Forever An Ex (18 page)

I gave him a long side-eye glance.

“He got married two years ago. To a . . . woman. Dana.”

A lump popped into my throat. “Married?” I whispered. Oh, my God! Had I made a mistake? But then I shook my head. I knew what I saw, I knew what I felt in my gut. I wasn't going to buy his lies like everyone else. “But you and Jett were at Rendezvous,” I said, like that was my trump card.

But then Quentin raised the stakes. “We were there to meet the chef. Adolphe Baptiste. He's . . . he's a friend of Jett's who catered his wedding. We had a meeting that night because I wanted Adolphe to cater mine. Harmony just loved the food when I took her there and I wanted him to provide the food for my wedding. My wedding that's not going to happen now.”

I let his words sink in, though I still couldn't say that I believed him. “But Jett told me . . . I saw him when I went to the restroom and he made it seem . . .”

Quentin nodded. “We were sitting at the bar when you walked by, and at first, I thought that you were looking for me. I thought you were going to come right out and ask me about Jett. But you walked by, and I figured you really had to go to the restroom. Jett told me he spoke to you. Told me he said some things he shouldn't have said, but he was just mess-in' with you because you were being so self-righteous. And I would've cleared it up then if I had any idea you were going to go to Harmony.”

I calculated it all in my head. The first meeting with Harmony, seeing Quentin and Jett, the last meeting with Harmony. Had I been wrong about it all?

“I've lost her, Sheridan.” Quentin's voice was soft and filled with sadness, now. “I lost her because of you.”

“Quentin, I'm so sorry,” I breathed. “I didn't mean anything . . . I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“You were wrong. On so many levels, you were wrong.”

“I'll speak to Harmony. I'll tell her—”

“I don't even know where she is.” His words were even softer than before. Like he'd been in a losing battle and had no more energy to fight on. He said, “I hadn't been able to reach her for days, and then, this morning, she left me a voice mail and sent me an e-mail. She told me everything that you told her. I didn't even get the chance to explain,” he continued. “I didn't get to tell her that you were wrong.”

“Well, you've got to find her,” I said. “You've got to tell her everything.”

“How?” Now he shouted. “I've called and her number is no longer in service. I went to her apartment, and she's moved. I just came from the hospital and they told me that she quit.” He paused. “She quit, Sheridan. Because of you. She's just gone.” He lowered his head, closed his eyes, and I prayed to God that he wouldn't start crying right there in front of all of us.

The eyes had shifted from Quentin to me. But what was I supposed to say? What was I supposed to do?

An eternity of seconds passed before Quentin looked up and at me. “I never meant to hurt you, Sheridan.” Now he whispered so softly that I could hardly hear him. But I wasn't about to ask him to speak up. “Really, I never did. I thought I told you that. I thought I apologized.”

“You did,” I said, my voice as low as his.

“But I guess my apology meant nothing.” Before I could say another word, he added, “Because all these years, you wanted to get back at me. You wanted to hurt me.”

“No!”

“You wanted me to feel what you felt back then.”

“No!”

“All I can say is congratulations. Because in the end, you won. I've lost the only woman I've loved since you.”

“Quentin, no!” I reached for him, but he jerked away from me as if my touch was poisonous. With his head bowed, Quentin moved past me and Brock, walked to the door, and then without looking back, he walked right through it.

For a couple of seconds, we all stood there, staring at the door, transfixed.

Then Christopher moved. Well, at least his eyes did—from the door to me. And he shot me a heated glare.

“Chris . . .”

Before I could step toward him, he bolted toward the door. “Dad!” he yelled. And Evon ran after him.

I lifted my hands to my mouth wondering what had I done? Looking at Brock, I pleaded with him. I begged him with my eyes. He had to be the one to understand.

But he shook his head and said, “I told you to stay out of it.”

“I know. And I tried. And, I'm so sorry.”

“It's a little late for sorry, don't you think?”

“Brock.” For the third time, I reached toward someone who backed away. Brock stepped back, turned around, then walked toward our bedroom. Just a few seconds after that, he slammed our bedroom door shut.

I stood there in the entryway, looking from the open front door to the closed one of my bedroom. I stood there, all alone.

Chapter

Twenty-Five

A
tornado had swept in and caused all of this chaos in my life.

The only thing was—
I
was that tornado. I'd caused the confusion.

I knew this. I could admit this. And, I was going to fix this.

Now!

I looked at the bedroom door that Brock had slammed shut about ten minutes ago. But right as I took a step forward, I took three back. I wasn't ready to face my husband. Not until I could tell him that I'd apologized to Quentin and was on my way to making amends.

So I went into action. First, I grabbed my cell from the dining room table, then rushed into the family room. My hands were shaking as I scrolled through my phone to Quentin's number. Before I clicked on his name, I said a quick prayer that he would listen. That he'd be able to hear me above all the curses that I was sure he wanted to send my way.

But after just one ring, my call hit his voice mail.

I hung up and dialed again.

And this time, he answered.

“Quentin!” I breathed.

Then the click of the call ending. Without a word, Quentin had hung up on me.

I sighed and pressed his number again, but a second later I ended the call. I could've taken him hanging up on me again and again, but what good would that do? Quentin needed time, and right now that was all I could give him.

Next, Harmony.

But before I even scrolled through my phone to find her number, I stopped. Quentin said that her number was disconnected.

So without being able to talk to Harmony, I had to go to my son next.

If the timing of all of this had been just a little bit different, Christopher wouldn't even be involved. If Quentin had come yesterday, or tomorrow, or early this morning before Christopher and Evon had gotten here, or even later tonight when the four of us would've been out to dinner . . .

But Quentin had timed it so that my son and my husband heard the worst about me. Of course, Christopher was livid. I would've known that even if I hadn't seen his barefaced anger when he looked at me before he raced through the door to get to his father.

I owed my son an apology . . . I owed them all one. But Christopher also needed to hear my side. I wasn't just out there trying to ruin his father's life.

I scrolled to
Son
, clicked, and the picture of Christopher's face shining bright with his smile popped up. I held my breath, but after only one ring, the call went to voice mail. I called again. Another ring, then straight to voice mail. I hung up, called again. Same result.

I could tell that my son was pressing ignore every time he saw my name. That was something I'd told him and Tori never to do, at least not as long as I was paying their bills.

I hadn't paid one of Christopher's bills in years.

So, without connecting with Quentin or Christopher, that only left Brock.

Just about forty minutes had passed since Brock had walked away from me. That was enough time for his anger to calm, at least a little, wasn't it?

I took short, slow steps as if I was a dead woman walking, and this time I didn't stop. When I got to our bedroom, I opened the door, stepped inside, then stood at the threshold.

My expectation was that my husband would do what he always did. Whenever I walked into any room where he was, he turned, he looked, he smiled. I wasn't exactly expecting the smile, but I thought it was a natural reflex that made him turn and face my presence.

But clearly it wasn't natural because his eyes didn't waver from the television. He stayed the way he was, sitting up with his back against the headboard, his hands clasped behind his head, and his legs stretched out in front of him.

It was as if he didn't even know I was there.

In the six years of our marriage, of course we'd had our little spats. But that's all they ever were—little and spats.

For me, that's all this was as well. After all, what I'd done with Quentin didn't have a thing to do with me and Brock. But the way Brock sat, not acknowledging me, let me know that his view was different from mine.

I let time pass . . . seconds that turned into a minute. There was nothing from my husband, so I said, “Can we talk?”

More silence. More time passing. And in those moments, I came to realize how deep my husband's anger was. Then finally, there was a slight shift of his eyes before he said, “We?” He shrugged. “Doesn't seem like we need to talk about anything. Seems like you took care of everything already.”

“I want to explain,” I said, knowing that I had to be patient in this situation. “I want you to know what I did and why I did it.”

Then, more passing time, more silence, nothing else from my husband. Not until I said, “Please.”

In the next second, Brock reached for the remote. And for a second, it looked like he was going to point it at me. Press exit and hope that I'd disappear. But instead, he aimed it for the television and set the sound to mute.

He said, “Speak.”

That's it. Nothing more.

Moving with more confidence than I felt, I walked to his side of the bed, then sat on the edge. “I'm really sorry,” I said, thinking it was best to start there. “I should've listened to you.”

His left eyebrow rose, but he kept his silence.

“I didn't know what to do,” I continued. “Harmony insisted that she had to talk to me because she had no one else. And then I found out that she was my soror, and then we saw Quentin and Jett . . .” I paused for a moment and took a breath. “I just felt that she had to know.”

“And why is that, Sheridan?” he asked with his lips so tight it sounded like he was growling. “Why did she have to know?”

Now I raised my eyebrow. “First of all, she asked. But secondly, if something like this were happening to you, wouldn't you want to know?” I didn't wait for him to answer. “The truth of it, Brock, is that I wish someone had told me. Quentin is gay and no one seems to want to talk about that.” I was getting revved up. Everyone was mad at me when, now that I thought about it, I was the only one who'd done the right thing. “And, I'm not even sure about this new story about Jett. I mean, now Jett's married, and Quentin's getting married, and Jett's moved back to Los Angeles. Doesn't this all ring strange to you?”

Brock was silent, but this time I wasn't bothered by it. The way he looked at me, the way he slowly nodded his head, he was considering what I'd said. He said, “Ring strange, huh?”

I nodded.

“Well, even if it does,” he began, “the point is that you still don't get it.”

I blinked.

The muscles in his jaw flexed. “You still don't get that it's none of your business. And that's the part that I don't get.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, almost hitting me with his foot. He jumped up, then stood in front of me. “Even now,” he said, throwing up his hands as if he was exasperated, “you still want to be all up in Quentin's business.” He paced in front of me. “What is it, Sheridan? Why is it that you won't leave your ex alone?”

“I wasn't thinking about Quentin,” I said, my volume matching his. “I was thinking about Harmony.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, right. Harmony's just an excuse. You're using her not to cut ties with him.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Really? You need to dig deep and be honest.”

“I am being honest. This was only about telling Harmony what I thought she should know.”

“It has to be more than that. Because even though your ex just came here wanting to blow up this spot, and even though Christopher just called asking me to tell you to stop calling him, and even though you know that I'm really hot about this . . . even with all of that, you still sit there, curious about Quentin's life, talking about something that's strange to you.”

“It's just that I'm the only one seeing clearly. I know something's not right. I know it in my gut.”

“And that's what's wrong with this whole thing. You don't need to be seeing anything in Quentin's life and you don't need to be gut-checking him. I told you before, his life is not yours. His life is not supposed to be a concern to you.”

I sat there for a moment, wanting to agree with my husband, but why couldn't he agree with me? Why couldn't he see my side and understand that I was only trying to help?

But I didn't need to be right—at least not right now. I wanted to fix this with Brock. I'd convince him of all that stuff about Quentin and Harmony later.

So, I pulled back and said, “I'm not concerned about Quentin. I just didn't want Harmony to get hurt the way I'd been.”

“This is a problem, Sheridan. You need to let what happened with you and Quentin go.”

I nodded. “I know. And, I will from now on.”

He shook his head. “You've said that before.”

“I will this time. I mean, what else can happen? What more can I do? The damage is done, right?”

He frowned. “Is that what you were trying to do? Cause damage? Hurt people?”

“No, I'm just saying that everything has all played out.”

“Has it?”

He paused and all kinds of emotions washed over his face. The doubt, the anger I expected to see. But it was the absolute sadness in his eyes that froze me. The sadness that let me know that he'd been hurt by what I'd done.

“Has it all played out, Sheridan?” he whispered. “I'm just not sure.”

“Brock, what I did has nothing to do with you. It has nothing to do with what I feel about you.”

Shaking his head, he said, “How can you say that? If you have all of these cares for Quentin, how do you have any room for me?”

“You're the only one in my heart; I love you.”

Then there was silence. I mean, the type of silence where all I heard was a symphony of crickets. And here's the thing—there had never been a time when I told my husband that I loved him and he said nothing back.

Finally, he spoke. He said, “I don't want to talk about this anymore,” as he slipped into his loafers.

When he grabbed his keys from the nightstand, I asked, “Where are you going?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe to get something to eat. I don't know.”

“Okay,” I said as I rose to go with him.

But he held up his hands. “No, I'm flyin' solo.” Then he turned his back on me and marched out of our bedroom. And just for good measure, it seemed, he slammed the door closed once again.