Commitment

by Forrester, Nia

“Look. You’ve obviously made up your mind. So go ahead. Marry him. But don’t expect my support on this. And don’t think I’ll be there wearing some goddamn frilly mother-of-the-bride dress either. Because I won’t. If you do this, you’re doing it on your own, girl.”

  Riley ignored the pang in her chest and took a deep breath.

  “Fine. I’ll take that into consideration. Look, I have to go, okay? I’ll talk to you later.”

  There was a sharp click and the phone went dead.

  g

  The magazine was one that she never read, and that often featured cover stories about the latest pop star heading off to rehab, or affairs on movie sets. This issue was no different, but what immediately captured Riley’s attention was one of the smaller captions and the accompanying photo.

  Shawn was wearing a brown leather jacket, dress shirt with a crisp pressed pant and looked like he was on the way to, or coming from a big event. He was grinning conspiratorially at his companion. Riley was used to seeing him on the occasional magazine cover, so that wasn’t at all unusual. She often marveled at how disconnected she felt from the shots. Those weren’t pictures of Shawn, really. They were of his alter-ego, K Smooth.

  This time though, his smile was familiar to her and felt personal, only it was directed at the young woman next to him. She was the latest hot young thing, a pop-star who had three top-ten songs on the charts and was known not only for her voice, but for her waist-length platinum blonde hair and highly sexual onstage persona. In the photo, she was smiling back at Shawn in a way that looked more than casual.

  Riley grabbed the magazine off the newsstand and paid for it, almost forgetting to wait for her change. She read it while she rode the train to the office.

  An unnamed source claimed that K Smooth had been “secretly hooking up” with pop’s newest sensation for “several weeks” and that the couple – the “couple”! – was planning to take their romance public for the Continental Music Awards. The strange white-hot surge that filled Riley’s chest was a feeling she was so unaccustomed to that she almost didn’t recognize it for what it was.

  She folded the magazine and stuffed it into her backpack, planning to toss it as soon as she got to the office.

  Was this why she hadn’t spoken to Shawn in so long?

  He’d called her twice since she’d been out West, but the first call didn’t count. Neither did the second one, which had lasted all of five minutes, as he dashed off to catch a flight to Vancouver.

  All he’d had time to tell her was that he’d read all of her articles and that his touring schedule had him exhausted. He was about to say more when Brendan interrupted and rushed him off the phone.

  That small contact had sustained her for a week or so, but now, almost a full month before she would see him again, this.

  She fought the urge to pull the magazine out again and study the photo for clues. But she couldn’t bear to see the headline above it which asked salaciously: ‘Secret Lovers?’ At her stop, she took the steps two at a time out of the subway, bypassing her usual spot at the Greek deli for a bagel and cream cheese. She had no appetite. But coffee . . . she made a U-turn then looked at the time. It was early, so in Arizona where Shawn was, it was just after seven? He was generally up early if Brendan had anything to say about it.

  And so what if he wasn’t? She was owed an explanation. You didn’t just ask someone to marry you and then practically ignore them for weeks and go on dates with starlets. She spun round once again and almost sprinted toward her building. Riley waited impatiently for the elevator, head down, hoping not to run into anyone. She couldn’t carry on a conversation until she cleared this up. Not until he told her it wasn’t true.

  The office was quiet. Most of the writing staff usually straggled in around ten a.m. and even when they did come in early, it was to sequester themselves in their offices and bang out their pages to meet deadline. No one would think anything of it if they came in and her door was shut.

  Riley sat at her desk for a moment before picking up the phone. She would have to measure her words and tone very carefully. She’d never confronted Shawn about something like this before and even now wasn’t sure she should. But there was no way she was going to be able to make it through the day, the week, and certainly not the next month until he came to New York, if she didn’t know the truth. She pulled the magazine out one last time and it was the sight of his fingers, and the hand of the pop tart reaching as though to grab hold of them that finally spurred her to action.

  Riley almost never used his cell phone number unless they were texting. She’d called him for only one reason in the past – to tell him she was on her way to his hotel and her estimated time of arrival if she were running late. He was the one who generally called. And often enough that she’d never had reason to call him before.

  “Hey baby, what’s up?”

  The sound of his voice, gravelly and tired as though he’d been woken out of a deep sleep, but still calling her “baby” swayed Riley momentarily and her confidence that she was owed an explanation waned.

  “I woke you didn’t I?” she said, her voice uncertain.

  “You a’ight?”

  She could hear rustling as though he was getting out of bed, and then the sound of running water.

  Shit. He’d had his show in Tempe last night. He was probably dead on his feet.

  “Yeah. It was just this thing that . . . never mind.”

  “What thing?”

  “It’s not important. How was your show?”

  “The show was tight. But what thing?”

  “It’s nothing,” she insisted.

  “It’s got to be something, Riley. Otherwise you wouldn’t have called me. And I’m up now, so you may as well tell me what it is,” he said, yawning.

  She hesitated for a moment then described the photo, omitting what the caption read. He said nothing for what seemed like a really long time.

  “What’s with this ridiculous silence?” Her voice rose higher than she intended.

  “I don’t understand what you want me to say,” he responded.

  To his credit, he did sound genuinely confused.

  “I want to know what it is.”

  “What what is, Riley?”

  “The photo. What was going on there, Shawn? That’s what I’m asking.”

  “Work,” he said as though speaking to a three-year-old. “Work was going on there.”

  Riley said nothing. She hated jealous women. Hated them. And if she went on, that was what she would sound like. Clearly, it was already what she had become, but to sound that way as well would be intolerable.

  “What’re you thinking?” he said finally. “That I’m with her?”

  “The story said you were.” She was much less certain now, and sounded it.

  “The story,” he repeated. “Fairy-tale is more like it. Why’re you reading that crap anyway?”

  “I didn’t plan to. I just spotted it at the newsstand and . . .”

  “We’re on the same label,” he continued patiently. “Sometimes they leak stuff like that to generate buzz. She’s going for a more edgy, urban sound so it gives her some street cred when people see us together. And it helps mainstream my CD. It’s all made up, Riley.”

  Of course. That made perfect sense.

  “Besides. I don’t think she’s even eighteen,” he added, a hint of mischief in his voice. “That would make it illegal in most states.”

  Riley smiled in spite of herself.

  “You looked like you were having a good time,” she said lightly.

  “I was having a good time. But not for the reasons you’re thinking.”

  Neither of them spoke for almost a minute.

  “I’ve been away too long,” Shawn said finally, his voice barely audible. “I should’ve called you more.”

  “No, it’s . . . I don’t know what made me think . . .”

  “I’ve been away too long,” he said again, his voice firm this time.


  This time Riley didn’t argue. He had been away, she now realized, longer than ever before. She cradled the phone in the crook of her neck and listened to him breathing on the other end.

  “I’m sorry I called so early,” she said. “Maybe we can talk later when you’re awake?”

  “Oh, I’m wide awake now,” Shawn said.

  Riley blushed, embarrassed now by the whole thing. What had she been thinking, anyway? Who was she turning into?

  “I’ll hit you up a little later,” Shawn said. “I’m sure Brendan’s got something going on this morning anyway.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to you later,” she said, her voice small.

  She hung up and rested her forehead on the desk, mortified.

  The day dragged, with only an editorial meeting to break up the monotony. After Riley read the rest of the tabloid during lunch, she understood the appeal. It broke celebrities down to these pitifully messed up caricatures, making the rest of the world feel okay about being ordinary and unremarkable. If she was the least bit unhappy or dissatisfied with her life, this would probably be part of her regular reading material as well. She was finishing up her tuna on rye when a shadow at her door caused her to look up.

  Dawn was a freelance photographer, and didn’t really work for Power to the People, but somehow managed to always be there. She was a tall, dark-skinned sister with enviable cheekbones, an untamed six-inch-high ‘fro and a melodious Trinidadian accent. All she ever seemed to wear was faded blue jeans, an assortment of black t-shirts and her Doc Maarten boots - a girl after Riley’s own heart.

  “So you up for Happy Hour today or what?”

  “Sure,” Riley said noncommittally.

  “Asia de Cuba,” Dawn sang.

  “What time?”

  “Five-thirty,” she said, apologetic now. “I know. Not exactly primetime.”

  Riley shrugged. “Makes no difference to me. But why such a fancy place? What’s the occasion?”

  “My birthday,” Dawn said reluctantly. “And don’t ask me how old I am ‘cause I’m not telling.”

  “Who else is coming?”

  “Peter, Walsh, and Jill.”

  Peter and Walsh were two of Riley’s best friends at the magazine, and Riley frequently went drinking with them. Jill, on the other hand, was not her favorite person. She wrote a regular column that reviewed new African-American owned businesses and liked to behave as though she was a reviewer for Zagat’s, often trashing perfectly good businesses just to exercise her verbal muscle.

  “Okay. Sounds good. I’ll meet you all downstairs at five and we can head on over.”

  “Perfect.” Dawn breezed out.

  Peter showed up at the door of her office at around a quarter to five, just as Riley was beginning to consider whether she should head to the Women’s Room to make herself more presentable for such a trendy spot. With that hair, Dawn was a show-stopper no matter what and Peter, well, here he was looking like something out of a Ralph Lauren ad, as always.

  He was a tall blonde, with striking Nordic features; ice-blue eyes a lopsided smile that made him seem perpetually sardonic if you didn’t know him. A former model, he’d come to New York five years ago twelve credits short of his degree in Accounting, thinking that he would attain fame and fortune if he could only get cast for a Bryant Park show. He eventually got to walk for Luca Luca and followed that up with several promising assignments and a contract with Ford. But unfortunately for Peter, he’d come to New York at the crest of the demand for ethnic models, and the work quickly ebbed.

  So he finished his degree at Fordham and had been working at Power to the People ever since. He had just about aged out of the high fashion market, but still liked going to places frequented by the fabulous people, so it was no surprise that he would be game for a night at Asia de Cuba.

  “Do you think Walsh will ever go out with me?” he asked without preamble. “Because I’ve been throwing myself at him for months.”

  “No, I don’t think Walsh will ever go out with you,” Riley said. “Because he’s straight.”

  Peter stuck out his tongue at her. “Technicalities.”

  “You could always ask Jill. I think she would go out with you in a heartbeat.”

  “I occasionally date women, but I never date bitches,” Peter said walking in and perching on the edge of her desk.

  Riley pretended to be shocked. “Ouch. You are mean. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

  “So, I heard through the grapevine that you dumped Brian.”

  She’d forgotten how incestuous her group of friends was. Tracy’s ex-boyfriend shared a loft with Peter in SoHo.

  “I didn’t exactly dump him,” Riley mumbled.

  “Really? I heard it was brutal. That you were two-timing him with someone famous.”

  Riley looked up. She was going to kill Tracy.

  “Now, I couldn’t care less about the two-timing part. I just want to know who the ‘someone famous’ is.”

  “You’re such a star-fucker. I’m not telling you a thing.”

  Peter laughed. “Ah. Confirmation. That’s fine. Keep secrets. I’m sure it will be revealed in the fullness of time.”

  “Maybe. But not by me.”

  Peter leaned forward and lifted the tabloid out of Riley’s trash can with two fingers, shaking the remains of her sandwich off.

  “You read this rag?” he drawled.

  Riley stiffened. If only he knew how close he was to the answer to his question.

  “Killing time on the subway.”

  “I know what you mean. I am so over my commute.”

  “Peter, your commute is twenty minutes long, if that. I come in all the way from Flushing.”

  “Where is Flushing anyway? I’ve heard of it . . .”

  “Shut up!” Riley laughed. “I have the coolest landlords. This great old Korean couple that cooks for me. And if you were dead in your apartment being eaten by your cats, your neighbors probably wouldn’t even call the police to report the smell.”

  Peter shrugged. “True enough.”

  He flipped idly through the magazine, pausing briefly to consider the photo of a soap actor then re-depositing it in the trash.

  “Meet you at the elevators in ten?”

  “Sure.”

  Riley thought once again about walking over to the Women’s Room to put on lipstick or something, but finally decided against it. What was the point? Despite saying this morning that he would call her, Shawn hadn’t.

  She was annoyed about that, but even more annoyed at herself for caring. This was not the way it used to be. When she had no expectations, every call from him was a wonderful surprise. Now, since he’d proposed, it was different. Why was she expecting him to behave like a boyfriend? Or worse yet, a fiancée.

  Asia de Cuba was, as usual, stuffed to the gills with Manhattan’s ridiculously attractive set at play. Actor-models, model-actors and a smattering of regular folks, among whom Riley counted herself. Dawn, Peter and Jill were in their element; only she and Walsh seemed mildly bored by the whole superficial scene. The drinks were hideously expensive, and the seats at the bar were uncomfortable. Riley glanced at the time. She would leave at seven, when the others would be deciding whether to stay for dinner, or where to go dancing.

  “I don’t know why I ordered merlot,” Walsh said into her ear. “I already feel a nasty headache coming on.”

  Riley smiled at him sympathetically.

  Walsh was a cute, skinny, dark-haired kid from Long Island who would probably marry his high school girlfriend and live a sweet, uncomplicated life in Great Neck. When she had first come to Power to the People he’d asked her out to lunch a couple of times and she’d sensed that with the slightest bit of encouragement from her, he would have tried to make their relationship a romantic one. She’d been careful not to provide that encouragement and they’d instead developed a comfortable, easygoing friendship.

  “No whispering,” Dawn demanded from a few seats down. “I know yo
u’re both planning your escape and I won’t allow it.”

  Riley and Walsh both laughed.

  “I think we’re going to have to make a run for it,” Riley said.

  Her phone was vibrating in her back pocket, so she reached for it. Saved by the bell. Tracy would help her manufacture a reason to go home. Or more likely, knowing Tracy, she would want to come join them.

  “Sounds loud. Where are you?”

  It was ridiculous how light she suddenly felt, hearing his voice.

  “A birthday thing. At Asia de Cuba.”

  “How long will it take you to get home?”

  “I guess I’ll leave in about an hour or so . . .” she checked her watch again.

  “So why don’t I just come where you are?”

  Her eyes popped open. “What do you mean come where I am?”

  “I’m at LaGuardia . . .”

  “Are you serious?”

  “. . . so I think it might take me less time to get to Flushing than to Manhattan but if you can get home in about a half hour, I’ll meet you there. Or if you want, I could come get you.”

  “No, I’m on my way,” Riley was already standing, grappling clumsily at her coat in her haste to get it on.

  “Okay.”

  “Shawn?”

  “Yeah?” he sounded exhausted. And he must be. He had to have left really early – within a couple hours of speaking to her – to have made it to New York already.

  “Shawn, I love you.”

  The words were out before she could stop them, then she hung up right away, preferring to get no response at all rather than face one that paled in comparison. She looked up into three pairs of curious eyes.

  “Who the hell is Shawn?” Peter asked, a smile playing about his lips.

  “None of your business, and I have to go.” Riley kissed Dawn quickly on the cheek. “Happy 40th birthday! See you tomorrow.”

  Dawn laughed. “Oh fuck off. You owe me big for ditching my party, so tomorrow you’re telling me all about this man who has you jittery like a schoolgirl.”

  Riley ran out to the curb and had no trouble at all getting a cab. That was one benefit of these tony nightspots, anyway. The drive to Flushing seemed to take forever and several times she had to stifle the urge to tell the driver which route to take.