The Last Exhale (7 page)

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Once the kids are tucked in for the night, Eric and I retreat to our room. He goes in the bathroom, comes back out with string wrapped around his fingers, uses it to saw between his teeth. The popping sound makes me cringe.

“Babe, can you do that in the bathroom, please?”

He stops for a moment, sucking air through his teeth. “You check Kennedy's homework?”

“I looked over it a little after dinner.”

“I think we have a little mathematician on our hands, don't you think?”

I go in the bathroom and pull out a string of floss. “Yeah, she's getting good. She's doing good in all her subjects.”

Eric rinses his mouth out in the sink. “Hope we can get the same teacher for EJ when he gets to first grade.”

The mention of teacher makes me think of Mr. Carter, and
thinking of him makes me think of his twin. Brandon. Can't seem to forget about him even when I try. I avoid eye contact with my husband when I say, “Yeah, that would be nice.”

I grab a handful of curls and plop them on top of my head with an elastic band. Wash the day's makeup from my face. I do idle things in the bathroom, trying to figure out how to tell my husband I need him to drop the kids off in the morning so I can go for a run. A run with another man, but he doesn't need to know all the details.

He's pulling back the covers when I saunter back into the room. “I'm thinking about running in the mornings before heading into the office. My legs feel trapped on the treadmill. I need to get back to what I'm used to.”

“Sounds like a good idea. You always did say you prefer the outdoors versus running inside four walls.”

“Exactly. Plus, these thighs act like they're finally ready to lose their winter weight. I need to take them to the next level.”

Eric lightly slaps my thighs. “I've noticed and I like.” He leans over, gives me a peck on the cheek.

Though I appreciate the compliment, I wish he would've said something before I made mention of it. It's like I have to point things out in order to get him to take notice. I scoop out some Vaseline from the jar in my nightstand, massage it into my feet, in between each toe. Put my socks on to seal in the moisture while I sleep. “I was actually thinking about going in the morning. You could drop EJ off at daycare and I should be back in time to get Kennedy to school.”

His lips turn down, head shakes. “I'm all for fitness, but tomorrow's a no-go.”

“Why not?”

“Officer Bragg's memorial service. Thought I told you last night.”

“Babe, it totally slipped my mind. I thought you said it was Saturday.”

“Nope, tomorrow. I was hoping you'd make it.”

Last night, my mind was so preoccupied with training Brandon that I hadn't heard a word Eric said. I have no way of getting in touch with him to let him know plans—or in this case, demands—have changed.

I tell my husband, “I'll be there.”

Andrew picks me up a few minutes after nine.

“Can't believe Melissa's letting you out for the night.”

“Man, I can't either. She's been keeping me hostage in the bedroom.”

“That's not a bad problem to have, Bro.”

He shakes his head. “It is when you feel like your sperm is more important than your love.”

Nothing I can say to that. “Want a drink?”

“Naw, I'll grab something once we get to the spot.”

I tell him, “Let me change my shirt first. We're too old for this twin-dressing-alike foolishness.”

He laughs. “Mom had us doing that nonsense all the way through high school.”

“She would've had us doing it in college too, if we went to the same school.”

“You ain't never lied.”

We both chuckle at the memory.

After changing my black shirt to a white button down, I grab my keys. “I'll drive.”

“You won't get an argument out of me.” He subconsciously rubs the scar under his chin.

My brother hasn't been much of a driving fan since his near-fatal
accident over fifteen years ago after trying to make an eight-hour drive home for Thanksgiving with no sleep. NoDoz failed him not even two hours into the drive.

I called him up a couple of nights ago to see if he wanted to check out a new over-thirty dance club and restaurant on the east side of town. Figured we both needed to get out for some male bonding.

“It's pretty crowded out here,” Andrew says once we pull up.

“Sure is. One of my coworkers said it's the best new thing in town for the grown and sexy.”

I follow the cars going toward the side of the building until I find an empty spot. No sign of a ticket attendant gives my wallet a sigh of relief. Since I don't have to cough up parking money, I go ahead and pay a twenty-dollar cover charge for both of us to enter.

Soon as we walk in, Carl Thomas circa 2000 pumps through the speakers. I can dig it. This isn't the atmosphere for a beer. I order up Hennessy and Coke for the bro, a glass straight for me. I see he's found us a high-top table in the corner.

“It's thick in here,” he says.

I'd been gone at least fifteen minutes. I slide his drink over to his waiting hands. “That it is.”

“You've got that Southern thang I like,”
blasts through the speakers. A sly grin flashes across Andrew's face.

I nod my head for an explanation.

“Sometimes I can't believe I met my wife up in a club. Told her she'd be the mother of my kids before I even asked for her name.” His smile quickly fades at the memory. Eleven years later and his declaration has yet to come to fruition.

“Let's not go there tonight, Bro. Tonight's supposed to take our minds off of the wives.”

Andrew swallows his drink in one gulp, takes it straight to the head. “Yeah, you're right.”

I raise a brow and squint an eye in his direction. Got to keep an eye on the half of this duo who can't hold liquor too well. We both cut the conversation to a minimum as we allow the drinks, music, and sights of beautiful women to take over.

The DJ changes the mood of music from soul music to a rapper known as the King of the South. The crowd goes from grooving to throwing arms in the air. Not a track I was expecting, but it seems to be working for the crowd.

My twin taps his watch to the three o'clock position.

I turn my attention to the right, toward the entrance. Nearly bite the inside of my mouth when a woman with bronzed, shoulder-length hair and signature high cheekbones walks through the door with two other women. She spots me immediately. The look on her face is stuck between fear and I-need-you-in-the-worst-way.

I acknowledge her presence with a shaky nod.

“That was intense,” Andrew declares. “How do you know her?”

I give him the skinny on Sydney.

He slaps the back of my head. “Can't believe you were in the gym acting like me, 'bout to get me fired with your foolishness.”

“Hey, she put the bait on the hook. I snagged with honor.”

“She is nice on the eyes for sure,” he says. “Had me second-guessing my vows when she walked into my classroom the week before school started.”

My eyes are still on her as I tell my brother, “Probably not worth the trouble for either of us.” Though Sydney is very easy on the eyes—getting double glances from just about every guy up in here—I still feel my wife looks three times as nice.

“Sho' you right. Mom and Dad didn't raise us to be rolling stones. We married the women we wanted to marry.”

I neither disagree or agree.

“Another drink?” Andrew offers.

“Yes, sir.”

The slightly shorter, identical version of me leaves the table as Somebody Else's Mrs. slides into his place before he even reaches the bar. “I see you found a razor.”

I smirk. “Yeah, and I wish you had seen your clock this morning and been where you threatened me to be.”

“Please, please, please accept my apology about this morning.”

“I don't think you should give up your day job to tell jokes or do James Brown impersonations, ma'am.”

That makes her laugh. “I'm serious. I had a prior commitment.”

I say, “That is what marriage is, right?”

She lets those words marinate for a moment.

The women she walked in with walk over to our table with my brother, drinks in all of their hands. Andrew introduces one of them as his former student's mother, Katrina.

Sydney says, “This is Rachel, my best friend. Also, her husband works with mine.”

I catch the hint. Either this town is getting too small or the world is shrinking. I shake their hands. “Nice to meet you both.”

The tallest woman of the bunch says, “I would hate to have been your mother. Wouldn't be able to tell you two apart if I stood before God and spending eternity in heaven was on the line.”

I say, “You'd be able to if you changed our diapers.”

Laughter blends in with the music. Everyone's humored, but curiosity lies in Sydney's eyes.

Folks on the dance floor are sweating like they just finished two marathons. The DJ senses the need for a slow down. A song about a dude referencing his manhood to a lollipop brings a friskier crowd
to the hardwood. Women are grinding dudes' laps like they're trying to start forest fires.

One of the mothers at our table puts her drink down, grabs Andrew's hand and drags him to the floor. Don't know why, but her actions catch me off-guard. My brother's inverted eyebrows tells me he's caught off guard as well. I guess neither one of us were expecting the mother of his previous student to be so aggressive. He doesn't hesitate being her sandpaper, though.

“Katrina's so mannish,” Rachel says to Sydney as they watch their friend grind the life out of the identical version of me.

“To be single again,” Sydney confesses.

I add my two cents. “Who says you have to be single to have a good time?” Feel her eyes on me when I say that.

“Nobody says you have to be single to have fun, but what that girl is out there doing, men might start throwing dollars her way. And with her son's teacher at that.” Rachel says, shaking her head.

I interject, “Well, she's single. She can do that.”

Rachel sucks her teeth. “You're right, so let me mind my married-self's business.”

All the women in the club go wild when an ex-Floetry member starts chanting,
“I hope she cheats on you with a basketball player,”
through the speakers.

“You play basketball?” That's Sydney, a little too close to my ear.

Answer I do not. Fall into that trap I will not.

Reggae is the next circuit of music on the DJ's turntables.

“Aw, what the hell?” the let-me-mind-my-married-business woman says while pulling me toward the dance floor.

“Murder she wrote. Nah nah nah nah, murder sheeee wrote.”

I swear this woman is trying to ruin any chance of me ever having another child as she murders my pelvis with hers. She gyrates like
she's trying to make her single friend know that her married-self can get down too. Whatever
get down
is. Something tells me the two took the same dance class.

Sydney's laughing her butt off at the table. Must be a sight we're creating.

My eyes beg for her to stop laughing and rescue me, to resuscitate what's left of my baby-maker. She's too busy laughing. Looks like she needs resuscitation herself from laughing too hard. If I wasn't in so much pain, I'd laugh myself.

Three songs later, I'm numb. If I don't get off this dance floor right now, I'll never see my penis get hard again.

On cue, rescue comes. “Mr. Carter got us another round of drinks,” Sydney tells Rachel.

The woman reaches for the non-sipped on glass in her hand.

Sydney pulls her hand away. “Yours is on the table.” She hands the glass to me.

I blink twice for “thank you” while grabbing the glass and heading toward the table myself.

Her hand is in mine, holds me back. “Not so fast.”

I tell her, “As much as I want to dance with you, I need to ice down my groin.”

She cracks up laughing, guffaws louder than the music. The situation tickles her so much I can't hold back my laughter any longer.

“Damn, so it actually hurt worse than it looked?”

“You knew what I was up against. Saw you laughing before we even got on the floor.”

She slaps a hand against my shoulder. “You weren't supposed to see that.”

“Oh, you owe me. First, for standing me up this morning and now this. You owe me big.”

“Don't tell her I told you. Some years ago, before she got married, she put it on a guy so bad he had to be rushed out in an ambulance.”

My eyes almost pop out of my head. “Again. You. Owe. Me.”

The crowd pushes us together. A little too close for both of our comfort zones.

She looks at me the way a woman looks at her husband on their wedding night.

All of a sudden, I feel life returning to areas I thought were long gone. Every time I try to put some distance between us, another dancer seals us back together.

“What are we doing?” she asks with too much depth in her voice.

“Right now, dancing.”

She lightly tosses her hand against my shoulder. “Don't play. I'm being serious.”

“I am too.”

“I feel like I barely know you, but lately you're all I think about.”

“Somebody's getting deep in the middle of the dance floor.”

She moves away. “Forget I said that.”

“I'm flattered, actually.”

Again, we're pushed back together by bumpers and grinders.

I say in her ear, “Look, let's go somewhere else and talk.”

Her head shakes. “Can't. Came with my girls and Rachel's husband works with mine. Can't risk anything suspect getting back home.”