Naughtier than Nice (8 page)

“My churchgoing friend, I have never heard you talk about anyone like that.”

“She stokes the devil inside of me.”

He asked, “How do you feel after you have been with me now? I've always wanted to know.”

“It amazes me how life goes back to being typical after I leave, as if it never happened. I go back home, back to my life, back to cooking, washing dishes, blogging, taking care of Mo and Blue. It's like I'm in a movie and I'm moving from one surreal dimension to another, knowing both worlds could collide.”

“No guilt when you leave me? You should feel guilty that you are leaving me.”

“Each time I leave you, I shower again, take a long shower, and at night I am in bed with Blue.”

“Had hoped that things were so bad in your home that you'd stopped sleeping together.”

“We've never stopped.”

“Hurts me to hear that. Hurts knowing that while I'm alone at night, you're with him.”

“You need to know that so you can understand your position in my life.”

“You go back to your world, to your small house and the large problems.”

“I leave this world and follow the yellow brick road back home to Blue and Mo.”

“To dysfunction and misery.”

“I could say that the first time with you was an accident, could be the woman and blame you, say you seduced me, claim you had power over me and took advantage of that power; I could be a typical woman and take on the role of naive girl once again. I could play that worn-out card many women play.”

“The second time, what was that encounter, in your eyes?”

“The second was where my part of the sin began because I chose to come back.”

“The third time?”

“The third time, when we undressed, laughing, reading, that was as intentional as an affair can ever get. When we were done, I lay across your bed as if it were my bed, walked around your home as if it were my home, moved from room to room in peace, went downstairs and played on the pinball machine, went to the kitchen and made a snack, then went back to reading your work as I strolled naked.”

He whispered, “The fourth time?”

“The fourth time, like the third, I didn't pretend that I was interested in reading.”

“You barely made it through the front door.”

“You took me on the carpet in your hallway, then on the stairs.”

“I don't remember what I did, Tommie; I just know we started downstairs, then we were on the elevator riding up to the bedroom. We rocked the elevator so hard, I thought it was about to break.”

“The fifth time I wore new lingerie, tied you to a chair, blindfolded you.”

He said, “The sixth time we were in my Jacuzzi.”

“The seventh was in the living room on the sofa.”

“Now eight.”

“This is the eighth time I've been with you.”

He asked, “How many times have you been with Blue?”

“Enough to make being with you eight times seem as insignificant as a dime in a pile of C-notes.”

“What are we doing here, Tommie?”

I paused, felt the weight of his desire. “I don't know what we're doing. Hoped you knew.”

“I want more than revenge sex when you're angry at him. I want you here because you want me.”

“I met Blue before you.”

“So what?”

“His roots are deeper.”

“I can go deeper. I can find a space not even you know exists.”

“Stop being jealous. Grow up. Stop being childish.”

Beale mounted me, put my ankles around his neck, struggled to make the dead rise, but he was a young man, could rearm the sailor quicker than Blue. Youth had advantages. Half-erect, Beale rushed inside me. He began to move, rose and dipped, took it round and round, stirred and stroked.

I sang, “
You are my secret. As long as you are unknown, I have dignity.
”

He stroked harder.

I moved up and down, became his roller coaster.

I moaned more improvised poetry, the rhythm of five-seven-five. He stroked in the rhythm of his own haiku, five hard, seven deep, five intense. He stroked. My spoken word rode on my every moan. We were in a battle. Five-seven-five for each five-seven-five. As my poetry elevated, he was reduced to grunts. Strokes and grunts. Like a man gone mad.

When he realized I could do this all night, that I could exchange the beauty, art, and rhythmic qualities of our beautiful tongue for his every stroke, that I could five-seven-five as long as he could five-seven-five, when he realized that his strokes made me come as
he tried not to orgasm, he knew he could not win at this, knew that he could never win at this, not with me.

He barked, “Stop reciting haikus and just tell me you love me.”

I ended a haiku, the most vulgar I'd ever recited, then laughed between shudders. “Make me stop.”

“Say you love me.”

“Make me, make me, make me if you're man enough.”

“If I'm man enough?”

“You heard me. Make me tell you that I love you.”

He pulled me at my waist, pulled me up into him, made me feel his frustration swell, found a strong rhythm, yanked me into him over and over. I let my arms fall to my sides, hands in fists, didn't help him. I was so wet, anticipating each thrust. He hit my hallelujah. I bit my lips and tried to be quiet, to not make a sound, to make him feel like he was less of a man than Blue. He did his best to make me loud. He rocked the bed. Tried to break the bed. Tried to fuck me in half so he could fuck both halves back whole. He held my waist and gave it to me like that, no holding back, made the bed walk across the wooden floor with each stroke. Teeth clenched, hands in fists, eyes closed, I refused to surrender. Then I looked up at Beale's pretty eyes as he looked down on me. He frowned the deepest, most desperate heartbroken frown I'd ever seen in my life. Beale growled, sweated, held me tighter.

His phone rang again. It was that familiar Drake ringtone.

I felt her pain. I felt her unhappiness. I felt her energy.

Tanya Obayomi was determined to reclaim what she had lost.

I wondered how many times Beale had been with her.

How many ways.

I had no right to be jealous.

Yet I was.

I had no right to sleep with Beale.

Yet I did.

The gas needle was getting close to E and I had to take Monica to school early in the morning, when traffic was mad and it would be impossible to get in and out of a gas station with ease, so I rode back over the hill to La Brea and Slauson to get gas. When I pulled in, the red sports car pulled in behind me. The same white woman I had seen before. She didn't look at me, just got out of her car, opened her gas cap, swiped her card, and started filling up, same as I was doing. Music poured from her car. Stevie Nicks ended a tune and Pearl Jam started the next one. I took out my phone, wondered if I should call home, wondered if I'd messed up. My heart beat hard. My head ached again. I sent Blue a text; told him that I had just left Frankie's crib, said we'd had an interesting evening and that I was stopping to get gas and groceries.

I went to the trunk of my car, opened it, looked at the box with the T-shirts from around the world, at the trinkets, at all the sweet little gifts Beale had bought me, things I couldn't take inside my home without an explanation. He had also bought me a pair of cowboy boots, a pair I had wanted for so long. They were sexy, not corny, and would look great with skinny jeans, or with jean shorts and a sexy T-shirt.

I closed my trunk and the woman behind me said, “Pardon me. Your face looks familiar.”

“We saw each other a little while ago. You were looking for a house.”

“That was you?”

I almost said that she probably thought all black people looked alike, but I didn't go there. I knew that wasn't true. I knew that many people had problems identifying people outside of their own assigned races. I couldn't distinguish between Vietnamese, Korean, and Chinese on my best day.

She asked, “Are you Frankie McBroom?”

“Do I know you?”

“When I was in that area, the young girl with the dog, I saw her again. She stopped running to chat. I asked her to recommend a real estate agent. She told me that I had been in front of Frankie McBroom's home, and she was the person to know if I wanted to buy property in the area.”

“I'm Tommie. Frankie is my sister. We were in front of her home when I met you. Could've introduced you to her, if I had known.”

“She has a nice home. How would I get in contact with your sister?”

“What's your name?”

“Rosemary Paige.”

Her name, its rhythm, for some reason, reminded me of Rosa Parks.

Again, coupled with her congenial tone, there was some level of trust.

I said, “Hold on for a moment, Rosemary Paige.”

I reached into my purse and gave her one of Frankie's business cards.

She read the info, nodded twice, then asked, “You're in real estate too?”

“Nah. I work at the Apple Store in Manhattan Beach, but I do other things. Creative things.”

“I see you're married.”

“Engaged.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“One more thing. Do you know a mechanic?”

“What's the issue?”

“Gas gauge is malfunctioning. It stopped working about two months ago.”

“Dangerous to ride around like that.”

“I know. Not an easy fix. They will have to take out the gas tank to address the issue.”

“I wouldn't know what to do if mine didn't work. Triple A would be my best friend.”

“I know the range I can go on a tank. Until I get it fixed, I count the miles and remind myself to fill up. Almost forgot this time. See how much gas I had to get? I must've been driving on fumes.”

Her pump clicked. I checked mine. I had it on the notch for the slowest setting and hadn't realized the mistake. She opened the trunk of her car and took out a red gas can, started filling that up.

I said, “That's smart.”

“I've learned.”

“You've run out of gas, I take it?”

“No fun running out of gas in the middle of nowhere on I-10 in the middle of the night.”

I leaned against my car, looked at my engagement ring until I noticed Rosemary Paige was still watching me. Her interest made me wonder if she was hitting on me. Wouldn't have been the first time a woman checked me out and offered to buy me a cup of coffee or take me to dinner.

I felt uneasy.

She motioned at the back window on my car and said, “I see a twenty-six point two sticker in your back window.”

“I've earned a few.”

“You're a marathoner.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I run too. Training for an ultra.”

“That's awesome.”

She nodded. “Frankie is a runner as well?”

“Both of my sisters are, but running is Frankie's religion.”

“You have a sticker for Turning Point.”

I smiled. “Private school. My nine-year-old daughter goes to school there.”

“Turning Point.”

“It's a concept. Two words say so much.”

She said, “I understand. Powerful concept. The point of a major decision. Some days it feels like I'm at my turning point. I know I'm almost there. At the point at which a very significant change occurs.”

“Yeah. I guess I'm almost there too, almost at a very decisive moment in my life.”

“Whatever you decide to do, you have to have the guts to follow through.”

“It's not always that easy, especially when things . . . things aren't always so clear.”

“Life is not about doing what's easy; it's about doing what needs to be done. I've never taken the easy route in life.”

I checked my phone to see if Blue had messaged me back. He hadn't. I opened my purse and pulled out a few coupons, began to read the expiration dates. The click told me my car had finally filled. I was trying not to freak out, but I needed to be back home. This juggling act was maddening.

Rosemary Paige put her extra can of gas in the trunk of her car; then, as she stood with one foot in her car, she said my name, called for my attention again, then smiled and told me, “Well, Tommie, thanks for the information. First thing tomorrow, I will find Frankie McBroom. Can't wait to meet her.”

When I eased through my front door, our alarm countdown commenced. I put down two bags of groceries and then turned it off, reset it to
STAY
mode. I expected Blue to be up waiting for me, but he wasn't in the living room watching television and I didn't see any lights on in the kitchen. I hurried and put the groceries away, put the four empty beer cans that he and Tony had left on the counter into the trash, and wiped down the table. I kicked my trainers off, stripped naked, and stuffed everything that smelled of wrongdoing into the hamper, then went to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Exhausted with this game, I stood underneath the warm water a long time before the bathroom door opened.

Mo staggered and rubbed her eyes, nodded, and went to go potty. When she was done, she washed her hands, then dried them on a paper towel before tossing it into the small trash can.

She yawned. “Good night, Mommy Mommy bo bommy.”

Body covered in mango-scented soap, I said, “Good night, Mo Mo bo bo.”

She pulled the bathroom door halfway shut behind her. Again everything was quiet. A moment later there was a tap on the door. It scared me. The door opened all the way again. It was Blue. Gray boxers and wrinkled white T-shirt that read
RESPECT THE
LOCALS: REGENERATION
NOT GENTRIFICATION.
White low-rise socks. He'd had more than a couple of beers—I could tell by his stance and the twinkle in his eye. His energy was strong. His desire, his need, obvious.

I wanted to bang my head against the wall.

He stepped in from the dark hallway and said, “You're back late tonight.”

“Frankie had a breakdown. We had to be her bookends.”

He opened the door to the shower, looked at me.

He said, “Your hair.”

“You should see what's left of Frankie's and Livvy's.”

“Not even going to ask. I called Frankie. She said you were gone. I knew you'd cut your hair. Wanted to see.”

“Ran a couple of errands. Went grocery shopping on the Westside, then had almost made it home and saw that I needed gas, and had to turn around and go back up the hill to Shell.”

I arranged the events of the evening to fit my needs. Truth and lies danced in the pale moonlight. I faced him, smiling, nervous, fingerprints from my transgression fresh on my skin.

Blue hummed, looked at me the way a man does a woman, asked, “Want some company?”

That simple question spoke of his desire to have me, to reconcile by intimacy. I almost told him to leave me alone. Almost confessed that I had been with Beale. I wanted to reject him. One simple act of rejection could change the dynamic of a relationship. One rejection could put us on the path of becoming ex-lovers. One rejection could give me back my freedom. I felt like I was evolving, becoming more in sync with Beale, losing synchronicity with Blue. Both hurt like hell. I imagined Beale, then I thought about Mo not being in my life and burst into tears. Had to let the water hit my face to hide my conflicted feelings.

Blue asked, “You okay?”

“Just thinking about the way Frankie broke down crying. She had a horrible breakup.”

“I'm sorry for the way things went earlier.”

“What's the solution? How do we fix it, Blue?”

“You have to understand that I'm a guy surrounded by girls and
women, and no matter how I try to keep things smooth . . . don't know what to do at times. I get overwhelmed.”

“No problem. I'm over it. I'm sorry for my behavior as well. I should back off and let you and Angela handle your business. I really shouldn't be this involved. You're the adults.”

“Don't do that, Tommie. Don't put a wall up like that. I spoke to Angela. She gets the point. She says she'll do better.”

“No problem.”

Being with Beale had felt real when I was there, felt false when I was away.

But each time being with Beale felt less false. And being here was feeling less real.

Blue said, “You look like you're in a zone.”

“Thinking about . . . I guess . . . right now . . . turning point . . . that's on my mind.”

“Everything okay at school with Monica? Did I miss something?”

“Nothing happened at school. Come here, Blue. I can't stand us being like this. Get in with me. I miss you.”

Blue saw me as being unpredictable, as being irrational. All that I did was inspired and made sense to me. I was at a turning point, at my decisive moment. Whatever I decided, I would need the guts to follow through. Rosemary Paige's profound words lived inside of me, tried to give me clarity.

He asked, “Are you sure?”

With the hand that wore my engagement ring, I motioned for Blue to join me.

I didn't want us to be like Frankie and Frankie. I needed us to be like Livvy and Tony.

Blue stripped, came into the shower with me, wanted me as Beale had wanted me.

The therapist reappeared, was seated on the toilet, watching, pen in hand, scribbling.