by Amiee Smith
My heart pumps more rapidly than usual. It’s the anxiety. The premonition. Where is she? I know she’ll be here. Brit always shows up for her friends. She always shows up for me.
I know she’s in Oakland. Just across the bridge from San Francisco. She’s been crashing with our friends, Malachi and Alisha and working in their recording studio.
They are the only people who know we’re married.
A couple of years ago, we attended their wedding in Healdsburg, wine country, north of here. Brit had wanted to make it a vacation, a break from the hustle. She asked to rent an Airbnb on the Russian River just me and her and our dog. But I was too busy. L.A. Magazine had just done a feature on me and I received an influx of international clients. I spent most of the 48-hour trip on the phone.
Over the last week, Malachi has sent text messages to let me know my wife was okay. I kept Apple Paying him money to cover her expenses because she left her Brittney Willingham wallet behind, but he just sends it back. In one text, Malachi said he’d had never seen Brit so focused on music, which scares me. I know she will choose music over me. And I need her now more than ever.
This morning, I woke up in my hotel room in Union Square to a voicemail from my business partner, Will. He thinks the SEC may be paying us a visit soon. We haven’t been audited in years. I don’t know if I can go through an audit without her. I don’t know if I can feel like myself again without her.
I put out my cigarette and toss it into the trash bin near the garage.
An old black Jeep Liberty pulls up to the curb: my smart girl.
“Hey. Did Lynn say where to park?” Brit asks, lowering the window.
Light. Soft. Radiant. Her presence pierces through the gray and the cold.
“No. All I know is the rabbi gets to park in the driveway,” I reply.
I wrap my fingers around the door handle of the passenger side. “I’ll ride with you while you search for parking.”
“No. That’s unnecessary. It might take a while.”
She rolls up the window and zooms away.
The pace of my heartrate slows... a bit.
***
“You look tired,” I say.
Brit and I stand in the backyard of the duplex. Everyone is inside Lilly’s unit playing Grand Theft Auto.
Wrapped in a red wool, open front, vintage Yves Saint Laurent coat, her arms are crossed over her chest. (A shield against the cold or me?) Underneath her coat, she wears black leggings, a form fitting black and white striped shirt, and black silver-studded, high-heeled Louboutin booties. Dark circles cradle her cognac eyes.
“I worked in Mal’s studio until 4:00 this morning and then got up at 6:30 to get here. I’ve also been sleeping on a loveseat all week.”
The image of my very tall wife curled up on a tiny sofa makes me cringe.
“I got a room at the St. Francis. Stay with me tonight. I brought Pep.”
“Oh, I’ve missed her so much. Where is she now?”
“The hotel arranged a sitter. I also booked a sitter for tonight. I thought we could watch the Warriors game and then see a show at Yoshi’s. What do you think, Brit?”
She pauses. In the distance, a MUNI bus goes by.
“You’re wearing a tie. You never wear a tie,” Brit says, gliding her light brown fingers down the sateen material. Her black nails are shorter, and band-aids cover three of her fingers.
“It was the only thing red I had. I can’t wait to take it off. We only have the sitter until noon. Would it be appropriate to leave now?”
“I think so. Have you played a round of Grand Theft Auto?”
“No. I’ve played before though. It’s a bit violent. But I understand why Lilly would like it. She’s a fierce broad,” I chuckle.
“Yeah, she is. But deep down she’s a love bug. Let’s leave. I want to see Miz Pepper.”
“You’re a love bug too.”
“Yeah, but I’ve just spent the last eight years loving the wrong things,” she mumbles before entering the backdoor to Lilly’s unit.
We find Michael and Lilly huddled in an outdated galley kitchen, speaking Farsi. Her hand is extended, revealing the large diamond on her finger. Their post-matrimonial bliss palpable.
Lilly is slender with caramel-colored skin, and short black curly hair. Tall, but not nearly as elevated as my wife. Stylish, but not nearly as sharp as my wife. Wicked smart, but not nearly as genius as my wife. Attractive enough, but not nearly as luminous as my wife.
Originally from Detroit, she’s a pharmacist working on a PhD at UCSF.
Michael is tall and lean. Well-dressed. Styled-up dark hair. A Persian-Jew billionaire from Beverly Hills; he also graduated with a business degree from USC.
On any other day, I would describe them both as cold, in an elitist-bordering-on-snobby kind of way. But today, on their wedding day, they exude a warmth that not only makes them more human and accessible, but worthy of my envy.
Sure, I want to be as wealthy as Michael someday, but more so, I long for my smart girl to publicly declare: I’m with him.
“I’m going to head out. Brit has kindly offered me a ride to my hotel room. Congratulations to both of you,” I say to Michael, extending my hand.
“Congratulations,” Brit says, hugging Lilly.
“Thank you for coming. We’ll walk you out,” Lilly says.
We say goodbye to the rest of the group gathered in the living room playing GTA. Jen pokes at Brit for bouncing out early but doesn’t trip that she’s leaving with me.
We descend the stairs in front of the duplex and stand at the curb.
“How does it feel to be the second Mafia Man?” I ask Michael, with a half-smile.
I know being a part of the crew is important to him.
“I’m actually the third,” Michael says quietly.
My heart pounds violently in my chest. Brit passes a quick glance in my direction before jumping in to course correct.
“No, Michael. You’re the second. The rules state that only husbands are Mafia Men. Nick and Lynn are still just dating.”
“While I may not be as smart as you, I’m clear on the rules. I’m the third Mafia Man. The first married eight years ago. My team is very thorough in their investigations, Alex.”
Two weeks ago, Michael became my first billionaire client. A coveted accomplishment in my field. His team ran a background check on me.
Again, my wife jumps in to save the day. “Michael, a man of your stature can understand certain details are meant to remain private. I assure you our situation will not interfere with Alex’s ability to do his job. He is one of the best wealth managers in the world.”
She speaks with the confidence of a woman who has spent eight years watching out for her man’s business.
“Business aside, Brit. We are all friends. Is there anything we should know? Michael and I would not want to jeopardize our status in the Mafia for keeping a secret,” Lilly says.
“Alex and I are just friends. There is nothing more you need to know. Lilly, since it was my idea for you to be inducted into the Mafia, I hope you’d respect our privacy. Before Jon came along and started calling us the Smart Girl Mafia, we were just a group of girlfriends from Pasadena. Not Detroit or Beverly Hills.”
My do-gooder wife is flexing a little muscle, leveraging her twenty-five-year-old friendship with the girls against Michael and Lilly’s need to belong. I can relate. I want to belong too.
“Message received. Michael is thrilled to be the second Mafia Man. Thank you again for coming,” Lilly says.
The regal couple retreats, returning to the duplex.
We stroll three blocks up Haight Street to where the Jeep Liberty is parked.
“I need to go to Oakland to get my stuff,” Brit says, once behind the wheel.
“So, you do want to stay with me tonight? I thought you might say no.”
“Dragon, you offered me a bed. Time with my dog. A Warriors game. A jazz show. And there will probably be food. I’d be nu
ts to say no to that,” she responds flatly.
I want to feel happy. Happy she’s agreeing to stay with me tonight. But she’s not really staying with me, she’s just receiving all I’m dangling in front of her. It’s what I’ve been doing for years, hoping that one day she’d see that we’re way past just friends.
CHAPTER 5
BRIT PALMER
“Suit! In The Town!” Malachi calls to Alex as we step into his small home in the Ivy Hill neighborhood of Oakland.
(Locals often refer to Oakland as “The Town.”)
“Alex. We didn’t know you were coming to visit,” Alisha says.
Mal’s very pregnant wife stands to hug him.
They are gathered around their dining room table, packing up homemade secret-recipe edibles that Alisha sells at cannabis farmers’ markets all over the Bay Area.
Alisha is one cool black chick. Afrocentric with a youthful Angela Davis vibe. Slender. 33 years old. A marketing and design expert. Born and raised in Oakland. She attended Mills College.
Malachi is my brother from another mother. A sound recording and guitar genius. White hipster dude. 33 years old. Tattooed. Beard. Tall. Dark-framed glasses. He grew up in Santa Rosa.
Alisha and Mal did the friends-with-benefits things for years before settling down and buying a house together. He turned their garage into a professional recording studio. Mal’s the artist/musician and she’s the business mind. They’re both bootstrapping hustlers who have made their own way in the world.
They are the only people who know the real us.
A few years ago, they came to visit us at the mansion in Silver Lake. After three rounds of beers and half an edible each, Alex advised Malachi and Alisha to marry given they share property and multiple businesses.
Of course, my husband became their wealth manager (he does not charge them a fee). All this week, they’ve praised Alex’s investment and planning foresight and how his advice has not only increased their wealth but given them a level of financial security they didn’t have before.
My husband is very good at his job. But more so, he really cares about his clients, regardless of their net worth.
Alisha and Mal’s two dogs, Clark Kent (part pit bull, part bulldog) and Billie Holiday (a pug and beagle mix) dart around our feet. The house is an eclectic boho treasure trove. Clutter and tchotchkes abound. Not dirty, but far from tidy.
If Alex and I were different people, we’d probably live like them. All love and passion-driven enterprise. But we’re just friends.
“Has she played the album for you, Suit?” Mal asks.
“You finished the album?” Alex asks, as we all sit down in the living room on cushy mismatched sofas.
“No. She made something new. Mal played the tracks for me this morning. Truly breathtaking,” Alisha says.
“Thanks. I am happy with the work,” I say, plainly.
“What will you do next? The guitar makes it so different. Not traditional jazz at all,” Alisha asks.
Alex’s gaze burns holes in my skin.
I didn’t follow his plan for my life: I’m supposed to get a tenure-track teaching position in a respected jazz department. I’m supposed to lounge around and analyze jazz albums made 60 years ago. I’m supposed to uphold the legacy of jazz. I’m supposed to be a responsible, self-sustaining adult.
Instead, I made an album of eleven original tracks that are a mix of Amos Lee and Nora Jones. Still jazz, but uniquely my own. A collection of songs I love so deeply, I’d give it all up to share what I’ve made with the world.
I exhale and speak my truth. “I want to tour with the album. See how the songs play for a crowd. I’m going to try to set up meetings with booking agents when I get back to L.A.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to accept the job? I know the offer is not as much as you’d earn at another university, but you’d have complete control,” Alisha says.
“What job offer?” Alex asks.
I pet Clark Kent’s short, soft fur, avoiding Dragon’s stare.
Alisha rubs her belly as she speaks. “I’m on the alumni search committee for Mills College. We are currently recruiting a professor-in-residence for next semester to teach a jazz curriculum. Hopefully the start of a program in the future. If we attract enough donors, it would be one of the only women’s colleges with a jazz department. Brit is not only talented, but she can work a room for donor events. Since she’s on leave from USC and she’s completed her doctorate, I recommended her for the job. She did me a solid and interviewed for it this week.”
I met with the dean of the music department on Wednesday afternoon, and by Thursday morning she had made me an offer. I was so tempted to take it and start my life over without L.A., the Mafia, the mansion... Alex. But now all I want to do is sing my weird little songs on a stage under the glow of unforgiving lights.
“Is that why you came up here? To interview for the job?” Alex asks, his eyes vacant of expression, but his jaw as tight and strained as a guitar string.
“No. I came up to play piano on a project Mal’s producing. After we wrapped, I worked on some of my own songs. Since I was here, I went to the interview.”
“I knew the dean would love her. Brit was quite the negotiator in the interview. She got the department to approve a teaching assistant.”
During my two hour meeting with the dean, I was the most authentic I’ve been in years. I didn’t bring professional attire, so I strutted into the meeting in black faux leather pants, a white tank, these boots, and my Dior white wool coat. There were bags under my eyes, but I gave no fucks.
I told the dean of the music department exactly what I’d do as a professor-in-residence: lead three ensembles and teach the history of jazz. I made it clear I wouldn’t waste my teaching time in department meetings, I wanted a TA, and, most importantly, a budget for SNACKS.
Mills approved everything but the snacks. The compromise was unlimited access to the campus dining hall. If the circumstances were different, Alex would be so proud of my negotiating skills.
For a moment, I gush at the thought of his approval, and then disdain seeps in. I’ve spent the last eight years both trying and trying not to get his approval. A merry-go-round of obey-rebel, obey-rebel, obey-rebel.
Not only has it been exhausting, but somewhere in our routine, I abandoned all ambition and artistry. Now embedded in my sense of self is a 6’1 man in silver glasses.
Over the last week, my confidence returned. Chord by chord. Note by note. Song by song. I remembered I’m a part of a mafia of smart, talented women who could run the world.
And for the first time in years, I want to run my world. On my terms. And the Dragon that has haunted my mind and my life must fade away. I wish there was a way our marriage-friendship could work, but Alex is incapable of being a back-up singer in my show. He will always want to be center stage, calling the shots.
“Yes, it’s a great offer. But I want to pursue music,” I say, confidently.
I feel him next to me, all tense and fiery. And for the first time in years, I give no fucks.
***
Dragon glares at me like he wants to eat me.
I’ll probably let him. Just for tonight. And for the last time.
The elevator opens, and we walk to our suite at the St. Francis Hotel in Union Square. It’s a classically opulent hotel, both modern and elegant. Alex rolls my two-piece black LV luggage and guitar case to the door, opening it with the card key.
Once inside, Miz Pepper, our eight pound, gray and white Maltipoo runs to Alex, barking and bouncing, begging him to pick her up.
“She was an angel. I fed her breakfast and we went for a walk in Union Square, but she didn’t want to go too far from the hotel. I think she was afraid she’d miss you if you came back, Mr. Willingham,” the sitter says.
He’s an older white man, neatly dressed in skinny jeans, a white polo, and gleaming white shoes.
“Oh, no, she just doesn’t like to walk. We carry her everywher
e,” I say.
“Actually, she and I have been walking every morning. The on-site vet at daycare says it’s good for stress,” Alex says, extending a hundred dollar bill to the sitter.
“Why is she stressed out? Her life is fabulous. She has two parents who adore her,” I say, crouching down to pick her up.
To my surprise, Miz Pepper backs away.
“I’ll be on my way. The front desk brought up the doggy bed you requested,” the sitter says, exiting.
As soon as the door closes, Alex strips out of his suit, hanging it in the closet. He slides on a pair of gray athletic shorts.
“Brit, turn on the air.”
I remove my coat and let it fall to the floor before turning on the air conditioner. Alex runs hot. Any time he is home, whether mine or his, he’s shirtless. I watch as he lifts his undershirt over his head, revealing the large dragon tattooed across his well-defined left pectoral muscle.
The tattoo is the only thing remaining from his short career as an MMA fighter. After losing a fight that left him with a broken nose, he dumped his inheritance from his aunt into a chain of MMA gyms. The gyms failed and with little other options, Dragon went to college.
I met him when he was a senior at USC. I knew who he was. Not because he’s attractive. Not because he’s a Willingham. Not because we grew up in the same town and went to the same schools. But because he had a reputation for getting friendly with his female TAs to ensure he’d get a passing grade. I was hip to his game.
Miz Pepper yelps at him. He’s taking too long to pet her. He spoils her.
Like he spoiled me.
“Alex, you’ve ruined our dog.”
“Maybe, but so have you. Pep didn’t eat for two days after you left. And she’d only sleep on your side of my bed. I bought a doggy ladder so she can go up and down. Though tonight she is sleeping in the bed I paid an extra $100 to rent.”
“You sneeze and make $100. And I bet she didn’t even know I left town.”
“We both were very aware you left town,” Alex says, scooping up Miz Pepper.
She rests her cute little head against his massive chest. A truly perfect sight.
