Champagne Life (29 page)

DeShaun rolled his eyes. “Man, what are you going on about now? 'We're just friends.”

“That may be so,” M.J. said. “But I ain't stupid. I've seen the way you look at her.”

“Nothing happened, so you might as well stop right there.”

“Yeah, okay and I'm Bobo the Clown.”

“You said it, not me.”

“Man, shut up!” M.J. smacked him on his shoulder. “Seriously, though, her old man is an arms dealer. Did you forget that part?”

“Nothing is going on.”

“And on the honest tip, Jenn looks good. I'll give you that,” M.J. admitted. “But there's one big difference between her and Mimi.”

“And what's that?”

“I have never seen you look at Jenn the way you looked at your wife.”

DeShaun sighed. “I ain't got time for that.”

“And before you go and get all ig'nant,” M.J. said, “you asked for my opinion, remember?”

“Who did? I have never asked for your opinion in the past and you can best believe, I won't in the future, either.”

M.J. punched him on the arm. “You know you were dying for my expert knowledge. That's what we do. We offer opinions, whether or not they're wanted.”

“Man, get outta here.”

M.J. reached around and unstrapped the strings to his stained apron. “I'm done. You comin'?”

DeShaun ran cool water over the remaining glasses in the sink. “Nah, I'm gonna hang around for a few.”

M.J. raised a skeptical brow. “You sure about this, man?”

“You got one more time to get in my business,” DeShaun said with a hint of a grin. “After that, it's you and me.”

“If you're good, I'm good. Take it easy.”

DeShaun sealed the box with tape and brought the glasses out to his car. Balancing the box with one hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys.
Damn, which key was it?
The box wobbled back and forth as he fumbled around with the key in the lock.

“Let me get that for you.” Jenn grabbed the box from DeShaun's hands. “You weren't leaving without me, were you?”

“Of course not.”

Jenn grabbed hold of his arm and leaned up to kiss him on the lips. “I'm sorry,” she said. “We shouldn't be doing this. What about your wife?”

“Naomi and I split up.”

The look on her face said she was genuinely surprised. “What happened?”

“Life happened,” he said. “Don't feel guilty about my situation. If anything, you need to consider your situation.” He opened the car door, took the box and carefully set it on the back seat.

“New car?” Jenn asked.

“Rental.”

“Nice.”

“Thanks.”

“Follow me home tonight.”

He wanted to resist her, he really did, but he couldn't. And why should he? He was single, almost. “Okay.”

She reached up and placed her hand on the back of his head. She pulled him close and planted a warm, passionate kiss square on his mouth. “Good.” She let go and headed over to her Range Rover. DeShaun hopped into his car and followed her for twenty minutes down the road, until they reached her house.

A
fter Jenn disappeared up the steps, DeShaun pulled out his cell, thinking he wanted to hear Naomi's voice, no, he
needed
to hear her voice. He fought with every ounce of his being not to dial the number, but an uncontrollable force took over. He dialed the first six numbers of her cell, his finger resting on the seventh number. He took a deep breath and pressed the last number.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

“Hello?” Someone picked up on the fourth ring, but it wasn't Naomi. It was a dude.

DeShaun looked down at the number displayed on his phone to be sure he dialed correctly. He lowered his tone and asked, “Is Naomi there?”

“Nah, who's calling?”

“Who's this?” DeShaun asked.

“Who's this?”

DeShaun hung up. He wasn't about to get into it with some dude, frontin' with his wife's—or rather, soon-to-be ex-wife's phone.

His stared down at his phone. Screw the bitch! It had only been a few weeks since he moved out, but dang, from what it seemed like, she couldn't wait to have the next dude laying all up in his spot.
Screw her for being such a slut!

“I made up the guest bed for you,” Jenn said when she returned. “In case you don't feel comfortable with this yet.” She had taken off her dress and was wearing a pair of curve-hugging jeans and a form-fitting silk blouse with the top two buttons undone. Her long, dark hair was fastened into a ponytail high on the top of her head and she had washed off her makeup, exposing tanned flawless skin.

DeShaun grabbed the bottle sitting on the bar and two wine glasses. “I don't need the bed in the guest room.” He walked up to Jenn and kissed her. “You don't mind if I stay in the bedroom with you tonight, do you?”

Jenn looked up at DeShaun, as if she was trying to read him. He stared back, letting her know that he was serious about this. When she was satisfied that he meant business, she reached down, gently grabbed his hand and quietly led him up the steps.

I
walked up the steps, taking two at a time, just as I did when I was nine years old. The house was almost the same as the day I left for college years ago. The walls were still painted lime-green with tan trim. The pictures that hung on the walls were even the same; my fifth-grade school picture with me dressed in my red-and-white striped sweater, looking like
Where's Waldo?
Next to that picture was the one of my mother and grandmother on the day of Mom's wedding.

I remembered loving that picture as a kid, staring at it for hours, wishing that was me in my wedding dress with my mother adjusting my veil. When I had opened my old bedroom door, I was surprised that the bed had been removed and was replaced with a cherrywood desk and chair set with a closed laptop resting on top of the desk. The plush fuchsia carpet I had played dolls on had been ripped out and in its place was hardwood flooring.

“We made a few changes since you left,” Mom said. “Couldn't keep it the same forever, now could I?” A single tear ran from the corner of her eye.

After hearing the news about my father's death, I hopped in the car and made the trek back to Alpharetta, a ritzy Georgia suburb where I had spent my childhood. Driving sixty miles an hour, it had still been a twenty-four-hour ride.

I took a seat next to my mother on the loveseat, where my bed
used to be. She scooted over, making room for me, and then slung her arm through mine. Gently, she laid her head onto my shoulder.

“Do you know what you're going to do?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I don't know, baby. I'm considering selling the house.”

“No, Mom. Why?”

“It's time. Besides, your dad and I were talking about selling before.”

A stream of tears ran down her cheek. I reached inside my purse and handed her a travel pack of unopened tissues. She fumbled with the pack, eventually ripping it apart to open it up. Tissues flew everywhere. “I don't get why they make these things damn near impossible to open!” She dabbed at her tear stained cheek, looked at me and then burst out crying. “Oh, God, I'm so sorry,” she said, taking one of the flyaway tissues and dabbing at the corner of her eye. She put her head down and cried into my shoulder. It hurt to see her this way. In all my years on this earth, I had never seen my mother cry—not even when my grandmother, her mother, passed away.

“I told myself that I wouldn't do this in front of you,” Mom said, still blotting her eyes. “You know what this is?”

“What is?”

She blew her nose into a tissue. “It's displaced aggression. I'm taking out my impulses on a less threatening target.” She held up the ripped packet of tissues. “And by the looks of it, I had plenty of impulses.”

We laughed together. Leave it to my mother to incorporate her work into a moment like this.

“I used to hate it when your daddy always reminded me that I had displaced aggressions. I remember this one time I had a bad day at my office and I arrived home, ready to start a fight. I didn't
know I wanted to start a fight, it was imbedded in my subconscious to do so. So that's what I did. I walked in the front door, looking for anything to complain about. But your father,” she said, smiling, “your father was perfect. I came home to a spotless house and when I walked through the foyer, I could smell his rack of lamb in oven. There had to be dirty dishes in the sink, so I prepared myself to nitpick at that. When I walked into the kitchen, not only were the dishes done, he had mopped the kitchen floor like I said I was going to do. The bathrooms were clean; the bedroom was spotless. I had nothing to complain about.”

“So what happened?” I asked.

“I walked straight up to him, looked into his face and told him his moustache had to go. I hated that thing. It always tickled when he kissed me and I was sick of looking at it.”

“You told him that?”

“I sure did. And do you know what he said?”

“What?”

“He looked at me, kissed me with that moustache and told me he loved me.

I shook my head. “You know that's corny, right?”

“Maybe, but that's why I loved him.”

“Would you ladies like some lunch?” Jeremy called from the bottom of the steps. When my mother saw him, she quickly lifted her head off my shoulder and wiped her eyes dry.

I was thankful Jeremy was able to come home with me. Otherwise, it would've made for a long, sad trip. Instead, I was treated to his corny jokes and off-tune singing, which was actually a nice diversion from the sadness.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to interrupt. I thought you two might be hungry.”

“That would be nice, uh—” Mom paused and looked at me.

“It's Jeremy,” I whispered.

“That would be nice, Jeremy.” After he went to the kitchen, she turned back to me. “You both got in so late last night, we didn't really have time to talk, but you can expect that I have questions about this man.

“He's a nice guy.”

She gave me the side eye. “That may be true, but you showed up on my doorstep with this man I have never met, or even heard about before. You can rest assure I have questions. You don't have to stay at the hotel. You can stay here.”

When I first told my mother I was coming, she offered for me to stay at the house. Even before I knew Jeremy was coming, I declined. I felt it would be best to get a room at the hotel in case I needed a quick getaway from my relatives, who could sometimes be a little overbearing.

“Jeremy's a friend, that's all.” I hoped to leave it at that, but I knew better.

“What kind of friend? And where is DeShaun?”

The name DeShaun sounded strange coming out of her mouth. I could count on one hand the number of times she mentioned him in our four-and-a-half years of marriage.

“DeShaun and I aren't together anymore, Mom.”

“When did this happen? And are you sleeping with this new guy?”

“A few weeks ago, and no, me and Jeremy aren't sleeping together.” I didn't really lie. We had
slept
together once, so technically I wasn't sleeping with him. “I'll tell you everything after the funeral. In the meantime, we need to start planning. Did you order the flowers and call the caterer?”

“Your aunt Joyce is taking care of all that. Your father's attorney wants to meet with me this afternoon regarding your dad's will.”

“Do you need me to go with you?”

She shook her head. “No, baby. You stay here with Jerome. I'll deal with it.”

“Jeremy,” I corrected.

“Sorry,” Mom said. “I have so much on my mind right now, I can barely remember my own name. Besides, your sister is coming with me. She'll be at the house tomorrow.”

“Cara's coming?” I hadn't heard from or about my sister in years. When Grandma passed, she didn't even bother to come to the funeral. I kind of expected her to show up for Dad, but with her, who knew?

“The family is coming by the house tomorrow afternoon after the funeral,” Mom said. “I feel like I haven't done anything to get this house in order.”

“Don't worry about that. I'll handle it.”

Mom raised a suspicious brow. “Since when do you clean? In that respect, you and your sister are just alike.”

I tried hard not to roll my eyes. I didn't want to make my mother more upset, but being compared to my sister was something I didn't take lightly. “For your information, I wouldn't be cleaning. I would call a service to do it.”

She hugged me. “Now that's the Naomi I know.” She gently cupped my chin inside the palm of her hand. “I'm really glad you're here. I've missed you.” She kissed my cheek and headed down the steps.

As soon as she grabbed her keys and walked out the door, I dropped to the ground and started crying—not gently sobbing, but bawling with the ugly face and all. Jeremy heard me and came bolting out of the kitchen and up the steps.

“Baby, baby, are you okay?” he asked, throwing his arms around me.

“My daddy is gone,” I cried. “He's never coming back. I don't know what to say around my mother, my marriage is over, I'm alone, I
don't have any money, I don't know how I'm going to support myself, I don't know—” I took a deep breath, almost mentioning the twins I was carrying, but I held my tongue. “I don't know anything anymore. What am I going to do, Jeremy?”

He squeezed tighter. “It's going to be okay. I'm here and I will always be here for as long as you need me. I promise.”

F
or the past few hours, since arriving on my parents' doorstep, I thought about the little details about my father, like his ability to come in from a hard day at the hospital and still have time to tuck me into bed and read me a story. I thought about the last time I talked to him. I had complained about my marriage and how unhappy I was. He had listened to me over the phone and offered up one simple suggestion: “Tell him how you feel. You only think he knows, but speaking from experience with your mother, he has absolutely no idea.”