Unfaithful (8 page)

“WHERE WERE YOU?!?”

The sound reverberates across the expanse of bathroom floor tile, Madagascar African stone, to be exact. Its rich, brown-indigo hues contrasting with the shiny, off-white porcelain wall tiles and glass shower stall. Ryan has his back to her—shampoo-adorned head thrown back when he hears the sound. He was in the midst of recalling his wonderful, stress-relieving morning and late decadent lunch, when she came in, messing up his revelry.

“Excuse me?” He turns slowly, soap on his face, hanging like a beard from his smooth chin. He lets a stream of water beat down over his forehead, cleansing his eyes. Carly stands on the other side of the shower glass, its water-laden streaks muting her visuals. She is beautiful; two piece olive suit, thin framed rectangular glasses, not a hair out of place yet, the image is flawed—hand on hip, head cocked to one side, lips pursed into a snarl. Ryan’s member was rising past the nine o’clock hour, but hearing those words cutting through the steam and spray makes him instantly flaccid.

“Where were you?” Ryan’s wife repeats.

He faces her, giving her full frontal nudity, no longer concerned about the state of his manhood. It looks at her as if she’s lost her mind.

“When, Carly?”

“Don’t fucking toy with me!” she snarls. Carly grabs hold of the stall door and flings it open, almost side-swiping herself in the process.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ryan asks, clearly agitated, slamming the stall door shut. He gives her his back and ass, finishes rinsing as his heart rate mounts.

“I called your office, Ryan—hours ago. Your assistant said you had left for the day. Interesting. You didn’t pick up your cell—none of the times I called. You weren’t home. I know—I checked. So, I ask you again, where were you?”

Ryan laughs, then instantly regrets it. “You’re tripping. Serious tripping.” He glances back at her over one shoulder. “Since when do I need to clear my itinerary with you?”

A loud thud rocks the shower stall. Ryan spins around, witnessing his wife pulling back her clenched fist from the glass shower. He stares at her incredulously, like she’s out of her mind.

Perhaps she is.

He twists the water off with a vengeance, then storms out of the stall and grabs a towel from the rack, almost assaulting his wife in the process.

He towels off with verve, wiping a hand against his shortly cropped hair, showering Carly with water spray before spinning to face her.

“Just what has gotten into you?!” he shouts.

“What has gotten into me? What the fuck has gotten into
you
?!” She doesn’t wait for a response. “Three nights ago, you decide not to come home—as if you’re a single man—not living under the same roof as me—your wife—the woman who will have your child. I ask you where you’ve been and you give me excuses—treat me as if I’m still in high school! Please—do I look like I was born yesterday?”

Ryan opens his mouth to speak, but is shut down by the fervor of Carly’s continuing tirade.

“Not even three whole days later, you leave work early this morning—disappearing for several hours—not picking up your phone—”

“Carly, stop! This is ridiculous! I was at an appointment—had lunch with a client. Since when do I need to clear that with you?”

Now it’s her turn to stare at him incredulously.

“Negro, please! Do I look stupid? I checked with your assistant—had her triple-check your calendar—even had her talk to the staff under the guise of a family emergency.”

He pushes past her into the bedroom. She is close behind.

“You didn’t have anything with any client. This, Ryan, I
know
.”

“You’re crazy, you know that? You have taken this one situation on Friday and blown it way out of proportion—”

Carly doesn’t hear him, for her thoughts are transported back to her lunch with Tyler Nichols a few hours ago. It was, as he had promised, just what the doctor ordered. Carly had never fully opened up to Tyler before—had no need to—nor did she want to encourage that kind of relationship with him—where he knew intimate details of her life and came to rely upon her as a friend. Today, however, she needed an objective voice—someone who could be her sounding board—someone neutral, not emotionally involved. In fact, the more they talked, the better she felt. Sometimes, one can get greater counsel from a stranger than a best friend whose judgment is clouded.

At first, she had been reluctant to talk. She just sat there at a quiet window table at Café Asia, picking at her food, watching Tyler eat: spicy Vietnamese spring rolls, Tom Yum lemongrass soup with shrimp, and sushi as their main entrée. As usual, though, Tyler had a way of coaxing from her exactly what he wanted, and in no time, she was talking about her marriage and the sudden change in Ryan. General stuff only at first, certain irritations and frustrations she had with her husband, but then, rather than diving into specifics, she would ask questions instead. Like: “Tyler, what would you make of a husband taking three hours to get gas and food in his stomach?”

In no time, Tyler got the picture and began offering advice.

“If it were me, Carly, I’d confront him. You have a lot to lose, and you don’t want to set precedence by letting this slide—because that gives him license to do it again and again. You want to know the truth, and you
need
to know the truth. This is the person you’ve pledged to spend your entire life with—and dishonesty and mistrust have no place in any relationship, especially a marriage.”

Words to live by.

Carly intends to do just that.

“You know what, Ry? I am not going to be one of those wives who turn the other cheek, especially when the shit is staring me in the face. So, you need to come clean. If you love me, you’ll do that, right now, and cease this ‘I don’t know what’s gotten into you’ approach.”

She folds her arms across her chest. Exhales and waits. Eyes locked onto his.

Ryan stands there, towel tucked and covering his midsection, water streaking his torso. He considers his wife for a moment. Considers telling her the truth…knowing the truth would open a chasm that could never be closed.

Never be mended…

“I took a client to lunch, Carly. Nothing more sinister going on. I think you need to calm down—”

“Who’s the client?” she spits.

Ryan blinks for a second.

Thinks half as long.

“David Ramsey—in town from Arizona on business and tracked me down.”

“Company?” she asks.

Ryan glares at her.

“I will not play twenty-fucking questions with you over how I spent my day! You can forget that shit! By the way, what did
you
do for lunch today, Carly?”

Her eyes flare.

“I was at Café Asia with Tyler Nichols, associate general council for BET. We discussed many things—most of which surrounds you and your recent fuckedup behavior!”

Carly spins away from him. Her footfalls echo down the hall. She returns momentarily with a Fendi suitcase—her suitcase—one of a matching set they bought prior to their trip to Barbados.

“Where the hell are you going?” Ryan asks, suddenly chilled.

“To Olivia and Miles’.”

Ryan winces upon hearing their names.

“I refuse to stay here one second longer with a lying husband. You want to stand there and lie to my face, fine. You can do it to an empty fucking house!”

She grabs a few things—bras and panties, a suit she tosses haphazardly into the bottom of the case, toiletries. Ryan stares at her dumbfounded, too numb to move. Suddenly, the past few hours are a distant memory.

The next few moments are like a movie shown in slow motion—jerky, erratic, void of sound, images distended. The front door slamming shut brings Ryan back to the here and now.

Reality begins to creep in.

He is standing in the same spot as before; he has yet to move a muscle.

The bedroom is silent.

It is empty.

The house is quiet, too.

Everything that has transpired to harm him returns en masse.

Olivia.

The party.

Miles.

Their joining…

Reese.

Sugar walls.

Is it all a dream?

Ryan isn’t sure. For a moment, he blinks rapidly, as if that act will somehow show him the truth.

It does not.

No, this is all a dream. He’s almost sure.

On the other hand…

His torso is still wet.

His wife is gone.

He is alone.

That much Ryan is sure is real.

The sound of the front door breaks their reverie. Olivia glances up into the warming face of her husband, Miles. Carly follows suit. They had been holding hands as they sat on the couch, an untouched glass of merlot in front of Carly, a near-empty glass for Olivia. But as Miles enters, their hands retreat, like rats scurrying to safety when the lights are turned on.

“Hey, baby. Hello, Carly, what a pleasant surprise,” Miles says cheerfully.

Carly tries to smile, but it comes across flat. His wife rises to greet him.

It is 9:00
P
.
M
. The two women have been sitting, conversing for close to three hours. Carly returned to her job after leaving her home, trying without success to plunge headlong into her work—only to leave early, calling Olivia and asking if she’d meet her after work.

Olivia, intense guilt gnawing at her insides the way a vulture picks at carrion, immediately left the office to meet her best friend. They made tea, went for a manicure/pedicure, and then sat on the couch to talk and wait.

Miles is smiling as he puts down his leather bag. He is dressed in dark slacks, bronze, button-down shirt with French cuffs, and a camel hair blazer. His locs are held back by a thick rubber band. Around his neck is a thick dark cord, the end holding a gleaming piece of twisted silver. It meanders through his chest hairs, and Carly, for a moment, marvels for the thousandth time at his generous good looks.

He goes to Carly, who stands and wipes her hands unsurely together before giving him a hug.

“Good to see you, Carly. Better half around?” he asks lightheartedly.

Carly’s mood darkens. Her mind races, and Olivia takes over.

“No, baby. Um, Carly’s gonna stay with us tonight. Okay?”

Miles shoots her a glance before panning to Carly.

“Of course. Everything okay?”

Carly shakes her head. “Not really.”

Miles looks at Olivia.

“Um, Ryan and Carly are having some problems, baby.” Her eyes are saying,
let it go, Miles.

“I’m sorry. Anything I can do?” he asks, rubbing her shoulder.

She returns a half smile.

“Yeah, beat some sense into his ass!”

Miles grunts and then heads to the kitchen, leaving the two women alone. They sit while Olivia grabs her wineglass stem to steal a sip. Carly’s remains untouched.

Olivia is on pins and needles. Ever since Carly called, she hasn’t been able to concentrate on anything else. She knows that she must be there for her best friend—but how? She’s partially responsible for this
thing
. Or wholly…

Letting Ryan in like that…

Allowing it to happen…

The only thing that gives her solace—the only thing that provides wiggle room to breathe—is this new thing—Ryan’s recent disappearances—and today’s outright lie. Carly had immediately asked Olivia to check on the client—this David Ramsey—and what was Olivia supposed to do? She didn’t like getting in the middle of her two best friends. On the other hand, if it hadn’t been for her in the first place…

David Ramsey wasn’t even in the goddamn state! It took less than four minutes to confirm that for Carly.

Was Ryan seeing someone?

Doubtful.

Up until this past weekend, Ryan had seemed almost
consumed
with Olivia. Perhaps that wasn’t right—but clearly, he had something on his mind, and it had everything to do with her.

That much she knows.

The way he looked at her…the way he held her gaze.

The way he made her feel—energized, alive, desirable.

And Olivia had let this thing continue, a snowball rolling down a hill.

Why?

Because it felt good.

We all want to feel desirable. All want to know we still got it going on. Can still hook ’em with just a glance or sensual smile…

But after Miles’ talk with him, everything changed.

On Monday, he didn’t even glance her way.

Stormed out of the office—blowing off the staff meeting. Even Rod, the company president, was surprised at his behavior.

As if he was on a mission…

But what?

Or with whom?

Olivia did her best to console Carly, listening to her, nodding her head at the things she said, agreeing with her position.
Yes, girl, men are scum. What can you do? They fuck up constantly, and then expect us to take their sorry asses back. Miles? Yeah, girl, he ain’t no better—just hasn’t acted up lately…but he will…they always do.

Carly takes a sip of merlot.

Puts the wineglass down, then picks it up again.

Thankfully, Olivia muses.

She’s going to get Carly to relax.

For the moment, get her to forget her troubles.

And hopefully, keep the truth from spilling out, putting an end to their friendship, marriages, and everything else that is sacred and pure.

Miles undresses upstairs. Slips into a pair of faded button-down Levis, sweatshirt, house slippers. He finds himself wondering about the situation downstairs. He pats his tongue against the roof of his mouth, reaches for his cell, glances at the closed door, and dials.

“Ryan…hey, man, it’s Miles. Haven’t heard from you since Friday. Think we should talk—especially with the recent turn of events. Carly’s here. I’m sure you already know that. So holla back, ’cause we need to talk. Figure some stuff out.”

He pauses for a moment as he reflects on how to say what’s on his mind.

“Listen, man, just want you to know I’m not the bad guy here. I’m your friend. Always have been—always will be. That hasn’t changed. So call me, okay?”

Ryan stares at the cell phone screen without answering. He sits in his cage, office dark, save for the halogen lamp on his desk and the laptop screen, which bathes his face in muted light. The cube-space floor below is deserted, vacant. He has been here for hours, attempting, without much success, to work. Rod, spying the light on, ventured up; they chatted for a brief moment about the Malaysia problem, but he left him alone when he could see that Ryan wasn’t his normally jovial self.

So, Ryan sorts through e-mails, checks production schedules and line reports, doing it like an automaton, without any real thought behind his actions.

When the call comes in, it makes him jump. He stares at the cell, feeling vomit rise in his throat when he recognizes Miles’ number.

That’s the
last
person Ryan wants to speak with right now.

After a few minutes of silence, he checks his voice mail. Listens to Miles’ voice, his cool words, not a care in the world. Not taunting him, but just saying, sooner or later, Ryan needs to call him…talk to him…figure this thing out…together.

I’m not the bad guy here—I’m your friend.

Ryan deletes the message and snaps his phone shut.

Realizing that no productive work will come this evening, he shuts down his laptop and extinguishes the lamp.

Ryan contemplates his next move.

Bathed in darkness, it doesn’t take him long.