Table for Two

by Nia Forrester

  “What’re you …?”

  “I’m saying that Freya does more than her share, Rand. She basically runs your entire life. She … she basically raises your son.”

  Rand looks at me like I punched him in the gut. He leans back against the kitchen counter, but says nothing.

  “He lives with you. But he’s raised by her.”

  I know as I’m saying the words that they are a little too harsh. But they are not untrue. And I also know that my motives might not be the purest. Watching him walk into the kitchen, and even before that, being in the kitchen alone and making pancakes with Little Rocket, I admitted to myself something I’ve known for a while.

  I’m in love with Rand Reese.

  And I love his son.

  I want to be Rand Reese’s wife one day.

  And, I want to be Little Rocket’s mother. Maybe even, one day … have other kids.

  But between what he found out in LA and this pointless and misguided lashing out at Freya, it’s clear as day to me now.

  Rand just isn’t ready.

  I have a new client today. One I’m curious enough about that I even got to the office early. I cleaned my desk just to keep myself busy, and then realized that it was maybe a little too clean. And now it looks like I am an actress on the set of a low-budget film where they can’t afford the props that would make the office look, and feel like a real office.

  I am standing, and about to pull papers back out of the desk to place them atop the surface when I hear the barely-contained excitement outside, and the voices in the hall. He’s here.

  Moments later there is a knock on the door and I tell the person on the other side to come in. When the door opens, Stephen Jordan is standing there, occupying almost the entire width of the doorway. He is handsome in a white shirt and relaxed, well-worn jeans, and boots. The awe-inspiring size and perfect conditioning of his body are even more obvious to me now, than they were when we first met on that flight.

  “Hey,” he says, grinning at me like he’s seeing a long-lost friend.

  I come from around the desk and extend a hand, and he instead pulls me into a hug.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  He’s looking around my office, like he’s figuring out the lay of the land.

  “Good,” he says, still doing his scan, as if he thinks the place might be bugged.

  I wait until he sits across from me before going back to sit behind my desk. SJ places his hands on the desk, palms down.

  “This is so … formal like,” he complains. “How ‘bout we meet out there? In the world.”

  I smile. “We can. But for a first meeting, I always like to have a little privacy. For the client. So you can tell me what brings you to me.” I pull out a few sheets of paper, one of which is the all too necessary billing information sheet, another which is a one-page questionnaire where the client describes whatever their concerns are, and a third, which is a short personality test, which helps me gauge how the client likes to communicate, and what kind of coaching they might respond best to.

  SJ peruses the pages and then slides them back to me with a frown.

  “Nah,” he says. “We don’t need all this. How ‘bout I just … talk, and you write down what you think you need to write down? And as far as this …” He points to the billing information sheet. “… I’ll just slide you cash after each session.”

  I shrug. “If that’s what makes you comfortable.”

  He nods. “That’s what makes me comfortable.”

  “Tell me why you’re here then,” I say.

  At that, for the first time SJ looks a little uncomfortable. He bites into his lower lip. “This is all confidential, right?”

  “Yes. Of course. I can even sign a non-disclosure agreement if you want. But it’s one of the clear boundaries of this work, that what you say to me remains with me, unless you tell me to do otherwise.”

  SJ nods. “Cool. So here’s the thing,” he says. “I need … You met Jennifer, my fiancée.”

  “Yes?”

  “I love her,” he says. “I mean, I really love her.”

  “It definitely looked that way to me,” I acknowledge.

  “But, I … I’m not always faithful to her,” SJ says baldly. “I mean, like I cheat on her … constantly.”

  I go very still. Because while this isn’t particularly surprising, I am surprised he is explicitly admitting as much.

  “We’re getting married next year, and I do not want anything to jeopardize that. You understand?” He says it with fervor, as though I am the one who is putting his engagement in jeopardy.

  “I understand,” I say. “So, then why do you do it?”

  “It started as a … like a pre-game ritual. When I had sex the night before a game, I played better. Still do. So now I can’t stop.”

  I look at SJ and I try to control myself, but I can’t. I reach for a bottle of water on my desk, and plan to drink it. But I can’t even get the first swallow down before I do the worst thing I have ever done to a client in my life coaching practice. I begin to laugh. Maybe I’m just low on tolerance for BS after the week I’ve had, but I can’t pretend this isn’t as dumb as it sounds.

  SJ leans back in astonishment, watching me find amusement at his expense. And to his credit, he waits through it until finally I am able to compose myself, and dab the corners of my mouth, and then my eyes, which had begun streaming with tears.

  “You done?” SJ asks.

  I nod, but don’t trust myself to speak just yet.

  “Can you help me, or not?”

  “Stephen,” I say slowly. “Do you really love Jennifer? I mean, really?”

  “I just said that,” he responds impatiently.

  I nod again. “Well then if you really love her, maybe you can begin by cutting the shit. If you cheat on her, it has nothing to do with football. Let’s start there.”

  For a second, I think I am about to get cussed out. But then SJ gives me a wry smile and, chewing on his lower lip, shakes his head.

  “A’ight,” he says slowly. “So, let’s start.”

  “There has only been one other occasion when Rocket behaved in this manner,” Mrs. Lewis is telling me. “And it was when he first came here. The very first week, I believe. But this occasion, this time, was far worse.”

  I feel almost shamed by her observation, even though I know it isn’t her intent to imply that it’s my fault. Sitting across from the desk of Little Rocket’s daycare director, I keep my hands in my lap and listen respectfully, hoping that the more respectful I am, the less likely it is that she will expel my son.

  “Do you have any idea what might be behind it?” she asks.

  “I do,” I say. She waits, but I don’t say anything further.

  I’ve been shuttling my son between here and Connecticut. And for the past week, I’ve been traveling for work. I made a big show of telling Little Rocket how many days it would be before I was back, and then I broke that promise to stay another day, to take a paternity test.

  “I believe this behavior isn’t a sign of disobedience, obstinacy or even unruliness, per se,” she tells me. “I think it calls for intervention of a kind that we, unfortunately, are not equipped to provide, so …”

  I lean forward. “Mrs. Lewis, “I say. “I know it had to have been … I mean, I’ve heard how scary it was, but to uproot my son again right now …”

  “Mr. Reese, no one is about to suggest uprooting him. If you were to let me finish, I could tell you what I have in mind.”

  I lean back again.

  “I know of two specialists that I could refer you to. Highly-recommended. One male, one female. You can interview them both and choose the one that suits you best. So, no, Rocket isn’t being expelled, but I would make his seeing one or the other of these specialists a condition of his continued enrollment. Or, of course, someone else entirely of your choosing. But he must see someone, so I can be assured that this behavior is being addressed.”

  My should
ers sag in relief. “I can do that,” I say right away.

  “Good,” Mrs. Lewis says. “Because Rocket is a delightful child. So well-mannered, and such a wonderful member of our little community here. I, personally—and I know his teacher feels the same—would hate to see him go.”

  I am walking back out to my car, still feeling like I dodged a bullet, when my phone rings. Seeing the name, I take a breath and answer. It isn’t the lab, like I hoped. It’s Rayna.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  I am aware that my voice sounds terse, but I don’t care. I still resent the way she dropped the news on me, of her suspicion, and the timing of the news. The idea that she would just happen to run into me, and decide to share something like this, rather than seeking me out leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. And thinking of how it’s made things between me and Dani? That just makes it worse.

  “Just calling to check in,” she said. “And see how things went with the lab. I didn’t hear from you, so …”

  “It went the way it’s supposed to go, I guess,” I say. “They swabbed, and I was done.”

  “Oh. Okay,” she says. “So, in ten days or so …”

  “A week,” I say. “I asked them if they could speed it up and that’s the best they could do.”

  “Rocket,” Rayna says. “I understand why you might be annoyed with me right now …”

  “Annoyed?” I say. I even stop walking as I say it, still a few yards away from my car. “You think annoyance even begins to describe how I feel?”

  “Okay, okay, I get it,” Rayna says, trying to placate me. “But you know me, Rocket …”

  “No,” I say sharply, catching myself before I raise my voice. “I don’t know you. I didn’t know you then, and I know you even less now.”

  “So, that’s how it is?”

  “Yeah, Rayna. That’s how it is. If you thought your kid might be mine, you damn sure should’ve gotten in touch with me. Then. Not now. Not when I’m starting to …” I stop myself before I say too much. What Dani’s run-in with Melanie taught me, if nothing else, was that I need to keep what I have now safe from all the mess I used to be involved in back then.

  “Liliana,” she said.

  “What?” I snap at her.

  “That’s her name. Liliana. Not ‘my kid’. Liliana. And she might be your kid too, so maybe you should get used to using her name.”

  “Okay, yeah. Whatever. We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it. But all you need to know right now is that I took the test, and as soon as I have a result, I’ll call and let you know.”

  “Fine,” she says. Now, she’s the one who sounds terse.

  “But tell me something,” I say to her just as I open my car door.

  “What is it?”

  “Who’s the other dude? If you’re not sure it’s me, there must be some other dude in the running. Who is it?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Just curious.”

  “Mike.”

  I stop, my body partway inside, part still outside my vehicle. I shake my head and give a laugh devoid of humor.

  “Figures,” I say. “Anyway, I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear something, Rayna.”

  She is in the middle of saying something in response, but I hang up anyway, get in my car and pull out of the parking lot and into traffic.

  ‘Mike’ is Mike Allen. Along with DaQuan, he was one of my crew. One of the dudes I ran with, both on and off the field. A grinning, dark-skinned brother from the Bronx who was just short of slimy. Once or twice, I thought he might be trying to step to my wife, but I never could make myself believe it. Because you just didn’t do that kind of thing to your boy, even if you knew he was stepping outside of his marriage. But somehow it made sense that he would have something going on with Rayna. Mike always wanted what I had.

  He was still in the League, but now playing for Kansas City. We hadn’t stayed in touch. I should have asked Rayna if, now that she was asking me to get a test, she had reached out to Mike as well. As much as I didn’t want to be her daughter’s father, I felt bad for her if Mike was. That dude was messier than I had ever been. Three women had kids with Mike by my last count. And he had contested all but one of those claims, forcing the women into court before he would own up to his responsibilities. And I have a feeling that even now, he is probably far from a model co-parent.

  It seems crazy to me now that I would even run with a dirt-bag like that. But some people might say, I was a dirt-bag, too.

  ~12~

  I couldn’t call Freya. Not after we had it out in my kitchen. So, instead, I call Annie, the college girl I occasionally have sit with Little Rocket. She is in some ways, the perfect babysitter, because she seems interested only in what happens between the pages of a book, or on her iPad, while still managing to be attentive to where my son is, and what he’s up to. No worries about Annie having any dudes in my house while I’m gone, thank God.

  After I get Little Rocket in bed and settled, she comes over and installs herself in the guestroom next to his, where I tell her she is welcome to spend the night if I come in late, or don’t return at all. I am hoping for the latter.

  When I pull up at Dani’s building, I notice again how dim the lights are in the parking lot, and how deserted the stairs are. It’s one of those old-fashioned complexes, built back in a time when we didn’t worry as much about things like people having their backs to the stairs or a courtyard while they opened their apartment door. I’m not worried for myself, because it’s only just past eight in the evening, and also, I’m a pretty big guy. But sometimes, Danielle comes home later than this; often from my place, and I don’t like thinking of her coming back to this apartment.

  At her door, I hesitate before ringing the bell, and realize that my hesitation is a symptom of where we are right now—and it’s not a good place. I get all the confirmation of I need of how un-good that place is when Dani answers the door, with an impassive expression. After a moment, she steps aside to let me in.

  Once it’s shut, I lean against it.

  “How’d it go?” she asks. “The meeting with the preschool.”

  “Okay. They’re letting him stay, as long as I make sure he’s seeing a specialist.”

  Dani nods. “That’s good, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That’s good.”

  Then there is silence between us, which is a new thing these days. We are never without something to say to each other. Our six-month relationship is marked by chatter, teasing, laughing … She never allows me to brood, which had become a habit for me in the last two-plus years. If I’m quiet, she sneaks up behind me with a hug, or if I’m sitting, leans over me and kisses the side of my neck.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Rocket?’ she asks, her voice a teasing whisper. ‘Huh?’

  And with that, whatever it might have been on my mind? It just disappears like smoke in a passing breeze.

  Now, she doesn’t ask me what’s on my mind. Doesn’t seem to care, almost.

  “Did you want to ask me about anything else?” I say.

  She takes a breath, then nods. “Yeah.”

  “Ask.”

  “You took the paternity test?”

  “Gave them a sample, yeah.” I nod.

  “And how long …?”

  “A week, ten days.”

  “Did you see her?”

  “Who? Rayna?”

  “No. The baby. Her daughter.”

  “No,” I say.

  We are still standing there, near her front door. I’m starting to wonder whether the moment I’ve answered all her questions, she’s going to ask me to leave.

  “Do you want to? See her?”

  I shrug. “Why would I? Unless she’s mine, Dani.”

  “And if she is …”

  “There’s plenty of time to think about that. If we have to think about it. Right now, I just want to know that we’re good.”

  “I don’t even know what that means,” she
says, sounding tired. “Everything’s just been so crazy.” She looks down at her feet, which are bare.

  She has purple nail polish on her toenails. It’s an ugly shade that made me laugh when, two weeks ago, she came back from getting a pedicure, waddling through my front door in pink, plastic disposable slippers, carrying a Happy Meal for Little Rocket.

  On impulse, before I considered that it might hurt her feelings, I told her the color was something like the shade her toenails would be if someone bashed each one with a hammer, and they bruised underneath. And she stared down at her feet for a moment, then laughed and told me I was right.

  ‘Crap. Thanks a lot! Now I’ll never be able to look at them without thinking that, Rand!’

  She finds amusement in just about everything if given a chance. But she doesn’t look amused now.

  She is still wearing dark blue slacks that I know from experience are from her business-casual-for-work collection. Everything is plain and purposefully staid; almost schoolmarm-ish. She has a theory that what she wears when she is seeing clients should be completely forgettable, neither attractive nor unattractive. But seeing her dressed this way always makes me feel, I don’t know … smug. Because I’m the only person who gets to see what’s underneath. The only person who ever has.

  And as plain as the blue pants are, on her they are far from forgettable. Running has made her already outstanding behind even more so, higher and firmer. When she turns around, I know I will see its shape, like an inverted heart, and want to grab it.

  “I know we need to talk,” I say. “But right now, just …” I extend a hand to her and she takes mine, allowing me to pull her close.

  I kiss her. It’s the first kiss since I returned from LA. It is sweet, smooth and long overdue. There is no resistance or reluctance in her. She is tasting me like I am tasting her, and feels just as hungry for this as I am. She responds to me as though she has never even entertained the thought of refusing.

  But still, she is the first to pull away. And when she does, she’s looking at me with a mix of resignation and defeat, as if to say, ‘yes, you have me. You know you do.’