Part 1

This Is a Man’s World

1

A heavy rain steadily pours from a cloud-filled sky. Even though it’s seven in the morning in late August, the sun is hiding above the clouds. It looks pure ugly outside. And my day isn’t starting out very well.

I’m sitting in the passenger seat of my beautiful red candy Lincoln MKT. I feel paranoid. Can everyone see the worry on my face as I’m driving to meet my husband, Forrest, for breakfast? The roads are slick. Dangerously wet. One false move and my SUV could veer off the road. Crash headfirst into an eighteen-wheeler. What if I die? Would death feel better than how I feel right now?

Confronting Forrest Foster is something I dread with everything inside me. Arguing is so draining. Pointless at times. I love peace. Harmony. There’s nothing better than when I feel strongly connected to my husband, when we’re joking, laughing, sharing a loving smile, and just bonding. Conflict doesn’t allow for the good things that I adore.

But I have to go to him. And meeting my husband in a public place is the best way to handle this. I dread confronting him in the privacy of our home. At home it would be just the two of us, hidden behind high walls and closed venetian blinds. After hearing what I’m about to ask him, my husband may get angry and scream at the top of his lungs, sounding and looking as mean as Joe Jackson. The last time Forrest got angry, he screeched so loud it caused such a commotion that the neighbors heard him. My face reddened with shame. I never want to repeat that scene.

It takes another twenty minutes of driving before I arrive at Dot Coffee Shop. Dot’s is a popular Houston eatery that serves home-style cooking. They bake some of the best hot buttered rolls within miles. We’ve eaten here many times; times when things were great between us.

When I enter through the front entrance, I immediately see my husband. I wave and slide into a booth right across from Forrest. I’m calmly staring at him with my hands resting on the wooden table. I silently peer at the man whom I’ve trusted with my heart for more than seven years. His handsome face consists of a square chin, thick brows above deep-set brown eyes, full lips, neat mustache, and eyelashes so long any vain woman would kill to have them. His broad shoulders, muscular thighs, and long legs make him look like a strong, foreboding type of man.

Forrest Foster is my sexy red-bone soul mate.

Mine.

“Heyyy baby,” he greets me. When he’s happy, his talking voice sounds like he’s singing. “So wassup? You never wake up this early when you don’t have the girls.” He closely scrutinizes the oversized menu even though he orders the same thing every time we come here. Silly man.

I take a nervous glance around the restaurant. We’re seated in a tiny corner and out of view of many of the other talkative patrons. It’s busy this morning. The drone of the ringing cash register adds to the energy of the restaurant.

Even so, I lower my voice. “Well, um. I wanted to talk.”

“I don’t know why you didn’t just wait till I got home. I would’ve been there right after work.”

“Oh really?” I ask, sounding doubtful.

Forrest carefully sets his menu on the table. He grabs my hands and pulls them in his. His hands feel soft and welcoming, one more thing I love about him.

“Where’s your gold band?” I whisper, nodding at his left hand.

“Huh? It’s probably at home . . . in the bathroom . . . on the counter.”

“Probably?”

“Look, Carmen, I’m sensing this weird vibe from you.” He releases my hands. “Why don’t you just tell me why we’re meeting here instead of talking at the crib?”

“To be blunt, I wasn’t sure you’d come straight home.”

“Where else would I be?”

I take a deep breath. “Toni called the house at five this morning.”

“So what?”

“She called private, Forrest. I don’t like when people call private.”

“How’d you know it was her?”

“Don’t you remember we can check who phones our landline even if they call private?”

“Oh, you on some bullshit, huh? You’re some type of female James Bond now?”

Forrest sounds very disappointed. God, I hate this.

He sneers at me, looking deeply in my eyes. I’m sure he sees the coldness. The lifelessness. I don’t want to feel this way, or appear so distressed. Not until I hear his explanation.

But every time I bring up Toni, my husband gets in a funky mood.

“Okay. Big deal. Toni called. That’s not unusual. It’s probably about Dante.”

“But why wouldn’t she just call your cell?”

“Maybe it was turned off at the time. Shittttt. I don’t know.” He barks at me. My insides stiffen with dread. I pray he can control the volume of his voice.

“Forrest, just tell me one thing. Are you fucking Toni?”

“What?”

“Answer. The. Question. Yes or no.”

“No!” he shouts. “She’s my baby mama. That’s all she ever was. All she’ll ever be.”

“Okay, okay.” I nervously back down when I notice two wrinkly faced women staring.

But I can’t help but feel skeptical of his claim of not messing around with his ex. The IMs I recently found on his computer screen won’t allow me to believe him. The tender words he wrote her convict him.

 

I miss that. LOL. When we gonna do it again?

 

And Toni’s words in response to his:

bAby u know u can have me anytime, anyplace. xOxo.

Guilty until proven innocent.

“Carmen.” He speaks in a more gentle voice. “I’ve worked hard all night. We had two close calls with my train, plus some of my cargo was missing.”

Forrest works as a railroad conductor and has many important responsibilities.

“So these assholes are watching me like a hawk, like I’m incompetent or not on top of my game. That’s why I hate working third shift. Always something going down.”

“I know, babe. I know,” I reply, trying to match his calmness so we won’t cause a scene.

“Then why are you starting BS this early in the morning over stupid-ass Toni?”

Forrest calling his baby mama “stupid” doesn’t impress me. Not anymore. The fact that he met Toni before he knew me and had a baby with her before we dated used to bother me. But when he married me instead of Toni, I felt like our love was secure. He wasn’t going to let any baby mama drama seep into our relationship. And back then, to prove his love, Forrest presented me with a beautiful diamond solitaire, gave me his last name, and solidified his commitment.

“Look,” I say and whip out my iPhone. I show him three tiny photos that I’d snapped of the IMs that were on his desktop computer screen. Disturbing messages between my husband and Toni, the mother of their fourteen-year old son, Dante.

“What’s that,” he asks, squinting.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Woman, I can’t see that. It’s all blurry. Why are you playing games?” His voice is getting louder. I have no appetite. But Forrest, who quickly shifts gears and begins smiling at the homely waitress who approaches our table, asks her to bring him a plate of French toast, two scrambled eggs, grits, hash browns, sausage, and a big glass of orange juice.

When the waitress leaves, I ask, “You act like you’re eating for two. Are you?”

“Shut up, Carmen. Just be quiet.”

“Forrest, all I want is the truth. These photos, they’re IMs of conversations between you and that, that—” I scowl like I’m sucking lemons.

“Watch it, now. She’s Dante’s mother.”

“And I’m your wife. I deserve the utmost respect. If you flirt with that woman and cross boundaries with her, no wonder she’s treating me like I’m the jump-off.”

“Don’t be silly. Toni knows how to stay in her lane.”

I loudly sigh and expel a frustrated breath. I can’t believe my husband is so willing to eat a king’s meal while I’m sitting up here ready to bite off all my fingernails. An expensive manicure that he paid for. What’s his problem?

“I just want to know how long have y’all been fucking? Don’t lie. Because you’re cold busted,” I say, waving my phone at him.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh right. With some men, unless they get caught in the act, they’ve done nothing wrong, is that how it goes?”

“Shhhh, Carmen. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

Now men, women, and even cute little babies are gaping at us.

I hop up from the table. “I’ll be back.” I can’t stand to sit across from Forrest any longer. I feel so frustrated. I hate fighting. And I despise the invisible wall sandwiched between us. Why is he acting so cold? He’s in denial. I guess I am, too. When something seems too damn perfect it usually is. For the past seven years I’ve been pretending like I have the most perfect husband, the most wonderful life.

I’m sick of pretending.

Like Toni said when she called this morning, she likes to keep it “one hunnert.”

It’s time I start living in the real world, and keep it one hundred myself.

2

I’m barricaded in the ladies’ room of the restaurant and examining my face in the mirror. I’ve been blessed with perfect oil-free skin, strong high cheekbones, wide black eyes that sparkle when I smile, and thick dark hair braided from the front to the crown; the back of my head is filled with lush curls that cascade to my shoulders. I look fabulous, chic, and friendly from the outside, but inside Carmen Foster feels miserable. It’s like my brain is about to explode and that’s not how I want to feel.

I reflect on the words Toni and I exchanged in the wee hours of the morning when she decided to pick up her phone and call ours.

“Forrest there?”

The call came in as private. But I know Toni’s breathy voice even when she’s trying to disguise it. “Toni, why are you calling here asking for my husband? Don’t you know he’s at work?”

“Last night Forrest told me he might not go to work. That he was feeling sick and may call in. I’m checking on him and trying to find out what happened.”

He never told me he was feeling sick, although I did hear him sneezing a couple of times before he left for work.

“Well, he’s not here so . . .”

“Poor baby. So dedicated. Be a sweetheart and ask him to call me.”

I bristle with anger.

“Toni, may I ask you something?”

“It’s a free country.”

“Why do I sense that you’re fucking with me?”

“Oh, it’s not you who I’m fucking, honey.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“If you had been doing your job as a woman, you wouldn’t be going through this.”

“Going through what?” I ask in breathless anger.

“Humph, I’m wasting my time talking to you. If he’s over here with me does he really belong to you? Even if you do have his so-called ring and last name? Ask him where his ring is. Humph. Ask him that.”

“Toni, what’s this really about?”

“I’m keeping it one hunnert. And I recommend you start doing the same.”

That heffa hung up even when I tried to respond. I flung the iPhone onto the bed. I wondered what the hell was going on. Was this woman still bitter over the fact that Forrest and I got married even after she rejected his engagement? Back then she told Forrest she loved him. But the tramp wasn’t sure if the baby was his or someone other poor clueless sucker’s. So she wouldn’t marry him. But later on, after the baby was born, she found out Dante was Forrest’s and she begged him to marry her. But by that time Forrest had moved on. We were in love. He proposed to me. I said sí, ja, oui. And now Toni’s claim to fame is being Forrest Foster’s baby mama. And all she can do is instigate. Be jealous. Act out.

Because Forrest Foster and I have what Toni wishes she had: a husband with a good job that pays excellent benefits and enough income to take care of his wife plus two adorable daughters: Briana, six, and Jazmin, three. These two kids are the joy of our lives. As far as I’m concerned, our life is complete, content, and lacks nothing. Moreover, Forrest and I are the proud owners of a luxurious two-story brick home located on a cul-de-sac. It features a first-floor master suite complete with master bath, Jacuzzi tub, separate shower, his-and-her closets, and a sitting room. We’ve got a bad-ass kitchen with top-of-the-line Viking appliances, gas fireplace in the family room, a large library, a spiral staircase in the two-story foyer, and three more bedrooms upstairs.

A house to die for.

When Forrest’s amazing father died a year after we got married, the widowed man left his only child a six-figure insurance policy, enough for us to place a hefty down payment on our house, plus tastefully furnish the entire place, travel every year, and allocate funds for future emergencies.

Sometimes when I think about how blessed I am, I can almost sympathize with Toni. But not for long. Women like her make me sick. They chase after knuckleheads that treat ’em worse than murderers, but mess over a decent-hearted man who has goals and wants a better life. But when she realizes she made a mistake, she wants to backpedal. Toni had her chance but blew it. If she hadn’t let so many disgusting men get between her legs while she was dating Forrest maybe she would be more than what she is. A used-up jealous whore. But she can’t totally complain. Toni may not have the man, but she gets plenty of child support; besides, Dante is on my husband’s health and dental insurance. She has me to thank for all of that. Although I hate that he got involved with this skank prior to meeting me, I insist he do right by his child. But just because Forrest acts honorably with Dante doesn’t mean I’m willing to put up with Toni’s crap. Not when she is pretty much insinuating that she’s fucking Forrest.

If there’s any truth to what she’s suggesting, I will want to bust this home-wrecking heffa upside her head, then pull a Jackie Chan on my husband. I’ll jump from the staircase onto his big ole head and fatally injure that fool.

Hold up; let me get a grip on myself.

In reality, I’ve come too far to let craziness destroy the best relationship I’ve ever had. In the past, I’ve dated some scrubs, a couple addicts, and a few unmotivated guys that didn’t know where they were going in life. But Forrest was different. I wasn’t blinded by a million red flags when we dated. Instead, I recognized his admirable qualities.

Paying the bills on time is a priority with Forrest, so he has excellent credit and is always getting credit card offers in the mail. He takes good care of the house, knows how to repair broken electronic devices, and doesn’t mind mowing, pulling weeds, and watering the lawn. He never complains about doing dirty work, like taking out trash or killing roaches and spiders, things I’m not about to touch. In other words, I don’t have much to complain about. All I know is that I love Forrest Foster and the splendid life we’ve built together.

But when I think about all the good and try to be more realistic about our life, everything isn’t totally perfect every single day. We squabble now and then like all married couples. We say things we don’t mean and act stubborn and petty. And there were a couple of times when Forrest got so angry that I noticed another side of him. A side that scared the dog crap out of me.

A side that made me question things.

A side that brought me here to Dot Coffee Shop.

A side that compels me to keep it one hundred with Forrest and to see if he’ll do the same for me.

I say a quick prayer and depart from the ladies’ room. But a tall, deliciously handsome man whose head is covered in dark dreadlocks is forced to share the tiny hallway with me. We are in close proximity as we try to pass one another.

“Good morning, beautiful. How are you today?”

I smile back, shocked at his attention. “Fine, and you?”

“You’re more than fine. You’re incredibly gorgeous. Sexy just like Kim Kardashian, only prettier.”

I blush. “Thanks. That’s so kind.”

“Are you spoken for?”

“Yes, she is,” Forrest says with a stern voice, appearing out of nowhere. He taps my arm several times: the classic “she’s mine” signal. Forrest grabs my elbow so aggressively a sharp pain shoots through it. He rushes me back to our booth.

“Don’t do that,” I angrily tell him and sit down. “I feel embarrassed. That was so unnecessary.”

“You should feel embarrassed. How can you give that random man some play?”

“He was just giving me a compliment. No big deal.”

“Men don’t just give compliments, Carmen. They usually want something.”

“Oh really?” I say sarcastically.

“Whatever. I’m almost done eating. You want anything?”

“Yes. I do. I want to know what’s really going on between you and Toni. I want to know where you were last Saturday morning. I’ve never known you to be late like that.”

“Huh?” he asks like he’s hard of hearing.

“Forrest, don’t play dumb. Why didn’t you come straight home from work? Remember, you promised to take the MKT to the detailer? But you showed up two hours later with no explanation. You had a big grin on your face. Your clothes were wrinkled. And you smelled funny.”

“You must be joking.”

“Do I look like Chris Tucker?”

“Somewhat.”

“Forrest!”

“Carmen.”

“Look, be serious, because I’m not joking. Don’t forget, details come easily for me. I remember everything.”

“What were you doing yesterday afternoon at 4:33 and a half?” he says laughingly.

“Forrest, you know what? I’m starting to get impatient.”

“I am, too,” he says seriously. “Baby, you just don’t understand. I hate being blindsided. We could have discussed this at home. And now you’re out of the house early in the morning flirting with some Jamaican-looking punk when I’m a few yards away.”

“Forrest, Forrest, listen up. This isn’t about me.”

His eyes glaze over. He’s not hearing me. Disconnect makes me nervous.

When Forrest and I first started dating, I noted everything about him that stood out. How he dressed conservative yet sharp; the colognes he wore always turned me on. I noticed how cute he looked when he rolled his tongue across his bottom lip. I knew he was happiest when I agreed with him and did whatever he said. And when I made him happy, he always made me happy. We were so connected I knew I never wanted to be with any other man for the rest of my life. I loved me some Forrest Raymond Foster. I still love him.

And in spite of what’s going on right now, I know this man loves me.

“Baby, I need to tell you something.” His voice is shaking. He sounds weird. He wipes his sweaty forehead with a white napkin.

“Carmen, darling,” he continues. “You see it’s like this. I-I never meant to hurt you. It was just . . . it was stupid really. Something men do but it means nothing. It meant nothing. Trust me. You don’t have to worry. . . .” He mutters in a hoarse voice I’ve never heard before.

My knees knock together underneath the table. It’s difficult to breathe, as if all oxygen has left my body.

“W-what did you say?” I whisper. “It’s true? You did it? With Toni?”

He sighs heavily, looks at me, then at his empty plate. He tosses a twenty on the table and barks, “Let’s go.”

I sit in stunned silence for ten minutes.

I managed to recover and am now following him, driving behind my husband’s Ford F-150, dark green, sparkly, and shiny just how he prefers our vehicles to look. As usual, Forrest is in “I’m the Boss” mode. Him directing. Me following. Him deciding what we do and when. Me agreeing and going along with the program. All throughout our marital union, his way of doing things has worked. An intelligent hardworking African American male who still embraces traditional albeit chauvinistic values: The head of the house works, provides, pays the major bills, and protects his family.

In Forrest’s mind, the wife must be beautiful, groomed, and dignified at all times. He also couldn’t wait to get me pregnant. In the early years, he yearned for Dante to have a little brother. As fate would have it, he had to settle for two girls.

And I love being a mom, most of the time, but I’m eight years younger than Forrest. He’s thirty-eight. Sometimes I want to do things that young women want to do. But he always reminds me how lucky I was to nab a catch like him.

Many chicks would trade places with you in a minute. How many women your age have a five-thousand-square-foot house with a three-car garage? How many own half a dozen authentic Coach bags? Possess NBA season tickets three years in a row? Shop at Neiman Marcus for every special occasion? Take a two-week vacation in California’s wine country in the spring and go skiing in Aspen during winter break? Or fly to Manhattan just to go shopping for the kids’ summer wardrobe?

Forrest likes the good things in life and wants to share them with me. He knows I didn’t come from a wealthy family and had never been outside the state of Texas when I was growing up. He knew my first car was a hooptie that I loved, but he told me that nothing beats driving a brand-new car straight off the lot. There were many things he wanted to give me. He wanted to make me happier than I’d ever been in my life.

Whenever Forrest reminds me of all he’s done for me and how he’s given me a dream life, I shut up. I wonder how I can be so ungrateful. How can I take my amazing blessings for granted? I clear my head. I pretend like I’m starting from the beginning, a time when all I desired was pure love with a strong black man who had my back.

My dream got fulfilled through Forrest. But now, as I’m driving directly behind my man, I need to connect the dots of our beginning to what’s going on these days. What’s with this confession he just revealed? Why would he betray me with Toni of all people? And can I ever forgive him? What is really going on in my so-called perfect marriage?

3

When Forrest and I met, the first place he took me was AstroWorld. Back then it was such a fun-filled romantic place for two people in love. The park was packed to the brim with the sounds of carnival music, laughing children, and rowdy teens. We’d strolled every inch of the amusement park holding hands. We’d gotten totally wet on the Bamboo Shoot, hopped on Batman: the Escape, crashed into one another’s bumper boats, and yelled our heads off on the Texas Cyclone and the Greezed Lightnin’ roller coaster. I loved how even though he was much bigger than me, he didn’t care if I heard him screaming like a kid.

“You’re so pretty. And you’re all mine. I’m going to make you my wife. My baby mama.” I’d smile and blush at the same time. Forrest had a way of making me feel so special. Even though he was the oldest guy I’d ever dated, the way he made me feel made up for any age-related concerns. He’d wrap his arm tightly around my shoulder, especially when he noticed other men openly staring at me.

Why you wear shirts that expose those tits? he’d ask. Those are my titties. I thought his display of jealousy sounded so cute. So did my friends. My best girlfriend, Shalita Dixon, was like, “Heyyy now, you got yourself a keeper, girllllll. Ask Forrest if he got any friends? Or a clone? Humph, if you don’t know you better ask somebody.”

My girlfriend would make these statements and I’d burst out laughing. But I knew she was genuinely ecstatic for me. A victory for me gave her hope. And Shalita, of course, was my maid of honor at our wedding. She grinned when I walked down the aisle blowing kisses at my guests. And tears streamed down my friend’s face when Forrest and I were pronounced husband and wife. Since then, she loves teasing me about “where is your fine-ass husband?”

I settled into my role as Mrs. Forrest Foster. And I had to pinch myself when Forrest showed me the dream house he wanted to buy me two years into our marriage. We’d previously gone house-hunting together, but I hated all of the ones the Realtor showed us. I wanted something really special. Forrest said he’d look on his own. Then one Saturday afternoon he drove me to this gorgeous house in Missouri City, a burgeoning suburb southwest of Houston.

Who needs all this space? I asked.

We do. Us and our kids. My baby that you’re having.

What you talkin’ about, Forrest? I said.

Forrest was so tuned into me that he knew I was pregnant even before I did. And our family expanded with the birth of Briana. She was underweight but a fighter who was released from the hospital three weeks after she was born. Forrest has doted on her (and her little sister Jazmin) ever since.

Our house is located in Lake Olympia, a master planned community in Fort Bend County, considered one of the fastest growing and most prosperous counties in the United States. Some of the most notable Houstonians live in my neighborhood, including Beyoncé’s parents, some NFL players, and various black businessmen and politicians. But the fact that you live around the corner from Destiny’s Child doesn’t matter when you have drama in the house. What, are they going to stop singing just to run down the street and help me? I think not.

 

 

Forrest and I make a left turn onto our street, the one with the man-made lake surrounding the small island. We both click and point our automatic garage-door openers and drive into our respective sides of the three-vehicle garage. I always take the middle port. Forrest takes the left. His motorcycle, golf clubs, skiing equipment, and all our bicycles are stored in the right side.

This morning our impeccably decorated home is as still as a Sunday morning. Normally our daughters would be here, but they spent the night with my mom, Miriam, my sweet angel in disguise, who insists on taking the girls off my hands twice a week. My brother lives with her and I appreciate both Mommy’s and his help more than they realize.

Especially today.

I place my leather Coach satchel on the island kitchen lit up by bright fluorescent lights.

“Baby, let’s start from the beginning,” I say to Forrest, who immediately powers up the coffee maker and grabs my favorite mug. It’s lavender and is taller than the average mug, its texture smooth to the touch. He knows Starbucks’s French roast coffee quiets my nerves. Plus, the aroma permeates the house, making the first level smell strong and soothing.

“I know it sounds unfair, Carmen, but I said what I had to say. I’m not in the mood to go deep into this.”

“But I have a right to know what happened. How did it happen? How many times did you see her?”

“Not many.”

“How many?”

“It was, um, two times, Carmen. That’s all.”

“Twice?”

“Okay, three times, I swear.”

Ugh. A butcher knife in my stomach would be great compared to how I feel right now.

“Forrest,” I cry in a tiny voice.

“You gotta believe me.”

“What I can’t believe is that you actually did it. Why? Why her?” I walk in a circle and return to face him. He looks way too calm, something I don’t understand.

“I’m sorry, Carmen. It wasn’t planned; just happened.”

“How? Tell me everything.”

“Baby, you don’t want to do this. It’s just sex.”

“Just sex? Just sex?”

“Yeah, I don’t love her. You know that.”

“Then why do it?”

“That’s why I don’t want to talk about this. You can’t handle this. Just let my apology be enough. I just don’t want to hurt you any more with the details.”

“But I-I-I must know, Forrest. I want to know how this could’ve happened . . . without me even sensing it. I don’t get it.”

“It just did.” It’s amazing how that feeble voice is coming out of his big body.

“How do I know if you caught something?”

“I used condoms. Everything is cool.”

“Oh Forrest. Everything isn’t cool.” I moan. How can he be so laid back? I want to scratch out his eyeballs. “I trusted you. Do you know that?” Using great force, I push in his forehead with my fingers till he stumbles backward. “Do you know that?” I scream.

“Yes, baby, I know.”

“Like hell you do. Trust is a big issue with me. Do you know what it feels like to tell anyone who listens, my family, my girlfriends, what a great husband I have? That the father of my kids is my real-life duke, my royalty.”

“Now c’mon, Carmen. You tend to exaggerate—.”

“No, because see, in my eyes, you were my prince.”

“For real? Aw damn. Now I feel worse.”

“You ought to feel worse. Because I just can’t believe this is happening. You know good and well Toni despises me. She will never stop rubbing the affair in my face. I can’t deal with that. Why didn’t you think about all this beforehand? Why would you put me in this position?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” he shouts. “I told you I’m sorry!”

Why is he yelling at me? I can’t take this anymore.

I double over and grab my belly, trying to calm the butterflies that have taken flight inside of me. My tear ducts are completely dry. It must be the shock; the pure humiliation that riddles my entire being.

“Carmen, baby. You gotta understand. I love you, girl. Always have. Always will. It’s you that I love. I just made a dumb mistake. Forgive me.”

I don’t respond to him for a long time. It’s hard to wrap your head around things that will never ever make sense.

“Carmen,” he says softly. “I love youuuu.”

“How would I know that?”

“Look around.” He knows our home is amazing and he works hard to maintain it.

Whoopty doo!

“Spare me, Forrest. I-I . . .”

I’m left with no more words. Does true love feel like a swift kick that hollows out the gut? Does he really think material things cover up moral failure?

“It’ll never happen again, Carmen. I swear. And I am sorry. It meant nothing. Nothing.”

I think about the recent pitiful state of our sex life. Dry-ass kisses. Quickies with limp dickies.

I can get a better orgasm masturbating.

I glare at him. “Is your affair the reason why we haven’t made love like we used to? Huh? Your stamina reminds me of your cell-phone battery. You quickly run out of juice.”

The more I imagine my husband plugging his “battery” into that woman, the more I feel like the Incredible Hulk. And before I know it, I grab my empty coffee mug and pitch it toward Forrest’s big ole head.

4

Time stops.

My all-time favorite coffee mug zips through the air like a football. It makes a whishing noise and heads straight at husband’s forehead. He instinctively ducks. The ceramic cup slams against the metal refrigerator door. It makes a horrible whacking sound and smashes into numerous pieces. A tiny dent is now visible on the refrigerator door, a horrible reminder of what shouldn’t be.

“Forrest, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t like this, I hate this. This has to stop. I’m freaking. What’s wrong with me?”

Forrest nods like he concurs. We’re out of control. He grabs me and pulls me close to his chest. He plants tender kisses on my forehead, whispering his apologies.

“It’s not you. It’s me. Baby, forgive me, please. I messed up. You don’t deserve this drama. If you hate me I understand, but I hope you don’t. I still need and want your love, Carmen. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

I feel so upset, so torn in half. Even though I don’t agree and instantly accept everything Forrest is saying, I am so mentally drained that I slowly allow myself to let the immediate pain go. I’m past the point of screaming. I calm down and recall lessons experienced women taught me over the years. Things like “As long as your man brings home the bacon and is responsible, he’s doing way more than what some men are. And if he is discreet, he really does love you because only an asshole would blatantly show off his affairs. If he acts like he’s sorry he probably is so forgive him and move on. Because if you divorce him, some other skank will pick up where you left off, and with the way the law works these days, wifey number two may end up with this beautiful house and that’s not right.”

I listen and think and nod and say to myself, yes, I love my husband and I can’t imagine not being with him. We’ve never had any major blips in our marriage. This is major blip number one.

I reason that as long as Forrest remembers to stick to his vows from now on and never betrays me again, and never gives that freaking tenacious woman any reason to think she’s something special, then I’ll be okay. I can forgive.

Hell, I think about the time that I totaled the first car Forrest bought me. Hadn’t had the damn Mustang convertible two days when I wasn’t paying attention and I slammed into a concrete wall of a major highway. Thank God I wasn’t badly hurt. But that little car. Forget it. My husband wanted to kill me. He yelled and hot tears poured like buckets of water all over my cheeks and clothes. I let him chew me out big time. Eventually he got over his anger. He began smiling again. Loving me again.

Can I do the same?

We clean up the mess from the broken coffee mug. He talks and tries to smooth things over. After sweeping the floor, Forrest kisses me and holds me a long time. Once he’s certain I’m okay, I decide to delete the photos of the IMs from my phone. I ask Forrest to tell Toni to never call our house again. Forrest calls Toni right in front of me and orders her to chill. Reminds her that Dante is his only concern.

The next day he pulls a Kobe and buys me an exquisite sapphire diamond ring. It sparkles at every angle. I feel guilty for accepting his guilt gift. Last time he got on my nerves and bought me a vase of beautiful roses, I dumped them in the garbage and told him to go to hell. But Lord knows I’m a sucker for fine jewelry. And when I call Shalita to tell her about it, she assures me I deserve that gift and I’d be a big fool to reject it.

Shalita and I meet a week later. I have to unload. It takes courage to admit to my best friend that everything that glitters isn’t gold. I’ve never wanted anyone to think that my marriage is less than ideal. That we’re actually human and not role models.

We meet at Panera Bread on Highway 6 and the Southwest Freeway. I can’t wait to stuff my mouth with something packed with sugar and they bake the best pastries.

I calmly tell Shalita what happened.

“W-w-what?” she says.

“I couldn’t believe it myself, Shalita. I felt like I didn’t know this man. Felt so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid, Carmen. It happens to the best of us. We all play the fool at least one time in life.” She pokes her lips way out and rolls her eyes. She laughs. I do, too. Shalita is notorious for selecting men that want to date three to five women at a time but swear they’re into monogamy.

“At least I know I’m in good company.”

“How has Forrest been since then?”

“Like the man I thought I knew. His actions have been perfect, Shalita. I’m still pissed at him, yet I don’t want him to stop acting like he has some sense.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Very attentive. Comes straight home after work. Draws me a hot bubble bath and bathes me himself. And he rubs my feet with lotion and gently kneads them with his fingers. I end up falling asleep on the sofa. He hasn’t raised his voice; no arguing whatsoever. He has even helped more around the house, doing stuff I’ve been asking him to do for a month. This is what I want. It’s what I love.”

“Hmmm, I heard that. Hope he keeps it up. Hope it’s coming from his heart.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Some guys do things as if they’re just going through the motions, very robotic like with no sincerity. One time, I dated Hershel Warfield. Remember him? With his Chinese eyes and Louisiana accent. Oooo, I loved that nigga to death. But he’d grow from hot to cold all the time. He’d be there in the moment, then he’d suddenly spaz out. I’d feel like I was all alone even when both of us were in the same room.”

“He just wasn’t that into you, huh?”

“He was more into dope, that’s what it was. I caught him freebasing in my living room with some strange guy and I kicked his cute self to the curb. I will not take second place to drugs. Just say no.”

“Yeah, I guess most men have to say no to something if they want to make their relationship work. I’m just happy that Forrest is manning up. He admitted his error. But you know, he did blame it on being a man, like stepping out is what some men are expected to do.”

“I don’t buy that. It’s a weak excuse. It’s such a cliché, to hook up with the rough and tumble baby mama.”

“Yep, that’s what I was thinking. Why can’t women pull together and support one another instead of stabbing each other in the back as if that shit isn’t going to come back on them?”

“Bitch-ass hos like Toni don’t care. She just wants what she wants.”

“And it’s so hard because I love Dante, too. He’s like my own. He’s so helpful with the girls. I don’t want to take out my hatred for Toni on him. So Forrest and I decided to chill. But I can admit that I’ve wanted to call Toni and give her a piece of my mind.”

“The best way to win this war is to act like she doesn’t exist. Have you noticed she only is happy when she’s making you miserable?”

“Yes. I have. Sad. So sad. And she only has four fingers on her left hand. Ewww. How could he hook up with that?”

Shalita shrugs and rolls her eyes. “You heard that people who snitch are cowards? People that do bitch-ass moves like Toni and snitch on themselves are cowards, too. Her heart isn’t right, you know what I mean? She’s evil, Carmen. You better watch yourself around her.”

“She’s dead to me. And that’s that. Forrest and I are making our union stronger. I won’t be as trusting anymore, because I can’t. I still have a ways to go but I must start somewhere. Anyway, girl, he planned a very romantic weekend for next week. He’s keeping the details a secret, but I’m looking forward to that. Forget baby mamas who can’t get their own man and always try to push up on your man.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“You mean you’ll eat to that?”

We laugh. Pick up our huge cookies. Raise them in the air. And take big bites until the crumbling pastry melts in our mouths and makes us feel warm and privileged.

 

 

When Forrest arrives home one morning after working all night, he comes straight to our bedroom. I’m resting against four pillows and watching CNN. His joyous smile greets me. He reaches over the bed and lightly kisses my forehead, making silly smacking noises. Instead of taking a hot shower like he normally does, he leaves the room. Soon I hear clattering from the kitchen. The sounds of pots, pans, and slamming cupboard doors. I blush and sink deeper into the comfort of my bed.

Forty minutes later he’s balancing a tall glass of orange juice swirling with ice cubes, and a large metal tray filled with goodies: hot Southern grits seeping with real butter and lemon pepper; salmon croquettes; French toast topped with bananas, cinnamon, and almonds; a bowl of freshly cut fruit (strawberries, cantaloupe, and honeydew melon); baguette toast; and scrambled cheesy eggs made from farm-fresh eggs. All my favorites.

“You’re really going all out for me, huh?”

“This is just the beginning, baby.”

I love watching Forrest do his thing. Is this the same man? In a way I believe it is the same guy: Forrest the chef, Forrest the considerate one, Forrest the nice guy. All of these are my husband at his best. And when he’s like this, I adore this man to pieces. After we eat, we take a steaming hot shower. I squeeze a handful of unisex citrus shower gel on his back and massage it in using a long-handled wooden shower scrubber. He washes my back, too, and sticks his fingers between my legs, a real turn-on.

It takes me a minute to get totally in the mood, but somehow the romance returns to our sex life. We end up making love in the shower like newlyweds who can only see brightness in their future.

Life can’t be better.

 

 

That Sunday, Forrest nudges me while I’m knocked out in bed. I open my eyes to see his smiling face.

“We’re going to service today.”

“Okay.” I yawn and cover my mouth with my hands. I need to brush my teeth ASAP.

“When you are fully awake, go in that ridiculous closet of yours and bring out the sharpest dresses you own. Make sure they’re something that make you feel like a princess when you wear them.”

“Forrest, what’s going on?”

“Just do as I say, please.”

I let out a loud groan, but nod at him.

Later that morning, Forrest, Briana, Jazmin, and I emerge from our bedrooms dressed to the nines. The girls are wearing lovely matching off-white lace dresses with satin bows. Forrest whistles when he sees us. He rushes us out to the SUV beaming with pride. The man is so excited he even makes a trip to Toni’s to pick up Dante so he can join us for church at Solomon’s Temple. After we enjoy hearing a heartwarming service and several new songs from the mass choir, Forrest drives us to a park near the Galleria. Williams Water-wall is a popular and romantic tourist destination. The sixty-four-feet-tall semicircle fountain provides a mesmerizing display of falling water. I’ve seen many a bride and her bridal party pose for photos outside this picturesque location off Post Oak Boulevard.

When I begin to take in my surroundings, I’m shocked to see my mom, brother Varnell, and other aunts and cousins standing in a circle. Even Shalita is there.

“Why is all my family here?” I ask Forrest.

He flashes a genuine smile.

My insides churn with anxiety. I don’t like this type of surprise. Temptation urges me to run to the car and wait for Forrest.

But when I see Minister Tillman standing next to the brick arches, I can’t move.

Dante jogs up to me, his eyes bouncing with excitement. “My father told me he wants to marry you again, Mama Carmen.”

I told this crazy boy a million times not to call me that. It makes me sound like someone’s grandmother. I’m only thirty.

I shake my head no, but Forrest pulls me to the side and tries to convince me this is the right thing to do. Ten minutes later, Forrest and I stand next to the minister with a blast of water bubbling in the background. We renew our vows in front of an intimate crowd filled with family and dear friends. My voice is shaking. My joy is full. I rapidly fall in love with Mr. Foster all over again. His actions move me. He’s genuine. He’s reaching far to touch my heart.

My nightmare is over. True love conquers all.

5

Weeks fly by. Marriage feels strong. Better.

No more weird calls from baby mama.

Routinely, Forrest gets home from work around seven-thirty. He putters around the house for an hour, then sleeps till it’s time for him to get up in the afternoon.

My normal day is tending to Briana and Jazmin. I wake up the girls and get Briana ready for first grade. She loves to read, engage herself with her Squinkies’ toy collection, comb her dolls’ hair, play with her dollhouse, and climb into her daddy’s lap after she comes home from school so she can tell him about her day. All around she’s a sensitive and curious little girl and is excited to learn French.

While Briana is gone, Jazzy and I hang out. I fix our breakfast, wash and fold clothes, read to her, and take her on play dates or outings like the Children’s Museum or Downtown Aquarium. I try to get home by two or three so I can fix my family’s dinner. The fact that my hubby doesn’t mind that I only know how to cook six or seven fundamental entrées makes me love him even more. My specialties are turkey spaghetti, steak and potatoes, deli deluxe club sandwiches, baked tilapia, smothered chicken, chili, and oven-baked ribs. I’m not ashamed to admit Forrest is the true chef of our house and I can’t wait for him to make his way around the kitchen every Sunday.

Life has been going great.

But then things happen.

They always start small, but not small enough to not be noticed.

“Baby,” I say to Forrest on the phone one morning in mid-October. It’s a little past ten. He still hasn’t made it home from the railroad company. “What’s up? Where are you?”

“My brother needed a favor. I drove him to Austin.”

“Austin? Why? You need to sleep so you can work tonight.”

“Well, this was an emergency so . . .”

“You don’t sound like you’re in the car.”

“I am in the car. I’m waiting on him. He had some business to take care of.”

I don’t know what to say. Don’t know if I should believe him. One thing about cell phones is you really don’t know if people are where they claim they are. You just gotta take them at their word.

“What kind of business?”

“That’s his business.”

“Oh.”

It could be true. Phil, Forrest’s younger half brother, is trifling like that. Needy. Clingy. Pathetic. Phil wishes he had a daddy who died and left him a good chunk of change, but that isn’t the case. And instead of working to obtain the material things Forrest owns, little brother sticks out his hand. Like someone owes him. Phil makes me sick.

“You sure are good to him. Why is that?”

“Don’t start,” Forrest laughs. I hear his phone click. “Another call is coming in. Gotta go.” He hangs up. I don’t like that. I am torn between calling him back and tearing a new one in his ass or chilling out and not making a big deal over small stuff. But small stuff turns into big stuff. That’s what Shalita always says.

Later Shalita stops by my house for dinner. I make a huge pot of Texas chili. The thick aroma of sirloin steak, kidney beans, garlic, onion, bell pepper, cilantro, and chunky salsa permeates the entire house.

We sit at my breakfast room table in front of the bay window. She listens intently while I tell her that, for the most part, Forrest has continued acting decently, but it’s the little things that grind my gears. I hate when he rushes off the phone with me and barely says “Good-bye.”

“And on the seventh day, woman gets sick of man’s BS, and dumps him.”

“I’m not ready to dump him. I need to first know why he’s acting different.”

“What do you plan to do?”

“I know what I want to do, but I’m scared. Don’t ask if you really don’t want to know the truth. Yet if Forrest proves to me that he’s on the up-and-up and not back to his old ways, I will throw my hands up and admit I’ve been tripping.”

“How’s the sex?”

I squirm in my seat. “It’s all right.”

“You haven’t had any good loving in a while, have you?”

“Girl, salt is the engine of flavor. And salt is what’s been missing from my bedroom the last two weeks. I’m horny as hell.”

“You feel like a virgin again?” Shalita laughs. But I can’t.

“Sorry, girl,” she apologizes. “You might want to try seducing your man. Put that creamy coochie right up in his face. When he’s well rested and in a good mood. No man can resist a clean-smelling vajayjay covered in lace.”

I stand up. Grin. “Shalita, you’re right. Forrest loves lace panties. They’re like an aphrodisiac. So I’m stepping up my game. But it’ll have to be on Saturday afternoon when I know he doesn’t have to work that night.”

“You need me to pick up the girls?”

“Nope, they’ll be with my mom.” I wink. “And I’ll be with my man.”

 

 

When a woman’s gotta have it, she will pull out all the stops. And it has been a minute since I’ve really enjoyed a nice, nasty lovemaking session with my baby. I get sick of him whining about he’s too tired. What? That’s the line women use to death, right?

So Saturday evening, I ask Forrest to go on a beer run. He loves Dos Equis. I love Smirnoff Ice. I tell him to take his time. He laughs.

Thirteen minutes later, Forrest comes back home. Note cards stuffed in envelopes with his name scratched on the front are sitting on the breakfast bar.

I am wearing a lavender bustier with lace panties and some white glossy five-inch pumps.

Forrest moans the second he sees me. He practically throws the six-pack and the beer carton on the counter.

“What’s—.”

“Shhh,” I tell him. “Pick a card. Whatever it says is what we’re going to do to each other.”

“Um, wow. Woman, I don’t know what to do with you.”

“If you don’t know, then we have a problem, Mr. Foster.”

I swear I see the front of his gym shorts rise slightly. That’s a good thing. What I’m doing works. All I want to do is get my marriage straight. Our love life has to be on fire and I won’t accept anything less.

“Go on, silly. Don’t just stand there.”

He shakes his head and goes to select one of the envelopes.

“Here. I hope I did well.”

“All of them are good. And we’re going to do all of them before tomorrow night.”

“W-what? All of ’em?” he scowls. That hurts.

“Why don’t you open it?”

Right then his cell rings. He glances at the screen but doesn’t answer. Good.

He rips open the envelope and reads out loud. “Have sex anywhere as long as it’s outside the house.”

He actually blushes, something that I love.

“Carmen.”

“Yes, baby.” I go and hug him tight around the waist. This man smells so good I can eat him. I love the big muscles that ripple underneath his shirt. He was born to be held and squeezed tight.

“I love you, girl, you know that?”

“I do, too—.”

Then the house phone rings loudly. Talking caller ID says, “Call from Williams Toni.”

“Forrest, I told Toni not to call my house anymore. Why is she so contrary? What does she want?”

“Calm down.”

“I will not. She’s being messy on purpose.”

“That sounds crazy,” Forrest says and places the envelope on the counter. He looks upset. My feet are starting to hurt. I want to thump Toni across her head so bad. She leaves a message that loudly crackles on our home answering machine.

“Hey, it’s your first wife calling. Come fuck with me when you get a chance.” She snickers, makes a kissing noise. And hangs up.

“Woo, that beyotch crazy,” he cackles.

“What’s really going on, Forrest?”

He turns around and makes a mad dash upstairs. I kick off my high heels and sprint after him. I find him in our home theater rummaging through a large assortment of DVDs. This is where we enjoy spending Saturday night. He’ll extend an invitation to his brother Phil plus a couple of his male friends. “Safe men,” he calls them. I’ll invite Shalita and another nonhorny girlfriend who’s bored out of her mind. We pop popcorn, drink cold beer, and recline in theater seats to watch classics like Love Jones, Independence Day, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and The Color Purple. Sometimes we check out bootleg movies. But now?

“Carmen, look. I appreciate what you tried to do. But I really am tired. My job has been laying off people left and right. Those left behind gotta put up with the BS. It’s unreal how they coming down on a brotha.”

“That’s cool, but when did work stop you from wanting to fuck?”

“Huh? What are you talking about? You just don’t get it. You just don’t.”

“I’m tired too, Forrest, of your attitude. Can’t you understand?”

He makes a lot of noise fumbling through all the movies.

“I’m talking to you.”

“I know. Hold up a sec.”

“How can a stupid movie be more important than me? Than our relationship?”

As he’s bending over, his cell phone slides out his pocket. He doesn’t notice. The plastic containers are making too much noise. He’s too busy avoiding me. Fine.

I hastily snatch his phone from the carpet.

“If you want to talk later let me know. I’ll be waiting.”

My bare feet fly down the stairs. I go directly to the first floor powder room, which is right next to the kitchen and breakfast room. I twist the lock and flick on the lights.

Forrest’s phone is locked. Not surprising. Why does he employ a pass code? I don’t have one. I have nothing to hide. Apparently there’s something he doesn’t want me to see. Just like those IMs that were on his screen. The only reason I saw them is because he forgot to log off and the screen had frozen.

I punch in a four digit code. Our home address. The iPhone buzzes. “Wrong pass code,” it says. “Try again.”

“Damn.”

Another four digits are punched in: 0-4-2-2. My husband’s date of birth.

More buzzing.

His phone begins to chime. A ringtone. There Goes My Baby by Usher.

I smile and my heart beats like a drum.

The caller ID says “Only on Tuesdays.”

“What the hell?” As badly as I want to answer, I don’t.

I hear him back downstairs. I’m not ready to confront him yet about who’s calling him and why he’s putting code names in his phone. There will be plenty more opportunities for me to find out what’s really going on with my husband and any other woman. And once I find out all hell will break loose.

6

That night I stand outside in the driveway and wave at Forrest when he tells me he was unexpectedly called to work. Next I go upstairs to make sure Briana and Jazzy are occupied. They are crazy about Pet Pals 2, the LeapFrog app that’s used on the LeapPad. The talking interactive game allows children to design pets that make all kinds of noises.

When I feel certain the girls are thoroughly engaged, I carry my laptop to the guest bedroom, which is right next to both girls’ invidual rooms. I flop onto the bed and power up.

After clicking a few buttons on my keyboard, the Web page to Forrest’s e-mail account loads.

It asks for an e-mail address, which I quickly enter. Easy.

Password?

Taking a wild guess, I hold my breath as I enter Briana’s full birthday.

No go. I try Jazzy’s. No luck.

But when I input Dante’s birth date, bingo. I’m in. My adrenaline surges through my body. It feels so wrong to look, but that’s the only way I’ll know for sure what’s going on.

When the page loads there’s mostly junk mail. Mystery shopping solicitations. Fake PayPal notices. Tax refund messages. And so on. But my eyes fall to a previously read e-mail.

From Daphne Cox to Forrest Foster. Two days ago. Late at night while he was at work.

I left something for you at ur job yesterday. Hope u liked it.

That was from Forrest.

The insides of my mouth crumble into dryness. Who the hell is Daphne? Why is he giving her anything?

She writes back:

LOVED THOSE ICE CREAM CONE EARRINGS. Ur 2 sweet, Raymond. The good ONES r always taken. :-(.

He got her earrings? That’s not innocent at all. And I hate that she calls him by his middle name. Is that what he told her to call him? I’m livid. My eyes fill up. My heart loads with depression. One part of me wants to call Forrest. Or e-mail this tramp. But I can’t. I want more ammunition.

I see other e-mails. Not just from Daphne.

From Forrest to Aristacia:

 

I’m a TAURUS. What’s ur sign?

That’s so high school.

Then he writes:

 

Let’s hook up. Saturday afternoon good 4 u?

 

Aristacia sent him six photos. Fat white chick. Dirty blonde. Cleavage popping out her tank top like floating beach balls. Her face suggests she’ll suck anything of any size for any amount of money. And she’s younger than me. But much uglier. What’s up with that? Shalita is right. A husband brags about his beautiful wife and hides his ugly street whores.

Why would Forrest leave such a paper trail? Some men are so stupid.

My mind is a machine gun. Tat tat tat. Tat tat tat. I’m thinking, fretting, wondering what the hell I can do.

My phone rings and I nearly jump out my skin. It’s Forrest. Fuck him. I don’t want to talk to him. But I change my mind and try to answer him a few seconds later. The ringing stops. Missed call.

I try dialing him back.

The call goes straight into voice mail.

On a whim, I push a key.

The phone prompts for a password.

“Damn,” I mumble. I type 0422, Forrest’s birthdate.

“Invalid password. Please reenter.”

I try other combinations. Our address. The girls’ birthdates, even Dante’s. None work.

Dammit.

The doorbell rings.

I hang up.

“Wonder who that could be?”

I walk up to the front door and peer out the window. Toni’s beat-up-looking Honda is idling at the curb. What does she want now?

I open the door. Dante looks sheepish and apologetic. He’s clutching a couple of textbooks under one arm. His iPod buds are stuck in his ears. Backpack slung over a shoulder.

I hold the door open for him and he offers me a thankful grin. I pat him gently on the shoulder. I try to be nice and wave at Toni, who’s sneering at us while she’s standing next to her car with the motor running. She gives me the finger.

Toni’s bone-straight long hair is dyed purple this week. Two weeks ago it was red. She oughta be ashamed of herself.

I shake my head and slam the front door.

“To what do we owe this pleasant surprise, son?” I say to Dante. Toni hates when I call Dante “son.”

“Moms and I kinda got into it. So she said I should hang out over at my dad’s and study. You don’t mind, do you, Mama Carmen?”

He shrugs and grins at me with his beautiful deep-set eyes. The Forrest DNA of this young man is awesome. Dante’s destined to be a heartbreaker one day. He’s tall enough, laid back, and athletic.

“You’re welcome at any time and for any reason. And if you don’t stop calling me Mama Carmen, I’m going to beat you.”

“For real?”

“Yes,” I insist, trying to look irate.

“For real, for real?”

I giggle and gently punch him in the gut with my elbow. “If you promise to call me Carmen, I promise not to beat you. Oops, don’t tell Toni I said that.”

Dante chuckles and goes to set his belongings on the breakfast room table. I follow him.

“I want you to be okay. I want all of us to be just fine, so never think you’re intruding. You’re family.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Anyway, enough of that. How are your classes?”

“They’re all right.”

“What are you taking?”

“Oh, the same old stuff,” he says. He’s too busy scoping out the fridge. He grabs a gallon of milk. I automatically go to the walk-in pantry and retrieve the Nesquik.

“You know what I like, huh? That’s sweet. I wish I could meet a girl like you,” he shyly says. “Carmen.”

“Oh, so you like older women, huh?” I reach for two big black mugs and set them on the counter. We both make ourselves cold cups of chocolate milk. I open up a new pack of Oreos and hand them over to Dante.

I feel a little guilty while sitting and chatting with Dante. He’s such a good boy. I don’t want him to know what’s going on between me and his dad. What would he do if he knew I snoop in his dad’s e-mail account?

I excuse myself and hop up. I gotta go to the guest bedroom and make sure to log off from that e-mail page.

When I get to the screen I can’t believe my eyes.

More freaking e-mails.

From Daphne. I jot down her e-mail address and log off the computer.

“What are you doing?” Dante asks. I jump and swirl around.

“Boy, you scared me. I’m going to have to buy a cowbell or something and place it around your neck.”

“Oooohhh, you must be checking out porn, huh?”

“What do you know about that, young man?”

“I know a lot. Moms lets me know about a lot of stuff, but not porn.”

“Well, she and I finally agree on one thing. A boy your age shouldn’t be looking at porn. Online or magazines.”

He starts to say something, but simply mutters, “Yes, ma’ am.”

“Don’t study too hard,” I tell him and wave good-bye. His presence makes me a little bit nervous. I decide to relax by heading for the home theater to watch Soul Food for the millionth time.

 

 

Forrest claimed that his condom didn’t work that one fateful day when he had sex with Toni. He said that “if the stupid thing did what latex was invented to do,” Briana would’ve been his firstborn.

“But fate kicked my ass and played a cruel trick on me,” Forrest explained early in our marriage.

“Forrest, get real. Fate gave you Dante. God doesn’t make mistakes even when men do,” I reasoned. He blankly stared at me. Then his face lit up. He kissed me. Then started whistling and walking around like he was happy. Happy he met and married me. That’s when he felt I was the one. Although we’d already been married and had Briana, he liked that I convinced him that Dante wasn’t a mistake. Toni was, but Dante wasn’t.

“You’re forever my lady,” he sang to me. I didn’t appreciate that he realized my worth so late, but I didn’t hold it against him.

So now, these days, with me finding out things about Forrest that I don’t like and can barely believe, I wonder if I should apply my logic about fate to what’s happening in our marriage.

I’m nearly driving myself crazy being in the house near Forrest’s computer. So, right after Toni picks up Dante, I invite Shalita over that evening. I can use the company.

We’re curled up in our theater seats, this time watching Knocked Up.

“When you think about it”—Shalita gulps a bottle of raspberry sparkling water—“no one has a say-so about who gets pregnant.”

“Shalita, yes, they do. If you don’t have sex with anyone, then you can’t get knocked up. Simple as that.”

“It’s not as simple as you put it.”

“There’s cause. There’s effect. That’s as easy as things can get. If you have sex with the wrong person, someone will get screwed.”

“Why are we talking about this anyway? Dante is a done deal.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know if Forrest is working on any new acts of fate,” I say sarcastically. I tell her about the flirty e-mails. I admit my anxiety about my suspicions and how I’m getting angry all over again. “I don’t know if Forrest is practicing safe sex. Even though he said he used condoms with the four-fingered heffa. I hate him all over again every time I imagine him putting his penis in her. Just talking about this makes me sick to my stomach.”

“Then don’t talk about it.”

“Not talking about it won’t make it go away.”

“I know one thing that might.”

“What?”

“Don’t get mad. Get even. Take a walk on the wild side. Put yourself in Forrest’s shoes.”

“Think like a man?”

“Don’t just think like one.”

“Act like one,” we both say at the same time.

My landline rings. There’s no caller ID in this room so I pick up.

“Foster residence.”

Silence. Then laughter. “Bitch, please.”

I frown and put the caller on speaker. Shalita starts throwing punches in the air.

“Now, what were you saying, Man Stealer?”

“Ooh, I like that. But it ain’t accurate. ’Cause if a man is yours in the first place, he can’t be stolen.”

“I guess that’s why Forrest didn’t stay with you, huh, Toni?”

“What you say, bitch?”

“Toni, your little words don’t scare me at all. All you are is entertainment to me.”

“Dude, you wish you was me. Anytime Forrest is at my place, his hands are all over me. And from what I heard ya’ll barely fucking.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Trust me. In that big ole mansion you got, your walls have eyes. Betta recognize.”

“Toni, why do you always start mess with me, huh? Let it go. Find your own man.”

“I have no reason to look any farther. Because far as I’m concerned, Forrest is my man. He wanted to marry me, you saditty-ass fake dumb bitch,” she yells.

“He wanted to marry you, but he married me!” I shout back. “Don’t you get it? Leave us the hell alone. I hate women like you.”

“Oh, this nucca finally trying to keep it one hunnert.”

“Hang up on that ho,” Shalita screams.

Toni continues, “If you think I’ve started some shit before, keep living. You gonna regret fucking with a bitch like me.” And the bitch hangs up.

7

I never mention to Forrest anything about Toni or the e-mails I saw. But today, when he tells me he’s leaving for work an hour early because he has some errands to run, I tell him okay.

I drive over to Shalita’s. We exchange cars. She is thrilled to have use of my MKT and I have to make do with her white Chevy Equinox. It’s so bland it looks like every other crossover driving on Houston freeways.

I get on the road with two things in mind. Sometimes with men you gotta catch them in action. Because some are known to deny every shred of evidence that you present to them.

If the glove doesn’t fit ...

I’m trying to make sure the glove fits in this case. Why? I don’t know. I feel I need something solid before I get in Forrest’s face again.

Approximately thirty minutes before Forrest’s start time, I quietly pull up and park on the main street across from his company’s parking lot. At this angle, I can easily view him once he arrives.

I know my man. He told me he likes to get to the job about fifteen minutes before check-in. When it’s five minutes to seven, and he still hasn’t shown up, I call OnStar from my cell phone. I let the nice-sounding lady know that when I went shopping a little while ago, I parked my F-150 in a big old parking lot and I just can’t seem to find it.

“It’s so embarrassing,” I tell her and provide her with the account number. “It’s so dark out here I can’t see. Can you tell me where my car is?”

“Sure, no problem. One moment.”

My forehead feels sticky with wetness. I roll down the window.

“Um, it’s not parked at all. It is currently driving down a major street.”

“What street is that?”

She mentions the very street of my husband’s work address.

“Do you want me to call the police for you?”

I hang up on her. And right then I see Forrest’s green pickup fly past me. I know it’s his vehicle because he installed those annoying LED undercar lights on the bottom. They make him stand out like a throbbing sore thumb.

Forrest makes a right turn into the employee parking lot.

“Damn.”

I don’t know if I should feel good that he seems to be running late, or if I should question why he’s late.

Another thought for another time.

 

 

“The things you attain in life are based on the opportunities you make or the opportunities presented to you.”

That’s something my father would tell me while I was growing up as the daughter of an electrician; my mother taught middle school English and modeled in local fashion shows.

We didn’t have tons of money, but I never went hungry. And Briana’s and Jazzy’s bedrooms would make my childhood room look like I was on welfare. Yet Mommy made sure I participated in Girl Scouts, soccer, and performing arts. If there was ever a school production that involved wearing fancy clothes, she would always sacrifice and buy them. My father would fuss. “You’d better find you a rich man to marry when you get of age.” He’d laugh. But I never forgot his advice.

By the time I met and got engaged to Forrest, my brother Varnell nudged me with a snicker. “I see you’re making a life out of the opportunity that was presented to you.”

Varnell liked Forrest from the start. Thought he was exactly what I needed. My brother proudly said I looked like a beautiful princess on my wedding day. I felt like one, too.

Every woman deserves to be a fairy princess at least once in her life.

My job is to maintain that storybook feeling. To preserve the fantastic blessing that God gave me. I must fight and hang onto it, because if I lose it another woman will surely find it.

That can’t happen at all.

The next afternoon I rinse off several huge white potatoes and peel them in the kitchen sink. I grab carrots, onions, and bell peppers from the refrigerator. The vegetables feel natural in my hands. The carrots get peeled and sliced, onions and peppers cut into small chunks, and all the contents dumped into a large roasting pan.

I open a large can of mushroom soup. Sprinkle some steak sauce and onion mix over the meat.

After I slide the pan of meat and vegetables into the oven, I quickly clean up the mess that’s scattered all over the island kitchen.

Two hours later, my handsome husband stumbles into the kitchen.

He starts sniffing. “Mmmm. That smell woke me up.”

I smile when he kisses my cheek.

“What’s the occasion?

“I dunno,” I lie. “I just wanted to do something different.”

“I didn’t know you knew how to cook pot roast.”

“I didn’t know either.”

“Woman, you’re full of surprises.”

“So are you.”

He raises an eyebrow but refocuses. “I’ll be in the library checking e-mails till you’re done. Okay, my love? You sure are looking pretty today.” He winks and leaves.

Insecurity makes me want to run after him. I stay in the kitchen tending to what a good wife is supposed to tend to. Wiping down the counter. Putting away the spices. Tying up the smelly garbage. And getting out the bag of rice and a medium size pan. Butter. Water. Salt.

Just because you pretend like nothing is wrong doesn’t mean it’s true.

I measure one cup of wild rice and set it aside.

Your walls have eyes.

“Have you been in the library lately?” Forrest has returned to the kitchen. He looks confused.

“Um, no, I lost my library card.” I turn on the water faucet and place a measuring cup underneath.

“I’m not talking about the real library, smarty.”

“Why? Anything wrong?”

“Um, it’s just—Never mind.”

“Say what you have to say.”

“I noticed that some of the e-mails look like they’ve been tampered with. You know, the subject line isn’t bold like normal.”

I shut off the faucet and dump the water into the pan.

“Hmmm. Maybe you should place a call to Dell Technical Services.”

“And maybe you should stay out of my library.”

“Huh?”

“Carmen, I’m not half as dumb as you think I am. You’re cooking this grand meal. I know you. You don’t do shit like this without a motive.”

“Forrest, that’s not fair. I’m just doing something different and proactive for a change. Like I said before.”

“Next time you want to go snooping in my stuff, you may want to do it when my son isn’t here.”

I stiffen. No way Dante would tell. That’s my buddy. Not my enemy.

I guess you can’t trust anybody these days.

“Hold on, now. Wait just a minute. You mean to tell me that I’m wrong for being curious, but the crap you’re doing, isn’t that worse?”

“Are you admitting that you looked at my e-mails? How’d you manage that? You a hacker and didn’t tell me?”

I throw two oven mitts at Forrest’s head. This time they make contact.

“Stop snooping, Carmen.” He picks up the mitts and calmly hands them to me. “Because you can’t handle or understand the truth.”

“I hate when men say that.”

“This isn’t about men. It’s about me. I like my privacy.”

“I only did it one time. Wait, make that no more than three,” I say. My voice drips with sarcasm. Some men love to give women hell, but they can’t take it themselves.

“Carmen, how many times have you called OnStar?”

Is someone following me while I’m following Forrest?

“OnStar followed up with me after that phone call you made to check up on me. Thanks a lot.”

He storms away.

I feel so convicted. “Hold on, Forrest. What about dinner?”

“I’m eating out tonight.”

“I don’t like how that sounds.”

“I don’t like how you’re looking right now.”

“You told me I look pretty.”

“Pretty desperate. ’Bye, Carmen. I’ll see you tomorrow. By the way, I changed the e-mail password. Knock yourself out trying to guess this time.”

It’s only five o’clock. Forrest doesn’t usually leave for work till 6:15. I hate this. I feel so miserable and depressed, like I’m the one that’s screwing up our marriage and creating a horrible wedge. But wait. Isn’t this all his fault? If he knew how to keep his penis safely in its cage, we wouldn’t be arguing and butting heads like never before.

He hurts me with his actions, but the love I have for Forrest is so strong. Normally when we get into it, I swear at him. Threaten him. We make up within twelve hours. We’re sorry. We laugh. Tease each other. Ask for forgiveness. Make-up sex is real nice. Sweaty. Painful. Good loving. We cuddle. Reconnect. Gratefulness settles back in. Love churns back up. It’s our cycle. A cycle that should never be penetrated by outsiders.

But this time I must say Forrest has gone too far. He’s only thinking of himself.

Feeling more pissed, I dial his cell number. It goes straight into voice mail. He’s pissed, too. I press the star sign. Punch in his work address.

You have five saved messages.

Bingo.

“Forrest, this is Daphne. I waited for you. I don’t like to be kept waiting. Hit me back.”

I slowly sit down on the family room sectional.

Next message. Received two days ago.

“Hey, Sexy Man. It’s me. I’m just returning your phone call. You just called me and now you’re it. Smooches. Love you.” Who the hell was that? Her call came in at two a.m.

Listening to these sultry female voices is driving me crazy. The rest of the messages are from Phil. Begging for something. A ride. A loan. To borrow my car. My car? What? Brother-in-law has a lot of nerve. I guess because Forrest pays for my possessions Phil thinks that they’re really my husband’s. That’s going to have to change.

But for now, I gotta step up my game. The days of being naïve and trusting are officially kaput.

8

I’m at home with my girls the next day.

“Mommy, I don’t want this réchauffé.”

“Okay, Briana. What does that mean, sweetie?”

“It means warmed leftover food. Ewww.”

Briana is such a picky eater. She prefers freshly prepared food. No dog scraps for her, ever. Jazzy will eat whatever we put in front of her, just like her dad.

With Briana’s prissy attitude, this little girl is destined to create her own opportunities in life.

“I’m so proud of you, darling.”

“Merci, Mommy.”

I giggle and squeeze her little body in my arms. “You’re actually teaching me something. Keep up the good work. I love to hear you use French in a sentence—”

Briana cuts me off. “Will you make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, please?”

“Hmm. Ask your brother.”

Dante has just come over again. His presence keeps me from having to directly talk to Forrest. Not that we’re talking. When my husband came home from work this morning he barely said hello. He took a quick shower and fell into bed like a chopped-down tree. He turned over in bed and faced the wall. I had an unfriendly view of his back. I waited a few minutes and gently kicked his leg, but he grunted and started snoring.

Fake. No one falls asleep that fast.

The girls and I make a plateful of PB and J sandwiches and check out the Shrek Forever After DVD.

A few hours later, Forrest wakes up. I catch him in the hallway and try to block him before he can get away.

“Hey, hi, now move,” he tells me.

“Where are you going so fast?”

“Laundry room.”

“Whatcha looking for?”

“Why you wanna know?” His consciousness of guilt is all over his nervous-looking face.

“Why are you so testy?”

“I’m tired. That’s all. I think I left something in my pants pocket. I-I don’t want it to get wet.”

“Wash away the evidence, huh,” I say half-jokingly as I duck out of his way.

He appears frantic. When I see the frightened look on his face, the room starts spinning. I feel weak with fear.

“Forrest, who or what are you trying to hide from me?”

“Carmen, please don’t start that again. You talk what you don’t know.”

He bounds downstairs, his big feet making thundering noises.

I race after him. How dare he accuse me of not knowing?

All the kids are settled in the family room, which is in direct view of the kitchen. The washer and dryer are situated in a tiny but functional room also near the kitchen.

Forrest stands next to the center countertop glaring at me. “Carmen, I’m getting sick of your paranoia. Stop taking the crazy pills, you hear me?”

“W-what? I’m not the one who’s crazy. You need to stop acting like you’re doing nothing wrong.”

“I’m not.”

I shoot him an enraged look.

“Okay,” he says, “then what do you think I’m doing?”

“I know that you’re hooking up with random chicks on the side.”

“Huh? No, you do not.”

I can’t help myself. Against my better judgment, I pick up my iPhone. Put it on speaker. Dial his cell number.

“Don’t answer,” I order.

I push buttons that access his voice mail.

All the kids race to the kitchen looking scared.

“Hey, sweetie,” the voice mail loudly crackles. “It’s Daphne. I miss youuuuuuuuuuuuuu. Call me.”

Forrest’s eyes grow round. “Carmen, you must be out your mind.” He storms toward me. Raises his hand, something he’s never done before.

“Daddy, don’t,” Dante yells. He runs up to his father and grabs his arm.

The girls cry and clutch my leg.

Forrest screams, “You have no right to listen to my messages. I can’t help it if these women say these things. They want to know me, want to be my friend.”

“You don’t need friends. You’re married.” My insides hurt so deeply that nothing can hold back a flood of tears that starts to drench my face.

“You don’t have to worry about them. They mean nothing to me. You’re my number one, Carmen.”

I gasp. “You did it again, didn’t you?” I sniff. “Forrest, how could you?” I try to beat his chest with my fist.

Briana yells, “Vous arrêtez. Stop.”

Jazzy screams and runs around in circles.

Father and son tussle for a few seconds. Forrest gently pushes Dante off him. Dante paces back and forth, looking distressed.

The frenetic energy of my house must cease.

I gather my senses, scoop my three-year-old into my arms, and set her firmly on my hip. Jazzy presses her cheek against my lips so I can give her a kiss.

Loud knocks on the front door shatter the moment and lessen the hostility.

Dante races to open the door. I can hear my neighbor, Gloria Stone, a fiftyish married woman, in her booming, no-nonsense voice. “I will call the constable just like last time. Tell your father to lower his voice and leave the house if necessary. I don’t play that.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Dante walks slowly into the kitchen. Bewildered eyes. Mouth withdrawn.

“Daddy, please, please don’t treat Mama Carmen this way. I have nowhere else to go. Don’t know what else to do.”

For once I don’t care if Dante calls me that name.

 

 

“Stay married. There’s nothing out there.” My brother Varnell always keeps it real with me.

When I stop by my mother’s on Friday to drop off the girls for a sleepover, Varnell is outside her house watering the front lawn. Beads of sweat soak through his maroon cotton T-shirt. Aggie alum. I’m shocked he’d let his precious TAMU shirt merge with his body fluid.

“Why’d you say that to me?” I grin at him.

“I know you, sis. You have that look.”

“What look is that?” I wait for Briana and Jazzy to go into my mother’s house. The smell of baked chocolate chip walnut cookies greets them before they slide inside the screen door. Mommy waves. I wave back.

“You look like you’ve been through hell. You getting any sleep?”

“Okay, so I have insomnia. That doesn’t mean I need to stay married, as you say.”

“Yeah, but there’s a reason you can’t sleep.”

“I hate that Forrest works this shift. It doesn’t feel right, him not being there with us. Anything can happen.”

“Has it?”

“Varnell, now,” I say and take a step toward Mommy’s front door.

“All it takes is one call and I will lay aside my salvation and beat the black off that boy.”

“Thanks,” I whisper and nod. “It’ll be okay. We’re fine.”

“You’re lying. He better not put his hands on you either.”

“Oh no. Nothing like that. We can work it out. But I’m glad you have my best interests at heart.”

“Just call me anytime, sis.”

“No need. We’re good. Stay blessed.”

“Always.”

I love the fact that Varnell is there. Especially since Daddy has been dead for two years. A brother is not a father, but his support means just as much.

I go inside to chitchat with my mother, then kiss the girls bye-bye.

I decide to go grocery shopping at the biggest H-E-B in the area. The sounds, sights, colors, and textures of the merchandise inspire and transport me to another place.

I grab a big silver shopping cart and begin pushing it around the produce section. These cucumbers are the greenest vegetables I’ve ever seen. I caress the hardness of a coconut, sniff a carton of strawberries, and pop an organic white grape into my mouth.

“Hey there, how you doing?” A man with his red, blue, and orange shirt partially unbuttoned greets me. He’s standing next to an arrangement of lemons. He’s offering me a warm smile. I smile back. He accidentally bumps his hip into the corner of the display. One by one, a dozen lemons spill to the floor, reminding me of tennis balls.

“Oh my God.” I laugh. I stoop down and pick up as many lemons as possible.

“Thank you,” he replies, his cheeks turning red.

“No problem.”

He starts restocking the fruit. “That was nice of you. Most people would have just walked on by. I’m Alfred, by the way. I’m single. And I’m looking. You?”

“I-I am, um . . .”

He throws back his head and laughs. “You don’t sound so sure.”

“I guess it’s because I’m not.”

“Well, how about I give you my number? Once you know what’s up with your situation, give me a call. It’s refreshing to run into a gorgeous, smiling, conscientious young woman.” Alfred hands me his card.

I whisper, “Thanks.”

He turns around and I watch him head toward the bakery.

I shove his card into my purse and hurriedly leave H-E-B.

9

By the time Saturday arrives, I’m in a different state of mind.

The air is fresh and crisp, void of Houston’s normal humidity. The sun sparkles brightly. I feel happy. More relaxed. But I want and need love. Will do whatever to get it.

The kids and I are taking a leisurely stroll toward the neighborhood park. Dante bounces his basketball on the sidewalk and pretends to shoot through an invisible hoop.

“All right, now, you future Rocket,” I call out to him.

“No. Future Laker.”

“Beat LA. Beat LA,” I tease.

“Thanks for getting out the house and coming down to the park; you haven’t been here in so long.” Dante smiles.

“Well, if you hadn’t begged me a hundred times, I’d still be doing housework.”

He laughs and scampers off when he notices a pickup game has already started.

It feels good to escape the house. I tremble when I think about the last big fight I had with Forrest and am happy to be doing something positive with Dante and the girls.

Briana and Jazzy begin shouting with joy when they spot playground equipment. Other neighborhood kids wildly slide down the sliding board.

The girls yelp and play for ten minutes. The soft breeze that caresses my cheek feels wonderful.

A stray basketball rolls till it lands near my feet. I bend over and scoop the orange ball into my hand.

“Over here,” a man yells.

I squint.

“Hey, is that Carmen Foster?”

“Oh my God.” I break into a broad smile at the man’s acknowledgment. “Long time no see.” We walk toward each other.

“Jordan Harris,” I say in surprise. Back in the day, I was crazy about Jordan. He was sexy, fun-loving, intriguing, intelligent, sensitive. Jordan and Forrest were good friends. But I ended up with Forrest.

Today Jordan is wearing long black gym shorts, a crisp red T-shirt, and a fitted cap perched backward; the hat barely covers his full head of dark curly hair. He is one of those light-skinned brothas with gray-green eyes that see right through you. I notice he’s grown a beard. It looks good. Two diamond studs sparkle, one in each ear.

I haven’t seen Jordan in about four years.

“My my my, you got it going on, Carmen. Still sexy as ever.” He actually holds my hand, politely kisses it, then asks me to turn in a circle so he may inspect me from every angle. My cheeks flush. I’m so surprised but happy to see him.

“This must be my lucky day,” he winks and does a silly little two-step.

“I see you haven’t changed,” I giggle.

“But you have in all the ways that are good. Woman, your body bangin’.”

“Jordan, you’re still so crazy.”

“Still crazy about you, Carmen. I hate that we lost touch. Never again,” he vows.

“Hey, fool. Throw the damn ball.”

Jordan absentmindedly tosses the basketball back onto the court. He turns back to me and wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. My nose is pressed against his neck. He smells good.

I am touched by his display of affection, but I soon ease away from his hug. “Jordan, are you okay?”

“Forgive me. I just can’t believe I’m seeing you. I know it sounds crazy, but you’ve been in my dreams all this time.”

“Don’t lie.” I smile.

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Oh really? What makes you different than some other men?”

“Baby girl, baby girl.” He examines my ring finger. Only thing he sees is a tan line. “Oh, it’s like that, huh? Forrest couldn’t hang?”

“Jordan, I don’t want to talk about that right now. Why don’t you tell me what’s been going on with you?”

He excitedly informs me about his travels all over the country to work at various chemical refineries: Corpus Christi, Port Lavaca, Texas, Louisiana, Kentucky, Minnesota.

“And you’re going to be settled in Houston for a while? Or are you leaving again?”

“All depends. Only one thing can make me stay here long term,” he says giving me a sly grin.

“Don’t even try it.”

Jordan starts playing with the back of my hair, something he used to do years ago. Electricity races through me. His touch feels so strong, sincere. I like that.

“Carmen, you’re so pretty you make Eva Longoria look like Shrek.” Jordan stands closer and gently raises my chin toward his lips.

Years ago, I may have eaten up his compliments and be really feeling this. But now?

“Stop that. My kids . . .”

“Oh all right. Maybe some other time. What’s your number? We need to catch up.”

I think about Forrest and all his little side chicks. He downplays those relationships and calls them “nothing.” Nothing wrong with having “friends” is what he says.

I still consider Jordan a friend. And it’s true that the guys you used to love always hold a special place in your heart.

I recite my cell number. Jordan gives me his and I enter his into my iPhone as “Good Ole Dayz.”

“Close your eyes,” he says. “You got some type of gooey-looking stuff stuck in the corner.”

I close both my eyes.

I feel his lips press against mine. Really soft. Really quick. And as warm as a buttered biscuit.

My eyes fly open.

“Please don’t—”

“I’m sorry. But I wanted to show you how much I’ve missed you. At least now I know how it feels to kiss you instead of just dreaming about it.”

He always knew how to say things that touch my heart.

“I’m sorry if I’ve scared you, Carmen. Forgive me?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll let you go. Good to see you again. I’m gonna hit you up soon.” He pounds his chest with one fist then runs back to the basketball court.

 

 

On the way home, I’m amazed that Good Ole Dayz already texts me twice.

 

LET’S CATCH UP.

 

I giggle and try to deal with my mixed feelings. I ponder Forrest and his casual attitude toward other females as if extra women in his life are natural and nothing to worry about. I remember the horrible hurt I’ve felt since discovering my husband’s philandering ways. And I recall how, even after the recent major blowup, I try to do the right thing.

For example, just last night I managed to calm down and attempt to communicate with Forrest. Acknowledged we need professional help. Suggested counseling.

He groaned out loud and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. He shot down everything I said. Wanted nothing to do with counseling. Told me to look at the bigger picture. Thought I should open up my eyes and see all the good things he’s provided for me and our kids. Forgive him, move on. The end.

Move on to what? More deception? A living room full of new furniture? Another Coach bag? I went to bed feeling discouraged and insecure.

So when I’m thinking about all of this and Good Ole Dayz texts me again, I quickly respond:

WHAT HARM CAN IT DO? WHEN? WHERE?
WHAT TIME?

I delete all his messages after we agree to meet.

I place a call to my mother. “Mommy, would you like to spend time with your granddaughters this evening?”

“Sure. Bring them over anytime. You got something planned?”

“Yes, an unexpected but nice emergency.”

“Have fun, sweetie.”

“I hope so.” I laugh.

Two hours later it feels so weird to be in public at a sports bar with a man who isn’t my husband. We’re at Christian’s Tailgate, Jordan’s suggestion. In my head, Jordan and I might as well be spread out on top of a table having sex in broad daylight, that’s how strange this is. But we settle in and play catchup. We nibble on hot wings and salted fries, and sip nonalcoholic beverages. And although this spot is clear across town, I can’t help but scrutinize my surroundings every few minutes.

“Hey, relax. We’re old friends. We have a right to reconnect. You’re grown.”

“True that,” I respond, but inside I’m thinking if I don’t want Forrest to know I’m here, is it okay to do this?

And does Forrest think like me when he’s out with his so-called friends?

“I’m glad we’re meeting,” I tell Jordan and give him a reassuring smile. “I just want to be cautious.”

“Baby girl, I promise I won’t hurt you. I’m not like Forrest.” He laughs. “Man, dude was tripping back in the day.”

“Yeah, he was so possessive it turned into a problem. That’s why I had to change my number so abruptly. I regret we lost touch.” Long ago Jordan and Forrest were tight even after I got married. And back then, Jordan was one of the crew that came over to the house for our famous movie nights. But after a while, especially after too many innocent touchy-feely moments between Jordan and me, Forrest cut him off. “So sorry. I didn’t need Forrest to constantly falsely accuse me even though we weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“I guess he was threatened by me. We used to work out together all the time, you remember that?”

“Yes, you two used to meet up at the gym every other day.” Forrest wasn’t in shape like he is these days.

“I guess old boy got bothered by what he saw.” Jordan flexes his bulging muscles, tosses back his head, and laughs. Then he quickly changes the subject. He asks dozens of questions. How is life treating me? How do I enjoy being a mother these days? What are my favorite movies, music CDs, and places to go? Am I happy? It feels like an interview, yet I detect a rare sincerity.

“You could have been my woman, you know that, don’t you?” Jordan has a serious look on his face. “It was all a matter of timing. And luck.”

“You think?” By now we’ve ordered red wine. Two glasses of Pinot Noir for me. I’m feeling good, sexy, and no longer care about who’s coming in the front door of Christian’s Tailgate. Plus there’re mostly white folks in here anyway so . . . I need to chill.

“Carmen, you were my dream girl. But I was still trying to get it together back then. I wasn’t quite ready for you, but I always wanted you.”

“That makes me feel good, Jordan. You know I was crazy about you, too . . . years ago.” What difference does that make now?

“And a man never forgets the woman he almost hooked up with.”

It feels so hot in here all of a sudden.

“I always imagined what you looked like without those cute T-shirts and tight jeans you loved to wear.”

“Jordan, please—”

“I’ve always wanted to do just that.”

Jordan was always very direct. In the past, his candor intimidated me. Now it intrigues me. I like feeling wanted, attractive. Jordan’s chasing after me turns me on in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.

Before I know it, I’m following this man back to his place. I’m pleased to find out that Jordan lives in a luxury town house near downtown. He insists that I pull my MKT inside his one-car garage while he parks right at his front door. We walk upstairs to the living area right above the garage. It’s a decent-sized and impeccable contemporary place with a homey feel. He gives me the classic tour. Living room with white walls, dining room with chandelier, medium-size kitchen with black appliances, and a cute powder room on the first floor. His huge master bedroom with full bath and spacious closet are located upstairs.

“Nice pad,” I say when we return to the living room. Based upon Jordan’s pimped-out entertainment center, I can tell he’s crazy about electronic gadgets. He has iPhone, iPad2, iPods, DVR, DVD, underwater digital cameras, you name it.

“Whenever I’m home, this room is where I like to chill, get my drink on, and listen to my music.”

“Who do you like?”

“Kanye, Drake, B.o.B., Babyface, Trey Songz, Ben Tankard, and the King of Pop, to name just a few.”

“No females?”

“Ooops, yeah. Alicia Keys is bad. She’s a great musician.”

I notice a full set of Casio keyboards set against the far wall of his dining room.

“Speaking of musicians, I assume you still play, huh?”

“You remember?” His tender look makes my heart skip a beat.

“Some things you never forget.”

We lock eyes.

Jordan pours me some Chardonnay. I relax on his sofa. He takes a seat in front of his keyboards and starts playing a beautiful version of Pachelbel’s Canon. I remember this song as a child. The music relaxes me. I get lost in the dreamy melody and feel shocked and impressed. There aren’t too many men I know who can play classical pieces. He’s captured my complete attention.

Once Jordan’s done, he plops down next to me and we chitchat. He shares stories of his travels across the country and describes his life as an adventure. He tells me how it’s hard for him to maintain a long-term relationship with a woman but how he needs one nevertheless.

“Everyone has needs,” I reply.

“I’m glad we agree on that.”

He scoots closer to me and, after a while, picks up my hand and threads his fingers in between mine. I sense that he’s staring at me as he talks. It feels good to have his attention.

I feed Jordan’s ego by telling him how wonderful he looks and how great he smells.

“What cologne is that?”

“Usher for Men, of course.”

“That is definitely your signature fragrance. You smell irresistible.”

I pretend like I’m Forrest, trying to envision how he connected with all his jump-offs. Gradually, I release self-consciousness and sweep away thoughts of my husband.

This is nothing. No big deal.

A little later, Forrest begins affectionately touching my face and running his fingers through my hair. I love this and I let him. Not long afterward he unbuttons my blouse and caresses my breasts. He strokes my nipple with his fingertip. I shiver and moan. He leans next to my mouth and begins teasing me by kissing my cheeks, my nose, my chin. His tactics work because I grab his face between my hands and forcefully press his lips against mine. We kiss and explore each other’s tongues for a good half hour. Forrest’s face flashes in my head. I squeeze out the vision of my husband until he disappears. French kissing is not a felony. But when Jordan reaches in my panties and starts groping me, I clear my throat.

“Mmm-mmm,” I say breathlessly, coming up for air. “That’s enough.”

“Why?” he complains. “I want you.”

“Don’t worry,” I tell him as I stand up and button my blouse. “This is just the appetizer.”

10

When I get home that night, thankfully Forrest is in the front yard retrieving our empty garbage cans from the curb. So when I park in my side of the garage, I simply wave at him. I’m appreciative of the fact that he’s focused on trash outside our house while I’m left to deal with my trashy thoughts.

I rush upstairs and get undressed so I can shower. It feels odd to admit that I enjoyed secretly meeting up with a sexy, attentive man who I know likes me. Scrubbing Jordan’s scent off me isn’t easy. But it’s a must. I engage in a mental war. I’m not a slut. I’m just doing what some men do. It’s just sex. But it wasn’t even that. So I haven’t a thing to worry about and no reason to feel guilty.

By the time the evening is over, the only thought I entertain is act like a man, think like a man.

I convince myself that I’ve done nothing wrong. Besides, I know my limitations and I’ll never do anything to truly hurt Forrest. Plus, if he ever finds out, what can he say?

I spend Sunday afternoon getting my nails and hair done. While I am at the salon, Jordan texts me to ask if we can meet tomorrow for lunch. His treat. I tell him “sure.”

So on Monday, I walk Briana to her first-grade class. Ms. Collette, her beautiful young teacher, stops to chitchat with me for a minute. When we’re done, she wishes me well, takes Briana’s hand into hers, and escorts her into the classroom.

I rush back home to make sure Forrest is sound asleep. Then I spend time getting Jazzy dressed and we take a trip to the Sugar Land Ice & Sports Center. Even though Briana is the one who’s in the beginner’s class, Jazzy gets mesmerized watching the other kids glide and spin on the ice. I park the car, and we enter the facility and find one of the few available seats remaining in a section designated for spectators. I place Jazzy in my lap and she excitedly claps her hands while watching several skaters practice some moves from The Nutcracker on Ice. Before long, my little girl falls asleep. That’s when I decide to call Shalita.

“Girl, this is getting so tricky. I made plans to meet with J for a late lunch, but it’ll feel weird to ask Forrest to watch Jazzy.”

“You’re doing the damn thing, huh,” Shalita says.

“It’s nice to reconnect with an old friend.”

I tell her how he played the keyboards for me at his town house while I sipped wine. And I mention how he acted like he wanted to hear anything I had to say. But I leave out the freaky deaky parts.

“It all made me feel very, very special, something that I desperately need. You know how long it’s been since I’ve actually made true headway with Forrest. Seeing J is a nice little release.”

“I heard that, but are you absolutely sure about this?”

“Oh, now you want me to be cautious, yet you encouraged me to go for it. What happened to the chick that was angry for me?”

“Girl, I still have your back. I’m just saying. You have little ones to think about.”

“I’ve always had little ones to think about, Shalita.” For the first time, a small twinge of regret occupies my heart. But hell, Forrest is a parent, too. The fact that he has three kids hasn’t stopped him from making new friends and whooping it up on the slick. Of course, rules are different and more advantageous for some men.

“Well, hell, now I don’t know what to do.”

“Cancel.” Shalita sounds more serious than usual. “Tell him you got rained out and Elvis has left the building.”

“Shalita, girl, you sound like I’m treating this like a game. But I assure you, I’m not playing games.”

“And that’s what I’m scared of. Who knows how this can end up? I don’t want you to get caught up and hurt.”

“It isn’t even about all that. I can handle myself.” Inside I feel resentful. So Forrest can get away with engaging in casual sex, but I can’t even be around a male friend because I wasn’t born with testosterone?

“Don’t leave your baby with your hubby to go fuck your man.”

“We aren’t doing that.”

“Not yet.”

“Oh Shalita, chill, I got this.”

“All jokes aside, Jordan may be a nice, former friend, but I just think that’s a dangerous hole to crawl into.”

“I still need to climb in.”

“Okay, I give up. You’re stubborn, girl.”

“I’m determined.”

“Then go head on witcha bad self.”

Shalita and I talk some more. I have to make sure she isn’t angry with me for my male-driven decisions. She argues I can think like a man, but I mustn’t forget that I’m still a woman. Soon, I hang up from my best friend feeling anxious. Is Shalita right? Am I too feminine to try and safely accomplish what some men do?

Jordan texts me:

 

WE STILL ON?

 

I reply:

How about dinner?
Kewl. What time? Everything ok?
7. Babysitter issues.
Gotcha. TTYL.

On impulse, I text Dante and tell him he’ll be paid fifteen bucks to watch the kids.

He quickly replies:

 

No prob.

 

Right before twilight, I stand in front of my house chatting it up with my neighbor. After a while, Toni’s Honda slowly pulls up. She turns off the ignition. Dante exits the car. Then Toni gets out and slams her door. Today her hair is burgundy.

I say good-bye to my neighbor and walk up to Toni. “I thought Halloween was over.”

“Carmen, you can only hope you look this good.” She smirks, then stares me up and down. “You’re sure dressed mighty fancy tonight. You don’t look like you’re about to go to Bible study.”

“Don’t worry about where I’m going.”

“I will too worry when you call my son at the last minute on a school night asking him to babysit while you go to church. That’s sounds so fake. You and church? Bitch, please.”

“Toni, like I said before, I don’t pay you any attention.”

“I’ll bet if Forrest knew what you’re doing you’d pay attention.”

“He already knows,” I lie.

“Then it won’t be a problem when I bring it up to him next time we talk.”

“I can’t stand you.” I break down. More than anything it feels disturbing to see Dante gape openmouthed at me and Toni. And why shouldn’t he? We’re further perpetuating the myth that some women just can’t get along. Do I really want to be viewed in this manner? Why can’t I just let her comments slide off my back?

“Toni,” I reply, trying to calm down. “If you’d just remember your role and let me play mine, everything would be okay.”

“I’ll try to remember that next time your husband eats my coochie while he’s on the phone lying to you. Bye, bitch.”

I watch horrified as Dante runs into the house. What must he think of his mother’s words and actions? And is Forrest actually still sexually involved with his baby mama?

The stress of my encounter with Toni makes me even more eager to see Jordan. Damn Forrest. Damn Toni. Damn everybody and everything.

Desperation is driving me to a place I never knew I could go.

Endless traffic laws are broken as I try to get to Jordan’s. He meets me outside the town house and lets me park in his garage again. I follow him upstairs. It’s only my second time in his place, but it feels like my home away from home. I slide my shoes off my aching feet and get settled. He hands me a glass of wine, then sits on the far corner of the sofa and pats his lap. I hesitate but scoot closer to him and take a gulp from my glass.

“You look stressed. How was your day?” Jordan asks.

I talk. Jordan listens. I tell him about how I cleaned the entire house until it was spotless. And I let him know that I successfully completed the People magazine crossword puzzle. He laughs out loud, then says he is proud of me. I like that. I feel myself begin to loosen up. He cracks a couple of jokes and does a mean impression of President Obama.

“God bless you and uhhh, God bless the United States of America.” I scream with laughter. He’s so dead on. He tickles me under my arms until I beg him to stop.

“You look so beautiful when you’re happy.”

“Do I? I-I don’t know what I am sometimes.” It’s an honest answer.

“Well, what do you ask for when you pray?”

“To be honest, I just want to have true joy in my heart, peace in my soul. I want my family to be happy, safe, and secure.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“I hope so.”

“Well, young lady. My prayer is for you to be happy and feel safe, especially when you’re with me.”

“That’s hard to achieve considering what we’re doing.”

“Well, don’t think about it too much. Enjoy the moment. I love you to pieces and love having you around. And your body is just irresistible.”

I scowl, a little perturbed. “How would you know that, since we’ve never had sex?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I respect you immensely, but I must tell you how I feel about you. Is that fair? Can I help it that my attraction to you hasn’t wavered over the years?”

What can I say? I am flattered.

“I guess I can’t fault you for being honest about what you want.”

“See there. That’s all I’m trying to tell you, Carmen.”

I love the way Jordan’s voice sounds when he’s talking to me. I detect sincerity. And I like the way he keeps it one hundred with me.

Minutes later I wonder how my head ended up resting in his lap with my face looking up at him. Several fireless candles are lit and reek with the scent of apple cider. The mood feels so romantic and cozy. I’m touched by his attention to detail.

And when we both relocate to his bedroom a half hour later, I feel tipsy as I get undressed.

“You got a condom? I don’t want to get pregnant.”

“Don’t worry. We’re good.”

We lock eyes as he smoothly slips on a condom and, satisfied, I turn around in his bed and crawl on my knees with my back facing him. Jordan starts out placing sweet kisses on my neck, shoulders, and the center of my back. All my weak spots. Waves of pleasure flow through my body and I can’t believe how good it feels. He moves his juicy lips across my ass. He flicks his long tongue across my vagina over and over again. I want to open up my mouth and scream. But I let him keep doing his thing. When he has me wet and ready, he enters me from behind. I let out a yell so loud I bury my face in the pillows. As he pounds and thrusts against me, I release all my frustration from the past six months. I scream, growl, weep, and moan, and start speaking in tongues.

Sex with Jordan is better than I’d ever imagined. I feel liberated, powerful, and desired.

“C’mon, now your turn,” he says. I get on top of him and start pumping into a sexy rhythm that makes his toes curl.

“Woo baby, you’re a tigress,” Jordan says, exhausted from his orgasm.

“I’m glad someone thinks so,” I pant. I feel totally content.

11

After that first night with Jordan, I can’t bring myself to sleep in bed next to Forrest. Sleeping next to him would feel too odd, like he’s an enemy whom I wouldn’t want watching me from close range. Every weekend when Forrest doesn’t have to work, instead of lying in bed next to him like we usually do, I quietly retreat to the upstairs guest room, the bed where Dante sleeps whenever he spends the night.

Of course, Forrest notices my pattern change right away and corners me with a barrage of questions.

“You’re on your period?”

“No.”

“I smell funky or something? I snore too loud?”

“Stop asking me. You already know why,” I say in a biting tone. But of course, Forrest hasn’t a clue.

The next time my mom has the girls overnight, I go and spend time with Jordan. I actually stay with him from early evening until the next morning. We make love and cuddle afterward. One thing I crave is engaging pillow talk. So I love it when Jordan lets me rest my head on his chest and listens to me chatter about whatever I want. He happily holds me in his arms and I have to fight images of Forrest flashing in my head. When I begin to cry, Jordan thinks it’s because he’s pleased me so well.

It feels weird to quietly slip into the house right before Forrest returns from work. I lay my Coach bag on the kitchen counter, then retreat to the library. The light from the computer screen gives the room a spooky glow. Of course he forgot to log off from yesterday. So when I see more unread e-mails from Daphne and Big Titty Blonde Woman, I don’t feel guilty. In fact, it feels amazing to keep a dirty secret from my husband. And when condemnation lashes at me later that day, I shut out the voices until they turn into a whimper.

The third time I sleep with Jordan, I come home in the middle of the night, take a shower, and retreat to our guest room. Forrest practically gets on his knees and begs me to come back.

“I told you I’m sorry,” he pleads when he enters the guest room looking for me. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Not according to your definition, huh?”

“Baby, please don’t do this. You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand all right. Trust me.”

“What you mean by that?”

I turn away from him and walk out the room, leaving him alone. Is this how it feels to act like a man, think like a man? Do hurtful things and freeze out any emotional feeling associated with my actions?

Two days later, when I go visit at my mom’s, I slyly ask Varnell about the psychology of men.

“I’m sorry, but it seems that some men lack emotions and can act uncaring and I don’t like it.”

Varnell disagrees.

“Sis, men are very emotional. Just because Forrest acts uncaring doesn’t mean a thing. He has feelings and they’re deep just like yours. He just has a different way of expressing them.”

“Hmm, oh really,” I say as if I don’t care at all. “Then why is it when I used to ask Forrest about the issues we’re having, he blew me off? I’m trying to get to the root of our problems. He will talk two to three minutes and after that, it’s time to change the subject.”

“He feels bad about the topic. That’s it. He wants you to move on at his pace, not at yours.”

“That’s bull,” I say angrily. “It can take him six months to do his dirt but he wants me to get over it in two days. Not gonna happen.”

“I see your point, Carmen, but if he said he’s sorry, believe him. You gotta move on at some point. Can’t punish the man forever.”

“Are you taking his side? You don’t know what he’s done to me.”

“I can pretty much figure it out and it’s not that I like it one bit. I will put my foot up his butt if he hurts you, but if y’all ever get to the point that you can really talk and he is remorseful, that’s different.” Varnell looks at me with kindness. “Forgive the man wholeheartedly and you may see the change that you desperately want.”

Listening to Varnell only makes me angrier. Why can some men do wrong and don’t want to be reminded of their faults? Was the world really made to accommodate the wants and desires of men, and women were conveniently left out?

I try to go about my day and wonder if Forrest and I can ever recommence a normal relationship. Memories of our good old days make me smile: the silliness, teasing, closeness, and being down for each other. Once you have experienced beautiful things in a relationship, you never ever want to let them go.

When I depart from Mommy’s, I’m occupied throughout the afternoon with light grocery shopping, getting an oil change, and going to the mall to pay my Dillard’s and Macy’s bills. But when I look up and see that Good Ole Dayz has texted me ten times and left three voice mails, I wonder what the hell is going on. I dial his number.

“Hey there.”

“Are you okay?” He sounds worried. “I called you a long time ago.”

“I know,” I say, slightly put off. “I was pretty busy this morning running errands.”

“Oh okay. Cool. Well, um, are we going to hook up tonight?”

“No, I need to help Briana with her homework. And Jazzy has been battling a slight cold so I want to be there for her.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“I’ll have to let you know.”

“As long as we see each other this week.”

“Hmm,” I say, barely listening to him.

“I-I miss you, my little Carmen Foster.”

I don’t say anything. It feels awkward to divide my heart between Jordan versus what’s going on at home. I’m distracted and ready to get off the phone. I tell him good-bye and promise we will meet up as soon as I get a chance.

Insanity reigns the entire week. My daughter’s cold turns into the full-blown flu. I spend many hours attending to her, monitoring her temperature, giving her over-the-counter meds, and trying to make sure the rest of the household stays healthy. It’s only after her temperature stabilizes that I can feel relaxed.

Saturday mid-morning, Dante pops by unexpectedly.

“Oh hey,” I tell him in surprise when I open the front door.

I look past his head at the scene in front of our house. Toni actually gets out the car, smiles, and waves. I stare openmouthed at her.

Dante says, “The fellas are getting together today for b-ball. Sorry I forgot to call you before I came.”

“Don’t be silly, son. I told you before you’re always welcome.”

Dante struggles to maintain eye contact and he keeps shifting from one foot to the other.

“Are you okay? You want me to fix you something to eat?” I ask. He quietly follows me to his favorite room in the house.

“I’m cool.” He rummages through the cupboards. “I can use a bowl of cereal. Then I’ll head to the court.” He turns to face me. “You’re coming, right? Is my baby sister better?”

“Actually, she is.” I beam at him.

“Then ya’ll have to be there to watch me play. Jazzy needs some fresh air.”

“Sounds like a plan because we are sick of having cabin fever. Tell you what, give me time to fix the girls’ hair and we’ll join you in a bit.”

This morning I’m feeling significantly better than I have in the past few days. Jazzy scared all of us. Her fever got so high I rushed her to the emergency room two days ago as a precaution. The ER physician assured me my baby would be fine in no time; just a nasty bug going around.

When I brought Jazzy home from ER, both Forrest and I kissed her so much she got mad at us. I loved how my husband and I pulled together and collectively handled the care of our precious daughter. At one point, Forrest even broke down and cried. It felt so awkward and I didn’t know how to comfort him. Yet his rare display of emotion cemented my belief that Forrest does care about his family.

Thinking about how grateful I am, I happily pour Dante a big bowl of Rice Krispies. I laugh when he insists I make him a mug of chocolate milk, too. He hastily eats and waits for me to get the girls ready.

I carefully bundle the girls in jackets and hats so they’re warm and snug. As a precaution, I also wear my thick wool coat, tie a knit scarf around my neck, and pull a matching oversized hat over my hair.

Soon we walk down to the neighborhood park. The crisp November air that sweeps across my cheeks makes me feel good and alive. The brilliance of the sun makes it a beautiful Saturday morning. We feed the squirrels and enjoy being outdoors.

After a good ten minutes, I feel someone standing behind me. Two warm hands cover my eyes.

“Guess who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who do you want to see more than anyone else on earth?”

“Hmmm, my husband?”

Suddenly I see sunlight again and I turn around. Even though Jordan is scowling, he still looks very handsome. “No wonder you haven’t returned my calls.”

“Please, not here,” I tell him, feeling slightly uneasy. “My baby got sick. I told you that.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, I could have sworn I texted you.”

“Check your phone.”

“What? I’m not doing that. I couldn’t make it and that’s that.”

He actually gives me a steely look and walks away. Although his actions hurt me, I simply concentrate on the girls while they play. I try hard to ignore the guys as they shoot hoops. The blazing sun provides a little warmth on this cool day. I remove my hat and scarf and stuff them into my satchel.

Later on, Dante races up to me out of breath. “The fellas are all going to meet at Cici’s Pizza for a bite to eat. You wanna come? You and my sisters?”

“Yayyyyyyyyyyyyy,” Briana screams. Jazzy screams, too, even though she hasn’t a clue what’s going on.

I reluctantly agree. We practically run home, pile up into my MKT, and head over to the pizza parlor.

In the restaurant, I ease through the buffet line and load our trays with mouthwatering zesty pepperoni, ham, and pineapple slices, some fresh tossed salad, pasta, and dipping sticks. We settle into a nearby booth next to a big window adjacent to the parking lot. Briana occupies the seat across from me. Little Jazzy is stationed between me and the window.

It doesn’t take long for Jordan to join us.

“May I sit down?” He squeezes in next to me before I can respond.

“I’m sorry for running up on you at the park. I was just happy to see you. Forgive me?”

“Of course.”

Then Jordan pretends he’s Obama and starts cracking jokes as if he’s headlining a comedy show. The goofy expression he makes causes me and the girls to shriek with laughter. I realize how much I’ve missed his company. When he isn’t pressuring me he can be a lot of fun.

“Man, you’re too much,” I tell him. Jordan smiles at me like he’s grateful to be in my presence.

“You look amazing even in a lot of clothes.”

“Jordan, stop it,” I giggle.

He leans against me and places his arm around me. He presses his lips against my ear and starts nibbling on it. “I can’t wait to make love to you again,” he whispers.

Several bright lights flash.

I look up. Toni is aiming her digital camera at us. She takes two more shots, then runs from the restaurant.

 

 

Forrest is gone with Phil when we finally get home from Cici’s, a trip that was delayed because the girls insisted on finishing their pizza.

Once I step inside my house, I am shaking like I’m in sub-zero weather.

I don’t even get a chance to undress and think about what just happened when my doorbell rings.

I answer. Purple-haired Toni is standing on the landing. Her face is stony. It’s clear she hates my guts.

“You gonna let me in?”

Normally the answer is hell no, but I widen the door and step aside.

She struts around like she owns the place, inspecting all our family photos, admiring the furniture, the African-American artwork that graces the walls, and our top-of-the-line kitchen appliances.

“Mmm, mmm. Must be nice.”

She’s salivating like she knows everything I have will be hers one day.

“Toni, what do you want?”

“You know what I want.”

“No, I do not.”

“Well, it appears you’re living your best life.”

“I’m not. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know what I saw.” She laughs. “I know that damn much.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I will keep your secret safe and I promise not to release these photos if you don’t make a big scene when I hook back up with Forrest. I miss feeling his lips on me. Both of my lips.”

She makes my skin crawl. “What? Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“Bitch, I can destroy your marriage. But actually it’s you who’s destroyed it. If you hadn’t whined about Forrest getting a little bit of sex on the side—”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Look, you need to keep it one hunnert. If I had a nice-ass pad like this and drove around in a late-model whip like you, I’d keep my stupid little mouth shut and let my fine rich husband do whatever he wanted. You can’t find men like him on every corner, sweetie.”

“First of all, we’re not rich.”

“Do you live in a roach-infested apartment? Is your neighborhood known for muggings and constant break-ins where you fear for your life and you’re scared to come out after dark? Does your car constantly break down on the highway?”

“Well, no.”

“Point is, compared to me you’re Oprah, or even Stedman. You’re living large. Y’all got a whole lot more than—”

“I ain’t no damn Oprah and you know it. Poor excuses.” I try to reason with her. “Toni, I happen to know there are plenty of well-off good men out there if you’d just take the time to find them.”

“I don’t have time for all of that.”

“Oh, but you make time to interfere with my relationship and be all up in my business?”

“I have business with Forrest, too, and there’s nothing you can do to change that.”

I look at her in disbelief. “I get it now. You still can’t get over this sick fairy tale you have where you think Forrest would have married you. And you’d have all this, right, Toni?”

“You damn straight.”

“But don’t you know that Forrest’s father wasn’t going to leave him a cent as long as he was dating you? Daddy Foster breathed easier about that sizable insurance policy only after you broke it off with Forrest. He felt like I was the better woman for his son. You were never going to have all this.”

She looks like I just slapped the taste out her mouth.

“Look, bitch. For all I know you’re telling lies on a dead man. I’m getting what’s mine whether you like it or not. And if you give me any trouble, guess who’s going to see these pictures? Then what’s mine will really be mine. ’Cause Forrest will flip out if he knows what you’re up to: that you’re fucking a man that’s the worst frenemy he’s ever had. You know it would mess him up and you still too damn selfish to care about your own husband.”