The Makeover_A Modern Love Story

by Nia Forrester

  She took another gulp of wine, and Sam swallowed as well, not knowing what to say.

  “I didn’t think staff would be here,” Tiffany said. “Other than the coaches. I thought this would be a good weekend for me and Eddie to …” She stopped and looked at Sam, her eyes almost desperate when she realized she might have said too much.

  “I … I under …”

  “You don’t,” Tiffany said leaning back, and exhaling. “It’s a lonely, lonely life being married to a professional athlete. Long absences, and an unpredictable schedule? All of that is built-in. All the things that in normal marriages would be signs of trouble? They’re built into our marriages, so there are always ‘signs of trouble’.”

  Sam didn’t know what to say. Turning in her chair, Tiffany looked directly at, and focused on her for the first time.

  “I did think I might want to go back to work,” she said. “I was looking forward to it. Getting back into things, y’know? Bigger concerns other than what these twits spend all day talking and thinking about.”

  She indicated one particularly large cluster of women. Then, she turned and looked over once again at where Eddie and the physical therapist were still deep in conversation, standing marginally too close to each other.

  “But …” Tiffany sighed and leaned back into her seat once again. “As you can see, I already have my work cut out for me.”

  When things got louder, and more boisterous, Sam slipped back into the house where she ran into Coach’s wife. She was a pretty woman of about sixty-years-old who had white-blonde hair and looked like she had, in her day, been a trophy wife herself. It made sense, since Coach had once himself been in the NBA. Trophy wives had always been in fashion for athletes.

  “Can I help you find something, dear?” she asked.

  It sounded odd, that she would call Sam “dear” because she wasn’t that old to be calling people “dear” and Sam wasn’t that young to be given such a diminutive.

  But then she realized that the woman probably hadn’t taken the time to memorize her name when they were introduced earlier. She had probably seen hundreds of women like her—fortunate to accompany one of the players to a team function, never to be seen again, because by the time the next party rolled around she’d been replaced by another, temporary girl.

  “A restroom, please?”

  “Absolutely. Straight through here.”

  She was led to a door, and then Coach’s wife patted her on the arm and left her alone. When Sam went in, she was stunned by the size of the bathroom. It was twice the size of Colt’s walk-in closet, and much more comfortable. Apart from the separate water closet, there was a huge shower—a shower large enough for six—built in larger proportions that could accommodate a very tall man. Several very tall men, in fact.

  And there was what looked like an enormous dresser into which two large sinks were built. Out of boredom and curiosity, Sam looked through the drawers, because she didn’t really need to pee, just to get away from the party. There perfumes and unused deodorant—one for men, one for women; mints, toothbrushes still in their boxes, aspirin and other painkillers, cold medicine, and Dramamine; there were tampons and maxi-pads and even a few pairs of women’s underwear, individually sealed, and apparently brand-new. And of course, bars of soap, washrags, and extra hand-towels.

  Impressive. Coach’s wife had prepared for just about everything. A guest to their home could come in, sequester themselves in here and have a shower, shave their legs, and even address a menstrual emergency by putting on fresh undergarments.

  Off to one side, nearer the door was a bench. After washing her hands and using some of the creamy, expensive hand lotion, Sam sat on it and sighed. At most, she could hang out here for fifteen minutes. Then she would have to go back out and face the music. She would find Colt, she decided, and stick to his side like glue.

  He was still a little standoffish with her since yesterday, still probably trying to understand why she acted so weird when he talked about permanence as a goal for their relationship. She was struggling to understand it herself.

  She loved him. She loved him so much that some days it was like an ache that wouldn’t go away. She woke up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and would come back to bed and seeing him sleeping there would stun and excite her, as thought it was brand-new and a surprise.

  Because some of it was brand-new. And not just the sex—though that continued to change and ripen between them each day—but just the way he was.

  He cared for her now in a hundred new ways: always the one to make breakfast because he woke earlier than she did; always the one to make dinner plans, to do the shopping, to drop off and pick up her dry-cleaning.

  And he wasn’t so great an actor that Sam didn’t know how little her work really interested him, but he would talk about it with her for hours, if she needed him to, helping her navigate office politics, work through issues, and strategy, and listening to her fawn over Jason’s talent … all without complaint.

  He had become a partner to her, never hinting of being emasculated by having to take on the supportive role that was more often occupied by women, for their man. Maybe it was because he knew that once the pre-season started, their roles would reverse, and it was she who would have to be a support to him.

  In her pocket, Sam’s phone made a little pinging noise, and vibrated. She reached in and looked at the text message on the screen.

  Hi, beautiful.

  She frowned. The number was displayed, but there was no name. Another ping and buzz, and a second message joined the first.

  Know who this is?

  Sam thought for a moment. It was a Maryland area-code.

  She responded. Drew?

  The ellipsis danced.

  No, not Drew. Dang. My feelings are hurt. Aidan.

  More ellipsis.

  Bar One. Remember?

  Sam smiled. Yes, she typed. How r u?

  Good. You?

  Good, Sam typed.

  WHERE r u? Free?

  No. And is that the way you ask me out? By text?

  Who asked you out?

  Sam laughed aloud, and waited, watching the little dots appear and disappear in the message thread.

  I’d like to, tho. If guaranteed a yes.

  Her fingers hovering over the keys, Sam took a breath.

  No guarantees in life.

  Why was she flirting with this man? She wasn’t even slightly interested in him in that way. She shook her head and typed something more.

  Actually, I can’t, Aidan.

  Lemme guess. Money Man?

  The one and the same.

  Told you, Aidan replied. Be well, beautiful.

  Sam smiled. Thx. U too. And thx for making me smile.

  More ellipsis.

  Anytime. And lock me in ur phone. Just in case.

  Laughing again, she didn’t answer that one, and instead put the phone back in her pocket and got up from the bench.

  Enough of that. Break was over. Time to jump back into the fray.

  Sam found Colt standing with a group of his teammates, all of them laughing at a joke she must have just missed. Walking up behind him, she looped her arms around his waist and hugged him tightly.

  Colt turned and smiled down at her, pulling her round to his front, so she was leaning back against him, and he had an arm draped across her shoulder and chest like a sash, and down to grip her waist.

  “Y’all met Sam?” he asked.

  A couple of the guys said ‘no’ so introductions were made, and hands shaken. Then the conversation resumed.

  For most of what they were talking about, Sam didn’t have the references to help her understand, but she felt safe there and comfortable, leaning back against Colton’s chest, feeling it rumble against her back when he talked and laughed. Someone new joined their group, and because Sam was the only woman present, he acknowledged her with a nod and a smile.

  “Who’s this?” he asked, looking at Colt.
r />   Colton’s arm tightened about her and he pulled Sam closer.

  “This is my love,” he said.

  They left after breakfast the next morning. The Washburns ate with them—pancakes, and eggs, and bacon that Tiffany had gotten up early to make and had already laid out on the table when Sam and Colt made their appearance, along with strong coffee and juice.

  Eddie sat down with them, and he and Colt dissected the previous evening, talking about who was too fat for pre-season, whom Coach seemed to be avoiding, and who was likely to be cut. While he spoke, Eddie often reached out to massage the back of Tiffany’s neck, and when she stood to get something from the refrigerator or put something in the sink, he patted her butt as she walked by.

  The way they were with each other reminded Sam of her parents when her father had been alive, and of Colt’s parents, the Greens. Their easy, unselfconscious affection looked identical to what she was used to seeing all her life, between couples who were married upward of thirty years. It was hard to reconcile that with Tiffany sitting on the Adirondack chair, watching her husband flirt with another woman.

  How could both things be true? That Tiffany and Eddie were in a strong marriage, and that he might be having an affair? It was difficult to comprehend, but as Sam watched her, Tiffany was receiving Eddie’s touches and affection just as effortlessly as he gave them. There was no flinching, or hesitation, or stiffness in her manner. She heaped more eggs on his plate and refilled his coffee mug. She smiled back a genuine smile when he smiled at her. She looked like a woman who was still in love.

  The drive back to DC was long, and hot and slow. Colt took the wheel the entire way, and listened to music turned up loud, singing along to everything from Bilal to Kendrick Lamar. Sam rested her head on the partly open window and listened, grinning when Colt went off-key. Reaching over, she put her hand on his thigh sometime around the Delaware Memorial Bridge, and scarcely moved it until they were pulling up to the house.

  It was only ten-thirty in the morning.

  “Not too hot yet,” Colt observed as they unloaded their bags from the car. “You mind if I go for a run?”

  Sam shrugged. “No. I can do a little work, or take a nap or something.”

  “Cool. Still going to Ma Maxine’s later?”

  Sam sighed. “Yeah. How ‘bout you?”

  Colt laughed. “Hells to the nah. Not while she’s still givin’ me the evil eye. Maybe next time. Or next month.”

  Upstairs, while Colt changed into his running gear, Sam collapsed on their bed, reveling in the familiar smell of their home, their sheets. In the dressing room, Colt had turned speakers on, and was listening to the continuation of a song he’d been streaming in the car. Kendrick Lamar again, wailing about the nature of God.

  “Colton,” she called to him. “You’re going to be deaf if you keep it that loud.”

  When he didn’t respond, Sam sighed and rolled over, grabbing his phone from the bedside table to turn it down herself.

  On its face, there was a single text notification. From Janelle.

  Seeing you the other day was nice. One more ‘gain? What say you?

  Frozen in place, Sam stared at the screen, and Kendrick sang on.

  ‘This what God feel like, huh he-yeah … Flex on swole like ah-ha … You feel some type of way, then a-ha!’

  ~ Twenty-Three ~

  Somewhere out there was a graveyard, and it was filled with the remains of relationships that had been done in by a single, ill-timed text message.

  Sam hadn’t yelled or screamed when she presented him with his phone.

  ‘What’s this mean?’ she asked. She was sitting up on the edge of their bed, and her voice was eerily calm.

  Looking down and reading it, Colt’s first reaction was exasperation. He got an average of ten text messages from Janelle a week. Most were innocuous, like she was yanking his chain, reminding him that she was out there, and less apt to recall being ‘taken advantage of’ if he bantered meaninglessly with her every once in a while. So, he did.

  Mostly, her messages were about her workout regimen, her social life, occasionally tinged with flirtation or invitation. She didn’t really expect him to bite, but she dangled the offers out there anyway, and Colt made half-assed excuses. He had even begun to view her as the equivalent of a dog barking from behind a fence. An unlikely threat, so long as it remained contained.

  But as he told Sam why Janelle continued to text, it dawned on him that he would also have to explain why he continued to respond. And that explanation required a confession. So, he bit the bullet and gave her one. He told her everything.

  ‘You … slept with her?’ Sam asked, again with the same calm. ‘After we almost …’

  ‘Yeah, but … We hadn’t really done anything yet, you and me. We were …’

  She was looking at him intently, like she was trying to read the eyes of a stranger and figure out whether they were trustworthy or not.

  ‘We hadn’t really done anything yet?’

  Her tone had changed. Now she sounded incredulous, and her eyes were glittery with the beginnings of unshed tears.

  ‘I mean …’

  ‘That you hadn’t actually put your penis inside my vagina,’ she said, nodding. ‘Right? Close. But no cigar?’

  ‘Sam.’

  ‘Colton,’ she said, simply, her eyes never leaving his. ‘You are exactly the same.’

  And that was when the tears fell.

  Reaching behind her somewhere, she produced her own cellphone.

  ‘I got a text message too,’ she said. ‘I want you to read it.’

  Hesitating, and unsure that he wanted to know what was on her phone, Colt finally took it from her, and when she opened it, he read an exchange from a number that didn’t have a name attached to it.

  At first, the flirtatious tone irritated him, and then he got to the end, where Sam shut ol’ boy down. Nicely, but she still shut him down, and made it clear that she was spoken for.

  Colt handed her back the phone, and swallowed, ashamed.

  Sam shrugged. ‘Now you know all my secrets,’ she said, her voice sad.

  Sighing, she pushed herself up from the bed and went into the bathroom, shutting and then locking the door.

  He waited a while, and when he didn’t hear water, or the sound of flushing, Colt realized she was in there solely to get away from him and would probably stay there for some time. So, he went running, hoping it would give her the space and time she needed, and that when he got back, they could talk.

  He almost felt good, because now Janelle was no longer like an anvil hanging over his head. He and Sam would be fine. They always were.

  But when he got home, her car was gone, along with a fair amount of her clothes.

  “Yes, she’s still here, and no, you cannot come over to my house,” Leah said. “I’ll get my husband to shoot your ass if you do.”

  “Leah, I’m not playin’. Put her on the damn phone,” Colt said.

  “What about ‘she doesn’t want to talk to you’ do you not understand, Colton?”

  “I don’t believe she said that.”

  “She’s my sister. She doesn’t need to say everything for me to know what she wants.”

  “You are such a …”

  “Say it,” Leah dared him. “Sam would be … ooh! I wish you’d say it. You would be dead to her if you called me a bitch, Colton. Believe that.”

  Colt pursed his lips and took a deep, silent breath. It had been seven days. And nothing. That wasn’t ‘thinking-it-over’ time. That was ‘it’s-over’ time.

  “By the way,” Leah’s voice was almost sweet, as she relished each word. “She doesn’t know it, but I blocked your number on her phone. She doesn’t need all that. Not right now.”

  Leah hung up on him and Colt leaned back into the sofa, fuming and considering his options. He could go to Sam’s job, meet her outside when she was going in for the day, or leaving.

  He could swing by Leah’s anyway, because he
knew her husband wouldn’t shoot him even if his crazy-ass wife told him to.

  Or, he could go to Ma Maxine’s later, when Sam was sure to make an appearance for dinner.

  The option most likely to bear fruit would be going to her job. But that might make her even more angry. She took her work seriously, especially now that she was lobbying. Having him show up would throw her off her game. She might cry, or something. And then she would blame him for making her the subject of gossip in her workplace.

  But calling her at work; that he could do. If she didn’t want to take the call she wouldn’t.

  Reaching for his phone again, Colt scrolled through to find another number and dialed it.

  Drew answered with a grunt. “‘Sup?”

  “Let’s go push some weights, man.”

  “Bet. Meet you over there.”

  Within an hour, Colt was at the Sports Club, doing a full weight circuit with Drew, working himself to the brink, and only letting up when he felt his muscles burning and trembling. He grunted and yelled with each heavy weight he lifted, dropping them with a loud clang, and breathing hard with his hands on his knees after each set.

  After a difficult set of bent over rows, when he was gulping in air, and inhaling through his nostrils, he looked up to find Drew watching him.

  “Gimme a little more weight,” Colt said.

  Drew shook his head.

  “Gimme a little more weight!” Colt yelled.

  Around the weight room a few heads turned, and then everyone went back to minding their own business.

  “Nah,” Drew said calmly. “So you can fuck up your back before pre-season? Tear a muscle, maybe?” He shook his head again.

  Colt added some powder to his hands and reached for two more plates. Drew grabbed him by the arm.

  “C’mon talk to me outside right quick.”

  Colt shrugged him off. “I ain’ tryna … The last motherfucker I want to talk to about … anything is you.”

  Drew shrugged. “You called me, bruh. And I got a feelin’ it wasn’t ‘bout pushin’ no weights.”

  They sat on the wall outside the Sports Club, both of them looking out across the quiet streets. Downtown on a Sunday was a ghost-town in Washington DC. There was practically tumbleweed rolling down the streets. Few pedestrians or cars. Most of the action would be centered around the National Mall, Dupont Circle, and further in the upper northwest quadrant of the city, in Georgetown. Almost all the traffic around them—foot-traffic and cars—was related to the gym.