Shh...Mine (This. Is. Not. Over.) Page 6

  Tom Ford. Tom Ford. Tom Ford. I turn around in Jon’s closet. Three Tom Ford suits. The suits that I bought him. That’s all that’s left. Jasmine was wrong. He moved out over the weekend. My throat burns. I look to the case that he kept his shoes. Empty…except for. I walk over to the case. His ring. A lone wedding ring. It’s so quiet…just the sound of my breath. He’s gone. And it’s so quiet. I melt down onto the floor. How…low…can…I…sink…?

  April

  “It’s tough. God…this is tough, Lola.”

  “It’s okay to cry. But it’s also okay to smile.”

  May

  “It’s just that…I could have been different Lola. I could have been better.”

  “Yeah, you could’ve been. But couldn’t we all stand to be a bit better?”

  June

  Jon’s here. I wasn’t sure if he would come to the wedding, especially, since he knew I’d be here. But he’s here. Right here, in Boston, at the Ritz Carlton. Suddenly the sun in this English garden is beating down on me. Why in the world did Jasmine opt for an outdoor wedding in June? I smooth my hair over. I will not look into his face so I simply graze his form. Yep, that’s him. He’s looking towards the front at all of the bridesmaids and groomsmen, but so is everyone else. Oh boy. This is going to be embarrassing, tons of people from our college are here. They’re here, I’m here, he’s here and neither one of us is wearing a wedding ring. Lord, I could die right now. Rena’s standing on my right, she nudges me. I know, know. Don’t make it so obvious. Everyone turns when the violin strums louder, signaling the bride is ready to make her grand entrance. Good, now he’s not looking towards the front. I let my eyes graze his back. He’s a giant with broad shoulders. He’s thickened up a bit which doesn’t bother me. He’s not playing ball full time anymore and he’s growing older. No, I won’t think about Jon. Jasmine is my best-friend, she’s marrying the love of her life and I will be present for this. I’m always in my thoughts, stuck in my mind, worrying about my problems, trying to figure things out. But this afternoon while I’m surrounded by all of these bright ass flowers and bees and while I’m standing here in this god awful melon dress, I will be present. Right here. Right now. For my best friend…wait…is that who I think it is? I squint my eyes as Jasmine proceeds down the aisle, her face broadcasting her deep chocolate dimples. As the heads turn, my eyes grow narrower. Is that…no…is that? You’ve got to be kidding me. Marla. Marla is here.

  “Everyone’s looking for you.” My mother says to me as she steps outside on the veranda.

  “That’s why I’m out here.” I look out into the field of flowers. I would have recognized how pretty this venue really is if my state of mind wasn’t all fucked up.

  “Have you talked to Jon?” Her voice is barely over a whisper. She wants to tread lightly.

  “No.”

  “Well it’s probably because you’ve been out here since right after dinner.” She sits beside me on the stone bench.

  “I don’t want to talk to anyone.” I look out into the night with its flowers and stars as rap music is blaring in my ear. Oh well, you can’t have it all, right?

  “Why?”

  “Do you have to ask?”

  “Because people from college are in there and you’re embarrassed.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Is that why Jon left?” I look to her.

  “Jon’s not here?”

  “He never came to the reception.” What? As soon as the bridal party finished taking pictures, we all walked in to applause, sat down and ate. I scurried away from the table before the crowd of people started circulating and catching up. So Danielle, how are you and Jon? Divorcing! So soon? Yes we are, shut the fuck up. I didn’t want to have to go through that.

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Of course. Before the wedding he came over to give your father and me a hug and right after he and your father chatted.”

  “About what?”

  “His traveling with work. He said he was going to pick up Nicky from his godparents tomorrow and spend the rest of the weekend with him.”

  “And then he didn’t come to the reception.”

  “I haven’t seen him.” Well that doesn’t surprise me. Jon, as I learned, is antisocial. I didn’t know it in college because he was part of the basketball team and in a frat and was forced to be around people. But once he was free from his collegiate obligations, he had a select group of friends from his childhood days. He barely spoke to anyone from college anymore. Like I said before, he, Matt and Rena have this homeboy-homegirl complex. They seem to feel guilty that they have an opportunity to live comfortably.

  “Did he mention where he was staying?”

  “Here.” Should I go up to his room and speak with him? I close my eyes to think.

  “You two need to talk eventually, especially if you’re going to divorce.” I nod. I didn’t want to talk about that because if I talked about that, I wanted to cry. And for five months, I’ve cried my eyes out. Poor Lola has been heaven sent. She’s been nothing but patient. She even came to Boston this weekend to be around just in case Jon showed up at the wedding. She wants to make sure that I can get through this wedding with the possibility of Jon attending and our friends asking questions. Such a friend.

  “I’ll go up.”

  “When you’re finished, come back down to talk.” My mom rubs my back. I stand up slowly, gearing up the nerve to go speak to Jon. It’s been months.

  I, of course, don’t go through the reception to get to the hotel lobby. I head out of the gardens and then walk on the side of the building to reach the front. James Bond style. I walk past beautiful people in gowns and tuxedos, say hello to valet people who nod to me and front desk people who welcome me. I ask about Jon’s room, tell him that I’m his wife and they simply give me his room number. Wow, so much trust…I’ll be calling your supervisor tomorrow Susan. I’m surrounded by ivory and gold, Beethoven and irises. On the elevator, I’m bombarded with my reflection and the laughing of the Chanel laden ladies who are on there with me. My stomach is full of acid and when I land on the fourteenth floor, it’s as though I can’t get to Jon’s room fast enough. I just want to get this over with. I walk to his door and immediately see a room service tray by it. Cherries and salad, all half eaten. Yep, this is Jon’s room. I breathe. I knock. I wait…and wait. The door eases open. And for the first time, we’re face to face. He smells like oranges. Enough with the fucking fruit! His face isn’t handsome but his size more than makes up for it. He’s wearing a white t-shirt, his dress slacks and black socks. I don’t feel butterflies. I don’t feel happy. I’m just here.

  “Can I come in?” I ask.

  “It’s not a good time.” Whoa. Wait. Let me think. Is someone in there? My eyes scrunch as I look past him.

  “Is someone in there?” He looks to me but says nothing. He has a poker face, as always. “Jon is someone in there?” He says nothing. Yes, Danielle. Someone is in there and you know who. “Jon is Marla in there.” He says nothing. My pride is wounded and my anger is rising. It’s one thing to leave me but it’s another to sleep with another woman. But I will not be angry. I am not a perfect wife. He is not a perfect husband. There is no such thing as a perfect mate. You see how much I’ve grown? I breathe deeply in and then out. There’s no need to pussyfoot around, I mind as well just get to the punch line.

  “I didn’t give my best.” I say.

  “No you didn’t.” And neither did you, but we won’t go there.

  “I could have done a lot of things differently. But back then, before you left, I didn’t realize that. I was giving all that I had.” I swallow back the pain in my throat and wait for him to help me out here. He looks at me instead. “I don’t know how to love.” It’s hard to admit but it’s true. “I just don’t. I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like. I don’t know if it’s supposed to be fun or serious, more duty than enjoyable. I just don’t know, but I’m trying to figure things out. That’s all that I can
do in life, figure things out and hope I get it right. But if I don’t, I don’t want to worry about someone hating me or leaving me. Because I’m going to make mistakes my entire life and I don’t want to worry about always having to be perfect.”

  “I understand.” That’s it? We look at each other in silence. As I look at him, I realize that I don’t love him and I never did. I wanted a husband and he was that husband. He fulfilled his job which was just to satisfy a role in my life. But what did he want from me?

  “What do you want from me?”

  “What did I want from you?” Ouch. “Peace and quiet. I wanted someone who didn’t have to run off from Houston to Boston to New Orleans to Europe or wherever else. I wanted to come home to a quiet home that I could drink a glass of whiskey in without being asked to go out to an expensive ass restaurant where I can’t pronounce anything on the menu. I wanted to watch a game at home without always having to go to a sushi bar and be surrounded by people I don’t know. I wanted to enjoy nights at home without having to go for a ride and go get ice cream. That’s what I wanted.”

  “But you do realize that I want to keep us active because you are gone five days a week and the weekends are our time to enjoy each other and have fun.” I’m speaking in the present tense. Is he picking that up? His face reveals nothing.

  “I didn’t need that.” Past tense.

  “You didn’t need to spend time with me, eating and drinking and having fun?”

  “That’s not my idea of fun.”

  “So what is your idea of fun Jon?”

  “Six years of dating and two years of marriage and you have to ask?”

  “I do.”

  “The fact that you have to ask is the reason why we never made it.” Whoa…

  “Can you just tell me?” I say it in a pleading tone. I don’t want this to escalate into a fight.

  “I just told you. Sitting at home, in quiet, with a glass of whiskey.”

  “And where am I while you’re doing this?” He says nothing. It’s because I’m not there. I’m not in that picture. He didn’t marry me to enjoy me. He shakes his head and then runs a hand over it.

  “I told you that I didn’t want to get married and then you got pregnant.”

  “Wait, so after six years of dating, you would have never married me?” I wait for an answer. He says nothing. Well, there you have it. My pride is destroyed. He never wanted me. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. This doesn’t matter; we can still salvage the marriage. It’s still salvageable. “Can you not go back in there to her? Can you tell her that you are married for now and your wife is here? Can you tell her that you have to leave? And then can we go to my condo, alone, without a crowd, drink some whiskey and talk this over? There is something that can be done Jon. I was horrible but I’m standing here asking for us to make the best out of this. I’m asking for us to try to do something we’ve never done. Compromise.”

  “I’ll be a father to my son.”

  “I know you will. You Skype him each day, you put more than enough money in the account for him. You are a wonderful father, one of the best.” I want him to know that I respect him; I don’t know if I ever made that clear before. You’re a good dad, a lousy ass husband, but a good dad. “Can you tell Marla goodbye and come back out to me?” He stands there and looks at me. There’s a lot going through his mind. My intentions as a wife may not have been the best but my actions never proved that. I don’t enjoy sex but I pretended to with him. I don’t like staying home all day but I did for him. I’m not in love with him but I showered him with compliments. I may not have been authentic but I never abandoned my duty. That has to mean something. That means that I will try when I have to. I watch him turn around and head back into the room. The door closes behind him. I back up and lean against the wall and wait. I’m not thrilled to be married to him but I don’t want to leave him. I’ve grown accustomed to his face and I don’t want to give it up. Love isn’t about lust, it’s about loyalty. I am loyal. And so I wait…and wait…and wait.

  But…he…never…comes…back…out.

  Malcolm

  June 28th in Hilton Head, SC

  “Are you okay?” She eases her head to the right and looks at me. She pauses, brings her eyes to my mouth and then up to my eyes. Her face gives me a glimpse of recognition and she brings the slightest grin to her lips before turning back around and watching the bar’s televisions. It’s time Red. You don’t know the shit I’ve been through over you.

  “I am.” She says, her voice low. She’s just as perfect as when I saw her in Belgium. Red hair, skin the color of almond butter, my preferred kind of butter. Almond. She’s watching BBC on The Oyster Bar’s TV screen and they’re showing news of the Spanish Monarchy. Her hand is wrapped around a glass of scotch but I haven’t seen her touch it once and I’ve been watching her for a half hour now. She’s the same Red from Belgium but something’s different. That concern she had for me when she asked me, a complete stranger, if I was alright, is gone. And let’s face it, to her, I am a complete stranger. Something’s wrong with her. I glance to her hands. Red nails. Red is a bold color. She was in Belgium alone, she’s sitting in this bar alone, she’s wearing a black strapless dress and heels that make her calves look like they’re chiseled out of rock. Red. Still a badass. But alone.

  “Do you need help?” I wait and then see another slight smile come over her lips. Full lips. Damn.

  “With what?” She doesn’t look at me.

  “You tell me. I’m at your service.” She eases her head around to look at me again. This time she looks me completely over. Hair. Eyes. Nose. Mouth. Adam’s Apple. Shoulders. Chest. Stomach. She stops. I smile. “Why’d you stop?” Her face is teasing. She looks me in my eyes, takes a sip of her drink and then looks back towards the television. So I was partly right about her, she did become half of what I thought she would. I can tell she’s a traveler, an explorer; her gold hoops, her hair twisted and pinned up, her skin reflecting gold, a thin braided bracelet around her wrist. A Native American design? She became that bohemian but not too obvious; one of those Ivy League grad types. No tattered clothing, she’s polished now just as she was before. No crazy ass makeup…actually I don’t even think she has any on. Her lashes are curled and covering her eyes so maybe, but then again maybe not. It’s not obvious. I like that. I like when you never know, too much certainty is bland. A man needs a bit of mystery, the teasing pleasures of a woman. Damn, Red is a woman now. And then, as if she knows I’m beside the woman that I’ve always wanted, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Laura. Shit, she’s been calling me all fucking night. I’ll have to answer at least once this week or else she’ll hunt me down and come to Hilton Head to find me. I put my phone back in my pocket, yeah I’ll answer. But definitely not now.

  “You’re supposed to be sad.” She says.

  “When you left me in Belgium, I was miserable.” I smile. Yeah, I still smile. I’ve noticed that it gets me places. She grins. “I’ve noticed a person’s mood changes, depending on the company.” She nods and then takes a sip of her drink. “Or lack thereof.”

  “Is that right…” She takes another sip of her drink. Sexy. As. Hell. I look around her neck and lean forward just a little bit. The pendant. She’s actually wearing the earth pendant around that thin gold chain of hers. It’s amazing how a woman who never even wanted me could have so much control over my life for these past twelve years. Love? Can’t be. Obsession? Possibly. Intrigue? Definitely. I look at her glass now and it’s almost empty so I find the bartender.

  “Can you get Danielle another one?” I point to her glass as I say her name purposely. I haven’t forgotten you, look I’ve called you Danielle. Most people call you Red but I’ve called you Danielle, that means I know you intimately. I’m special. I saw you walk towards those church steps and I’ll admit I said a quick prayer. Come over here. You came and sat. You smelled like fresh laundry. Clean and comforting. The kind that you wrap yourself in after a long day of work and a
hot shower. The kind you throw on to go on a midnight run to get gelato in Rome. The kind that you climb into while heading to a dive in London for crepes and coffee. The kind that you wrap yourself in when you’re at the theatre in Belgium and you sink down in your seat, watch the lights dim and enjoy the ride they’re about to take you on. The kind that you wrap yourself in when you climb into bed…the kind that you eventually peel or tear off…shit, Red, let me peel that dress off. I’ve been peeling dozens of dresses off the wrong women for too long. I want one woman whose dress I can peel off over and over and over…

  I see her smile again.

  “Impressive.” She says but she refuses to turn around. I’m not surprised.

  I have to admit, I’ve immortalized this woman. First thing’s first, she’s still intriguing. There can’t be a room she enters where people don’t stare. It’s her look. She’ black, her hair’s red, her eyes are the color of Rum. Her hips are round, her skin’s smooth. I run my eyes over the skin of her arm. Smooth. She makes you look at her. She demands you look at her. She commands your attention. Even in the Belgium night, she ordered me to look at her. She ordered me to watch her walk to those steps. She ordered me to pray that she’d sit next to me. She made me thank God that she did. When she asked if there was something wrong with me, she caught me off guard. She has no idea who I am, I thought.

  When I saw her walk into this bar tonight, my eyes became glued to her. Does she know that I and every other man watched her walk in to this bar? The only reason I came over when I did is because I noticed a polo playing blond was about to. At least that’s what sport he looks like he plays. What a bitch. Get on a court, dribble a ball between your legs and try to keep it from five black men, you fucking yuppie. I’m certain the yuppie’s giving me a snide look right now. I grin and take a sip of my drink. Beat it Blondie, Red and I have history…even if she doesn’t know it.

  A band of women: all blonds, all tall, all amazons, walk in and of course they’re loud. Small skirts means big voices, every man knows that. I look at the commotion but revert back to Danielle. Sorry ladies, Red is here and I’ve been waiting twelve years for her. Of course, she hasn’t even turned around to look at the crowd entering. Same old Red. It’s only when I’m about to ask her what she’s doing in Hilton Head (as if I don’t already know) that I hear a voice break into my thoughts.