“This is the one, girl. I’ll hand it to you. You know what works for you.”
Actually, I don’t. I have never worn anything super-dressy with my new physique. But I have to admit, the jumpsuit looks both perfect; the mix of casual and formal that seems to typify the ESPYs. It is convertible so has thin straps I can attach in case I chicken out. And, it only costs one hundred and sixty dollars.
“Sandals,” Melanie announces. “Gold accessories. And this time we’re going high-end.”
I pay for the jumpsuit and she takes me back out into the mall where we wind up at Fendi. I get high-heeled sandals, and a set of baguette bracelets. Altogether, I’ve spent about eight hundred dollars of Rand’s money, so I am relieved when Melanie decides that it’s time for us to get her outfit. Without missing a beat, she tells me she needs to get her dress at Versace.
When we get there, I almost don’t want to walk on their floor, because the atmosphere is so intimidatingly … rich. But Melanie seems completely at home, and within minutes has chosen a boat-neck mini-dress that she rings up with knee-high boots for just under four thousand dollars. The card she slides across to the cashier is an Amex Centurion.
“Lunch?” she asks as we leave. “There’s amazing sushi at a place near here.”
When I get back to the suite, it is just past three o’clock and Rand is already there, waiting for me, and looking a little worried.
“I know, I know. We only have an hour to get ready,” I say. “But I just had the weirdest afternoon.”
Now that I’m back, he begins peeling his clothes off, preparing to get in the shower.
“Yeah? What happened?”
“I met this woman, who just walked up to me in a boutique on Melrose and started talking to me out of nowhere. Then she whisks me off to the Beverly Center to shop, and …”
“You went to the Beverly Center with some random woman?” Rand says, tossing his suit-jacket across an armchair. “Dani …”
“Not completely random. She says she knows you.”
“What’s her name?”
“I didn’t catch her last name, but her first name is Melanie. And …” I stop talking because Rand has abruptly stopped unbuttoning his shirt. And his expression has changed, turning hard as stone.
“What’d she look like?”
“Thin. About five-three …”
He exhales and shakes his head. “Brownish-reddish hair? Kind of a narrow chin?”
I nod.
Rand mutters something under his breath, then looks at me. “What did she say to you?”
I shrug. “Not much. Just that she meant to catch up with you at the reception, but that we were …”
“Look.” He sits on the bed. “Don’t … If you see her again, just … avoid her, okay?”
I sit next to him. “Why?” I ask quietly, though I think I already know.
Rand puts a hand on my thigh. He runs his palm along it. It feels like he is placating me, preparing me for something he is about to say, that he knows I will find unpleasant to hear.
“She’s a … she’s a football groupie,” he says. “Someone I used to … I used to … know her.”
“She was so friendly,” I say, almost to myself, thinking about Melanie’s and my conversation over sushi.
“Asked a lot of questions, I bet.”
“No. Not at …”
I think back to lunch. She had asked a lot of questions. Sprinkled in with other things, but yes, she had. It was gradual, and artful, but by the time we were done with our food, I had told her that Rand and I knew each other since high school, kind of. That I was a life coach, that I had recently lost lots of weight …
“This is gonna sound bad,” Rand says, his hand still on my leg. “But … she’s practically. She’s …”
“She’s what?” I ask, warily.
“She kind of … lives on … gifts. From guys like me. Guys like I used to be,” he amends. He turns to look me in the eye, for emphasis. “I mean, she entirely lives on gifts. You know what I mean?”
I shouldn’t be shocked, but I am. I look at him. “She’s a … prostitute?”
Rand seems to be considering this. “Not exactly,” he says, finally. “But … yeah, kind of.”
I digest that for a few moments. “And you used to …”
“I was one of a few guys who would help her out. You know, with …”
“No, I don’t know. With what, Rand?”
“Stuff,” he says. He shrugs, and looks a little embarrassed. “You know. Whatever she needed …”
I move a little bit away from him, so I can turn and look more directly into his face as he speaks.
“I think you’d better just tell me exactly what you mean,” I say. “Because this isn’t something I have any experience with.”
I sound judgmental. I am feeling judgmental, honestly. Because I know what’s coming, and it’s an ugly part of Rand’s history that I wish didn’t exist.
“She was a party-girl,” he says. His hand on my thigh feels like it’s searing through my jeans, and I want to shove it away. “She hung out with me sometimes, and sometimes with other guys. All of us ballers. Some football, some basketball. But mostly NFL. She … The way it worked was that it was never … She wouldn’t ask for money outright, but sometimes you’d spend time with her and she’d just mention that her car payment, or her rent … Or she needed to go shopping … and so you’d, you know …”
“Give her a gift,” I finish for him.
“Yeah.”
“And you were one of her gift-givers,” I say. It isn’t a question. My voice is flat.
“Yeah.”
I stand abruptly, so Rand’s hand falls from my leg.
“Dani,” he begins.
“I’ll shower first, if you don’t mind,” I say.
“Dani …”
I practically dash for the bathroom, and lock the door behind me. Just as I expect, I am still standing at the door, staring into space when Rand tries the door.
“Dani,” he says from the other side.
I don’t answer him. Instead I turn on the shower though I have yet to undress, and pretend I haven’t heard him at all.
A life coach is not a relationship counselor. Neither are we therapists. But often, when clients come in, it’s because they want another perspective on how to handle a relationship with someone important in their life. And because I am not a relationship counselor, nor a therapist, I always start by suggesting that they consider seeing someone who is.
Most of the time, the client will refuse. Because “coaching” feels and sounds gentler to most people. It doesn’t require an admission that something is wrong, necessarily. So, when the client refuses, and insists they want my advice on a relationship, I always tell them the same thing—that they should try to separate their unspoken expectations from what the person in their life has truly promised them, either in word or deed.
Are you expecting your husband to be faithful ‘this time’ when he never has before? But he didn’t promise you fidelity. In fact, he promised you infidelity. His actions have shown that.
Did you expect your mother to be understanding when you told her you lost your job, when she was, your entire childhood, somewhat emotionally insensitive? Well then, more insensitivity is probably reasonable to expect.
I never go beyond that. Because … again, I am not a relationship counselor, nor therapist. I simply tell people to align their expectations with the promises they have received from the people in their lives. Promises in word, or deed.
As I walk with Rand into the Microsoft Theater, where the awards ceremony is being held, I try to figure out whether I have been following my own advice.
I knew all along that he had a past, and that he was far from a choirboy. He told me as much. In his marriage, he did some despicable things, no matter the justification. Are my expectations of him out of alignment with that? Why should I believe he is different now?
‘Because of the way he tre
ats you, Danielle,’ a voice in my head says.
Right now, Rand’s fingers are interlaced with mine. His grip is firm, and when people approach him, he pulls me closer. He leans in to ask whether I want to be in pictures, or would rather not. He offers me the option to avoid the step-and-repeat, in case I am camera-shy. Even though I stubbornly refused to say much of anything to him as we got dressed, and left for the event, he is unfailingly attentive.
And while we pose for the shots, squinting in the glare of the lights and photographers’ flashbulbs, he whispers in my ear over the din that I look beautiful.
And I believe him, because when I was fully-dressed in my brand-new bright-white pantsuit, and my hair was done—I slicked it all back as a little something special for the event—his eyes widened in wonder, and appreciation.
But as we head in to take our seats, I am still not able to speak to him, except for the handful of words we exchanged as we left the hotel. I am disappointed, and a little disgusted by what he told me. And I feel stupid and used by Melanie, the woman I was foolish, and naïve enough to think of as a possible new friend.
I am humiliated when I remember myself gabbing away, and laughing with her. And doubly so, when I recall her offering—and me accepting—a large glass of white wine. I now think it was probably to loosen my lips a little. And loosen they did.
‘We’ve only been together less than a year,’ I remember gushing. ‘But it’s … he’s amazing.’
I feel myself flush at the memory. She sat there, listening to me gush, and knowing that she has known Rand longer than I have; that she has slept with him. She knows what he looks like naked, what he sounds like when he has an orgasm …
I wrench my hand free of Rand’s as soon as we arrive at our assigned seats. He looks at me and is about to say something when SJ happens by. He is dressed in a flashy outfit with floral pants, and he is holding the hand of a woman who is not the blonde we saw him with the night before.
She is a much more modestly attractive woman. Pretty, but not show-stopping. I know, without knowing how I know, that she is the “real” girlfriend. The hometown girl he probably loves, and will likely marry.
SJ introduces her to me as his fiancée, Jennifer. An ordinary name, for an ordinary woman. Like me.
I smile at her and I manage to make pleasant small-talk before everyone gets the cue to take their seats. I sit there like a statue next to Rand. I can’t remember what I said to Jennifer, and later, I won’t remember much of the ESPYs either.
~8~
It’s going to take forever to get out of here.
I can’t just up and leave because the place is crawling with ESPN management, and if Randall ‘The Rocket’ Reese skips out early, it will definitely be noticed. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t him.
Across the room, Dani is still with SJ’s fiancée, and even though it looks like she is genuinely enjoying her company, I know she is probably still thinking about Melanie, and what I told her.
Melanie. Man, the things I want to say to her right now.
As luck would have it, I spotted her right after the ceremony, as folks were leaving. And she saw me, too. She gave me a little smirk, just before some guy put his hand at the small of her back and led her to a waiting car. Women like her are a gateway drug to debauchery. She was one of the first women I messed around with outside of my relationship with Faith.
Melanie was crafty with her shit, too. Sly as all get-out.
When I met her, she came across as your prettier-than-average homegirl. She talked football, she drank hard, she partied, but she never gave off any signals. And over time, that would mess with my head. Like why was this chick not falling at my feet like all the others? So, soon, getting into her panties became a mission. I’d crack on her and she’d basically slap me on my shoulder and say she didn’t see me like that.
A blow to the ego that only fueled my need to have her.
Soon, all I could think about was screwing her. And then after a while more, I was telling her so.
That was when she dropped it on me: ‘I don’t have a man, Rocket, because I don’t want a man. I have friends. And my friends look after me. Are you ready for that, little boy?’
Little boy. Yeah, she said that.
And of course, being twenty-three and dumb, I took that as a further challenge.
‘I ain’t nobody’s little boy. I’m a grown-ass man. And if you let me, I’ll show you just how grown I am.’
‘Oh, I’ll let you,’ she said, airily. ‘But just one time. And then you need to go home to Chastity, or whatever her name is.’
Pissed me off.
So, that first time, I gave her the performance of my life between the sheets; and afterwards, she basically told me that yeah, while I might’ve put in some work, she still couldn’t give me the time of day, because her friends had to be with the program.
‘With the program’ meant that when I saw her—if I saw her, because two times out of three she would claim to be busy— she might mention that she needed something. Could be anything. Most of the time, they weren’t even needs, they were ‘wants.’
But what the hell did I care? Five thousand here, a tennis bracelet there … I just wanted to know that I could have her if I had a mind to have her.
Over time, once I realized she was being straight up, and that there were other dudes, I saw myself for the sucker I was—basically, paying for pussy when there were scores of women who were willing to let me have it for free. So, while I didn’t exactly cancel Melanie, I curtailed things, and moved on to other pastures.
But she was like a heroin addict’s first high—the one you were always chasing.
Now? Hadn’t seen nor thought of her in more than two years, and today, here she is, angling to become part of my new life. Messing my shit up.
I don’t know what game Melanie is playing, but I know that in all likelihood, that’s all it is to her—a game. She probably saw me with Dani, saw the way I was looking at her, and not at any other woman, and got curious.
She’s wondering—just like everyone else here that I used to know might be wondering—whether I’m the same guy I used to be, before Faith died. Melanie is probably thinking that I am, and that by making herself known, she can issue an invitation, through the woman I’m with no less, that she is ready, willing, and available to resume our prior arrangement.
If what I remember about Melanie is still true, that is precisely the kind of thing she would do—befriend my woman, just to draw my attention to herself, and welcome some comparisons.
‘I see what you have now, and it’s … nice. Except, why settle for only that, when you can still have me as well?’
But a woman like Melanie can’t know, and would never understand that what I have now, with Dani? I’m good.
When I glance across the room again, she and Jennifer are sitting now. And Dani is smiling. It makes me smile as well. I’m pretty sure this trip to LA is shot all to hell for her. But I hope she can have at least some fun. After tonight, I have two more days of meetings, and Dani has one more night with me. She returns on Sunday, and I go back Tuesday. Maybe I can clear my calendar tomorrow. All I have is a golf game with some players. I can skip that, hopefully fix this, and remind her that my past is my past.
“Rocket.”
I recognize the voice before I turn, and am immediately frustrated.
Can I catch a break today?
“Hey, Rayna, what’s up?” I lean in and give her a cursory kiss on the cheek in greeting.
She is wearing a sapphire-blue gown, and looks even better than when I saw her this afternoon. But, like then, I feel only indifference. This is the woman who featured in all my fantasies for about a year; and now, all she is to me, is an unwelcome interruption.
“I wondered if I could talk to you for a minute,” she says.
“Sure,” I say.
“Could we …?” She indicates the exit door that leads out into an atrium with an all glass ceiling through which we
will be able to look up into the smoggy LA sky.
I glance in Dani’s direction. She and Jennifer are laughing, and a server has just offered them a tray of something. Dani’s eyes widen, and she reaches for whatever it is. I almost smile, because I know what she is thinking, and will likely say to Jennifer. ‘God, these look amazing. But I need you to promise only to let me eat one. Just this one.’
“Yeah,” I say to Rayna. “But what’s …”
“It’s kind of … It should only take a … It shouldn’t take that long,” she says. “But I wanted to talk to you in person.”
We wade our way through the crowd, with Rayna leading the way. I notice for the first time that she doesn’t have much of an ass. It’s not a bad butt. Just … I guess I’m spoiled now.
When Rayna stops walking, it’s because we have reached an alcove near the exit. Once she’s turned to look at me, I see that she is nervous. Her lips are trembling a little. Not like she’s about to cry, but like she is trying to say something, but doesn’t know how to start. The moment she opens her mouth, but before she says a single word, I think I know what she will say.
I don’t know how I know. It’s one of those things, like a memory, or an idea that can only be retrieved when you are asleep, or have been hypnotized. Or when the mind is clear enough to process the pieces, and put them together in a coherent whole. My mind is far from clear, because I am still pissed at Melanie, and thinking about how the consequences of my past are being visited on my present.
Maybe that’s why it came to me—because I was thinking about my past. And about consequences.
“I wanted to talk to you about my daughter,” Rayna says. “About Liliana.”
I am not even a little bit surprised. I know, before she continues speaking, that my nightmare with Melanie is about to be compounded by whatever Rayna has to say.
I watch Rand leave the party with the woman in the blue gown and for a moment, my stomach lurches. Then I pay attention to the stiffness of his posture, and the fact that he is walking about a foot behind her, no hand on her back, nothing to indicate that he knows her. That could be a sign that she is someone he doesn’t want to be seen with; or it could mean he is with someone he would rather not to be with in the first place. For some reason, I am sure it is the latter. I read in Rand’s bearing that he is about to have a conversation he would rather not have.
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