by Curtis Bunn
“I should not be here and every time after I leave you, I say it’s the last time,” she started. “Even though we haven’t done anything—”
“Yet,” Brandon interjected.
“Even though we haven’t done anything,” Juanita continued, “I feel bad, like I’ve betrayed my husband, my vows. The problem is that it’s exciting. Seeing you makes me feel alive. I love my life, my family, my husband. I do. But. . .”
“But what?” Brandon asked.
“I need something more,” she said. “I can’t believe I’m saying this or that I’m even here with you. But it’s where I want to be. My husband is a good man. He’s a good man.”
“When can I see you again?” Brandon asked.
“When do you want to?” That wasn’t the answer her head told her to give.
“Tonight. Right here. I’ll get us a room and have room service for dinner after you get off work.”
Her heart raced from anticipation, and that scared her. She did not consider not coming. And knowing she’d have to lie to make herself available excited her. Even though she had never lied to Maurice and did not have an idea of what excuse she’d give her husband, she said, “What time?”
“Six-thirty. I will text you the room number.”
The hours leading up to meeting Brandon were long for Juanita. Her anticipation mounted by the minute. She couldn’t concentrate on work. The feeling in her stomach was a confluence of fear and excitement. It was similar to the feeling she’d had when she saved the big deal at work. When she realized that, she felt confident. When she had that feeling, she did her best work.
As the time to meet Brandon approached, she exited the office without the requisite small talk with colleagues. She just left. She felt guilty and believed she looked guilty and did not want anyone to detect it.
She could not remember the ten-minute taxi ride to the hotel. But when she got there, she sat at the bar in the lobby and ordered a Dirty Martini. That was the drink she used to have when she was younger and more freewheeling. She sipped only wine with her husband, whom she called from the bar.
“Honey, I tried to get out of it, but I’ve got to do this dinner with the partners. We’re at Mastro’s now. I’ll take an Uber home,” she said. She was shocked that she did not feel guilty about lying.
“Okay, do what you have to do,” he said with no trace of suspicion. “I’m taking the boys to Nando’s for some wings.”
“Yeah, right. I know you’re taking them there because that’s what you like,” she said.
Maurice laughed.
“Can’t put anything past you,” he said. “But they like it, too.”
“Okay, have fun. And get me an order of wings for later, just in case.”
She watched the high-rollers come and go at the bar and pondered their lives. She wondered if a couple on the couch was married or if they were having an affair. She wondered how far it would go with Brandon. But she knew if she went to that room what would happen.
When she finished the drink, she paid for it and made her way to the sixth floor. At Room 606, where Brandon texted her to come, she stood there several seconds. She teased her hair and made sure her dress laid neatly up against her body. Finally, she knocked.
Brandon answered with a smile. He had darkened the room by pulling the drapes; it was dimly lit by scented candles. A bottle of Grey Goose vodka was in an ice bucket. Rare Essence, a D.C. “go-go” band that originated in the 1970s, played on his iPhone.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he said. “I ordered dinner. Got you something light, a shrimp dish. Be up in a few minutes.”
That impressed Juanita. She was too nervous to eat, but she liked his initiative. Maurice would not make a decision without asking Juanita’s approval.
Before the meal came, Brandon poured her a glass of vodka. Straight. She had wine with her husband because, in her mind, it was more ladylike. He sat on the bed and she sat in a single chair. The drink downstairs got her a little tipsy, so she sipped the vodka slowly.
“So, what did you tell your husband?”
“I’m working on a big client, so I told him I had to do a dinner thing. The truth is that they were in the office this afternoon. I believe that I got it done. They will announce tomorrow night.”
“Good luck,” Brandon said. “If they are as impressed by you as I am, then you closed the deal.”
“How am I impressive?” She took another sip.
“Wow, you’re drinking a little too fast,” he said. “I don’t want you drunk. I want you to make conscious decisions and to remember all this—whatever happens.”
“Whatever happens?”
“Yes. Nothing should happen unless you really want it to happen,” Brandon said. “I’m single. I mean, I date, but I don’t have a wife. And I really don’t want to pressure you into anything.”
The vodka loosened her inhibitions. She had Brandon pour her more. She kicked off her shoes and loosened a button on her dress, revealing her cleavage. She moved from the chair to the bed.
“This is nice. Thank you for doing this,” she said. “I can’t believe I’m here. I don’t think I’ve been in a hotel room without my kids in seven years. I’m glad I’m here. I’m glad we reconnected.”
Brandon nodded. “Kiss me,” she said. “Take me away from my life, at least for a little while.”
He was taken aback, but only for a second. She did not have to repeat her request. As he kissed her deeply, he unbuttoned her dress. Juanita did not resist. In fact, she freed her hands and sped up the process—and then began unbuttoning Brandon’s shirt. It was like out of a movie, two lovers attacking each other with abandon.
In a minute, they were naked, and Brandon tossed aside the myriad pillows that adorned the bed, almost knocking over a bedside lamp. She pulled back the covers. He intended to reach for the drawer where he had placed condoms, but she was all over him. And then he was all over her.
“You want this dick, don’t you?” he said with arrogance. Such talk made her wet. Her husband was a nice man, a kind man who did not possess the aggression she needed. She believed that he respected her too much. It was a strange position, she knew. But that’s what she felt. Worse, she feared that telling him what she wanted, what she needed, would make him look at her as some kind of “freak.” So she kept her mouth shut, and as a result, suffered through mundane sex for years.
“Please do. Please gimme that dick,” she said. She had not used that word aloud in that context since she’d dated Brandon. With her husband, she thought he would think it was unladylike. In reality, for her it was liberating to express her raw feelings without filter.
For the next ten minutes, Brandon and Juanita made love so passionately that Juanita felt dizzy and delirious. It was a level of intensity and passion she did not get at home, that she thought had escaped her for the rest of her life. Brandon tossed her from one position to the next, and even demanded “get on your knees so I can get deep,” and she obliged without hesitation. His thrusts made her body feel reinvigorated. Alive.
“You missed this dick, didn’t you?” he said, and Juanita would not lie.
“I did. I did. Brandon, I did,” she said with her eyes closed. “I did. . . ”
Brandon smiled—but kept stroking. Her words encouraged him to thrust harder, to please her more.
“Oh, my God. What are you doing to me?” she said. “But keep doing it.”
There was a knock—dinner had arrived. Brandon yelled toward the door: “We’re busy. Please leave it there. I’ll get it and sign the check later.”
Juanita smiled. And then Brandon continued to make love to her, to reawaken the sensuality in her she thought was dead.
When the deed was done, she lay on his chest in silence. Her body awakened by the passion and physicality. But her heart was saddened.
She had broken her vows, something she never would have expected. It was something no one who knew her would have expected, either. The perfect mother, friend, daughter, sister,
cousin was no longer perfect.
But at that moment, her body felt too good to worry too much about it.
THE MOST LIKELY
CHAPTER TWO
THE WEIGHT OF IT ALL
RHONDA
When Rhonda first saw Lorenzo, she was home for several weeks after foot surgery, bored beyond description. She did not like television and was not much of a reader. She liked running, Zumba and line dancing, all of which were off-limits as she recovered.
She happened to walk to the front of the house to check the mail and there he was, taking a walk in her cul-de-sac. It wasn’t that he was so handsome. But he was walking, which meant he was considerate of his body, which was something her husband, Eric, was not.
It bothered her that her husband took how he looked for granted. She equated it to him taking her for granted. He was lean and together when they first met, six years earlier. It was a personal affront when he told her before they got married that he was concerned she would stop going to the gym after the wedding.
And Eric ended up being the one who got comfortable, who cut back on physical activity and increased his food intake. In two years, he was ten pounds heavier than on their wedding day. Two more years, he added ten more pounds. And, despite Rhonda’s semi-regular pleas to stop eating and go to the gym, he added another twenty pounds in the last two years.
Those additional forty pounds looked awful on him. Eric was a handsome man, with beautiful white teeth and a pure heart. But his stomach stuck out as if he had swallowed a beach ball—not a good look.
Rhonda told him as delicately as she could: “Honey, I’m your wife. I’m on your team. I’m the captain of your team, so don’t think I’m against you. But you have to either cut back on eating or start working out. Most likely, both. You’ve gained so much weight, and it’s not good.”
“I’m still me, the same guy you married.”
That alarmed her. So she was direct.
“But all that weight doesn’t look good on you, Eric. You’ve gained more than about forty pounds.”
“Oh, so that’s it? You worried about how I look? You’re that vain?”
“I guess I am. And it’s not about being vain. It’s about being attracted. It’s not attractive with all that extra weight.”
She knew that was harsh and hurtful, so she cushioned it a little—or tried to, anyway. “But the biggest reason is your health. Eric, I lost my brother to a heart attack. He was overweight and did not exercise. I want you to be around. I’d be devastated if something happened to you.”
Still, Rhonda saw no change in Eric’s habits. So, when she saw Lorenzo walking, he resonated with her as a man who cared about how he looked and his health.
She watched him that first day and wondered who he was. He smiled and nodded as he kept moving. The next few days, Rhonda watched from the window as he passed by during lunchtime. After four days, she wanted to get a closer look, so she acted as if she had to go to the mailbox as he approached the house. And she liked what she saw.
First, he was fit. Not muscle-bound—she didn’t like the overly muscular type. But he looked to be in his mid-forties and well-kept. She smiled at him and he waved and smiled back. She stood there at the mailbox and watched him walk down the street.
That night, when she lay in bed next to Eric, she was annoyed. He snored like some kind of drunken caveman, so loudly that she couldn’t sleep. Frustrated, she got up and went into the guest bedroom down the hall. As she rested on her back, she could still hear Eric’s snoring. But the noise coming from his clogged nasal passage was not what kept her awake.
What kept her from sleeping was Lorenzo. She didn’t know his name at that point, but she wanted to find out. Needed to find out. The next day, Friday, she decided she would wait for him when he came walking by that afternoon.
She still had a cast on her foot, and she came up with a plan: She’d be at the mailbox when he approached and as he circled the cul-de-sac toward her home, she would trip and fall to the ground. He’d see her and come to her rescue. And a conversation would start from there.
It was the cliché damsel-in-distress scenario, but she did not care what scheme she devised. She decided while lying on her back in the dark in their guest bedroom that she needed to meet that man.
Rhonda had grown tired of Eric’s complacency and often fantasized about having a man who physically did it for her. She did not consider it vanity. It was merely a fantasy, the way many women fantasized about Denzel or Idris.
Her fantasy was different in that the man was attainable—or at least touchable. She noted that he did not wear a wedding ring. That didn’t mean he did not already have a woman, though. In fact, in Atlanta, it was almost assured that he had several women.
But, as women were prone to do, she had already played out in her head the kind of relationship they could have—even though she had not met the man.
“What you gonna do after you actually meet him?” her coworker, Olivia, said after Rhonda called and shared that she would fake a fall to get his attention. “You worship the ground Eric walks on.”
“I know. I’m curious, I guess. And that ground Eric walks on shakes a little more with every step. But, anyway, this guy has come by the house every day this week at the same time. He apparently lives in the subdivision. Can’t no harm come from meeting a neighbor.”
“You can tell yourself that if you like,” Olivia said.
Rhonda dismissed that notion and let Olivia go back to work. Then she put on a skirt to make it obvious she wore a cast and a sexy top that clung to her body. She had a body that could still turn heads.
At five minutes to noon, she ambled to the mailbox, glancing down the street to catch Lorenzo approaching. She didn’t see him. She hung around that mailbox until ten after twelve. He never came. She was disappointed—in herself.
She was a married woman looking to meet a stranger who could have been walking in the neighborhood staking out houses to vandalize. Or he could have been a rapist seeking his next prey. She could have met him and made it easy for him to rob her. It was the middle of the day and all her neighbors were at work. When she looked at it that way, she felt silly about her fantasy.
And she felt guilty when Eric came home, and prepared a nice meal for him as a way of silently apologizing for her behavior: baked trout, steamed green beans and sliced tomatoes. He appreciated the effort but a half-hour after eating, he ordered a pizza. Rhonda was disgusted.
Her friend Olivia came over, which was a welcome reprieve. “I need to get out of this house,” she said loud enough for Eric to hear.
“You wanna be one of those people out with a cast on at the club like it’s all good?” she asked.
“It is all good,” Rhonda responded. “It’s not like I have some disease. And it’s not like I want to go to the club and get on the dance floor. I need to be around some people who are living, not sitting around rotting.”
“Oh, I ain’t people?” Eric chimed in. “I’m rotting?”
“You don’t care if I’m here or not.”
“What’s wrong, Rhonda? You know I want you around.”
“Well, I don’t want you around. I’d rather you be out taking a walk, getting some exercise.”
“Oh, that again?” he said. “Yeah, you’re right. You do need to get out of the house.”
“Let’s go, Olivia.”
In the car, they headed from Rhonda’s Southwest Atlanta home into downtown.
“You okay, girl?”
“I don’t know. Eric knows my grandparents have been married for fifty-nine years and my parents were married for thirty-three years before my dad died,” Rhonda explained to Olivia. “We believe in marriage. My grandmother told me about wanting to leave my grandfather on many occasions. But she said she stayed because of the vow, the covenant and the tradition of marriage on her side of the family.
“Can you believe her parents never divorced? Her aunts and uncles stayed married. None of her four sisters or t
hree brothers ever divorced. And none of her three children ever divorced. I’ve never heard of a family with that commitment to marriage.”
“That’s pretty deep, Rhonda,” Olivia said. “But I bet all of them weren’t happy. Some people stay for different reasons. I couldn’t do it. When I saw there was no hope for my marriage, no trust, I had to move on.”
“I understand. I told my grandmother about how frustrated I am with Eric and his weight, and she told me, ‘Work with him, baby. Marriage is sacred. You’re gonna want to take a lamp and crush his head while he sleeps. But you won’t. That feeling you have will go away just like the urge to kill him will.’
“She didn’t mean literally kill him, but I got her point. But my frustrations with Eric haven’t gone away. They’ve escalated.”
“Give it time,” Olivia said. “Be patient. Keep talking to him. Better yet, ask him to walk with you. Make it a couple thing.”
“I like that; maybe I will.”
Olivia pulled up at Suite Food Lounge in downtown Atlanta. It was a hot spot where Rhonda had a good time in the winter when a group of black doctors had a vibrant Super Bowl party. She left that night feeling sick when Seattle lost in the last seconds, but she enjoyed the event.
They went in and were lucky—two people left their seats at the bar just as they were about to grow frustrated about standing around.
“See,” Rhonda said, “it was meant for us to be here.”
“Or maybe it was only meant for us to get a seat. What happens next will determine if it’s meant for us to be here.”
They ordered Moscow Mules, and after the second one, the music either sounded better or got better—Rhonda was too tipsy to distinguish. All around were younger people in high spirits.
And then, like out of a cheesy hard-to-believe movie, there he was. Lorenzo. They had been puffing on a hookah. And when Rhonda saw Lorenzo about ten feet away, she considered that the combination of the drinks, hookah and her imagination produced the illusion of Lorenzo. She could not trust her somewhat glazed-over eyes . . . at first. She’d had Lasik surgery, and, while she was ecstatic with the results, there were times things seemed a little out of focus for a few seconds.
