Space Between (Smart Girl Mafia Series: Book 3)

by Amiee Smith

  I retrieve my phone from the nightstand. It’s after noon. There are three voice texts from Alex. Where has the morning gone? I’ll be sure to listen to those messages later. He’s probably just letting me know he arrived in L.A. safely. And that he misses and loves me too.

  I order a roasted chicken plate from a restaurant that also makes homemade dog treats. While I wait for my food to come, I visit the Jimmy Choo site and order more sneakers. They have a shoe called the “Oakland.” Lynn would say that’s a sign. I check out. Ten pairs of shoes.

  Food arrives. Together, Miz Pepper and I eat lunch on the sofa and watch The Shopping Channel.

  “Yes, mommy is a real wife now. She definitely needs this facelift mask. It’s probably best if I get the whole line of skin care products. I’m in my 30s.”

  I go to the bedroom to get my phone. Four voicemails from Alex. Gosh, he really misses me. I’ll call him back after lunch. I place my order.

  We finish lunch and I toss our takeout containers in the kitchen trash bin. Passing through the dining room, I notice the small doggy crate in the empty space.

  “You’re absolutely right. This is your home too, Miz Pepper. We definitely need to buy you treats and a bed and toys. Daddy would want you to have your own bed.”

  I spend the next hour on the Petco app ordering doggy gear. KCSM’s Jazz in the Afternoon plays in the background. The Shopping Channel flashes on the wall. Miz Pepper sits curled up in my lap, she looks so adorable against the red satin of my kimono.

  “Mommy is so tired. We’ve done so much work today. Let’s nap. Maybe when we wake up daddy will be home? He’ll be upset if I haven’t showered. So, I’m going to jump in really quickly and then we’ll get a few winks.”

  I place my phone on the coffee table and we saunter down the hall to the bedroom.

  It’s been a long, long day.

  CHAPTER 21

  ALEX WILLINGHAM

  “We’re on track to hit our target for this quarter and if all goes well, we can launch our athlete division this summer,” Will says from across the conference room table.

  A graph is displayed on the screen mounted to the wall.

  We are having our weekly one-on-one meeting. The early afternoon sun illuminates the glossy cherry wood office furniture that came with the space when we leased it three years ago. It was the same week of the Jen + Jon wedding.

  After two years of not seeing each other, I made it my goal to reconcile with Brit at the wedding. During the reception, I acted like an asshole. I followed her, interrupted what could have been a potential hook-up between her and one of Jen’s costars from Sunset Moon, and just expected her to take me back. No questions asked.

  And she did.

  “Good. Very good,” I say, absently.

  My phone flashes with another alert from American Express.

  “We successfully navigated what could have been a major loss this quarter with your FBI investigation and SEC suspension and the best you can say is ‘good?’”

  “I’m sorry, man. You’ve done great work,” I mutter, scrolling the message from my credit card company.

  Since I left Oakland this morning, my wife has racked up over $65,000 in charges. The most recent from The Shopping Channel. Brit is a compulsive shopper but buying on TSC is the underbelly of her addiction. The part of her that makes my stomach cringe and my chest ache.

  I spent eight years attending my support group for spouses of compulsive shoppers. I know my wife’s oniomania triggers: lack of sleep, dramatic change, fear of abandonment, and feeling disconnected.

  For years, I blamed myself for it. But after hundreds of meetings, I now know it’s something outside of my control. And I like to be in control.

  This weekend, seeing her new life, seeing her manage her money and pursue her passion, I thought she was cured. Maybe our more official relationship status triggered her illness?

  But it is not my job to fix it, or to fix her. I can’t control Brit.

  I respond back to the text message from AMEX to decline the charges. Earlier, I let the Macy’s and Amazon charges go through, but rejected the charges for the clothes and shoes.

  “I gotta catch a flight home. I will call you tomorrow,” I say, gathering my notes and sliding them into a file folder.

  “Flight? You live a mile from here.”

  “No, I gotta go to Oakland. I’m moving there.”

  “So, the weekend went well with Brit?”

  “Yeah. Really well,” I say, standing and pulling on my blazer.

  “I’ll put a team on planning for expansion into the Bay Area,” Will says, typing on his laptop.

  “Not yet. I’m going to be helping Brit with her music career. I’ll still come in for meetings, but we’ll work out the details later.”

  “You’re still going to your brother’s wedding, right?”

  “Of course, but I need to be in Oakland this week... for my wife.”

  ***

  “Good evening, Mr. Willingham. It is good to see you again,” James says from behind the desk in the lobby of Brit’s building.

  “Good to see you as well, James,” I say, rolling a large bag behind me.

  After I left the office, I stopped by my condo to pack. In a daze and eager to get back to Oakland, I yanked suits from the closet and clothes from the drawers.

  “Brit was just down here. She brought me a plate of the most delicious meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. She made all of it from scratch. Said she taught herself to cook today. You are a very lucky man,” James says.

  I just nod my head, proceeding to the elevator. As I wait, I consider what James just said.

  Am I a lucky man? I’m married to a woman with a bionic brain who can teach herself to cook in one day. A highly educated woman who, if she tried, could earn a tenure-track position in any jazz department in the country. A brilliantly talented woman who can sing a single note so flawlessly it sends chills down my spine and brings a tear to my eye. A pretty woman who, if she tried, could get any guy to take her home.

  A kind-hearted woman who has spent the last eight years helping me succeed. She doesn’t bitch. She’s slow to anger. And she has a way of melting a scowl from my face with the gentlest smile and embrace.

  Brit is my dream woman.

  And she’s an addict.

  No, she doesn’t commit crimes or acts of dishonesty to get money to shop. Even our marriage of convenience was real. We are legally married. She didn’t lie. And while she didn’t tell her friends, she never lied to them.

  Lynn confessed to me months ago that Brit would often mention a friend named Alex, but they all just assumed I was a girl. The Mafia thought Brit was a lesbian, not ready to come out.

  What I learned in my support group was that Brit, and the other women who went through rehab with her, live in a gray area society doesn’t want to acknowledge.

  Addiction has long been synonymous with totally fucked up. And unless someone is barefoot and homeless, wandering the streets searching for their next fix, they’re fine. In the gray area, these functioning addicts suffer in the shadows, and other than their loved ones, very few people know or understand their struggles.

  Compulsive shopping doesn’t directly harm Brit’s body. She’s still a functioning member of society with a job, a home, a husband, and friends. Yes, she struggles with day-to-day responsibilities of living in a capitalist society: paying bills on time and balancing an often low-paying passion career with supporting herself.

  And the only thing I can really do to help without enabling her is to act with integrity, empathy, and compassion. No Willingham yelling or berating or acting like an asshole. Just full-on love. Love for the woman who has supported me for almost nine years, flaws and all.

  I exit the elevator and walk the hallway to Brit’s door, opening it with my new set of keys.

  Pep barks and greets me. The Warriors game blares from the living room. The crowd roars, “De-fense! De-fense!” I leave my bag by the d
oor. Lifting Pep, I pat her head before putting her down.

  “Welcome back,” Brit calls to me from the kitchen.

  I find her wiping down the counters. Pots and pans of food are covered with foil on the stovetop. She’s barefoot, wearing light blue jeans, a white Warriors T-shirt, and an open deep blue kimono. She’s a modern housewife. Tattooed. Nose pierced. Dark nail polish on her finger and toenails. Her curly hair hangs wildly around her body.

  “How was your day?” I ask, kissing her cheek.

  “I listened to your voice messages. You declined my charges. So, you know how it went,” she says quietly, not making eye contact.

  “I let the Macy’s and Amazon charges go through. Tomorrow let’s create a budget for household items.”

  “I would like that. I moved my therapy appointment to tomorrow morning. My therapist says you can come too, if you’d like.”

  “Yes, I definitely want to go to your appointment. And I should probably find a group or a therapist up here.”

  “I made a list of options.”

  “Thank you. I really appreciate that,” I say.

  My thumb strokes her forearm covered in the “fiercely independent” tattoo written in Arabic script.

  “I’m sorry, Alex. I really thought I was better. I promise I haven’t shopped in months. And not like that in years. I haven’t even used the Bloomingdale’s gift cards you gave me last fall. I thought when I sold off a portion of my wardrobe...”

  “You sold off your wardrobe? I thought maybe the rest was in storage.”

  “No, I didn’t want the additional expense of a storage unit. I sold most of the rare and collectable pieces.”

  “How much money did you make?”

  “$382,000.”

  “So, that’s how you’re able to pay your band three times the going rate and live in this apartment on your salary.”

  “Yeah. I want to believe that is way more noble than another pair of shoes or coat.”

  “Noble, maybe. But it’s still a losing horse.”

  “Well, Manager, help me win.”

  “Are you sure, Brit? It’s going to be a difficult transition even without your...”

  “Addiction. You can say it, Alex. I won’t break.”

  “Yes, I know you’re an addict. And I fully accept you as you are. The way you have always accepted me.”

  “Not always, capitalist white man,” she says with a chuckle.

  “Yeah, can you give that up, fiercely independent feminist?” I ask, planting a kiss in the center of her tattoo.

  “I can’t give that up any more than you can give up who you are. But I am willing to make this weird love story we’ve created work now... and forever. I may lack self-control, but I’m deeply dedicated and devoted to what I love.”

  “Your dedication and devotion are what I love so much about you.”

  “You do dedication and devotion really well too. I was convinced you were going to divorce me after today, so I finally got around to reading our divorce settlement. You were going to give me 10 million dollars?”

  “Paid out of a trust in increments over the next 20 years.”

  “Yeah, I saw that. Good looking out for your ex-wife the compulsive shopper. But that aside, why would you give me all of your money?”

  “Sweetheart, I love you, but I would not give you everything. It’s about half of my net worth.”

  “You’ve made 20 million dollars in the last eight years?”

  “Some of the money is from the sale of the house in Silver Lake. But yes, with the help of my wife, I’ve amassed more wealth than my dad and mom, combined.”

  “Oh, so I’ve done some good.”

  “You’ve done a lot of good and you will continue to do so... with my help. I really do want to be a part of your team.”

  “You and Miz Pepper are my original team.”

  “Thank you. I needed that confirmation. So, where’s my dinner? You made James a plate, but not your husband?”

  “Oh my, Alex! I watched this woman on Food Network named the Barefoot Contessa today. She cooks easy recipes with lots of flavor. I’m so proud of what I made, I might quit food delivery and just cook all the time.”

  “Not all the time, sweetheart. You still have students to teach and music to perform. And a husband to entertain before bedtime.”

  “Wow, I really am a very progressive woman. Go get changed. I’ll prepare you a plate. We can watch the second half of the Warriors game.”

  “Sounds like a perfect night.”

  And it was a perfect night. The Warriors won. I ate one of the best meals of my life. Pep got in her crate with minimal objection. And Brit eagerly sat on my face while post-game highlights played on the wall.

  Now, more than ever, I am deeply dedicated and devoted to my wife, and the family we have created.

  ***

  “You haven’t told her?” I ask, sitting on the edge of the bed in light blue pajama bottoms holding a cardinal USC Thornton School of Music coffee mug.

  “Not yet. Jen has been hella busy with planning the party for tonight. I’ll talk to her once I get into L.A.”

  My wife is spread out on the floor with shoe boxes, clothes, and two large suitcases surrounding her. Pep sleeps at her side. Post-morning sex, she’s wearing my gray sweatpants and a loosely tied yellow kimono. As she shifts, I see the edges of her dark nipples with silver barbells through the opening of her robe.

  Brit adds another white Manolo Blahnik box to her luggage. She’s already packed ten pairs of shoes for our four-day trip to L.A. As always, my wife likes variety in food and fashion.

  This wedding weekend is only for Pasadena pageantry. Lynn + Nick got married three months ago at San Francisco City Hall, just the two of them. They announced their official coupling with a video posted to Facebook.

  While my parents celebrated the nuptial, they insisted there be a formal wedding. My mom and dad were adamant that my brother follow Pasadena social standards after they learned of my fake marriage.

  My marriage is real now. And this weekend serves as our unofficial coming out party. Since returning to Oakland on Monday night, we have spent the week planning our life together. Much in the same way we established rules and guidelines before we got married, we created a plan to make our love story a reality.

  Over beers and homemade carnitas tacos, we set-up spending budgets for every aspect of our life. Interestingly, our negotiations were effortless. Since we are no longer denying the love between us, there was no lecturing or fire breathing. No pouty faces or sob stories. Just two adults, sitting on the black velvet sofa with their dog, having a discussion while Wayne Shorter’s Speak No Evil album played in the background.

  I will fund a $5,000 a month shopping allowance for Brit that she can spend (or not spend) as she pleases. She agreed to enter her spending into a spreadsheet every week that I would be able to access. I agreed to not snoop or check her accounts.

  To my surprise, my weirdo wife was more excited about building a spreadsheet than shopping. Her face lit up with joy as she explained how Claire taught her how to create formulas in Excel.

  The biggest sin in our secret marriage is that it isolated her from the Mafia. Like my parents and brother are for me, the girls are my wife’s original family. I can now understand why Jen hates me. Our marriage cut Brit off from the brilliant women who helped her navigate life.

  In addition to establishing a budgeting system, we will attend bi-weekly couples therapy sessions to manage Brit’s addiction and my codependency.

  My offer was accepted on the Crocker Highlands property. We’ll move in once the renovations are completed.

  Brit will continue to seek a tenure-track position and pursue music. I’ll continue to act as founder and CEO of Willingham Wealth Management, but with less client responsibilities. And I’ll assume the role of managing Brit’s music career.

  A completely new endeavor, I am excited to learn show business. I have a meeting set up for later this a
fternoon with Mick Jayson, one of the biggest music managers in the biz.

  I spent the week reaching out to my network in L.A., searching for music industry contacts. One of my longtime clients set up my meeting with Mick. He could only meet this afternoon, so I’ll be late to the Jen + Jon party this evening... if I’m even allowed to attend.

  “Am I invited to the party?” I ask.

  “Of course. It’s for your brother.”

  “I’d prefer if I were invited because I’m your husband.”

  “We’ll get everything worked out tonight. I know everyone will welcome you into the Mafia.”

  “You’re underestimating how much Jen hates me.”

  “Once she knows everything is all good between us, she’ll be on board. Don’t trip.”

  Don’t trip? Don’t trip? How can I not? I’m not a star athlete like my brother. I’m not the life of the party like Jon. While I do well, I’m far from being a billionaire like Michael.

  Before everyone learned of our marriage, I could cruise into a Jen + Jon party (usually a bit late because of a client meeting) and make the rounds, having conversations with people who know me as Nick’s younger brother. The little brother who built a successful company. Then I’d arrange to meet Brit afterward for tacos or a late-night jazz show.

  Now that everything is out in the open, I feel like the fuck-up who lured an innocent woman into marriage for money. Coupled with my SEC suspension, I feel like a fraud. Very few people know about my suspension, but it still makes me feel dirty. A hoodlum in a suit. A douchebag.

  “Brit, can you just do me the solid and tell the girls now?”

  “I don’t have time. I have to meet the dean of the music department for coffee in forty-five minutes and afterward I have to go to the airport to meet Emma. You should probably stop trippin’ and get packing. Your flight leaves in an hour and a half.”

  “Since when do you have a meeting with your dean?”

  “She sent me a text early this morning.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Duh, because as soon as I finished texting her, you told me to sit on your face.”