My Husband's Girlfriend (17 page)

I wait until thirty minutes pass. That’s long enough. I sit up. The lights are on in Dani’s place. Maybe they prefer screwing where it’s bright enough that they can see each other’s grimaces or something. I take a deep breath, steadying my chest with my hand. I get on my knees and crawl over the backseat of the car, then move over to the driver’s seat. I sit behind the wheel for a sec. Thank God Neil forgot to lock the door. If he didn’t and I tried to escape from the inside, the car alarm would go off.

I cautiously open the door and check my surroundings. A few people are lingering by vehicles near the front of apartments. Praying they don’t see me, I step on the asphalt, which feels hard and gritty underneath my feet. I wobble toward Dani’s apartment, raise my hand to ring the doorbell, but instead press my ear against her front door. I don’t hear anything. I wrap my arms around my body and rub. My hands grope the fabric of my outfit. I forgot I was wearing my housecoat, a housecoat that has two pockets—one that has my cell phone in it. My knees vibrate like gelatin; I want to collapse to the ground. I quickly move away from Dani’s place toward a main street. I dial my house. I have to call back three times before Vette answers.

“Vette, do me a huge favor.”

“A–Anya? W–where are you?”

“Go to my room. My purse should be on the floor next to my bed. I need you to find my car keys and come pick me up.”

I’m walking down a busy yet recognizable street. Housecoat, gown, bare feet, staring at my destination. A Citgo gas station that has adequate lighting, a public restroom, and a street address that is readable.

I walk with my head up, pretending no one is staring.

My jaw firm, I give Vette directions on how to get to where I am.

“Sister-in-law, you aren’t making any sense whatso—”

“Shut the fug up and come get me, okay? Can you just do that for me, please? Just do something for me, for
me,
no arguing, no smarty mouth, just come get me.”

16

Dani

Saturday afternoon. I’m in the kitchen tossing bags of coffee, miniature
jars of fruit, and packages of nuts inside several plastic bins that I use to store items for the gift baskets. I hear Neil open and slam my door. I know it’s Neil. We decided he should have a key in case of an emergency. He’s only used it one time—last night, actually—when he unexpectedly stopped by to check on Brax, who had a fever yesterday afternoon.

I stop what I’m doing, ready to wave at Neil and resume working. I’m sure he’s here just to make sure Brax is feeling better and all that, but he keeps repeating, “The hell with this.” I wonder if he’s referring to me. That would be a bit odd, though, wouldn’t it?

Neil is walking toward the sink, cracking his knuckles, walking back across the kitchen floor, mumbling. I just gape at him like he’s a man standing on the edge of a tall building. He stops walking. We exchange wide-eyed looks.

“She changed the locks,” he exclaims. “Did you know that?”

“Huh?”

“I can open the garage door with the automatic opener,” he continues, “but the door that lets you into the house, my key won’t fit that. Front-door key don’t work, either. All my stuff is…My money pays for that damn house. I hope she—”

He swears loudly and starts pacing again.

“It’s my fault, Neil.”

“What’d you do, Dani?”

“I mean, overall. Isn’t this what this is about? Maybe Anya is sick and tired…maybe her line has been crossed. Obviously.”

I don’t feel like working anymore. I take a seat at the kitchen table. Neil sits down next to me.

“Uh, baby, have you tried calling her?”

“No response.”

“When’s the last time you two talked?”

“This morning. I was about to go to Home Depot. Last thing she said was ‘See you later.’”

“Hmmm. Well, Neil, you can hang out here for a while. Till you figure out what happened.” I pause. “Has she been acting standoffish? Noncommunicative?”

“Nope.”

“She’s been avoiding you around the house?”

“No!”

“Don’t yell at me, man. I’m trying to help…”

“Shhh.” He stands back up. Stares intently at the floor like that holds the answer to his questions.

“Neil, you want me to call her?”

“No, Dani, no, can’t you hear well?”

“Well, you know, I guess I can’t. And since I can’t hear well, I don’t care anymore. Do what the fuck you want. Leave me out of it.”

I’m not used to Neil snapping at me, so I zip off to my bedroom, crawl underneath the covers. My body is stiff like fear has taken root. I yank at strands of hair. Some of it gets entwined in my fingers. I love my hair, my glory. My mother said to never cut it. Others say women with short hair are more intelligent than women with long hair. I figure that whoever believes that is stupid and I’ve kept my hair long.

Sometimes I wish Mrs. Wifey would just fade away. No, that’s awful to think, isn’t it? But sometimes awful is true, ugly reality. And it’s a true and ugly reality that if I wish for her to vanish, then Anya may wish the same thing about me. But fate has entwined us and deposited us in similar positions.

Like yesterday at work. The head of our department, Mr. Duntworth, called me into his office. The last thing I want to do is get called into the Big Man’s space, unless it’s to hear that he’s going to pay me more money. But when I went in there and he had this unfriendly look on his face, I started wringing my hands until he asked me to have a seat.

I sat. He asked if I wanted coffee and cream. I said no, I don’t do coffee.

He said you might want to get some this time, Danielle.

I gripped the edge of my seat. But I thought how odd that might look to Mr. Duntworth, so I released my hands and started making small talk about the Super Bowl, the crummy weather. He never responded to anything I said, just sat and stared at me till I grew so uncomfortable I clamped my mouth. And the silence between us was some of the most unbearable I’ve ever endured.

And the person who broke the silence was the one I didn’t want to see.

Neil walked in and stopped when he saw me. He avoided my questioning eyes. And he stood motionless until Mr. Duntworth asked him to sit down.

My throat felt dry, my hands were clammy, but I forced myself to chill out.

“I’ve called you two into the office,” our boss said, “because I need to ask you something. This is very difficult to ask but, uh, last year, Ms. Frazier, you became pregnant.”

Oh God, Oh Jesus, Oh Mary, no,
what does he
want?
I dared not look to Neil for help. The man is only strong when he can control the situation.

“And you never revealed who the father was, which is fine—that’s not really our concern.”

“Then why are—”

“Let me finish, Danielle. I think even though what you do outside this office isn’t our business, if things somehow affect the office climate and atmosphere, then it becomes another matter. Now”—he coughed and cleared his throat—“Neil, are you, uh, married or divorced or…”

“I–I’m married, sir.”

Mr. Duntworth grimaced and shook his head.

“But last year when I asked you something about this, you said you were separated.”

“I didn’t say that. I said I may be headed for separation, but it didn’t happen.”

“That’s not how I remember it.”

“Well, Mr. Duntworth, I’m sorry if you don’t remember.” Neil’s voice had a defensive edge to it, but he looked calm.

“I think it’s very awkward for us when you have a high-profile position in this department, and when you are married to another woman and are openly having babies with someone else.”

“Mr. Dunt—”

“And because of this awkwardness, I’ve decided that it’s best for Danielle to leave.”

“Please, please…” I stood up and begged. I hoped he was bluffing. I hoped he would write us up, dock us a day or two of pay, but no, I could not lose my job.

“I don’t see why I have to leave,” I told Duntworth. “I have very good performance evaluations.”

“Yes, you do, Ms. Frazier, and maybe your good performances could help you to get a job somewhere else.”

“Are you saying you’ll put me down for a transfer to a similar position within the company? Same pay, same everything?”

“I’m saying you have thirty days to find yourself another job.”

“Are you kidding? Neil, he can’t do this, can he?”

Neil let out a peculiar noise that gave me my answer.

I left the building immediately. I didn’t care if they claimed I walked off the job. I needed some mental relief. And I wept all the way home. I babbled like an idiot in front of Audrey and pushed her away when she begged me to tell her what was wrong. I ordered her to leave and I went to get Brax. He smiled at me, gurgling, and drooling long strings of spit from his mouth. I held my baby so tight I could’ve killed him. But at that moment, I felt like Braxton was the only sure thing I had in the world. And he had no idea how comforting yet scary it felt for me to think that.

But right now I feel somewhat better. Mr. Duntworth called me at home last night and we talked. I told him my kid needs medical benefits, that Brax gets sick from time to time, and carting him to the doctor and forking over the co-pay, plus buying whatever’s necessary to help him regain his strength, well, that ain’t no joke. I asked him to please have some compassion. Do something that would consider the child. And old Duntworth had a change of heart. He said he’d let me look for another job, take as much time as I want, but he promised not to let me go after thirty days. He said people were starting to talk, and if I could hang in there through the rumors and judgmental looks, then fine.

People can stare at me and whisper behind my back all they want; if they’re not gonna pay my bills, they can eat me. The folks on the job are doing God knows what, and have the nerve to spread my business like they have no drama of their own. Pushing petty people to the back of my mind, I started thinking about the note for my late-model Tacoma, the ridiculously high rent I pay just to live near the Med Center. I considered how much it costs to fill up the tank, pay the cable bill, car insurance, and fork over meager dollars so I can try to have everything that matters to me. And for the first time I felt a twinge of regret for giving birth to Braxton. I hated myself for thinking that way, but it’s no secret my life wouldn’t be like this if I didn’t have a child. Then I cursed myself bitterly and repented for ever having such a thought. No matter what kind of messes I get myself into, Brax is gonna be attached to me for the rest of my freaking life.

So piss on me big-time, but that’s the choice I’ve made. And somehow, some way, even with Mrs. Wifey acting out, my choices cannot result in the ruin of Danielle Frazier.

It’s Saturday evening now. I stayed holed up in my bedroom battling all kinds of unsettling thoughts until I fell asleep. When I wake up, Neil is lying next to me, which is shocking. I never thought he’d want to sleep next to me.

And here we are…in my bed, mostly clothed, and together. But don’t get me wrong. I am not tripping off this. I know Anya can make one phone call and it will send Neil spiraling home so fast, you’d think my apartment was about to blow up in five different directions. Hmmm. This sucks. It does. But I’m gonna handle it.

Neil’s stretched out snugly against my neck. His whiskers are prickling my chin. His warm presence and musky scent make me want to hold him there, in that position, for the rest of my days. I am too afraid to say anything. I just want him to know that I am here for him as long as he needs me, wants me. I am tempted to press my lips against his hair, his skin, but I don’t want to push it. I’m just ecstatic he’s by my side. I’m glad he didn’t leave while I was asleep, leaving me behind with a harsh note that said, “See ya. I can’t do this anymore.” Hey, it’s not like that’s never happened before. Not like another man hasn’t made a conscious decision that was beneficial for him, awful for me. And most times, after I get the note on the pillow, the note that comes after you experience lots of sweet lovemaking that you imagine will repeat itself, well, you find out
that
particular love was just a temporary thing. The guy was just passing through, like a man who goes to a gas station. He’s only there for a few minutes, fills his tank, and heads off on his way.

Neil has gotten filled up by me many times, but he’s always come back. Thank God he hasn’t handed me one of those corny, awkward lines, like “It was good while it lasted, but every good thing must come to an end.” You know how it can be. Men get scared, confused, feel closed in, not sure of themselves, or of who they are and what they want. They leave dozens of women hanging in the balance, women who yearn to release the tension of not knowing, women who want to know for certain that what they have is solid and true. But when you’re with someone like Neil, knowing is never a given. That’s apparent going in. But it doesn’t stop you from wishing, hoping, praying like you’ve never prayed before, that maybe this time the odds will be on your side, and for at least once in your life, you’ll get the guy. Why is it always so damned hard to just get the freaking guy?

I know Neil’s not asleep. His eyes are open. He’s staring past my face, submerged in thought. When a man gets quiet for a long time, I feel like an elephant coming face-to-face with a mouse. My bones quiver, and I wonder if he is preparing to tell me something that’s difficult for him to say, words I don’t want to hear.

I squeeze Neil a little tighter, stroke his head with my fingertips. His hair feels greasy yet comforting.

“You still with me?” I ask.

“You still see me?”

“Just because your body’s here doesn’t mean your heart is.”

“You right about that.”

“Yeah, but am I right about you, Neil?”

“Now don’t trip.”

“If you say so,” I murmur.

Neil yawns and lifts his head off my neck. “What’s for dinner?”

“Uh, I dunno. What you want?”

“What can you scrape up real fast?”

I tug at my hair and twirl it into a circle. “I–I probably need to go shopping, or we can order in.”

“I’m sick of ordering in,” he hisses.

Ouch, that hurt. The last few times Neil has been here for a couple hours in the evening, I’ve dialed up Domino’s. And when he got tired of that, I hit speed dial and got Pizza Hut, and another time Chinese food.

“If you go on a job hiatus,” he says, “maybe you can take time to learn how to cook.”

“Neil, please, don’t go there, okay? I cannot stand when you say things like that. You either like me for me or—”

“It’s not about me liking you because you can cook. It’s about you knowing how to do things for yourself. What’s Brax gonna eat after he’s off milk and baby food, huh? Pretzels and Kool-Aid?”

He’s out of my bed now, raising his arms toward the ceiling and stretching. He doesn’t have on a shirt, just some brand-new briefs that he’s packing with the sexiest kind of muscles. His dick is poking against his drawers. Either he’s horny or he has to pee really bad.

“Okay, Neil. Whatever you say.”

“Don’t pacify me.”

“I can’t pacify you when you’re telling the truth. I–I’ll get right on it, okay? I’ll TiVo the Food Network or something. Buy a dozen cookbooks. Sport a new apron. Whatever it takes.”