My Husband's Girlfriend

by Cydney Rax

  She takes another long sip and wipes her mouth. I don’t say anything. Dani’s eyes are glassy. She looks very interesting right now.

  “But,” she continues, “you’re actually kinda cute, and even nice, in a cautious way. To be honest, I know you’ve been checking me out, putting out feelers, but nothing major, so I’m not offended.” She waves her hand and swallows more beer.

  “Okay,” I say, “I think I know what you’re saying. I’m not the ugly-ass bitch you thought I’d be.”

  Dani smiles and shakes her head emphatically.

  “Well,” I tell her, “wives are wives but they’re women, too. Always women. I may not wear it often, but I still have the sexy lingerie in my drawer, okay?”

  “Dig that.” Dani burps and says, “Excuse me.”

  “You’re excused. And since you brought up the topic, please don’t let the big thighs fool ya, Dani. Most men prefer women with meat on their bones. They want something they can hold on to. Something that feels good when they wrap their arms around it.”

  She stares at her skinny arms, then looks up at me.

  “Hey, get up for a sec,” I tell her. She struggles to her feet, trying to balance herself by spreading her legs wide apart.

  “You could stand to put on a few pounds, sista,” I say, and walk around her, staring at her perky but sufficient breasts. “I can’t see with that vest on—take it off for a sec.” Dani removes her vest and sets it on the sofa.

  “Not bad, not bad,” I tell her. “I can kinda see why Neil would want you,” I remark, partly humoring her.

  “Hey, Dani. You ever check out that movie The Fighting Temptations? It talks about how most black men prefer women with a big ass. I always wondered if you had a fat ass.”

  She bursts out laughing, then stops. “I don’t think my ass is big at all. It’s okay, I guess. Not as big as yours.”

  I giggle out of shocked admiration. “Yeah, and quiet as it’s kept, Neil likes my fat ass, my big bones, and my bouncy breasts, too.”

  She frowns and wrinkles her nose.

  Dani may be the other woman with the new baby, but I’m the one who has his last name, the one who wears Neil’s rings. Inherently, I know I have power, and I can’t help but remind Miss Thang what’s rightfully mine.

  I smile at Dani and say, “Neil loves sucking things. Did you know that?”

  She makes a noise in her throat.

  “Is that a yes or a no?” I ask.

  Instead of answering, she takes a few backward steps and plops down on the edge of the couch, then clutches her beer and blankly stares into space.

  “Anyway, Dani, I adore this movie, don’t you? I love the idea of weddings. So many people are getting divorced, but no matter what they’ve heard about how tough marriage can be, men and women still trying to find someone they can walk with down the aisle.”

  I am pacing around the room, my hands clutched behind my back, speaking to Dani but also to myself. My voice is firm, assured. I know exactly what I want to say, and how I want to say it. There’s zero percent alcohol in my system. I have that one beer bottle sitting on the oblong table, but ain’t no beer in there. It’s full of water that I poured inside the bottle from the water dispenser on our fridge. It sure tastes good, too. Real good.

  “Yep,” I continue, “even though couples run off to Vegas, the Little White Wedding Chapel, and all that jazz, saying your marital vows ain’t nothing to play with. Mmm-hmm. I mean, think about it. You are standing before God declaring what you will and won’t do, to the Creator of the freaking universe, you hear what I’m saying?”

  Dani lets go of the bottle. It falls to the floor, topples onto its side. Beer spills on my purple-and-tan Oriental rug, soaking it. I don’t even care.

  “Eight years ago Neil and I got married in front of one hundred people on July seventh. Lucky seven. Ha!” I say, still pacing.

  Dani’s quivering on the couch. Her hands, shoulders, and head wobble like a ceramic bobble-head toy.

  “We stood in front of that preacher and all those folks talking about how we’ll stick together, through sickness and health, riches or poverty, forsaking all others, till death us do part.” I flash a look at Dani, eyes blazing into hers. “But that ain’t even the best part, Ms. Danielle Frazier. You want to know what is?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I think you do. The best damned part of the whole damned ceremony is when the preacher made everybody in that damned church say, ‘What God has joined together let no man put asunder.’”

  I walk up to her.

  “Stand up.”

  She stands and the way she’s trembling, you’d swear she’s at hell’s entrance, the devil waving at her to join him.

  “D–do you know what that means?” My voice breaks. I am so close to this woman, my breath humidifies her nose, her cheeks. “What God has joined together, a man and a woman in holy damned matrimony, nobody better not ever, never, come between that. That’s what it means. And God is serious, Dani. We may forget our vows and blow them off when things don’t go our way, but he ain’t forget.” I place my finger on her chest, between her breasts, and poke with every few words. “And I don’t want you to forget, either. Because even though you were not there with us, standing in that church on July seventh, repeating what that preacher told us to say, you’re still a part of my freaking marital vows.”

  “Shit, shit, ahhh shit!” Dani shrieks. Tears flood her cheeks, racing like water squeezed from a rag. “I swear to God, Mrs. Meadows, I swear I won’t—” She bends, clutches her stomach, and groans, a guttural sound that even I feel. I gasp, pull her back up, and hug her so tight our breasts mash together. She’s trembling, hot, shrieking, sobbing hard against me. “I’m sorry, I swear to God. I won’t, I won’t—”

  “Shhh.” I wipe my forehead, which is now beaded with sweat, and I think about this young foolish girl who needs to understand where I’m coming from. “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Dani. Just do what you know is right.”

  I release her, retrieve every beer bottle, and walk away—trembling, panting, and feeling as drained as I’ve ever been in my life.

  Last night, as soon as I left Dani, I walked upstairs and went straight to bed, exhausted, headachy, and knocked-the-hell-out. But I set my alarm for six A.M. and I wake up before the beep starts beeping. It’s Black Friday. I’m ready to race off to Super Target, the one near Reliant Center, and find my tree, some fabulous decorations, umpteen rolls of cute foil wrapping paper, important stuff like that.

  I shower, finger-comb my hair, and run downstairs. And that’s when I remember. I tiptoe into the den. Dani is spread out on the sofa. Neil is gone. Maybe he woke up last night and went back to sleep in the library.

  I start to just go on to the store and let everyone sleep in while I brave the shopping crowds, but looking at Dani, I suddenly decide that bitch has to get up and go with me.

  I fall to my knees next to her and poke her shoulder. Her face looks calm, like she thinks about deep stuff while sleeping.

  “Hey, Dani,” I whisper in her ear. “I’m about to go shopping. Why don’t you join me?”

  She frowns in an ugly prune-face way, eyes still closed, gumming her mouth and making smacking noises. “Uh, sure.” She coughs without opening her eyes. “I can ride with you. Where’s Brax?”

  “He’s being a little sleepy-head today. Don’t worry. Neil’s got that covered. We’ll be gone less than three hours.”

  Dani sits up, clears her throat again, and traces her fingers across her throat. It’s still dark outside, but I know the sun is gonna rise within a half hour. It amazes me how, if you’re outside in the morning and you stare up at the sky, within seconds it seems to go from darkness to light. Like there’s not much difference between the two.

  “Piss on me,” she complains, staring at her wrinkled shirt and vest. “Maybe I should stay behind. I don’t have a fresh change of clothes.”

  “And my clothes are too big for you, so
don’t even ask. I want you to go with me,” I insist, knowing I don’t want to leave her and Neil in my house.

  “W–why do you want me to go?” she stammers.

  “Well, we can talk some more…, Besides Vette is still asleep and I want you to help me out, if you don’t mind.”

  She struggles to laugh. “Uh, okay, more talking, huh? I guess I can wash up, put on some deodorant.”

  “You do that.”

  After she freshens up we quietly head out. A long line of old ladies, starry-eyed kids, and a few cheap but good men has formed outside SuperTarget. I am not surprised. Those fools’ll do anything to save ten cents.

  Dani follows me around the store. She rarely smiles. Doesn’t talk much. Every time I ask, “How does this ornament look?” she says, “You’re in charge, it looks great,” or something along those lines. I grin to myself. I have a need to know that she acknowledges my power.

  Before we head to the checkout lane, I ask, “You need anything? Anything for Brax? You?”

  “Well…” She shakes her head. “I don’t—”

  “Tell you what. If you’re not opposed to getting clothes from here, go grab yourself a shirt at the minimum. I’d love for you to stay around the house till tonight. You might feel more comfy with a fresh shirt.”

  She widens her eyes. “Buying me a shirt isn’t necessary. I live near here—”

  “No, no. I do not want to go where you live, Dani. I just don’t. Now, this is my last offer, so you better run and grab something. Or if you’re too scared to do it, I’m not. I have great taste and—”

  “Okay, okay.” She gives in. “Be right back.” While she runs toward the women’s department, I wait in line and wonder what else might transpire to make this a momentous holiday weekend.

  Part 2

  * * *

  Anya & Dani

  10

  * * *

  Dani

  “A man that already has someone is more appealing than a man that doesn’t have anybody.”

  “Oh yeah?” Anya says.

  “Well, sure,” I tell her. “It makes you feel like you’re getting something of value…if you know that someone else wants him, too.”

  “Oh, so are you telling me Neil isn’t the first married man you’ve been with?”

  Hmm, risky, risky conversation for sure. But, well, maybe it’s time for me to try, to even suck up my nervousness, and be a little forthcoming with Anya. I know she isn’t done with me yet. Insisting I stay over her crib all night is so unexpected, a bit Twilight Zone–ish. And I feel a bit, well, should I say it?

  The S word. Okay, my hands are sweating, they won’t stop moving, my legs and feet are bouncing around like I’m listening to a thumping hip-hop song and I can’t keep still. Here I am sitting next to this potentially psycho woman. I’m in the passenger seat of her very neat-looking Honda. Too neat. No Burger King bags dumped on the floor, no empty Smoothie King cups stacked in the cup holder. Her ride looks nothing like the inside of my whip, which at times tends to pile up with trash until I can’t stand it anymore. Anyway, we’ve just left Super Target. Not that I was gung ho about shopping that damned early in the morning, but she dragged me along for the trip, probably thinking if she didn’t keep two eyeballs stuck on me while we’re at her house, I’d morph into this bad girl the second she turned her back. As if I’d put my hands on Neil in her house. And they think I’m the crazy one? Anyway, here we are. We’re bobbing along the Southwest Freeway on the biggest shopping day of the year because Mrs. Wifey claims she’s not in the mood to go home. Not yet. And because I’ve been abducted for this little trip, it’s not like I have any other choice. It’s not like I really am yearning to sit next to Neil’s wife. Sitting so close I can smell her perfume. So much perfume I want to cover my nose with both my hands in an effort not to sneeze. Why’d she spray herself like that? Is she firing subliminal messages at me? Hmm, maybe subconsciously competing or something? I know how some women can be. Sooo insecure. Hateful. Their fragile minds clicking away, sounding like fingers tapping a keyboard. I really don’t have time for this. I’d much rather be chilling out at my own crib.

  But in spite of how uncomfy it is, here I am agreeing to talk with this lady. Maybe the entire scenario is so bizarre I feel mentally trapped, emotionally obligated, like I have no choice but to go along for the ride, letting her ask me whatever she wants to know. Me trying to explain myself. Picking the right words. Putting out my own feelers to meet some of her feelers.

  But I am sitting in her ride, and she’s driving, what, seventy-five miles an hour? Speeding like it’s nothing. (Hey, where are the police when you need ’em?) What if I try to be forthcoming but end up saying the wrong thing and pissing Mrs. Wifey off, what could stop her from growing horns on the sides of her head, yanking the steering wheel, ramming her car into a concrete guardrail, so my head smashes into the windshield, blood pouring out? I’d be totaled like a tiny hybrid car, and get permanently removed from Neil’s life. From life, period.

  Of course, that scenario isn’t likely. I mean, I doubt that! But I’m not a complete fool. I read the headlines and watch CNN. I can’t pretend as if awful, unbelievable things don’t happen every day. Who can forget the Houston hubby who got trampled by the irate wife and her pricey Benz? So I’m thinking about all these things, and here we go. Mrs. Wifey’s asking me oddball questions. Demanding answers. Expecting me to say this, that. Something. I could be wrong, but I’m sensing that if I don’t BS Neil’s wife, if I let her in on some things I’m sure she’s desperate to know, maybe she’ll view me as less threatening. I don’t know where our conversation will lead us, but I am willing to give truthfulness a bit of a chance. God knows I’ve already been through enough hell to know I can survive hell again, if our discussion comes to that.

  “Anya, what I’m saying is this. No, I–I’ve never been with a married man before. Yes, I’ve fallen for guys that were already in relationships. But”—I raise my voice before she can say anything—“I didn’t do it on purpose. It was like…” I squirm in my seat and scratch my scalp. “I mean, a lot of times I’d meet men who didn’t admit they lived with someone until it was too late. We’d gotten to know each other a little better by then. I knew he was digging me and I would have feelings for him and, well, because of the attachment, it was hard for me to just…walk away at that point.” I swallow deeply and lower my voice. “And so we’d be in the middle of the mess and I’d just wait it out. Wait out the relationship, you know…Plus, I’ve never dumped a guy. Ever.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” she utters.

  “I wish I were,” I comment, my heart feeling strangely heavy.

  Anya gives me a dubious look. “Why not?”

  “I–I don’t know. I preferred to part as friends, and I didn’t want to hurt them, I guess.”

  “Oh, so you’re not willing to hurt the man, but you don’t care if he hurts you? That doesn’t make any sense, Dani.”

  “I know, I know. But so far that’s the story of my life. It’s like I just cannot initiate a breakup. The man has to.”

  “You have problems,” she remarks.

  I hold my tongue, letting her declaration, something I already know, float inside my heart for a minute.

  I tell her, “Even if you’re not like me, wouldn’t make the same decisions as me, I think we all have problems, right?”

  “What? Well, yes, of course we all have problems, but it doesn’t mean we should look bad, awful, and gloomy in the face and still go out of our way to make things worse.”

  Even though she’s as blunt with me as I am with her, her words rattle me. It’s like we make excuses for what we do, how we are. That’s just how I am. But if we come face-to-face with someone who reminds us of ourselves in some aspect, well, it’s unsettling. Like, for the first time we can really see ourselves as we are, the “self” we are unable to see when we’re simply looking in the mirror.

  “True, yes, sure,” I remark. “But how do
we know if the things we choose to do are gonna make things worse? I mean, sometimes you choose things because you’re hoping they’ll get better.”

  “Ugh, what? Jesus. Some things are common sense, Dani. I mean, getting preg—” Anya stops herself.

  Aha. So that’s where she’s going with this. I swallow deeply.

  “That… that was an accident.” I say this firmly, loud. I don’t want Anya to think I purposely got pregnant. I mean, I know some women trap men, but why would I? How would that benefit me? I don’t have the best-paying job in the world; it’s not the worst, either, but I definitely don’t feel like I’m in a position to add more bills to my life. I love Brax and everything, but hey, he costs! Plenty! Plus, you know how kids can change things between a man and a woman. Casual-sex relationships are not the strongest foundation for starting a family.

  Besides, I’ve been knocked up before. By a guy named Fred. He already had a live-in girlfriend, but my being pregnant didn’t automatically make Fred ditch Ethel, or whatever her name was. All I remember is she was a grossly overweight, green-haired, four-eyed, mean-spirited, phony-ass bitch. Meaner and uglier than a junkyard dog. And I couldn’t believe he chose that thing over me. I liked Fred because he was attractive, comical, and had cheeks full of dimples. Ethel had no kids with him, which left me scratching my head trying to figure out how she got so huge. And here I was—spirited, decent-looking, employed, fun-loving, supportive. I’d buy Fred clothes that he said were the bomb, and the sex was more than adequate (pleasure rating: 8 out of 10), but nooo, instead of running to my side, Fred shoves my pregnant behind out the way just to latch on to that god-awful Ethel thing!

  Do you know how dejected Fred made me feel? Don’t get me wrong. At first he acted like he was soooo happy I was carrying his baby. Then he begged me, “Don’t abort my child.” And when I did it anyway, he shook my hand and thanked me afterward. He confessed that asking me not to abort was the easiest game he ever won. Then he told me to get lost and slammed the door in my face. I heard the double bolts click, too. The next day, I contemplated driving to his minimum-wage, shitty piece of a job, whipping out a pistol, and blasting the rotten guts out his soul, but I left stupid-ass, cowardly, horrendously-poor-taste-in-women Fred alone. No cursing him out, no stalking him, no putting sugar in his gas tank. If he would’ve owned a decent car, maybe I could’ve considered that piece of revenge. But after I murdered our baby, I vowed I’d never go that route again. I still get pissed just thinking about it, and it happened years ago. I am pissed that I was so naive to think that taking on a man as a project was something he’d be grateful for, and it would be a task that would fulfill me. Taking on the project is easy, but making it successful is a whole other story.