Liar, Liar (13 page)

“I was weak.” I state the truth.  Estelle sits quietly, soaking it all in, listening intently, but never offering even a slither of judgment.  “Let a woman, her family, my family, dictate me.  Weak.” 

“What was the catalyst?” she questions softly.

“She wanted to start a family.  She wanted my baby inside of her, not out of love, but to keep up with her social circle.” I let out a humorless bark of laughter.  “Then she threatened to have a judge award her my sperm.”  I defer from mentioning anything regarding Makenna.  It isn’t that I don’t trust Estelle; I just have something inside me holding back from speaking about her.  For some ridiculous reason, I don’t want Estelle thinking badly of Makenna.

“Oh, my god,” Estelle whispers.

“Can’t even make that shit up,” I mutter.

“How did she handle hearing you want a divorce?”

“With her typical flair for drama and threats,” I sneer.

“Regardless of her asinine threats, I hope you continue moving forward, Benny.  I get why you did what you did, marrying her and staying with her, but it’s important to remember we only get one life.  Spending it chained to someone we don’t love, living a life we’re not happy with, isn’t a way to do it.”

“I’m starting to get a bit worried you might quit and become a therapist,” I joke.

“Nah, you pay me too good,” she teases back.

“You might deserve a bonus after the intelligence you’ve shared tonight.”  My tone is light, but I’m definitely not joking.  The woman has sound advice.  Advice that has soaked deep, penetrated my bones.

“Thanks for listening,” I say quietly.  I know it isn’t lost on her the type of man I am, the kind of guy that doesn’t easily share his feelings.  So I appreciate her letting me unload a bunch of shit I didn’t even know I needed to unload.  She listened, she didn’t judge, she didn’t cut in and offer advice or opinions.  She waited until I was done and then laid it out in a way that penetrated.

“Anytime, Benny.  You’re my employer, but you’re also someone I care about.  I want to see you happy, and I want you to be the best person you can be.  And that’s not only because you’re more tolerable to work with when you’re happy,” she says, ending with the joke that brings a smile to my face.

“You want another?” I say, gesturing to her now empty wine bottle.

“Sure, why not,” she replies with an easy grin.

For the next hour, we sit out on the balcony chatting easily. Even though thoughts of Makenna are never far away, the warmth of the booze and the conversation with Estelle helps keep them at bay.  Until I crawl into bed, then she invades my dreams.

“Makenna Banks, you’re acting like someone ate the last cookie in the jar,” Mitchell teases.  “What’s got you looking all sad?”

“I’m sad because I know this meal is going to cost me a fortune,” I mutter petulantly.

“Bullshit,” he says, calling me out instantly.  “You’ve been moping around for the past three weeks.”

He’s right. I haven’t been my usual self since Benny left my apartment three weeks ago.  I haven’t seen or heard from him in that time, and despite the fact that I almost cave and call him at least twenty times a day, so far, I have managed to refrain.

“I know it’s not PMS, because that shit comes once a month, but it doesn’t last almost a
month
.  So what’s up?”

“It’s nothing, really,” I murmur, waving him off as the waitress comes to take our order.

D’tre’s
is a gorgeous place to eat.  The décor is stunning, the food is amazing, and the service is phenomenal.  It’s the place you go to eat on special occasions, or in this case, when you lose a bet.   It’s a nice night, so Mitchell and I chose to eat outside on the garden patio.  Surrounding us are hedges and weeping flowers, the delicate scent of jasmine wafts through the air when a light breeze blows.  Fairy lights are placed strategically around the area, adding to the atmosphere. 

The instant the waitress leaves after taking our order of shrimp to start, followed by steak, Mitchell turns an irritated eye to me.

“Don’t blow me off,” he states.  “Tell me what’s wrong.  I can’t help if I don’t know the problem.”

“There isn’t a problem, Mitch.  Not one you can help with anyhow,” I tell him.

“Maybe just getting it off your chest will help,” he suggests.

I sip my wine, mulling over his suggestion.  Maybe opening a little
will
help.  It’s times like this that I wish I had girlfriends to offer me advice, listen to my worries, and take my mind off Benny with talks of manis and pedis and shopping.

Alas, I
don’t
have girlfriends, I have Mitch.  So he’s going to have to suck it up and get in touch with his inner girl.  I figure it’s a reasonable trade – I pay for this overpriced (but equally delicious) meal, and he has to embrace his feminine side.

“Have you ever done something you felt torn about?” I ask, then realizing I’m not making any sense, I elaborate.  “What I mean is, have you ever felt really torn up about a situation?  It’s not like regret but it’s something similar.  Like, remorse about certain elements of the situation,” I ramble.

“Honestly, I think everyone has moments like that in their lives.  It’s how we grow, it’s what builds character.  Maybe you should try explaining your situation a little more, so I can get a clearer idea of what you’re actually talking about,” he advises gently.

We both halt our conversation as our food is delivered to the table.

“Can I get you anything else?” the waitress asks.

“I’ll have another wine, please,” I say.

“A beer, thanks,” Mitchell adds.

She walks away to fetch our drinks and I look across the table to Mitchell, who is forking a fat, juicy shrimp into his mouth.

“I fucked up,” I blurt and he rocks back slightly in his chair.

“Hush, Makenna.  This establishment won’t tolerate language like that,” he hisses, glancing around to make sure no one overheard my outburst. 

Whoops.

“Sorry,” I whisper.  “It’s just, I effed-up, Mitch,” I continue whispering.

“How so?” he asks.

“I…” the words get stuck in my throat.  I don’t know how to explain myself.  The last thing I want is for Mitchell to question my integrity, but I know I deserve his condemnation.

“Just tell me, Kenna,” he coaxes softly.  From the soft, tender look on his face, I know in this moment that he won’t judge me.  First and foremost he is my friend, my
best
friend, and he’ll always have my back.

“A few months back, do you remember a client coming in by the name of Regina Duncan?”

He thinks for a moment and then nods.  “She was the uppity bitch, and her husband is the reason we’re here tonight.  I won the bet.”  He grins smugly.

“That’s the one,” I grimace.  “I got too involved.  Before I even met him, I felt the connection but I thought I could fight it.  I couldn’t,” I admit sadly.

“Tell me you didn’t fall for him,” he whispers.  “Tell me you didn’t, Makenna,” he repeats.

“I did.  I fell in love with him, and now he hates me.”

“Tell me everything,” he demands, not in a harsh way, but in a
I’m your friend and I need to know all the facts before I bust his ass for hurting you
kind of way.

“He’s really sweet, Mitch.  And he’s driven and kind, and funny.  So funny.  He makes me laugh.  A lot.  He started driving me home from the gym at night, then one night, we took things further and he ended up staying for the entire weekend.  I knew then I was head over heels.  I was gone, and I couldn’t stop it.  More than that, I didn’t
want
to stop it.  We carried on the affair, and then a few weeks ago, Regina came into the office to request a closing file.  Benny came over to my house and I confessed everything to him.”  A stray tear rolls slowly down my cheek, plummeting to my blouse when it slides off my jaw.

“He didn’t take the revelation well?”

I shake my head.  “Not at all.  I begged him to let me explain further, to hear me out.  But he refused.”

“Well, he’s a dick, then, isn’t he?” he states.  “If he can’t see what an amazing girl you are, Makenna, then it’s his loss.”

“There’s more,” I state, my stomach twisting.

“What?”

Just as I am about to speak, the waitress sets down our main meals.  Steak wrapped in prosciutto topped with creamy garlic butter, and served with asparagus and roasted potatoes.

“Thank you,” we both murmur to the waitress. 

“When Regina came in to collect the closing file, I,” I pause to take a deep breath of courage, “I purposely withheld the correct file.  I gave her a fake one that I had accumulated; with nothing more than pictures I’d taken of Benny at the gym working out. I know it was wrong on so many levels, and I know how unprofessional it seems, but I didn’t want to give her that.  Knowing what she was going to do with it, I didn’t want to give her ammunition,” I say, pleasing my case.

“Right,” he says, taking in my confession.  “I get why you did what you did.  Trust me when I say I know all about skating the line between what’s right and what’s professionally frowned upon.”

My brows rise at his statement, but rather than interrupt him, I let him continue.

“Does Benny know that part of the story?”

I shake my head.

“Right, then, he needs to know.  And then the subject is buried, Makenna.  Understand?  Believe me when I say you do
not
want this shit getting out.  Not only will Regina rain havoc on our company if it does, but your integrity and professionalism will be questioned as well. 
I
know you, and I know where your heart was when you took the road you did, but potential clients do not know your character.  They’ll avoid our company if this gets out.  So you tell Benny and then you move on, not saying a word to anyone else,” he advises sternly.

“I understand,” I say quietly, knowing he is right.  He wants to protect me and our company, and the way to do that is to keep this situation under wraps.

“I would have done the same thing, Kenna,” he tells me softly and my eyes shoot to him in surprise.  He shrugs.  “Love is love.”

He takes a bite of steak and groans.  “This is good, Makenna.  Eat before it gets cold.”  He continues shoveling his food in, and I decide what the heck.  My knife glides through the meat and when I put the steak  into my mouth, it melts like butter on my tongue. 

This is why
D’Tre’s
is so expensive.  The food is outstanding.

When I’m finished, I sit back in my chair, my stomach tight against my long brown suede skirt.

“That was delish,” I say to Mitch, who is finishing off the rest of his beer.

He nods in agreement.  “Cooked to perfection.”

“So, I’ve spilled the beans, now it’s your turn.  What’s going on with you and Josephine?”

“It’s a long story,” he stalls.

“Well, we’ve still got to have dessert, which means leaving time for the steak to settle first.  I’d say that gives us at least another hour here.  You’ve got plenty of time to fill me in.” I give him a sassy grin.

“We’re together, taking it slow.  She’s apprehensive because of our working relationship, but I’m doing my best to convince her it’ll all work out.”

“I’m happy for you guys.  Was your time out of state together that sealed the deal?” I ask.

“Mostly.  I’ve been working on getting in there for a long while.  She just relented while we were away.”

“Ah, she couldn’t resist your charms,” I tease.

We chat for a while longer and then we order dessert.  After we are done, I wave goodbye to Mitchell and climb in my car.   The minute my car door closes, I reach behind me and pop the button on my skirt and let out a relieved breath.  Then I drive home.

***

Since it’s Saturday, I allow myself a sleep-in.  I wake up after nine and stretch out lazily.  Then I drag myself out of bed and into the shower.  Once I’m clean, I climb out, dry myself, and get dressed in a pair of old black sweatpants with
juicy booty
written across the ass of them, and a plain pale pink tank.  It’s time to clean my house. 

Starting in my bedroom, I change my bed sheets and do a general tidy up and then I move on to the bathroom, throwing a load of laundry into the machine as I pass.

Two hours later, my house is sparkling, and I have that contentment that comes from doing a job you really don’t want to do, but then seeing the results of it and knowing it was worth it.

After checking my emails, I notice it’s lunchtime so I slide on my flip-flops and decide to walk down to the café at the end of my street.  I should probably change my clothes and at the very least, brush my hair, but I really can’t be bothered and I don’t have anyone to impress.  So in my cleaning clothes with my hair bunched in a messy knot on top of my head, I make my way out, locking my door behind me.

“Hi, Pablo,” I chirp to the doorman as I pass.

“Ms. Banks,” he replies, tipping his head in the gentlemanly fashion.

The sun is shining brightly, but there are storm clouds moving in, aided by the crisp breeze blowing into my back as I walk down the path.  As I step inside the café, I ignore the disgusted looks I get from a group of society wives as they sit in a circle gossiping over their coffees, and make my way to the counter.

I order a coffee and a salad wrap, and then I walk out the doors with my head held high despite the snickers I hear following me. 

Those girls would fit right in with Regina Duncan.

The thought stays with me on my slow walk back to my apartment.  When I reach the entrance of my building, I look across the street to the park, and seeing it vacant of the usual studying college crowd, I decide to sit up against a large tree and eat my lunch there.

As I eat my food and drink my coffee, with my back resting up against the tree, and the birds chirping overhead, I think about everything Mitchell said last night during dinner.  I know the grownup thing to do would be to move forward and forget Benny and everything we shared, never looking back.  Or, maybe call his receptionist and schedule an appointment to share with him the entire story.  Or, possibly even search him on the Internet to find his email address, and then send him a message explaining everything. 

But, I
can’t
forget the time we spent together.  I
can’t
forget him.  Phoning his receptionist might work, unless of course, he told her to blacklist me.  Emailing him seems the most viable option, but he may just delete my mail without reading it first,
or even worse
, he has an assistant read his emails first, and then she would know about the affair.

No, a paper trail would be bad.

“Are you gonna finish that?”

Too consumed by my thoughts, I didn’t hear him walk up.  Standing before me is a middle-aged man, dressed in tatty, filthy clothes, layered on thick to shield him from the cool.  His hair is oily, messy and thinning.  His nails are dirty and his shoes are battered.

He is eyeing my salad roll hungrily.

“Here you go,” I say, handing him the remaining half of my sandwich.  He snatches it from my hands and immediately takes a huge bite, as if I may revoke my offer and steal it back.

“Sir,” I call as he starts to scurry away.  “Here you go.”  With a gentle smile, I hold out a twenty bill to him.  He looks to me, shocked, before gingerly taking the money from my fingers.

“Thank you,” he whispers before scurrying off.

I stand up, wipe the bark and grass from my butt, and then toss my to-go cup in the trash before walking across the road and into my complex.