by Amiee Smith
“I am a magnet to money. It just goes out as quickly as it comes in.”
“Well, hopefully this will help you hold onto more of it. Speaking of, you still don’t remember the password for your cryptocurrency account? I don’t trust that system. I would really like to sell it and invest the money in a lifecycle fund.”
“Dragon, I know it’s difficult for you to do, but you’re going to have to forget about that.”
I spend the rest of dinner giving Brit a nine-point lecture on why cryptocurrency is a risky and volatile system.
***
After changing out of my suit and into a pair of gray sweatpants and brushing my teeth, I enter Brit’s bedroom at the mansion.
“What’s this?” I ask, retrieving a red envelope on my pillow.
Brit sits in the center of her bed, wearing a vintage slip, a delicate garment made of a soft beige silk fabric. The lace bodice reveals the outline of her nipple rings. It is one of her most prized pieces.
Her laptop is open. I expect to see her bidding on another pair of shoes to add to her oversized collection, but instead I see the webpage for the USC course catalogue.
“It’s your anniversary present. I wanted to give it to you at dinner but I didn’t want to interrupt your cryptocurrency rant,” she says, closing her laptop and placing it on the nightstand.
Damn, I’m an asshole.
I open the envelope. Inside are two box-seat tickets for Herbie Hancock at the Hollywood Bowl.
“The show is sold out, but Jay was able to get tickets. I didn’t want him to bill your corporate account so I paid cash for them.”
Jay is my ticket guy. I often give my clients tickets to sporting events as a thank you gift. While he can always get an excellent seat at any show, it comes at a premium. This is what she spent the money in her account on.
Damn, I’m an asshole.
Brit and I haven’t been to a show together since before we got married.
I slide into bed, weaving my fingers in the soft curls at the nape of her neck. Closing her eyes, she leans into my embrace.
“I’ll block the evening off on my calendar. We can make a date of it. I’ll order a picnic box dinner. I know you like variety, so I’ll order more than one. Like old times,” I say, longing to run my tongue over the delicate skin of her neck.
“No. I’ll just be starting back to school.”
Brit pulls away, turning her back to me and falling asleep.
I go to the concert alone. Throughout the entire show, I listen to a pimple-faced geek in the box next to mine brag about making over a million dollars with cryptocurrency.
SIX YEARS AGO
BRIT PALMER
The devil is playing kickball with my uterus.
It’s the second day of my period.
Everything that could go wrong has gone wrong.
A student yelled at me because I gave him an F on his listening exam. I forgot my sheet music for my JAZZ 601 midterm at home. One of my YouTube followers called me a fraud because my forthcoming album is still forthcoming. I cracked a nail during my intermediate guitar class. I left my bag of cash at home so I couldn’t buy Advil in the health center and I don’t know if cramps are enough of an emergency for me to use the credit card in my Brittney Willingham wallet. I’m starving. The Warriors play tonight, but I forgot to set the DVR. And I’ve been in traffic for over an hour to go the nine miles from campus to my house because the world falls apart when it rains in L.A.
It’s after 8:00 p.m. The gates open to my house and Alex’s BMW is in the driveway. I haven’t seen him in over a week. We’ve both been busy.
I open the door to the smell of garlic, onions, and basil. Aunt Mia’s lasagna recipe. Delicious homecooked food is the exact comfort I crave this time of the month.
I kick off my black Prada round-toe pumps at the door. Even though they are two years old, today was my first time wearing them and my feet ache to the bone.
A log roars in the fireplace.
I find Alex in my dated kitchen, peering into the oven. Shorts. No shirt. I long to glide my tongue... my nipples... over the dragon tattooed on his muscular chest.
“Hey, pretty girl.”
“I didn’t know you were coming over tonight.”
“I wrapped with a client early so I thought we could watch the game. I made my aunt’s lasagna recipe.”
I strip out of my damp red wool-and-cashmere Emporio Armani coat, leaving it on one of the 1970s forest green vinyl chairs at the kitchen table.
“The game started forty-five minutes ago. I didn’t DVR it. And I feel like crap. I’ll be miserable company tonight, Alex.”
“I figured. Second day of your period, right? There is Advil in my overnight bag and a Milky Way in the refrigerator for you. I scheduled the game to record when I got here. The lasagna will be ready in twenty minutes. Go upstairs and start the game. I’ll bring dinner up.”
He half-smiles. The half-smile that always makes me feel everything will be okay. My insides reel with emotion. I’ve never wanted to have sex with someone more than I want to have sex with him right now.
Last year, on our anniversary, I genuinely tried to open the window to being more than friends. I dressed up, wore a little makeup and perfume, and bought us tickets to a show at the Hollywood Bowl. But Alex just slammed the window shut. He spent our entire dinner lecturing me.
Alex doesn’t want me. He still feels guilty about the money. He thinks he needs to take care of his fake wife with a shopping addiction. I bet he’s skipping his support group meetings. Any day now, he’ll finally divorce me and marry a petite well-behaved woman. Someone who keeps a neat house and listens to him.
Two days later, I max out the credit card in my Brittney Willingham wallet.
FIVE YEARS AGO
ALEX WILLINGHAM
“This is the tenth time! The tenth time she’s maxed out the credit card in the last year. She always apologizes and returns everything, but why does she keep doing it?! Every time I think things are starting to go in the right direction, she does this,” I yell at the group of men circled around me.
I’m so angry. Hurt. My eyes water. My face aflame. Through the worsted wool of my suit coat, I feel the guy next to me pat my shoulder.
I used to shake off the concern of the other group members. I used to sit in these meetings and not say a word. I used to watch the clock and contemplate an investment strategy for my latest client.
Now my support group for spouses of compulsive shoppers is my life support.
“How does it make you feel when Brit shops outside of the family budget?” Mark, the meeting leader asks from across the circle.
“We haven’t set a budget,” I sigh.
“Ah, man! You gotta set a budget,” the other men in my support group call out.
I want to say I’ve been too busy to talk to her about it, but Brit and I are together a lot. I stay at her house every weekend and at least a few nights during the week.
I love seeing her. I love spending time with her. I love her vibrant enthusiasm for music, basketball, fashion, food, and her politics, even if I don’t always agree.
I don’t even get a chance to talk to her about her shopping binges. By the time I receive the alert from my credit card company, she’s already returned what she bought and left an “I’m sorry” voicemail.
Some of these men complain that their wives don’t know how hard they work. But Brit knows everything about my business. She helped me build it. If she thinks a person would be a good client, she talks me up until they are practically begging for my card. I haven’t had to make a cold call in three years.
A few months ago, I had my first routine SEC audit.
I was freaked the fuck out. Stressed. Anxious. Chain-smoking. One misstep and the SEC could suspend my securities licenses.
Other than going to campus for a few hours, she spent four days straight helping me. Brit kept me calm, organized all the paperwork, and even skipped hanging out with h
er friends.
“While it seems counter-intuitive, giving Brit a budget that you set together will help her feel more secure. It will also break your codependency pattern of control. You may find she stops shopping once she knows she is able to do so without judgement,” Mark advises.
“A spending budget really does help. My wife hasn’t stepped foot on Rodeo Drive in years,” Bill says.
“Since creating a budget, Sharon only overspends at Natural Foods,” Rick says.
“After my wife and I set the budget, I get laid once a week now,” Arnold says.
Damn, I’d love to get laid once. Even a blow job would be great. Just being able to wrap my arms around her at night would be a gift.
Yes, I’m free to date other people, but between work and my wife, I don’t have time. I don’t want anyone else.
I just want my marriage to be good. I just want to make her happy.
“Thanks, guys. I’ll talk to her about a spending budget tonight.”
***
I arrive at Brit’s house with tacos and a six-pack of beer. I leave them on the faded yellow vinyl countertop in the kitchen.
All the lights on the first floor are on, but she’s nowhere to be found.
I climb the grand staircase, but she’s not in her bedroom.
Taking the back stairs down to the studio, I see her through the recording booth window. She’s dressed in a short denim skirt and a black tank top. The Martin D-28 guitar I bought her for her birthday this year hangs around her neck.
My nose flares. My heart pounds rapidly.
A white hipster dude with a long beard sits at the mixing console. I want to knock his teeth out.
Instead, I knock on the door.
“Hi! I didn’t know you were coming over tonight,” she says, happily.
“I brought dinner,” I grumble.
“Awesome! I’m starving. We were just finishing up.”
“Is this him?” hipster dude asks.
“Yep. This is Alex,” Brit says, placing her guitar in its case.
She sets it in a stand next to her first guitar, and a banjo she convinced me to buy her after we listened to Béla Fleck perform Thelonious Monk's “In Walked Bud” on NPR’s Piano Jazz.
“Brit said she married a suit. I didn’t realize she was serious. Nice to meet you. I’m Malachi.”
“Mal is helping me learn some chords I want to play. I can hear them in my head, but I can’t get my fingers to play them yet.”
“Nice to meet you, man,” I say, extending my hand.
I’m in shock. Brit told someone outside of her rehab circle that she’s married.
He shakes my hand. “Likewise. She’s been trying to get me to come to L.A. for the last few months and I finally made it down.”
“Where you from?”
“Mal lives in Oakland. We went to Cal together.”
“Eventually I’ll get her to my studio so she can record a few songs. You should come too, Alex. I’d love to show you my record collection. Though, Brit says it can’t compete with yours.”
“As soon as I finish my coursework, we will be there,” she says, smiling.
We all hike up to the main level of the house. Malachi calls a cab and departs.
“Yaasss, tacos and beers! We can listen to this while we eat,” Brit cheers.
She presents me with a Wayne Shorter record I’ve been trying to track down for years.
“Where did you get this?”
“Malachi. I had to trade him two Sarah Vaughn records, but I wanted to say thank you for everything you’ve done for me. And I’m truly sorry for all the unauthorized shopping I’ve been doing on the credit card. My support group leader helped me create a budget. I can spend a little of my stipend on fashion without feeling bad. I don’t know if it’s going to work, but I definitely want to try.”
She loves Sarah Vaughn. We’ve spent hours listening to the only two SV albums she owns. And I’m so deeply touched that she would trade them for a record for me.
I need to kiss her. I need to feel her soft flesh against my body. I need to tell her all the words deeply lodged in my heart and mind.
But I can’t.
I need this woman, but she doesn’t need me.
My presence in her life has been more destructive than good. I’ve built a multi-million-dollar business on the back of her demise. She’s always watching out for me, and I’ve taken advantage of her kindness and her concern.
I’m no hero, showing up unannounced at her house with a plan to save the day. Brit doesn’t need me to rescue her from anything or anyone. She can take care of herself.
I’m abusing my privilege. Trying to control her life. Needing to be needed. A textbook codependent.
I pull my keys from my pocket.
“I’ve got work shit to do. I’m going to go.”
“You sure? You just got here. There are tacos to eat and beers to drink. And I don’t have to be on campus until 11. We can hang out, like old times.”
“I don’t want to hang out anymore, Brit.”
I ghost.
Brit leaves voicemail after voicemail, but I never call her back.
After the last of her inheritance runs out, I cover the cost to run the mansion.
Other than a few email exchanges every couple of months regarding where to donate 10% of my company’s profit, collecting her information for our joint tax return, and sending her updated insurance information, I would not see or speak to my wife for two years.
THREE YEARS AGO
BRIT PALMER
I’m convinced the man who fathered me haunts my house. Checking in on me. Making sure I’m doing the right thing. I kind of don’t mind.
My life is good.
I’ve finished my coursework for my doctorate. I only have my dissertation left to complete.
The professor for JAZZ 401 retired and the university hired me on as a part time adjunct professor to take over his classes. I now earn a livable salary.
I still shop when I can. Mostly consignment and vintage stores where I can talk (beg) my way into a deal. Sometimes I’ll bid on an online auction. But nothing too extravagant or excessive.
I’m always down to my last dollar, but what I need always shows up when I need it.
My life is good.
Except for the ache that sits behind my breastbone.
I thought it was indigestion, but Tums didn’t seem to help.
I thought it might be my posture when I play piano, but my chiropractor said I’m fine.
It took about six months for me to figure out it is a gaping wound large enough to fit a 6’1” clean-shaven man in silver glasses with a dragon tattooed on his chest.
Instead of stressing out about it, I ignore the pain.
Sing through it. Play through it. Laugh through it. Live through it.
My life is good.
***
Day 3 of the Jen + Jon wedding extravaganza.
A ghost haunts my every move at this ceremony.
The first two days of Jen’s long wedding weekend were hella fun. Just the wedding party and family. Dinner. Drinks. Toasting the bride and groom.
The best man and Jon’s best friend, Nick Willingham, shook my hand and introduced himself at the rehearsal dinner.
Well-dressed and polite, he approached me like it was his first time meeting me. Like we didn’t graduate in the same high school class. Like he has no idea that Lynn has talked about him incessantly since 9th grade. Like he hasn’t been in my mansion. Like he didn’t design my closet. Like his brother isn’t my husband.
Because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know I’m Mrs. Brittney Willingham.
I stand on the bride’s side of the altar at the Pasadena Club in front of 500 people. We are in height order: me, Dana, Claire and Lynn. I wear a blue-green chiffon dress with spaghetti string straps and a flirty skirt with silver Stuart Weitzman flats, holding a bouquet of white roses.
I can feel the ghost watching me. I know he’s here.
Somewhere. Will he approach me? Will I run into him on my way to the bathroom? Will he just ignore me? I don’t have a desired outcome. I’m just hoping for a little relief.
“You may kiss the bride,” the rabbi says.
Jon goes all in. A Hollywood-style kiss for his always-cool bride. We applaud and shout: “Mazel Tov!”
Alex and I never kissed, not on our wedding day, not ever.
I get it. I’m not his type. Our marriage was never real... not real like this darling couple holding each other in front of all these people.
We file out of the wedding ceremony.
A hand taps my shoulder. Whirling around, my breath catches and my insides ignite.
False alarm. It’s just Franklin, one of Jen’s co-stars from Sunset Moon. He did two seasons on the show. Pre-Alex, I would be all about this man.
“Hey fellow freak. How ya been?” he says.
Like me, he got a perfect score on the SAT and has an insanely high IQ. Tall, half Chinese/half white, attractive with a dark patchy beard and dark-framed hipster glasses.
I met him at a party in Malibu a few years ago.
“Nice to see you again, Franklin.”
“We have a little time before the reception, you wanna go to my car in the parking garage and get stoned?”
“Sounds hella fun.”
I scan the crowd to tell one of the girls where I’m going. My eyes land on Sophia Willingham. Fierce and fabulous, wearing a berry-colored structured cocktail dress from her most recent spring line, she stares at her phone. She doesn’t know I’m married to her son, but I still feel guilty.
I’m ready to decline Franklin’s invitation, but a thought intersects my guilt. I have been kind of blue for the last two years. Secretly waiting for Alex to show up at my house. I’m 29 years old. Enough is enough.
