The Cheating Curve

by Paula T. Renfroe

  Aminah cleared her throat. “We have choices. That’s great and all. But certain choices come with consequences.”

  “Okay. I’ll give you that. So what’s the consequence of Lang’s choices?”

  God. I wish I could confide in this woman, Aminah thought to herself.

  “Well?” Rebekkah asked impatiently.

  “Oh, just the repercussions of pissing me off and me putting your butt on timeout.”

  They both laughed again.

  “We’ll be fine,” Aminah said, waving her hand. “Really. Enough about Lang, we came here to talk about your fabulous day. So what kind of wedding did you have in mind? Are you planning on something really grand with lots of family and friends, or would you prefer something a little more intimate?”

  “Well, I heard Lang’s wedding was very Brooklyn-centric, so to speak,” Rebekkah said, absentmindedly pushing around the mesclun and arugula leaves on her salad plate. “Imon wants the same sort of thing only with a Harlem flair in this sort of winter-wonderland setting with my son as his best man. Of course, he wants everybody who’s anybody in the industry to be invited.”

  Aminah chuckled, taking another sip of her mineral water. “Okay, I think I know what he means, but is that what you’d like as well?”

  Rebekkah so desperately wanted to share her insecurities and concerns not only about her wedding day but about her relationship with Imon itself. Their conversation had been so unaffectedly free-flowing that she felt she could fully open up to Aminah.

  Rebekkah sighed. “Aminah, I hope I don’t sound too nutty, but I’ve always felt this soothing, really calming energy emanating from you.”

  Aminah thanked Rebekkah while laughing silently to herself. She recalled telling Lang that she’d kept Rebekkah at a safe distance because she found her to be precisely just that…nutty.

  “I mean it. Listen, I hope I’m not being too forward, but I sort of have a dilemma that I’m hoping you can help me with,” Rebekkah confessed.

  “Hey, is everything all right?” Aminah asked, placing her hand on top of Rebekkah’s.

  “Yes. Well, no, not really. I’m not so sure.” She paused to take a forkful of her salad and to gather her thoughts. “I love Imon. I really do. And, I mean, I love him with everything, girl.” She sighed again. “But the closer it gets to our actual wedding date, the more reservations I have about marrying him.”

  “Aw, sweetie, wedding jitters are normal,” Aminah reassured.

  “No. It’s not just that,” Rebekkah finally admitted. “I mean, I’m really starting to question if I can marry into this whole thing, this whole lifestyle. Being married to someone in the entertainment industry isn’t like being married to a normal person.”

  Aminah nodded as she chewed on her peppery green salad. “Well, you’re right about that, but all marriages have their challenges.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. I don’t know.” Rebekkah hesitated. She took a sip of her pinot grigio and held it in her mouth for a few seconds, savoring the light, fruity notes before taking another sip. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, and I truly, truly mean no harm, but explain to me how you deal with it all. I mean, you seem so happy. I’ve seen you and Fame out together. You two look so in love. He clearly adores you. Anybody can see that, but I just don’t get it, Aminah.”

  “Deal with what exactly? What is it that you just don’t get?” Aminah asked, puzzled.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard all the stories and rumors about Fame. I’m sorry, but I think you have to be either really strong or really weak just to expect and accept that ‘a man’s gonna do what a man’s gonna do.’ I don’t think I can do that.”

  Aminah was stunned into silence. She’d expected to talk about tea roses, calla lilies, and color schemes this afternoon, not the pros and cons of being married to an unfaithful spouse in the music business.

  “I mean, I think that cheating is the ultimate disrespect,” Rebekkah continued. “I don’t know how I could be expected to forgive that, never mind forget it.”

  Aminah stared at Rebekkah in shock and disbelief. It felt as if she were having an allergic reaction to peanuts or shellfish or something, and now her throat was swelling shut rapidly. She subconsciously massaged her throat. She felt in desperate need of a shot of epinephrine to relax her airway—not so much so that she could breath, but just so that she could speak.

  “I’m sorry, Aminah. This is so inappropriate,” Rebekkah acknowledged. She hadn’t intended to offend Aminah. She desperately needed to speak with a woman who could offer her some insight from experience, not just empty sound bites and useless theories.

  “That came out all wrong,” Rebekkah said apologetically. “I hope I didn’t come off judgmental, because I get accused of that all the time. I didn’t mean to. Look, I’m genuinely confused myself. I just need some advice.”

  “Funny, I thought you came here to discuss your wedding,” Aminah said, finally finding her voice. Aminah sat up straighter in her chair, elongating her neck and lengthening her spine. She cocked her head slightly. “First of all, let’s get one thing straight,” she said, punctuating each word with her salad fork pointed directly at Rebekkah. “Fuck what you heard, you don’t really know me or my husband. I would never discuss private details of my personal life with you. I came here to meet with you as a favor to you. I don’t need to be here. You understand what I’m saying? Now, I don’t know what particular rumors you’re referring to, but suffice it to say you can’t believe everything you hear. And please, Rebekkah, don’t take this the wrong way. I truly, truly mean you no harm, but you can take your tacky little wedding plans, your pseudo-sistah persona, and kiss my naturally beautiful black ass.”

  Aminah slid her pink Oakleys back down, tossed five crisp twenty-dollar bills on the table, and strutted out of the Tribeca Grand, leaving her cobalt bottle of Ty Nant only half full.

  Chapter 10

  “I’m not okay with just good sex. I want great, mind-blowing, turn-me-out sex. And, quite honestly, I want that more than I want kids.”

  Lang tackled Mondays thoroughly while perpetually caffeinated. It was the only day of the week she arrived in the office before the rest of her staff to professionally and personally prep for her week—materials read, notes jotted, meetings set, e-mails sent, appointments made, and calls returned.

  By late afternoon, Lang found herself staring at her phone only to pick it up and place it back down. She rang her assistant to get Aminah on the line.

  Lang’s phone line buzzed.

  “Aminah?”

  “No, it’s me.” Merrick cleared her throat. “Aminah said, and I quote, ‘No offense, Merrick, but tell Lang to pick up the phone and call me her damn self. You have yourself a good day.’”

  “What a bitch. Fine. And, Merrick, would you please order me a grilled salmon Niçoise salad? Thanks.”

  Lang released the line and dialed Aminah. Minah picked up on the third ring. “Why must you be so difficult? I just wanted to confirm a spot for brunch next Sunday,” Lang said.

  “Why, hello to you too, Langston,” Aminah said, dropping her keys on the table in her foyer. She’d just returned from bringing Amir home from school. “Are we still doing brunch next Sunday?”

  “So you wanna cancel?” Lang asked, more disappointed than surprised.

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” Aminah replied as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. “After everything I discovered about you last Sunday, I don’t enjoy being in your company.”

  Lang put Aminah on hold to close her office door. She paced in front of her pewter and glass desk a couple times before picking up the phone again. “So you’re judging me now, Minah? You’ve got nerve. For years—you hear me—not days, for years I’ve watched you stand by Fame while he did his dirt, and not one time have I ever judged you. Disagreed with your decisions, maybe. But judged you? Never. Defended you? Always. And now you’re gonna fuckin’ judge me?”

  “I’m not judging you,” Aminah ans
wered calmly. “I just don’t agree with you.”

  “Bullshit. You’ve already chosen sides. You’re on Team Sean.”

  “I’m siding with what’s right,” Aminah said firmly.

  “See? And there’s the judgment.”

  Merrick knocked on the door to bring in her boss’s lunch. Lang motioned with her hand to leave it on her desk and shut the door behind her.

  “Not once have I ever said that you forgiving Fame or staying with Fame was wrong or right. I just supported you,” Lang continued.

  “Wait. You can’t possibly expect me to support your decision to cheat on your husband?” Aminah asked, scrunching her face.

  “Not my decision, Minah. Damn. Me. I expected my best friend to support me through my shit like I’ve had your back through your shit. Is that asking too much?”

  “I…I…I hadn’t thought about it that way,” Aminah said, shaking her head.

  “’Cause you were so quick to criticize me with no thought of me and my position.”

  “How could I, Lang? You knew where I’d stand on this. You’re asking too much. You know my position.”

  “The same exact way I thought of you and not my own position when you chose to start your family right away instead of a career after graduating summa cum laude. Shit. You know I’m one hundred percent for women getting their own money first before starting a family they can support on their own, by themselves, married or not. But when folks started saying you were wasting your education, or, better yet, when you yourself asked me if I thought you were crazy not to be a working mom, I said, ‘Crazy? No. What a blessing to even have that dilemma.’ Do you not remember that, Minah?”

  “I do.”

  “Minah, I’ve felt like something’s been missing in my life for a little while, and I’m trying to figure out what that is. I love Sean, and I love my marriage, but it’s not enough to keep me fulfilled. At least I don’t think it is, or maybe it’s not supposed to be. I dunno. Maybe I’m asking too much from matrimony.”

  “Listen, Lang, I didn’t mean to judge you,” Aminah apologized. “But, honey, marriage isn’t always gonna be fulfilling. It takes work. The same way you work at your career, you’ve got to work at marriage, and you’re never gonna find the remedy for your relationship outside of it.”

  “That makes sense, but…”

  “But nothing, Lang.”

  “No, hear me out,” Lang requested. “I’m not looking for my marriage to fulfill me. I want—no, I crave self-fulfillment. I mean, sue me for wanting it all—a great career, a nice home, a loving husband, and an amazing sex life. I’m not okay with just good sex. I want great, mind-blowing, turn-me-out sex. And, quite honestly, I want that more than I want kids. I work hard, I’m a great catch, and I deserve it. I mean, maybe we can’t have it all, but I’m damn sure gonna find out before I give one up for the other.”

  “Wow, Lang. Did you just say you wanted sex more than you wanted children?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Okay, okay, let’s finish this discussion on Sunday,” Aminah said, resigned, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “See, now you done lost your right to choose,” Lang said after chewing her salad. “I’ll pick. It’s my turn to treat anyway.”

  “Where to?” Aminah asked Lang as they buckled up inside her immaculate BMW, careful not to smudge their nails. Aminah had left her Range Rover in front of the Rogers’ brownstone. Sean had offered to wash and vacuum out her truck while the ladies brunched in Manhattan. They’d just finished spoiling themselves with some especially good pampering at Pretty Inside.

  Lang and Aminah had passed up their usual Sunday Sessions for services a bit more indulgent. Lang had treated herself to a luxurious Oatmeal Almond Crunch pedicure, and Aminah to pink rhinestone As encrusted on both her pinkie nails. Soaking in the warm oatmeal batter, being rubbed in an almond/apricot scrub, and then immersed in grape-seed and jojoba oils had Lang’s feet feeling not only smoother than Sade’s operator (no need to ask), but smelling sweeter than her taboos.

  At Pretty Inside they’d discussed the details of Sean and Lang’s trip to Hilton Head next week with Alia and Amir, lamented how fast the summer was disappearing, and joked about Lang’s cleaning obsession with no mention of the conversation they’d had earlier in the week.

  “I’ve been thinking about fish and grits ever since I mentioned them the last time, so I had Merrick make us a reservation at that li’l spot in Chelsea.”

  A vocally challenged Langston Rogers drove to Manhattan unhurried, butchering songs from Epiphany: The Best of Chaka Khan, Volume One the entire ride. She passed her invisible microphone to Aminah for the powerful notes she couldn’t hang with, just like she had in their junior high school days.

  Aminah belted out, “Problem is you ain’t been loved like you should. What I got to give will sure ’nuff do you good,” resuscitating Chaka’s “Tell Me Something Good” before Lang mutilated it beyond revival.

  “Minah, it makes no sense that you never sang professionally—you know that, right?” Lang said, looking for parking.

  “Sure it does. I’ve never wanted to,” Aminah explained. “Lang, we’ve beaten this topic to death for the past twenty years. See, now that’s why I don’t like singing around you.”

  “You’ve never wanted to, or Master—I mean, Maestro—Fame never wanted you to?” Lang asked playfully.

  “Ha-ha, very funny,” Aminah said, nodding her head to Chaka’s electric “I Know You, I Live You.” “Keep playing, Langston Neale Rogers. You don’t want me to bring up the fact that at the very premenopausal age of thirty-three, you’re still an unpublished author named after not one, but two literary legends and have yet to live up to your namesakes. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe I’ve heard any plans from you to write any kind of novel or even so much as develop a short story for that matter. Instead you’ve chosen to head up a rag—I mean, a tabloid, I mean, a, uh, what do you call that thing you run?” Aminah asked sarcastically while snapping her fingers. “A magazine. Yes, that’s it, a glossy ghetto magazine. Now, if that’s not fulfilling your destiny, then—”

  “’Nuff said,” Lang interrupted.

  “Uh-huh, I thought so,” Aminah said, smiling as Lang pulled into a parking garage. She knew that would shut Lang right up. Aminah enjoyed singing in the privacy of her shower, her car, and around her house. She’d entertained the idea of being a singer as a teenager, but her parents weren’t very supportive. They saw it as a waste of time and intelligence. Plus, Aminah wasn’t a big fan of the business side of music either—though she couldn’t deny that the business side of music kept her family well dressed, well fed, well heeled, and well housed.

  Lang, however, really wanted to write her great American novel someday. She simply was not ready to focus or commit that kind of time and energy just yet. Her mother frequently asked her which should she expect first from her, “a fine piece of literary fiction” or “an adorable specimen of a grandchild.”

  “And my magazine is not ghetto,” Lang said, opening the door for Aminah.

  Lang and Aminah strolled into the small yet charming restaurant hand in hand, laughing and smiling. It was practically filled to capacity.

  Aminah made her way to the table with Lang’s hand on the small of her back. They were seated next to another pair of women. The well-dressed duo smiled at them, and they smiled back.

  Both Aminah and Lang ordered the extra-flaky-on-the-outside, so-tender-on-the-inside fried whiting with the smooth, not-at-all-grainy, creamy grits. Lang had hers with a Bellini and Aminah a mimosa.

  “So how’d that meeting with Rebekkah go?” Lang asked, buttering her visibly steaming-hot piece of cornbread.

  “Oh, you’re not gonna believe this, Lang,” Aminah said. “The real reason she wanted to meet with me was for some premarital counseling. We barely even discussed her wedding.”

  “You’re lying, Minah. Y’all aren’t even cool like that,” Lang said, takin
g a sip of her Bellini.

  “I know, but apparently she thought so. She basically asked to borrow my manual on coping with a cheating husband in the entertainment industry and then chastised me for writing it. ‘I don’t know how you deal with all the rumors of your man sleeping around. I know I couldn’t, but could you still tell me how just in case I change my mind?’” Aminah said, imitating Rebekkah.

  Langston laughed so loud the woman seated next to her in the black knit tube top and cultured pearls with matching earrings gave her a disapproving look, but Lang ignored her. “No, Minah, what’d you do?”

  “I left. And the sad part is before she ripped into me, I was really enjoying her company. But then she had to get all nutty with me.”

  Lang laughed. “Well, you always said she was.”

  “Is,” Aminah corrected.

  “So are you still going to do their wedding?” Lang asked.

  “You can’t be serious, Lang.”

  “I so am, Aminah. Business is business.”

  “Excuse you, this isn’t my business. It’s barely a hobby,” Aminah reminded.

  “Girl, please,” Lang said, taking another bite of her delicious cornbread. “It could be your business. You and Fame are always on Imon’s guest lists anyway. You know you could easily be the urban Preston Bailey.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t even lie to you,” Aminah said after taking a sip of her tangy mimosa. “I was really looking forward to doing it. Though she did kind of throw me for a loop when she said Imon wanted some kind of winter-white-wedding-wonderland extravaganza done up Harlem style, darling,” Aminah said, snapping her fingers in the air.

  Lang laughed so hard she had to swallow her piece of cornbread whole just to keep from choking on it. “What in the hell is that?” she asked, finishing off her Bellini.