Authors: Shannon Dianne
“Yes. Whiny and bratty. Not to mention last time, when she called my mom on me. Go get the milk before I have to punch her in the face.”
Ten minutes later I was at Cadence’s place. Jasmine was already there waiting outside the door.
“You’re late,” she said. I almost laughed. She’s always hated my concept of time. “You know I don’t like it when you’re late.”
“Won’t happen again,” I said as I unlocked the door.
Once inside, we didn’t talk. We both knew why she came to my office earlier that day. She thought she’d be able to stay away from me and she couldn’t. To say that I was surprised she came to me
first
is an understatement. But I wasn’t mad.
That night began what I guess can be classified as an affair. We began texting throughout the week. No calls. Just texts. As I think back on it now, why I left a paper trail is beyond me. I’m a lawyer; I know better.
Anyway, later that week Jasmine met me at Cadence’s place again. And once again, she was waiting by the door before I got there.
“Jacob, can you, like, please be on time? This is rude.”
“Sorry, baby. Won’t happen again.”
“Yeah, you said that last time.”
And for the next three hours we drank wine…chilled…fucked. It was nice, but…I don’t know. It didn’t necessarily feel like I
thought
it would. I was sure it was because I was living with the stress of a newborn. I was
sure
that’s what it was.
And then tonight…
“With or without earrings?” Winnie asked as she held up a pair of diamond studs to her ears and turned to look at me.
“Does it matter, baby? You can’t see your earrings with your hair.”
“Yeah, but,” she put the studs on the bathroom counter. “Sometimes when I dance on the bar tables, I put my hands in my hair like this,” she slid her hands through her hair, lifting it up above her ears, “and then I close my eyes and go like this.” She gave me a slow wind with her ass while making an
Mmm
sound.
“Oh, then you need to put on earrings.”
“Okay.” She dropped her hands from her hair and went for the studs.
We were having a nice night. What could go wrong?
Two weeks into my affair with Jasmine, she and I were good. We met once a week, so we’d officially had two nights worth of fucking. But strangely, I was beyond ready to return home to Winnie after I put Jasmine in a cab and sent her home. Or maybe I was just ready to get back home to Jaden.
Anyway, things between Jasmine and I were good. She texted throughout the third week, just to see what I was up to. I’d respond back after about an hour because like I said, I was taking care of a newborn, which meant I slept when he slept. I’d get the occasional,
You’re being rude. Why aren’t you returning my texts?
But I’d always respond with,
Sorry baby, won’t happen again
. Sometimes I’d give her a wink face. She gave me a smiley face back. Things were going fine.
And then Jasmine saw my new tattoo.
“What’s this about?” she asked during the third week of our affair. I had taken my shirt off to hop in the shower before I poured a glass of wine and eventually hopped into bed…or on the floor…the couch…wherever.
“Oh, I got it last weekend,” I told her as I looked down at my arm. I officially have half-sleeves now; tattoos covering my shoulder blade to right above my elbow. The skeleton couple was the tattoo that completed the half-sleeve on my left arm.
“Yeah, but why did you get it?” She blinked a few times. She used to do that all the time. It meant she was mad. But I was confused.
“Well, Winnie and I went ahead and-”
“Oh, so Winnie has one too?”
“Well…yeah, she-”
“This is
bullshit
, Jacob!” Now I was really confused. Winnie is my
wife
. She’s the woman that, when I die, I’ll be buried next to. She and I will eventually be these skeleton people one day. Side by side, bob and all. Everyone knows that, including Jasmine.
“What’s the problem, baby?” I asked her.
“Nothing.” And before I had a chance to figure out what I had done wrong, she walked through Cadence’s living room and out of the condo. Gone. Damn, this felt familiar. Jasmine storming out on me, me not having a clue as to why but knowing that it was, somehow, all my fault.
What did I miss here?
So, after that botched third date, she didn’t contact me. In my defense, I texted her right afterwards and asked where I went wrong. No response. The next morning, I texted her again:
Jasmine, what am I missing here?
No response. I’m a lawyer; I know that one unanswered text is fine. Two unanswered texts are acceptable. Three unanswered texts are a misdemeanor. I didn’t text her again.
But this is the strange thing: I was
fine
about it. I was still walking around my condo with a pep in my step. Winnie, the kids and I still watched the
Frozen
DVD several times back to back, until we were all singing the songs together when the downbeat dropped. Jaden, our one-month-old, would lie in my arms and be mad as hell about it. I’d pat his butt, walk around the condo with him and pour Winnie and me a glass of wine. (Three ounces for her since she was breastfeeding.) We’d put the kids to bed, hop in the shower together and do our best to follow her doctor’s orders of no sex for one more month.
But even still, with no ass from Winnie whatsoever for two entire months, I was happy to be home with her. Was it because within three weeks’ time Jasmine had given me my fix and I’d be good for another month or two? Is that why I was still happy? Was it that I didn’t need Jasmine every day, or even every week, like I thought I did? Maybe I just needed her here and there. The sporadic fuck. Is that why I felt totally at peace? And wait—Jasmine was mad at me. Shouldn’t I have been bothered by that?
I was confused as hell. But still. I was happy.
Then this morning came.
After a week of no Jasmine, she texted me. She wanted to meet tonight, but I already had plans. I couldn’t shoot down my boys so I texted her back and said I couldn’t make it. Why did I do that? Obviously, Jasmine doesn’t pay attention to the text and misdemeanor rule; she blew my cell up:
What do you mean you can’t meet me?
Why not?
Are you going to be with Winnie?
I heard Danielle mention to Rena that Winnie’s going out tonight.
So what’s the problem?
Why did you get that tattoo?
Did she force you to?
Have you gotten a vasectomy yet?
Actually, are you even planning on getting one?
You don’t want another baby with her, do you?
Why can’t you meet me out tonight?
Why aren’t you answering?
It was hell, because every time I went to send a message, another one from her popped up. She sent me message after message after message. Sometimes I could respond:
Jazz, I can’t meet tonight.
Jazz, I already have plans. Can’t break them.
Winnie’s around and my phone keeps going off.
She’s giving me the eye, Jazz. Just cool it with the messages for a second.
Jazz, give me time to answer a fucking question!
Alright, Jazz, I gotta turn my phone off.
Too many messages.
My wife is here.
Sometimes my cellphone circuits were too busy to send a message to her at all. This was familiar. How could I forget that Jasmine used to page me nonstop when she was in high school? She used to call and leave back-to-back messages, once cell phones hit the scene.
Where are you? Why didn’t you answer? Are you with someone? You’re such a liar!
And then, when texting became the new thing, she’d text me nonstop every night…all night.
Did you go out tonight? Why aren’t you answering? Are you having sex with someone? We are so over! And don’t pretend you were sleeping in the morning! JACOB! ANSWER ME!
Goddamn, I totally forgot she used to do that shit.
But tonight, finally, after all the texting, Jasmine called me. I saw her number and hurried onto the balcony outside of the kitchen.
“Jasmine, you can’t text me back-to-back like that. If Winnie was-”
“Can we meet at eleven? To, um, make up?” she whispered. I ran a hand over my face. It was freezing outside and Winnie was calling my name to help her find her missing stiletto. “Listen, I’m just still trying to get used to this whole thing. I feel really, I don’t know, possessive of you and I know I shouldn’t. But…can we meet at eleven?”
Once again, I told her I couldn’t. She whispered something I couldn’t hear just before I heard a knock on the door on her end. She hung up without saying goodbye.
I stepped back into my condo as Winnie was walking into the bathroom to get ready for tonight, having found her stiletto on our daughter’s nightstand. I shook off Jasmine and poured Winnie and me a glass of wine. I cut my cell off and tossed it on my bed, before standing in the bathroom door to watch Winnie as she got ready.
After that call, to say that I was on edge was an understatement. Jazz was acting like she did back in our high school and college days. That only meant one thing: this shit was about to get worse. I remembered one weekend when she couldn’t get in contact with me—I was at Yale and she was at Boston College. She hopped on a train to Connecticut, caught a cab to the apartment I shared with Malcolm and pounded our damn door down yelling,
Open the door Jacob! I know you’re in there with someone! He has a girlfriend, thank you very much!
Mac and I were in there with a couple of senior girls from Brooklyn, Bed-Stuy, where Biggie, Li’l Kim, and Junior Mafia hail from.
Open the door, Jacob before I knock it off the hinges!
The Brooklyn girls had to hide in Mac’s room until I locked Jasmine in mine. So yeah, when I ended that call with Jazz tonight, I was nervous. But I kept it together as I talked to Winnie about whether or not she should wear earrings to the bar tonight.
“Okay, so earrings it is,” Winnie said as she put her left diamond stud in her ear. “
These diamonds! These diamonds! These rocks! My rocks! I WOKE UP LIKE THIS!
” She started singing Beyoncé’s
Flawless
at the top of her damn lungs.
“Winnie, keep it down,” I said as I casually turned my head, looked at my bed and eyed my cell, scared to death that Jasmine would somehow, some way, get a call or text through to me even with the power off. Something wasn’t right. I could feel it. But I had to act cool. “You know Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds complained about the volume of that mixtape you were playing last week when you—”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three knocks at my front door.
Oh. Shit.
JON
“What’s the face for?” I say as I take a seat at the table and look at Marlon.
“Nothing,” Marlon says before taking a long swig of his Crown and Coke.
About twenty minutes ago, as soon as I pulled up to Pirahna’s, walked inside and sat down at the table with Marlon and Matt, my phone rang. So I’ve been outside on the phone with my eighteen-year-old brother, Seth. The kid has a full ride to Georgetown come September, his girlfriend has a partial scholarship to Howard and she ends up pregnant. How do they plan to make this work with a full-time school load and a move from LA to DC? Who’s going to pay for daycare so that they can go to class? Or a babysitter when they need to study all night? And why is it that people believe in fucking before marriage but don’t believe in abortion? There’s no way in hell anyone in his or her family can help support this baby…except me.
Yeah, I need a drink.
“Damn, I stepped outside for two minutes,” I say with a nod to the five empty Scotch glasses already on the table, ice cubes halfway melted. I look at Marlon and see that his eyes are halfway shut, focused straight at the bar. I steal a look at Matt; he looks at me and shakes his head. “What did I miss?”