by Amiee Smith
“Hey, I’m going to shower. Want to join?” she asks, slipping out of my sweatpants.
“I’m waiting on a call back.”
“That’s why there’s voicemail. Shower with me.”
Brit goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower. I’m conflicted. So conflicted. I stare at my phone.
“Dragon, the water is warm. There are two shower heads. One is removable. And a very naked me. Do you really want to pass up this opportunity?” she calls.
I sometimes forget Brit is as good a salesperson as I am. Confident. Convincing. She knows when to make her best offer. I toss my phone on the bed and strip out of my clothes.
The updated en-suite bath is small with white subway tiles on the floors and walls, a white pedestal sink, and a walk-in shower with a glass door.
“Get in, Alex. I have to go to work soon.”
I do as I am told, leaving my glasses on the edge of the sink. Stepping into the shower, floral-scented steam billows around me as I watch my wife rinse shampoo from her long hair.
She hands me a blue EcoPouf bath sponge before pumping a creamy gel into her hand and running it through the now tightly wound curls hanging around her body.
“How about you wash me while my hair deep conditions and then I’ll wash you. What do you think?” she asks, with an irresistible grin.
I can’t find the words to respond. I’ve spent years imagining this moment. A warm shower. A willing Brit. A marriage without a no-sex clause. And it’s finally happening, the Universe giving me everything I’ve always wanted. My every prayer manifested in the span of 24 hours. And I feel so unworthy. So undeserving.
Brit points a long gray nail at me. “Hey. Hey. I know that face. Stop overthinking, Alex Willingham. Just touch me,” she says, handing me a deep red bar of soap with “good bar” etched into it.
And again, I do as I am told. After wetting and lathering the sponge, a natural berry-scent fills the air. I crouch, running the mesh ball over the top of her long high-heels-battered feet. Small delicate toes; two wrapped in bandages. A deep arch. Smooth light brown skin covers the veins of her feet. Slim ankles. Toned, well-defined calves. The longest, silkiest legs give way to womanly thighs. Lathering the sponge again, I leave suds all over her lower body. Time stops as I wash between her thighs, leaving her mound shrouded in white foam.
I groan. Brit moans. This is wife worship. And I am devoted. Always devoted.
Standing, I run the sponge over her abdomen and torso, dragging my knuckles over the Italian phrase, written in modern cursive, tattooed from her bustline to nearly her waist.
Large. Ornate. Expansive. This tattoo wasn’t just a whim. It’s not a tiny heart on her ankle. This was hours of lying on her side, listening to the buzz of the needle scratching over her skin. And the location of the tattoo, across her ribs, is one of the most painful places to get inked.
“This hurt like hell,” I say, meeting her cognac eyes.
“Yes, but no more than the two years you stopped talking to me.”
Her retelling of our history hurts worse than the four hours of tattooing on my chest.
“Brit...,” I start.
She retrieves the sponge and soap from my hand, lathering my chest and shoulders.
“I get it, Dragon. I was no picnic. The shopping. The neediness. The laziness. The general disregard for my own safety and well-being. My rants about the patriarchy and capitalism while prancing around in $900 shoes. Pretending to be the poor friend... the broke, overeducated musician with a Ziploc bag of dollar bills. In actuality, I had a husband who worked long hours helping the rich get richer to afford my very luxurious lifestyle. The irony in all my bullshit is not lost on me.”
I stare at the beads of water dripping from the tiny silver ring in her nose, pressing my thumb into the “fiercely independent” Arabic script on her inner left forearm. All symbols of the woman my wife used to be before my “brilliant” idea for us to get married to collect her inheritance from a man she never knew. A man who didn’t think enough of women to allow her to put her house in her own name.
I played right into that shitshow, lording over her with my privileged notion of what is right and always making her wrong. And no amount of money or lecturing I threw at the problem could diffuse the smell.
Brit kneels, washing my lower body just as I did her. This shower isn’t just an act in good hygiene. It’s our opportunity to finally get clean. Clear our karma. Exfoliate our sins. Rinse away our history. I stare at the water pouring down the drain.
“Let’s start over, Brit.”
She stands, motioning me to turn around.
“Not a day went by for the last eight months that I didn’t consider starting over with you. Every time I picked up the phone to call you, I’d remember who I used to be. While I’ve come so far, I am still a stone’s throw away from the girl standing in the fitting room at Dior waiting for her daddy to save her,” she says, gliding the sponge over my back and relieving the tension between my shoulder blades.
“We’re not those people anymore.”
She steps under the showerhead, rinsing the conditioner from her hair. I rinse off using the removable showerhead.
Once we’re both done, I extend my hand.
“Hi. I’m Alex Willingham. 32 years old. 6’1. ESTJ. I own a wealth management company. Newly divorced. No kids, but I do have an irresistible Maltipoo. Live in DTLA. I work out. Big Warriors fan. Love jazz. Collect records. Positive thinker. Good with my hands, better with my mouth,” I recite the Tinder profile my sister-in-law created for me.
“Lynn wrote that?!”
I nod.
“That bitch. I’d totally swipe right on you.”
“Her and my brother are scheming. What did she write for you?”
“Nick helped me write mine. Dammit, they are definitely scheming!”
“Tell me what yours says,” I say.
Brit embraces my extended hand.
“Hi. I’m Brit Palmer. 33 years old. ENFP. Divorced. Music professor by day, songstress by night. Music is my life. I love jazz, food, booze, and fashion. Liberal. Feminist. Always down for a good time. Just relocated to Oakland from LA for work. Go Dubs! 6’2 in heels. Netflix and chill is my fav.”
“I’d totally swipe right on you. And my brother is an asshole.”
“Why?”
“Netflix and chill means hook up in app culture.”
“Well, clearly it didn’t work.”
Brit turns off the water and we get out. She hands me a thick purple towel before wrapping her hair in a white microfiber towel and slipping on a terry cloth robe.
“I need to check my phone,” she says, leaving the bathroom.
“I do too.”
I reach the bed and retrieve my phone; a lone voicemail.
As soon as the recording starts, I hear Michael in the background speaking Farsi. Aggressive. Loud. I’m certain he’s spewing some colorful language.
“Hi, Alex. It’s Lilly. Michael said you prefer voicemail to text. So, tonight is not going to happen. His assistant was able to speak with one of the owners of The Open Source House. He offered QR codes in exchange for a donation to his foundation. Michael agreed until they sent a PayPal request for 20 million dollars. Which, in my opinion, is absolutely insane. Michael called the guy and it did not go well. He doesn’t need the stress and I don’t need his stress. You know, I’m five months preggo. Anyway, I hope you can at least go to the show. I’m so sorry. I will tell the girls you were trying to get us codes. I sincerely appreciate you trying. I hope everything works out with you and Brit. For what it’s worth, I think you are wonderful for each other. Bye.”
I voice text a “thank you” to them before tossing my phone on the bed.
Drying off, I don’t feel defeated that I couldn’t get QR codes for the girls. My shower with Brit opened the door to an updated version of us. I’ve been doing this all wrong. More than wanting to impress the Mafia, I need to impress Brit.
&n
bsp; I want to be with her tonight. Just us.
My wife returns to the bedroom, scrolling her beat-up phone. The Echo fills the bedroom with “Electric Feel” by MGMT.
“So, good news. You get to go to the show! Troy’s assistant has a migraine. Well, that’s not good, but it works out. You can cover for him. Troy can be a little extra, but it leads to a good show. So, just be cool,” Brit says, swaying in time to the music.
“Who the fuck is Troy?”
“My show manager. He worked for Norah Jones back in the day. And he’s hella affordable, Alex. Don’t give him a hard time. Just do what you’re told. What do you think?”
“I’m in.”
“Fantastic! Throw on clothes. We gotta hit up the Gap on Lakeshore.”
“You shop at the Gap now?”
“No. I have more than enough clothes. We’re going shopping for you. I don’t want everyone calling you ‘suit’ all night. And I doubt you brought a pair of jeans.”
Brit lets her robe drop to the floor as she enters her closet. I follow, dropping my towel in the hamper. She shimmies into a pair of black panties and matching bra, black drop-crotch pants, a fitted white “We Should All Be Feminist” Dior T-shirt and a red pair of classic TOMS shoes. She pulls a slouchy multicolored beanie and silver aviator sunglasses from the chest of drawers. I love watching her get dressed.
“Come on, Alex! You get to hang out in my world tonight,” she says with a squeal, leaving the closet.
The music switches to Migos’ “Walk It Talk It” and the blow dryer blares from the bathroom. I slide on underwear, socks, and navy slacks.
For the last eight years, I’ve equated wearing a suit with success. In a suit, I am the most confident and intelligent version of myself. In a suit, I don’t stutter or fuck up. Polished. Powerful. People listen to me. Tonight, I’m not sure who I’ll be without it.
Leaving the closet, I sit on the edge of the bed and put my shoes on.
I know it takes Brit at least twenty minutes to blow dry her hair. While I wait, I go to the other bathroom to shave, brush my teeth, floss and finish getting dressed. Afterwards, I make the bed, and go to the dining room to put fresh food and water in Pep’s crate.
Brit emerges from the bedroom in her cap and sunglasses.
“Ready? Troy will be here in an hour. We don’t have much time,” she says, retrieving her purse.
“Why is he coming here?”
“He helps load my gear in my car and drives us into the City.”
“I can do that.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty to do. Just follow Troy’s lead.”
We both coo sweet goodbyes to Pep before leaving the apartment.
To my surprise, her car is as clean as the day I purchased it. Brit drives around Lake Merritt to a small bustling shopping district filled with boutiques, restaurants, a Trader Joe’s, and a Gap. People of all types mill up and down the street.
“This is the Lakeshore District,” she says.
“Have you enjoyed living here?” I ask while Brit waits for someone to back out of a parking spot.
“Yes. Very much. Oakland is chill. Lots of good people. They talk to me like they can see my insides. SF and Berkeley are great, but more pretentious.”
“Will is doing keto, so we stopped at the market yesterday before our meeting. He said he’s never seen so many people of color in a Natural Foods.”
“Totally. L.A. is diverse but segregated by zip code. In Oakland, everyone is all mixed together. It’s really cool. It’s the only place I would consider raising a kid.”
“Now that the mansion has sold, I wouldn’t mind buying a place up here. We could be bi-regional. Like Lilly + Michael.”
“What’s up with this “we,” white man? I’m not moving back to L.A.”
Brit parks and we get out.
She stops at a parking machine, pulling the red Chanel “Brittney Willingham” wallet from her purse. This wallet once only contained our joint cards, now it is filled with plastic representations of the life she has built all on her own. She drops three gold dollars into the machine, and it prints out a ticket.
“Did Mills offer you a permanent position?” I ask as we go back to the car to place the printed slip on the dashboard.
“I wish. I love it there. Mills women are so smart and engaged.”
“Will signed the president of CalArts, I could see if they have any openings in their jazz department,” I say as we stroll in the direction of Gap.
“What part of I’m not moving back to L.A. did you not understand?”
“I am open to expanding my business into the Bay Area at some point, but for now I need to be in L.A.”
The afternoon is warm without being hot. Oakland weather makes me want to stay. My wife makes me want to stay. For a while. Forever.
“I haven’t asked you to move here. We’re in the middle of a divorce.”
Two young women sitting in front of Starbucks wave as we pass by.
“Hi Professor Palmer!”
“Hi Valerie! Hi Melissa! Have a great summer,” she says with a wave.
I wait until we are out of earshot to speak. “So, nothing has changed?”
“Everything has changed. I’m perplexed as to why you’re trying to act like the last eight months didn’t happen.”
“I want my wife back.”
“You can’t have her back, but you can spend this weekend getting to know me. The woman you said you would swipe right on. Did you mean that? Since I’m not really your type.”
“Brit, you’re exactly my type. You’re the woman I’ve always wanted.”
“Out of obligation?”
“No. Never obligation.”
“Guilt?”
“At one time, but it seems that woman is long gone.”
“So, why would you swipe right on me, Alex?”
“Because you are the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. And... clearly, I have a thing for brown women with pierced nipples who deepthroat.”
“You’d have no way of knowing any of that from my pics and profile on Tinder.”
“I could hope.”
She lifts her sunglasses, meeting my glare. “Do you really think I’m pretty?” she asks genuinely.
“I say it all the time! Brit, do you ever listen to me?”
She taps her chin with the nail of her index finger. “You know, my ex-husband used to ask me that same question all the time.”
“So we’re clear, pretty girl... I’m still your fucking husband.”
“Just as long as there is more fucking, less patriarchal rhetoric. And remember, you’re in my world this weekend.”
CHAPTER 18
BRIT PALMER
“I was like, OMG, people don’t change,” Luce says, running the flat iron from the root of my hair all the way to the end.
Every Friday, for the last three months, I’ve listened to her chatter about her ongoing break-up with her boyfriend. Geez. How long does it take a couple to call it quits?
Luce is my personal hairdresser and makeup artist for my gigs. I found her on Craigslist. Fresh out of beauty school, her ad said she was building a business on her own terms. Since I was doing the same, I hired her.
A self-described ‘hood girl from the Fillmore District of SF, she’s slender with corkscrew curly black hair, star tattoos covering her arms and big hoop gold earrings. Also mixed race (African American/white), Luce’s marketing pitch is “making biracial ladies feel whole.”
We’re in my dressing room, which is just a room with a door, polished concrete floors, and light blue cinder block walls. In front of a long mirror mounted on the wall, two long folding tables with four metal folding chairs line one side of the space. On the other side, a monitor with a live feed of the stage, and a basic clothing rack.
It’s nothing special, but I can’t complain.
These accommodations are luxurious compared to my days in the L.A. music scene. Always last-minute calls from a guy named Joe or Al to b
ack-up sing or sub for a musician on tour or in rehab. I’d usually get ready in my old Jeep Liberty. A few slashes of eyeliner, a sharp pair of shoes, a fly jacket or coat and I was ready to go.
I never got to play my own songs. Never led a band of my own. Never had my name in bold “headliner” font on the website for a venue.
In L.A., I was known as the tall lady with the big voice who could play almost any jazz standard. I was known as an academic musician who worked cheap, showed up on time, and smiled pretty.
Only the hardcore musicians took me seriously. They understood my talent, my rare form of genius. They connected with my passion for music, my obsession with the note... that note. And of course, I could eat and drink and play them all under the table until they were dreaming.
I was no diva. No demands. No drama. No outbursts. No negativity. Just thrilled and grateful to be in the room. Being who I really am: a tall lady with a big voice who can play almost any jazz standard.
My mom taught me to always be grateful to be in the room. Every audition. Every industry event. Every opportunity. No matter how small, just be grateful.
All my mom wanted was her own gig. And for my entire childhood, I watched her pay her dues and wait her turn. She believed that in a pool of show biz sharks, the best a tall, dark-skinned woman with a heavy French accent could do was stay alive, be herself, and be ready for the call.
Her call came when I was 16; a lead role in a soap opera in France. She taught me to drive before she left. And the day I dropped her off at the airport, she whispered, in French: “Stay alive. Be yourself. Be ready for the call.”
In a lot of ways, this gig is my call. But what I’ve come to realize over the last eight months, I couldn’t have gotten here, thrived here, without my marriage... without Alex.
Peeking in the mirror, I have more makeup on my face than a Vegas showgirl. Luce wanted to do something special for my last performance. And all the colors on my skin are definitely special. Dramatic smoky eye makeup. Drag-queen contouring. Rose-red lip color. And glitter. Lots and lots of glitter.
I’m going to have to tone this down before I go on stage. Secretly. I wouldn’t want to hurt Luce’s feelings. She’s trying. And I’m grateful for her effort.
