by Amiee Smith
I open my suitcase, retrieving a teal vintage kimono. While Alex is always shirtless behind closed doors, I’m usually in a kimono.
Slipping out of my shoes, leggings, and top, I feel his stare.
Leaving my clothes on the floor, I wrap my weary body in the Japanese robe. The hem hits mid-calf. I belt it and go to the bathroom with my toiletries bag to wash my face.
Alex follows, standing in the doorway with Miz Pepper cuddled in his muscular arms. He’s not my type, with his conservative haircut and silver metal glasses, but holding our adorable Maltipoo against his chiseled bare chest makes my sex long to be more than just friends.
Like me, Alex is mixed ethnicity: half Italian (mom), half Irish (dad). If we were to have a child, it would be the highest expression of multiculturalism.
I pull my hair into a clip and use a Neutrogena wipe to remove the makeup I applied this morning to hide the bags under my eyes. After splashing water on my face, Alex hands me a towel.
“The Warriors play at 5. Let’s watch the game here and then go to the 10:00 p.m. show at Yoshi’s. The Emmet Cohen Trio is playing,” he says.
He knows that is truly music to my ears. I’m a fan of Emmet. A multifaceted pianist, he is hailed in jazz circles as a musical prodigy. As am I.
“Sounds good. Let’s head to Oakland right after the game and have dinner at the Fat Lady.”
“I assumed you’d know a good place for dinner. Make a reservation and buy the tickets. Use the joint account.”
“I forgot that wallet at home. I only brought my driver license.”
“It’s a good thing you have a husband who stopped by your house. It’s in the side pocket of my suitcase.”
“Thank you. I have had the worst week because I didn’t do a wallet check before I left the house. I left my other wallet in the bag I took to the sleepover.”
“Brittney, your Ziploc bag of money is not a wallet.”
I know he’s right. For the last eight years, I rebelled against his righteousness, carrying my money and debit card around in a plastic baggie.
In the middle of my doctorate program, I decided to be broke. Too broke to buy a wallet to put in the Fendi bag I bought at a consignment shop in Venice Beach. A bag I wanted so badly I ate ramen noodles (with hot sauce) for months.
Over the years, I could have bought a wallet. I could have used my Brittney Willingham wallet; a luxurious Chanel piece Alex gave me for our first wedding anniversary. But I kept my plastic baggie around.
I gained a false sense of empowerment for rebelling against my always fiscally-smart husband. The man who has listened to my melodramatic rants on the evils of the patriarchy and capitalism. The man who rarely offered a rebuttal.
Instead, Dragon saved his energy to lecture me:
Brit, finish your doctorate program so you have a fallback plan if the music doesn’t pay the bills.
Brit, complete your dissertation so you can get your job back and make tenure at USC.
Brit, save your money instead of giving it to Greenpeace or the homeless man on the corner.
Brit, natural deodorants don’t work. Shower daily.
Brit, do a phone-wallet-keys check before you shut the door.
And in between the lectures, he took care of me... paid my bills, made sure I did my taxes, kept my old Jeep running and bought food when I blew my paycheck on a drum machine or a pair of shoes.
After this week away, I don’t want to play our boring tune anymore. I don’t want to rebel against Alex anymore. I’m done with our routine. I’m done with us.
I unclip my hair, moving past him and returning to the living room of the suite. I retrieve an issue of Vogue from my luggage, and lounge on the sofa.
“I heard your car broke down,” he says.
He sits next to me, placing Miz Pepper on the sofa between us.
“Who told you?”
“All the guys.”
“Gosh, so much for girl code.”
“Brit, why didn’t you call the insurance company?”
“Honestly, I didn’t know I could call them for roadside assistance. I felt so stupid when the girls asked the same thing during Wine and Skype, I just lied and said I forgot to renew my insurance. I owe Dana $375 by the way and I need to cancel the policy she made me reactivate.”
Alex put me on his insurance years ago after I got a ticket because I forgot to renew my policy.
“If you didn’t have any money, how did you get your car to Oakland?”
“I played songs at a rest stop for spare change until I had enough cash to get towed to a garage in Modesto. I made $400 playing my songs. I’m grateful the mechanic was able to fix it. My car isn’t what it used to be. I really need to keep up with the maintenance.”
Alex gives me an “I told you so” look, a stoned face smirk I’ve come to know so well. I always follow up with the cutest, poutiest face, and remind him I was an emancipated minor with no parents to guide me through adulting. He’ll feel bad. And then I’ll ask for something: shoes, a kimono, a coat. Boring. Routine. This is us.
Tonight will be our swan song, a finale after eight long years.
I lean into his warm body and coo. “If we’re going to a show, there is a velvet Saint Laurent coat I’d love to have for our date,” I say, opening the magazine to a turned down page.
“No. You don’t have a paycheck coming in and you ran away. I am not enabling you, Brittney.”
“It’s not enabling, if it’s a gift from my husband for our date night.”
“I love how I am suddenly your husband and going to a show together is a date when you want to break the spending rules.”
“Are you implying that I’m being manipulative?” I ask, giving him Bambi eyes.
“I’m not implying. I am stating a fact. I know your game. You’ll give me your emancipated minor story. Growing up with only one pair of shoes and one coat. The poor friend amongst the girls.”
“I don’t shop for the thrill anymore. I really love the art of fashion. I’m a collector. And this Saint Laurent coat is truly a collectors’ piece. Please?”
I give him a pouty face so cute it could rival Miz Pepper. Yes, I’m a whore when it comes to fashion.
He scoffs. “Stop it. You can be a collector once you have a job. Until then, you will have to stick to the budget.”
“Fine.”
I rise from the sofa, opening the side pocket of his luggage. Inside, my red Brittney Willingham wallet. Soon those days will be over.
He scrolls his phone. Miz Pepper is spread eagle, waiting for one of us to pet her impossibly soft fur.
“Is tonight really a date?” he asks, not peering up.
I sit on the floor and pull up the Yoshi’s calendar on my phone.
“Come on. You know we’re just friends, but I thought since this is going to be our last night together, we could make a date of it.”
“Last night together?”
“We’ll talk later,” I say, typing the debit card number for our joint account into the checkout page for two premium seating tickets to the show.
“You want me to buy you a $3,000 coat. Tell me now.”
I glance up at my hunky husband, fighting a grin.
“Dragon, I didn’t tell you how much the coat costs. Are you looking at the YSL website?”
He sighs.
“Yeah, Brittney.”
CHAPTER 6
ALEX WILLINGHAM
“Curry sinks another three-pointer!” the announcer for the game roars.
Steph’s shot lands as the timer runs out on the first half of the game. Years ago, Brit said the Warriors would be the team to beat. She was right. Over the last eight years, Warriors basketball has become our thing.
“It’s the season opener and he’s already found his groove. It should be a great season,” she says.
“Yeah, everyone is stepping up big time,” I say.
Brit sits on the other side of the sofa, wrapped in a kimono with one of the beers we orde
red from room service in her hand. She seems different.
For years, she’d say she needed time “to find the space between the notes.” I think she may have found it. She doesn’t appear crazy-eyed and discontent. Instead, more confident and stronger than ever before.
Even if I’m not ready to fully admit it to myself, she doesn’t need me anymore. For anything.
But I still want to be her man.
“Is the coat as good as you imagined it would be?” I ask, pointing to the open black Saint Laurent box on the coffee table.
Before the game, we traipsed across Union Square to the YSL store. With Pep in my arms, we watched mommy try on the coat.
“Oh, Dragon, it’s better,” she says with a bright smile that coaxes all my dark foreshadowing away.
She’s always appreciative. Whether it’s a bag of tacos or a $3,000 coat, she beams with the gratitude of a child who grew up with only one pair of shoes and one coat. She takes nothing for granted.
“Good. Why is this our last time together?” I ask.
“After the game.”
“Well, tell me this... is tonight a date between friends or husband and wife?”
“Husband and wife.”
“With all the privileges?”
“If you’d like.”
“Yes, but what do you want, Brit?”
“All of you, but only for tonight, Alex.”
“And what if I want more?”
“More isn’t on the table.”
“The coat was a gift for my wife.”
“For your fake wife you married for money.”
“Don’t... don’t diminish us.”
“Diminish what? We are just friends. Today, when I saw Michael kiss Lilly, I saw two real people being together.”
“I want that with you. Do you want that with me?”
“It’s been eight years, and we’re still not there yet. Maybe it’s time to go our separate ways.”
“Separate ways, Brittney?”
“I want a divorce, Dragon.”
***
“We’ll have the porter steak, the gnocchi, the burger with blue cheese and bacon and the crab cakes,” Brit tells the server, glancing down at the menu.
“Will there be others joining you?” the server asks.
“No. My wife likes to have multiple entrées,” I share, my eyes never leaving Brit.
“Got it. Another round of Lagunitas?”
“Please,” I say.
“Bring just one. I’ll have a glass of wine during the show,” Brit says as the server steps away.
Her deep brown hair curves and spirals over the velvet purple blazer-style coat. Underneath, she wears a black tank, gray denim jeans that hug her shapely thighs and long legs, and platform Louboutin heels covered in dazzling crystals.
On the Uber ride across the Bay Bridge, Brit told me her shoes cost $4,000. I battled the urge to lecture her on the fact that she ran away and forgot her wallet, but she remembered to bring a pair of shoes worth more than what the average American has in savings.
“Only one drink at dinner? That’s not like you,” I say.
“I want to stay level-headed since it’s our one and only date. Speaking of, how do you want to do it? Technically speaking? I should do a google search beforehand,” she says, digging through her purse for her phone.
I cover her hand with mine, halting her search. “You know this is just the beginning. And you don’t need to google how to get off with your husband.”
She shakes her hand free. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t exert your will on this situation. That’s why I want a divorce. Without knowing it, for the last eight years, you have been telling me what I can and cannot do.”
“You tell me what to do too. I donate thousands of dollars to charities every year.”
“And you get a sizable tax write off.”
“No, Brittney. You make me a better person.”
Across the table, her kind eyes meet mine.
“Our marriage was founded on mistruths and secrets, Dragon. I’m ready for something more authentic. The album I made this week is good. I need to give myself the space to see what it can be without your influence.”
“My influence? I told you I would pay for the album to get made. I just want you to get your job back at USC.”
“It’s not about what you want. I am a 32-year-old woman with multiple degrees, I need to take care of myself. I need to make my own decisions. I have become a slave to the patriarchy. The only way to stop the cycle is to get out of this marriage.”
I sigh, before taking a drink of my beer. She’s not going to budge. Brit is ridiculously stubborn. Headstrong.
But I’m ridiculously resilient. Persuasive.
I’m going to do whatever it takes to get her to change her mind.
EIGHT YEARS AGO
BRIT PALMER
A knock on the door draws my attention away from the graph I’m studying in the Introduction to Astrophysics textbook. Since I arrived at Alex’s apartment, I’ve been alternating between it and an issue of Vogue.
Directions in Music: Live at Massey Hall blasts throughout the room. It’s one of my favorite records. Herbie Hancock. Michael Brecker. Roy Hargrove. A tribute album to Miles Davis and John Coltrane.
The night air is blistering and just a bit sticky. L.A. is experiencing a mid-July heat wave. I keep telling Alex the weather people should stop calling it a heat wave and accept that this is what the summer is like in the wake of global warming.
Rising, I hustle to the door and open it.
“Where are your clothes?” Alex asks, stepping inside and shutting the door.
I stand in front of him wearing black cotton bikini panties and a sheer black bra.
“It’s so hot in here, Dragon!”
“Brittney, you know I have an air conditioning unit.”
“I know, but what it costs to run it could feed a family in Togo. Besides it’s much more relaxing to hang out in my underwear. One day, when I can afford it, I’ll buy a vintage kimono to wear around the house.”
“Did you go practice piano?”
“For about an hour. It was awesome. How was your networking event?”
He grunts. “You did all this in thirty minutes?”
“Did all what?” I ask, returning to my spot on the floor with my textbook and magazine.
Alex drops the bag of tacos on the table and retrieves a Dogfish Head IPA from the refrigerator. He downs half of it before moving throughout the apartment and mumbling something about “puddles of Brit.”
First, he puts away the sleeve of saltines and a bottle of hot sauce I left on the dining room table. He then picks up the pages and pages of sheet music and the clarinet I left on the bed before retrieving his keys, my debit card I used to call in my portion of the DWP payment, dress, and shoes from the floor. After placing my Louboutins in the closet, he folds my dress and places it on top of his tall dresser along with my purse.
“Where’s your wallet, Brittney? I’ll put your debit card away.”
“Silly, Dragon. My budget does not allow for in-purse accessories. Just toss my card inside the plastic baggie in my purse.”
“This is unacceptable. I just finished the audiobook ‘The Secret to Getting Rich’ and it says the state of your wallet determines your wealth. You gotta get a wallet,” he says, putting my card in the baggie.
“Have you not been tracking my narrative? I’m the poor friend.”
“You don’t have to be.”
I pretend to stare at my textbook as he changes out of his suit and into a pair of shorts.
“The best I could hope for is to make tenure and maybe record a few albums that sell a few thousand copies to hardcore jazz fans. Maybe tour a bit. But I’ll never be rich.”
“If you change your mindset and invest your money appropriately, you could do very well. I could help you.”
I scoff. “You’re moving to New York. I’ll probably never see you again after this summer. A
year from now, you’ll be high and mighty, making it rain from 43 stories above the world. You won’t remember your ragamuffin TA from JAZZ 401.”
Will he ever think of me after he leaves?
I fear I will never fully stop thinking of him. In such a short time, he’s imprinted himself on the grooves of my heart. I ignore the dull ache in the center of my chest.
Abandoning my reading, I retrieve plates from the cabinet. He sits as I set the table for dinner.
“Your nipples are pierced?!” he asks, shockingly.
I glance down. Behind the fabric of my sheer bra, little silver barbell jewelry extends through each of my brown nipples. I often forget about them.
“Oh, yeah. It was a dare between Jen and I our senior year of undergrad. We got them done in Aruba. Sunset Moon shot three episodes there. I was the only one of my friends that went. Dana and Claire refused to miss school, and Lynn’s parents wouldn’t allow her to leave the country after she got lost in Vancouver for like, over a month.”
“Damn, you girls are weird.”
“Nope. I’m the only weirdo,” I say, sitting at the table.
***
I toss my fifth taco down on the plate.
I love tacos. The savory goodness of flame-broiled, perfectly seasoned pork, wrapped in a pillowy-soft corn tortilla dripping with flaming hot salsa, takes my mouth and mind to the happiest place on earth.
But tonight, I can’t force myself to finish my remaining tacos.
Somewhere between my first bite of dinner and my last, the reaction returned.
I’m not one of those women who objectify men. Guys with gym-crafted muscles are not my thing. Guys with chiseled jaw lines don’t do it for me. Guys with large hands, a broad chest, and overtly masculine demeanor are not my type. No, no, and no.
But tonight, I’ve eye fucked Alex at least a thousand times.
The reaction gets worse by the minute.
I should have gone to my apartment after work. I should have gotten in my car and endured the traffic to Venice Beach. I should be lying on my back, listening to Sean Hayes’ Run Wolves Run on my headphones and trying not to overhear Lynn having loud sex with one of her friends-with-benefits.
Currently, she has four guys in rotation. Something is going on with her. She seems more restless than normal. I’d ask her about it, but we only communicate via text and yellow Post-It notes she leaves for me. Each note politely written in purple ink.
