Returning my attention to Jennifer, I smile, and then look up when SJ joins us, falling easily next to his fiancée and draping an arm across her shoulders.
Jennifer leans into him instinctively, and I can feel that they are a couple who take every opportunity to touch each other. I see something else, too. Something I never used to pick up on. The way they touch, betrays that they have an active, and satisfying sex life.
Before I had a sex life at all, I would have missed it, the significance of the hand on the knee moving just a couple inches higher than might be deemed socially-acceptable, the caress of the back of a neck; or like now, the arm draped across shoulders with a hand that teases the edge of a gown, as though wishing it could slip beneath it, and cup a breast.
I recognize it because Rand touches me in the same way. His hands drift places that seem just a little risqué, and I grow very still, and wait, thinking, ‘He isn’t going to … is he?’
Standing in line once, holding Little Rocket’s hand so he could play in a bounce-house, Rand patted my butt and then let his palm linger for a moment, and then drift lower so that his index finger was almost between my legs. I thought I might burst into flames right there, and when I glanced at him, he was as casual as could be, oblivious to what he was doing, and to the effect he was having.
Because it wasn’t done with the intent to excite me. It is just that he knows no other way to touch me, other than as a lover.
That is the way SJ touches Jennifer now. Except, instead of making me happy for her or think how cute they are, it makes me worry. Because I saw SJ with another woman not too long ago, and the way he didn’t touch her, the way he practically ignored her gave me the same assurance—that she was someone he was sleeping with.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he says to me.
“To me? What about?”
“This life coaching stuff. I was wondering if you and me might, you know, talk some more about how that works.”
I look at him, bemused. “You think you need some life coaching?”
“’Coaching’ is a concept he responds to,” Jennifer says dryly. “But let someone just tell him what to do …”
“Hey, my coach tells me what to do all the time,” SJ protests.
“Yes. In the context of … coaching,” Jennifer says. “I rest my case.”
“I heard you got Corey Jones straightened out. With his non-three-point-shootin’ ass,” SJ says.
“One, he was just a kid facing adult-sized pressure and two, his stats have gotten much better since last season. So …”
“Yeah, so I’m lookin’ for some of that mojo. What’d you do? Hypnotize him?”
I laugh. “No. That’s not how it works.”
“How does it work?” Jennifer asks. “Like, what’s the difference between you and a shrink?”
“Whoa. Ain’t nobody need no shrink.” SJ put his hands up like someone surrendering.
“And if you did, I would not be your girl,” I say. “Life coaching isn’t about addressing psychological issues. It’s more like … helping you identify, set, and accomplish goals. Mostly by clearing out mental clutter.”
SJ narrows his eyes. “Clearing out mental clutter. Now, that sounds like some bu…”
“Stephen!” Jennifer slaps him on his knee.
“No, it’s fine,” I say. “But think of mental clutter as all your … ‘what ifs’. All those things that you say to yourself to prevent you from moving forward to getting the life you want. Like, let’s say you want to quit your job, right? You know you hate it, and you know it’s not a job you want to be in next year. But you tell yourself, ‘But what if …’”
Jennifer is nodding, but SJ still looks a little confused.
“What ifs are most often negative,” I continue. “And they stop you from doing what you know you want. I just help you see the other ‘what ifs’. The positive ones. And then help you figure out steps to getting there.”
“I need that,” SJ says. “When we get back to the East Coast, me and Jen’ll hit you up. That’s if Rocket will come up off your number.”
“I’ll give Jennifer my numbers,” I say, not commenting on Rand one way or another. “And send over all my office details.”
SJ nods, and looks satisfied. He leans back, his arms still draped over Jennifer’s shoulder. She reaches for, and removes it, standing.
“I have to find the ladies’ room,” she says, smiling at us both. “Back in a bit.”
When she’s gone, and I am alone with SJ, he leans forward again.
“I’m serious,” he says, lowering his voice. “I could use your help.”
I shrug. “And I’m serious that I can help you if you want me to.”
“But here’s the thing,” he says. “It’s kind of … I’ma be straight-up. It’s not about football. At least, not completely.”
I keep my expression impassive. “Okay.”
“It’s …” He gives a quick and furtive glance in the direction Jennifer had gone. “I know that’s what Jen thinks, but … yeah, it’s more, I don’t know, personal as well.”
I am confused, and about to ask him more when suddenly, Rand is standing over us. His hand is extended towards me and he doesn’t acknowledge SJ at all. I look up at him, and he looks angry about something. No, not angry … upset.
“C’mon,” he says to me. “We gotta go.”
I hesitate, but his hand remains outstretched. I reach out, and take it.
I stand and look back at SJ, who is surveying me and Rand with curious, almost amused eyes.
“Tell Jennifer it was nice to meet her,” I say.
“Okay, but … what about the … you were going to give her your details?”
“New Chapter Coaching, LLC,” I say, just as I feel Rand beginning to tug at my hand. “Tell her to look me up.” Then I tell him the name of our town—mine and Rand’s—and allow Rand to pull me away.
He doesn’t speak at all as he maneuvers through the party, pulling me toward the exit. I see a few heads turn, at the single-minded and almost aggressive way he moves.
Once we’re outside, Rand still doesn’t speak. Instead he looks around, back and forth, up and down the street, on which limos, tricked-out Humvees, and other luxury cars were lined, with drivers leaning against the doors.
He is looking for our driver, but it is almost impossible to find him, or the car we arrived in. So instead, Rand begins to walk, practically pulling me along. I have to trot to keep up. He seems to have chosen the direction indiscriminately.
Soon, we are on another street, where there are fewer luxury cars and drivers, and just the usual signs of a busy city. Rand keeps walking, and I keep trotting. I am wearing heels, so it’s becoming difficult.
“Rand,” I say, finally. “My shoes.”
He stops at that, and looks at me, then glances down at my feet in the high sandals. His shoulders heave.
“Shit,” he says, shaking his head. He seems almost dazed. “Sorry. I …”
“What’s going on?” I ask, quietly.
Nearby, there is a food truck, called Dos Tacos. It has a blue awning and pictured on it in yellow is a happy face sombrero holding two tacos. Outside the food truck, there is a temporary sitting area, with folding lawn chairs, and tables.
“You hungry?” Rand asks.
My eyes narrow, because it seems like an odd question under the circumstances. He’s just pulled me out of a party, and into the almost-darkness, practically dragging me down the street from a fancy event, to … eat at a food truck?
“Rand …”
“I’m hungry,” he says. “Let’s get something.”
I shake my head, but don’t protest when he releases my hand and goes over to the truck, looking up at the menu, as he decides what to order.
He settles on two soft tacos with carnitas, cheese and salsa verde, and then looks at me. Shrugging, I tell him I want the same, though I doubt I will eat them. Because somewhere in the pit of my stomach, the dre
ad is growing, and soon, will occupy it entirely.
When we get our orders, in a paper bag, wrapped in tin foil and wax paper, Rand takes my hand again and leads me to one of the ramshackle tables. He indicates that I should sit. I do, while he goes back to get us two bottles of water.
Once he is sitting across from me, and I have a chance to study his face, I see that he looks almost drawn, and exhausted.
“Rand,” I say, for the third time. “What …?”
He exhales and looks over my shoulder, and for a few seconds, fidgets with the tacos, pulling them out of the bag.
“There’s … there’s something I need to tell you,” he says finally.
Being honest in a relationship wasn’t ever something I did. Even in Faith’s and my “open marriage” there were secrets, and lies. Sometimes it was to spare her feelings, and other times it was because lying seemed more honorable than the truth. I mean, no matter what we agreed, it just never felt cool to come out and tell her I spent the night with another woman. It always felt better to pretend I was out with my boys, and too drunk afterwards to drive home.
And as for the women outside of my marriage? I even lied to them. Because you never knew who might be catching feelings, and it just seemed easier to make sure they were firewalled from each other, to prevent all the messy drama.
But I’m sitting here, across from Dani, looking into her wide and worried eyes, and lying to her just isn’t an option. I’m not a saint, so I can’t pretend it hasn’t occurred to me, especially since what I’m about to say has a pretty good chance of making her want to bounce. After all, we haven’t been together that long. She could decide she’s better off walking away.
I swallow hard.
“What is it?” she asks. And she reaches for my hand, putting one of hers over one of mine, stilling it from the business of unwrapping a taco.
She looks like she’s prepared to comfort me. Like I might have heard some bad news, and will need her support.
“Tell me,” she says, when I hesitate.
I tell her about me and Rayna, and the kind of relationship we had. The episodic hookups when I was in town, the silence in between the hookups, and my perception of Rayna as one of the few women who truly understood, and respected the game.
“What game?” Dani asks, her eyes narrowing.
I almost smile, because she is legitimately confused.
“You know … the … game.”
Then it dawns in her eyes that I don’t mean football.
“I ran into her,” I say. “Rayna. Yesterday, and then again tonight.”
“In the blue dress,” Dani says.
“Yeah.”
“And what …?”
“She has a kid,” I say. “A daughter, and …”
I watch as Dani closes her eyes. She pulls her hand from mine. “Don’t say it. Don’t …”
“No,” I say quickly. This time I am the one reaching for her. “I mean, it’s not for certain. We don’t know. She just thinks that …”
When Dani opens her eyes, they are pained. I can’t continue, because her face seems to crumple in on itself, and I think for a second that she might cry. But she doesn’t.
Instead, she pulls it together. I can almost see the wheels turning in her mind as she decides not to cry. She blinks, and purses her lips. She shakes her head, and looks up at the sky in resigned disbelief.
Finally, she looks at me again, and her eyes are filled.
“And do you? Do you think it could be your daughter?” she asks. Her voice is hoarse.
“Dani …” I begin.
But then I stop there, because though I wish to God I could, I can’t say ‘no’.
~9~
I couldn’t get home quickly enough.
I lied to Rand about my flight back, and changed it to an earlier one the moment he left me alone. And that took some doing because it was clear he didn’t want to leave me alone.
After he told me about Rayna, we sat there at that sad little table near the food truck and picked over our tacos. He tried to talk to me, asking whether I had questions, but I couldn’t think of a thing. Other than just how soon I might get out of Los Angeles and back home.
And then the strangest thing happened. It was like I disassociated from the whole thing. I thought about the clients I had rescheduled so I could be with him for this trip, and began, in my mind shuffling times on my calendar, when I might meet with them, and hoping I could make up the lost income.
Back at the hotel, we both changed out of our party clothes and Rand sat on the edge of the bed, occasionally shooting glances my way, looking like he wanted to say something, but not knowing how. I started packing, and tried to make it seem normal, like I just wanted to keep my stuff organized, and wasn’t dying to get out of there.
When he went into the bathroom, I pulled out my phone and changed my flight, managing to get on a seven a.m. Sunday morning for a one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar change fee, plus the difference in cost between the tickets. I would be flying back coach, rather than business-class, which seemed like the perfect metaphor for the entire trip. I had come to LA in high-style, feeling good about me and Rand, and was leaving with a feeling of having been demoted, and defeated.
When we were both in bed and I didn’t turn toward him immediately, he reached out and put his hand on my hip. I knew what he had in mind, but I pretended not to. When we have sex, I often cry, overwhelmed by intense feelings of all kinds. And afterward, I am wide open, emotional, and all over him.
Instead I gave a deep sigh, like someone who was partly asleep, and he pulled me back against him spoon-fashion, holding me tight. I know he thought I might roll away from him as soon as I had a chance.
Now that I am back, Rand has called a few times, and I haven’t picked up. I will. Just not now. I have to think a little.
I’d been in what used to be his world for all of two days and in that very short time, two women from his past surfaced. One who might be the mother of a second child he claims not to have known about.
Okay, not ‘claims’ not to have known about. He hadn’t known. But the fact that I am thinking that way—doubting him like this—is a symptom of where my head is right now.
Now, Tuesday morning—the morning of the day Rand is supposed to come home—I am staring up at the ceiling above my bed, willing myself get up. I have two clients today, and before that, I want to go for a run. Eric will be at the track, and he is sure to lift my spirits, so I sit up.
I can’t get out of my mind the memory of that woman, Melanie, and how sincerely friendly she seemed; how interested in being my friend. And then there’s Rand’s description of his relationship with Rayna. It sounded like the plotline of some ratchet reality TV series. All that creeping around and lying and cheating … even while his wife was pregnant.
I’m not that naïve. I know people do things like that. I know men—and women—cheat, and that they take pains to conceal it. And I know from some of what he’d already told me that Rand was far from perfect in his marriage, but this is so much worse than I imagined.
It feels like I don’t know him at all. It feels like he is someone I would not want to know.
“What’s wrong?” Eric asks, as soon as he sees me.
“Nothing,” I say as I lower my gym-bag to the ground. But I sound defensive, and I know that Eric has picked up on it immediately.
Over the past few months, he’s become a good friend. Almost like a big brother, except for his occasional flirtatiousness. Rand grudgingly tolerates our friendship, but once in a while asks me whether “ol’ boy be stayin’ in his lane.”
Eric and I got really tight when I was training for my first significant event, a half-marathon in Brooklyn. It was the most challenging goal I had ever set for myself, other than losing the weight that took me from a size 16 to a size eight. And Eric was right there alongside me, running a much worse time than he normally would have, because he wanted to coach me through it.
Since the
n, he’s been my accountability partner, making sure I never get complacent about my fitness routine. Whether rain or shine, we meet at the track of the high school that is Rand’s and my alma mater, and run at least three miles, a minimum of three days a week.
“How was LA?” Eric asks. He is doing his warm-ups, stretching, and pretending not to be studying me.
Though we never talk about it, I sometimes sense that he thinks Rand is too … something for me. What the something is, I don’t know. But there is always a semi-protective undercurrent to his voice when he mentions him, which is pretty seldom.
“It was interesting,” I say, trying to keep my tone casual. “About what you would expect. Lots of … bling at the awards.”
“I wouldn’t mind checking out the ESPYs,” he responds. “Probably boring as hell for you, but I could think of a few athletes I wouldn’t mind seeing. Serena Williams …”
Eric gives a low whistle, and I roll my eyes.
“She’s too much woman for you,” I tease.
“No such thing as too much woman for me,” he returns, then he takes off on his first lap round the track.
After my warm-up, I join in, and even sprint for about a hundred yards, so I can catch up to him. When we are keeping pace each other, I think about how Rand went running with me at in early hours of my first morning in California. Having him next to me, even with the ear buds in, I heard his breaths keeping time with mine. It was almost like when we make love—complete synchronicity.
To get him out of my head, on my last lap, the one where you’re supposed to leave it all on the track, I run harder, expend more energy that I normally might. I pump my arms furiously, and run as if someone is pursuing me, and being caught might be a matter of life and death.
Table for Two Page 9
