by Amiee Smith
Lynn changes her tune.
“Superstar, you don’t know that. These eight years of no sex could just be one long game of foreplay, which will make for gloriously passionate love scenes in their happily-ever-after.”
“Lynn, this isn’t a love story. When my brother is in love with a girl, they have a lot of sex. When he dated Kristy Kwon, she got a UTI so bad she spent three days in the hospital. My brother stayed with her the entire time. And my parents paid half of her medical bills. That was love. Like you said, this is a shitshow.”
“K.K. was my Tri-Delta little sister. She’s just prone to UTIs. Brit, once Alex smashes your flower, make sure you pee before and after sex. See, Superstar? Problem solved. This is a love story,” Lynn smiles, clinching her hands over her chest.
My anger reaches a boiling point. What right do they have to offer commentary on our relationship?!
Brit sits silently, stroking Pep. Her eyes downcast. She seems so far away; I can’t read her. I’m also afraid to speak. I’ll stutter or yell or punch my brother in his holier-than-thou face.
“Love, I know you want to believe everything is a potential love story, but this is not fiction. My brother doesn’t love Brit. At least not in a romantic way. Maybe he’s just being loyal, but this is not a real relationship. And now that I’ve found you, Lynn, I feel everyone deserves to have it. Alex, let her go.”
He has no right to tell me what to do! I’m so pissed off it feels as if my cranium will explode. This afternoon, in Lynn’s ultra-modern living room, under the observant gaze of her giant unicorn painting, there is going to be a Willingham brawl, old-school style. But this time, my brother is not an Olympic athlete in his prime.
I point my index finger at Nick. I know I’m going to stutter, and I want to make it perfectly clear he is out of line.
“Sh...sh...sh...shut the fuck—”
Brit wraps her hand over my thigh, her nails digging in. I cover her hand with mine.
“You’re right, Nick,” she says, shaking her hand free. “This is not a love story. I’m not your brother’s type. If we ever got together, I know it would only be sex. And he’d stay with me because, you know, we’re married. But he’ll never want me the way you want Lynn. He’ll never love me in that way. After all, we’re just friends who got married for money.”
I lift my hand to offer a rebuttal.
“What money?!” Lynn screams.
“I’ll tell you and the Mafia everything later. Now, I need to leave. Alex, do not follow me. I’ll put your stuff on the stairs out front. You keep Miz Pepper. I don’t want her lifestyle to change in any way, and I clearly can’t afford to take care of her. I know you’ll meet a petite, well-adjusted woman to be her new mommy. A woman who didn’t have to go to rehab for shopping,” she says, before kissing the top of Pep’s head and handing her to me.
“You went to rehab?!” Lynn yells.
“I swear I’ll tell you later. I’m out. Alex, you’ll hear from my divorce attorney once I can afford to hire one.”
It happens so fast. The room spins and I can’t find the words to make her stop. It happens so fast.
Brit stands, grabs her huge purse and leaves the room. I listen to her heels rise and fall on the stairs leading to the front door.
It opens and closes. And I don’t say anything. I don’t say anything.
I can’t make her stop.
SIDE-B
CHAPTER 12
BRIT PALMER
“Professor Palmer?”
A knock on the open door calls my attention away from the pile of papers on my desk.
John Coltrane’s “Giant Steps” blares on the portable speaker Jen gave me for my 33rd birthday a few months ago. I press the button to lower the volume before dusting off the Flaming Hot Cheetos crumbs from my white short sleeve blouse and black cropped cigarette pants.
“Come in,” I say, sliding my feet into Ferragamo loafers with a wildflower print under my desk.
Alexi, a student from my History of Jazz class, enters my office. She’s hipstered-out in stone washed high rise jeans with a yellow Oaklandish tee and carries a brown box tied with twine.
“I wanted to thank you for such an amazing semester. Your class truly changed my life. I have a side hustle making empanadas. They’ve been very popular at the Lake Merritt Farmer’s Market and on Instagram. #empanadaschick. I heard you say you eat meat, not many professors at Mills do. I brought you a dozen. Six ground beef and six chicken.”
“That was sweet, Alexi. Thank you. I love food. I will enjoy these with a glass of wine. I always try to attend the Lake Merritt Farmer’s Market, but I’ve got a standing gig on Friday nights, so I tend to sleep late on Saturdays. I will stop by your booth this summer,” I say, accepting the box.
“I didn’t know you gig around town. I’ve been following your YouTube Channel. I love the new songs.”
“Thank you. Yes, I’ve been doing a little set at a private venue in San Francisco.”
“Will you be back next semester?”
“I don’t know. My residency was just for the spring semester. I’ve definitely loved being at Mills.”
“Well, in case I don’t see you again, Professor Palmer, you’re the best instructor I’ve ever had. I’m not a music major, but I loved every minute of your class.”
“I appreciate the feedback, Alexi. Good luck with the rest of your undergrad. If you ever need anything, please feel free to drop me a message at any time,” I say, extending my hand.
Alexi shakes my hand before leaving. I return to shuffling through papers on my desk.
She’s the fifth student to drop by my office today. It’s Thursday. The last day of the semester is tomorrow, but I’ve already submitted my grades. I just came to campus to clean out my office and find the Lynn + Nick wedding itinerary.
Lynn + Nick eloped in February. They are doing a big Pasadena wedding next week to appease the Willingham parents. I’ve been hella busy, so I haven’t thought much about the wedding other than the high probability of seeing Alex.
Teaching. Gigging. Divorcing. Making a life in Oakland. Learning to be on my own. Learning to be single again. Alex and I were more married than I originally thought.
I’m a jazz musician. A performer. In my world, improvisation and change are to be expected. However, the change from being married to single has been awkward. Uncomfortable.
Luckily, the transition came with less twists and turns than I initially feared. Instead it was like taking a shower and washing my hair... I don’t want to do it, but I know it’s necessary. And afterwards I always think: “That wasn’t so bad.”
Last October, eight months ago, I walked out of Lynn’s place in SF, leaving Alex and Miz Pepper behind. I cried for the first three hours of my drive back to L.A. My heart breaking and shattering again and again. I felt it all. Mile after mile on the long, boring trip down Interstate 5.
After stopping at a truck stop for a honey bun and a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, I called the girls. Jen organized a six-way conference call that I broadcasted through the cab of my new car using the built-in Bluetooth feature.
(Alex did a great job choosing my car. My mom-car Jeep Cherokee has all the latest technology. I’m super thankful for his effort and I’ve done my best to take care of it.)
Somewhere outside of Bakersfield, I told the Mafia all the facts. It took two hours for me to share the history of my marriage, including several breaks for questions and answers.
My radical honesty led to a debate as to whether Alex was really into me, or just being a good guy, or an opportunist taking advantage of the situation.
Lilly and Lynn are convinced he’s into me. Dana and Claire feel he’s a good guy. And Jen hates him because he stole me away from her.
Interestingly, Lynn, Claire, Dana and Jen confessed that they noticed something changed with me, but they were too busy climbing their career ladders to inquire. They all apologized profusely.
I thought they’d be hella mad, but n
o one tripped out. No one seemed alarmed. All was forgiven, instantly. No amount of therapy can equate to the healing power of having five amazing friends.
Jen seems to be the only one holding a grudge, though she blames Alex for everything. I feel bad for him because Jen is the self-appointed social director of the group and she’s excluded him from events and gatherings since our split. I know he really liked being a part of something. I know he really liked having friends.
For being as handsome and popular as he was in high school, Dragon was a total loner living in the shadows of a “superstar” brother. But my Oakland therapist says I can’t feel sorry for Alex. She says my pity probably kept me in this marriage longer than I needed to be. His pity probably kept him in this marriage longer than he needed to be.
I accepted the Mills job (because I no longer had a husband to pay my bills), moved out of the mansion, and rented a beautiful apartment on the Lake in Oakland. I sold a portion of my wardrobe to finance my new life and divorce. And for the first time, in like forever, I’m fully independent.
Our divorce attorneys dragged out the proceedings, but under this pile of papers on my desk is an envelope with a copy of our final divorce settlement. We had to wait until the FBI investigation was over in March to officially file.
The FBI did not press charges against Alex, but the SEC suspended his securities licenses for six months. That’s all I know. (Of course I made my attorney find out all the details of Dragon’s SEC suspension.)
I’ll sign all the divorce paperwork when I get back from the Lynn + Nick wedding weekend.
Since relocating to Oakland in December, every L.A. member of the Mafia has visited me. Without the burden of my secret marriage, I got to truly have fun with my friends again.
Claire came up two weekends, filled my refrigerator with delicious food, helped me create a spreadsheet budgeting system (Excel is hella fun), and we binge-watched Billions.
Dana visited two weekends in a row. Her trips included dinners at the best restaurants in San Francisco and courtside at the Warriors game (her client gave her the tickets).
D made me spend three hours each day working out and meditating, but even that was hella fun. She also motivated me to declutter my life. She was doing the Marie Kondo thing long before it was a trend. I now feel like a super-cool adult with a clutter-free life.
Jen has made four trips to Oakland, which were all hella fun. Winery tours, spa days, decorating my newly decluttered apartment, boozing at the best rooftop bars in the Bay Area, and talks about cryptocurrency.
Surprisingly, I haven’t seen Lynn or Lilly much, and they only live nine miles away on the other side of the Bay Bridge.
Lynn + Nick have been in their newlyweds-planning-a-big-wedding bubble. And Lilly + Michael have been in their newlyweds-with-baby-on-the-way bubble. But when I do hang out with the Bay Area members of the Mafia, it’s a good time.
Nick built a shelving unit for my modest record collection. Lynn labeled everything in my apartment with the label-maker Nick gave her for Christmas last year. They always bring multiple bottles of wine, and of course, weed. Nick usually cooks a gourmet meal and makes sure I have leftovers.
Lilly + Michael have had me over to their house in Pacific Heights for chef-prepared dinners and games. I frequently beat them both in dominos, but my nails and bowling don’t mix.
I love my new single gal life.
Well, except for the gaping wounds just behind my breastbone. One is the size of a 6’1 man with a dragon tattooed on his chest. And the other is the size of the cutest, most perfect dog ever. But I’m doing my best to hide my wounds and move on.
My iPhone flashes on my desk. Through the partially cracked screen, I see a new match notification from Tinder.
While the girls still inquire frequently about my shopping habits, they mostly harass me about dating and losing my virginity. Every week on our Wine and Skype calls, they ask if I’ve gone on dates. Everyone seems to be trying to help me move on.
Jen booked a speed dating event for me and sent an Uber to make sure I went.
Lynn + Nick crafted an algorithm-hacking Tinder profile to ensure I’m getting the most matches.
Dana sent an audiobook on “manifesting my soulmate” and texted every day for a week until I listened to it.
Lilly + Michael gave me a large rose quartz crystal with instructions to put it by my bed to draw true love to me.
Even conservative Claire is on my case about being a 33-year-old virgin. Her words: “Just hook-up and then love will happen.”
Now that the semester is over, I’m determined to lose my V-card between now and next week’s Lynn + Nick wedding extravaganza. If nothing else, to show my friends I appreciate all their love and support over the last eight months.
“Hey, Brit. What are you still doing here? School’s out for the summer,” Emma asks, singing the last bit with her smoky voice.
She stands in the doorway of my office. When I’m in my highest heels, Emma is a foot shorter than me. Asian. Nerdy. Slightly hipster. Big blue glasses cover most of her round face shaped by dark hair styled in a short bob with bangs.
At 30 years old, Emma has lived through some shit. A musical prodigy (classical piano and cello), she toured the world, playing 70 countries. Two years ago, an injury left her without a career. Post-retirement, she enrolled in the MBA program here at Mills.
She was the only non-music grad student to interview for the job as my teaching assistant. In her interview, she cracked a joke about me eating a $1.30 Cup of Noodles while wearing $1,300 Christian Louboutin booties. I hired her on the spot.
“I’m getting my office cleaned up for the next visiting professor,” I say, shuffling through papers.
“You call this cleaning? You’ll be here all night. I’ll help.”
Emma sails into my office, retrieving the trash can next to my desk. She opens my snack drawer filled with empty wrappers, tossing them away. She continues. “The game starts at 6:00 p.m. If we’re going to get a table at The Athletic Club, we need to be in line at 4:00 p.m.”
Standing, I slide my laptop and the stack of manila folders on my desk into a black Prada men’s briefcase. It used to belong to Alex, a gift from his mom after he started Willingham Wealth Management. He rarely carried it, so he gave it to me because it matched my Prada gig bag.
“Emma, why don’t we watch the Warriors game at my place? We can order food. I’ll pick up some beers. It’ll be hella fun. What do you say?”
“Ah, no! Every single black man with his hipster white dude sidekick in Oakland will be at The Athletic Club for the playoffs.”
(Emma has a thing for black men.)
Meandering throughout my office, I fill a banker’s box with albums and sheet music I brought to school from my collection.
I used to love going out when I lived in L.A., but since moving to Oakland, I’ve become a bit of a recluse. Thanks to food delivery and Amazon Now, I only leave my apartment for work, gigs, and the occasional date. Even Malachi and Alisha drag their baby and dogs over to my place.
“I’m so bad at talking to guys. Just go without me,” I say, plopping down in my office chair. (Cleaning is hella exhausting.)
Emma continues to zigzag throughout the room, throwing stuff away and packing another box. Gosh, she’s the best.
“Brit, you gotta stick to the script. When you meet a new guy, avoid the following: rich, hot ex-husband, fake marriage, natural deodorant, 33-year-old virgin, that you only shower on days you remember, asking him if you can eat the rest of his food, shopping rehab, your million-dollar wardrobe, and dismissing him once he says he’s a liberal, feminist with a dog and two masters degrees. This is Oakland. Every guy that lives here is an overeducated feminist with a pound puppy.”
“Ew, those guys are so boring. They all rub their beards while trash-talking the patriarchy and capitalism. They use big words and show me pics of their travels around Africa doing relief work. If I see one more image of a white d
ude surrounded by dark-skinned village children, I’m going to scream. They live in a city with one of the best jazz clubs in the world and none of them have ever seen a show at Yoshi’s. They all say the same thing: ‘jazz shows are really expensive.’ Mind you, they ride their $1,000 bicycle to their $3,000 a month apartment. And they all have a record player, but only four records. They just suck.”
“Yes. They suck. You need for them to suck. Suck so good, you finally lose your virginity. Your friends are going to want a full report next weekend. Speaking of which, I bookmarked some Airbnb houses in Pasadena. I emailed you the links.”
“I saw them this morning. Thanks for being my plus-one to the wedding. Book the one on Del Mar Avenue. It’s a walkable area of Pasadena, so we won’t need to rent a car. We can Uber to all the wedding events,” I say.
I retrieve my well-organized red Chanel wallet from my purse and hand her my debit card. Emma sits in the guest chair, booking our place on her phone.
“I’m excited to meet the Mafia and I’m dying to see your super-hot soon-to-be-ex-hubby in person. Also, will you ask him if I can get an interview for the Willingham Wealth Management summer internship?”
“I thought you were trying to get an internship at the woman-owned wealth management firm in San Francisco?”
“Even with your glowing recommendation, they denied me. I wish I had applied elsewhere. Most firms have filled their internship programs for this summer. I saw on the Willingham Wealth Management website they are still seeking applicants. I applied last night.”
“I’m not sure I can help. Will, Alex’s partner, set up the program. He oversees the application process.”
“Come on, Brit. You helped found that company. I know you two are divorcing, but can’t you ask Alex?”
Emma returns my debit card and continues packing up my office.
“Other than the wedding ceremony, I’m not sure if I’ll see him,” I say, sliding my card into my wallet. Before closing it, I glance at a photo I had printed of Miz Pepper... and Alex.
