the middle of the night again?” he responds his eyes still closed.
    “Yes,” I whisper.
    “Huh. Surprise, surprise,” he says
rolling away from me.
    “I don’t want to argue with you now.
I have to go.” There will come a time when he will no longer tolerate my
bullshit and I know that, yet I still walk out the door.
    He mumbles, still sleepy, his voice
hoarse, “You always have to go.” I roll my eyes at his words knowing they are
true. I tug the bottom of my dress down and grit my teeth. What the hell is wrong with me? Ben is perfect and I’m
single-handedly pissing him off for no reason. Why am I doing this to him? And
yet, I still walk away.
    Shoes in hand, I leave through the
garage door, my index finger instinctively tapping the pad on each finger of my
right hand and my lips moving wordlessly until I get to ten and repeating
again. I shake my hand when I realize what I’ve just done. It’s been a long
time since my OCD reared its ugly head and considering what’s occurred I’m not
surprised.
    I text Melinda and Bob asking them to
meet me at the LAPD Hollywood station with a brief but to the point explanation.
Trini had been arrested and booked on suspicion of DUI, felony cocaine
possession and leaving the scene of an accident. I spoke to Trini last night
and everything seemed fine, but guilt pulled at the back of my mind. I’d been
waiting for this moment since we walked out of that doctor’s office six months
ago. Everyone knows that feeling, the feeling that something isn’t right, but
you just can’t put your finger on it. Even in sleep it wakes you, calling to
you from the back of your mind, making you restless and anxious. I couldn’t
bring myself to broach the subject with her, so I let it rest knowing
eventually it would turn sour.
    Melinda pulls into the parking lot
just as I’m exiting my car. She parks her Mercedes SUV next to me and steps out
wearing a black suit and a pair of red snakeskin pumps. You’d have thought we
planned it.
    “Bob’s not coming,” she says tersely.
    “Not surprised,” I reply indignantly.
Bob washed his hands of Trini after her first meltdown, and really, I can’t
blame him. He has zero tolerance for her crap and has pretty much taken a
backseat unless I ask him for help. Back in 2003, Trini was on tour for her
first album when she had a nervous breakdown. Unfortunately for her it was
caught on camera. A camera crew was documenting her tour when she freaked out
on one of her dancers, all the while the cameras kept rolling catching her
profanity laced tirade and the subsequent beat down. Afterward, she got
stinking drunk, stole her father’s car and wrapped it around a tree. She was successfully
sued by the dancer and forced into anger management classes and out-patient
rehab. It was too much for Bob and his words still trouble me, “This won’t be the last time this happens,
mark my words, she’s a shit show.” I knew he was right at the time, I just
had no idea how bad it would get.
    As we follow the sidewalk up to the
door, microphones, recorders, cameras are shoved into our faces. Both of