“I’m sorry that happened. I tried to handle it.”
“Don’t apologize for him. He was being a total wanker.”
“You know you said were jealous, but you also have a bit of a temper. Promise me, you won’t get into any trouble,” I held onto his forearm.
“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”
But I was worried. Not because I was naïve, or believed life was a fairytale, though mine had been lately. I was worried if I had gotten out of my way, and gotten into his.
Upon exiting the airport, a massive number of alerts buzzed his phone. His demeanor worsened minute by minute, so I kept quiet as he fumed. We sat in the lot for at least half an hour as he rigorously texted, and stared off into space. ‘How could I not be worried?’
Eventually, he cranked the car and sat with a grimaced face. I was afraid to ask if everything was indeed fine. I sat quietly and uncomfortable on the ride home, waiting for him for some sort of an explanation, but didn’t receive one.
As the day grew sour by the hour, rest and relaxation seemed ideal once we made it home. Thanks to the constant turn of events, it was hard to wind down, and I found myself doing what I always did whenever anxiety found its way into my space—I cooked like a madman and cleaned like a janitorial service.
I turned the rotting bananas into a banana nut loaf, and opened cans of tomatoes and added herbs and spices until the delightful smell of chili filled the house. I unpacked, did a few loads of laundry, food prepped for the week, shampooed my hair and dusted around the house with the conditioner dripping, and changed the linens.
Mash had been on his phone since we returned, blowing on smoke out by the pool. He suddenly called for me, “Put on your bathing suit!” but I ignored him. Moments later he shouted, “Let’s go!” His calls went unanswered. He came inside and cornered me with red eyes, and a goofy smirk—high as a kite, feeling good no doubt, “Outside now.”
He wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I gave him my word I would be out in five minutes. I dressed in my suit, and grabbed towels for the both of us. Standing near the sliding door, I overheard him on a call with a gentleman constantly repeating, “We’ve got to fix this. We’ve got to fix this!” Mash then replied, “She’s my wife. Cancel all future shows with him.”
My worst fear had come true. My being in his life was creating chaos. I gripped the door handle, frozen in time, listening to the conversation while my mind got the best of me.
“I’m sure if he knew she was your wife he would have never disrespected you,” said the male voice from the speaker.
“He was out of line. On the contrary, he knew she was with me.”
“And what are you doing getting married? It goes against the image we’ve worked so hard to give you.”
“What are you saying?”
“Your brand is at risk if word gets out you have a wife. Girls see you as the hot deejay they want to spend a night with, and the shows sell based on that fantasy. Women are 70% of your audience and fan base.”
“Wow, Davie. And here I was thinking it was my mixes and musical talent drawing in the crowds.”
“You and I both know this business is about more than talent. And you are talented kid, but this is the world we live in. You’ve got to work with me here.
Do me a favor and keep the news of your nuptials quiet for now. I’ll be in touch in a few days with word on how we are going to spin this.”
The door jolted and I was busted standing there. There was no need to pretend I wasn’t eavesdropping, so I confessed, “I heard every word. I’m sorry you’re going through all of this because of me. I haven’t told anyone we eloped yet, so the secret is safe with me.” The goofy look had disappeared from his face. It was now blank, and I didn’t know how to read him.
“You’re not a secret,” he said.
‘That’s good to know.’
“Let’s do this another day. I’m not in the mood to learn tonight.”
“No. We’re doing it now.”
“Has anyone ever told you, you were bossy?” I playfully asked.
He lifted me in his arms and threw me in the shallow side. I stood up in the water and he jumped in beside me, “You’re the first to tell me that. Now do as I say.” I looked at him like he was crazy and we laughed. “In all seriousness, show me what you can do,” he said in a sweeter tone.
Embarrassing myself, I went under and did the moves as I always had, then returned to the surface. It was laughable, but he didn’t make fun of me. Instead he put his arms around me and said, “You’re going to do just fine. Lesson one, go under again and open your eyes this time.”
“No. It stings. I need goggles.”
“Get comfortable not having them. Take your time. We’ve got all night.”
I went under countless times, but never opened my eyes. I waited for him to grow impatient with me, but he didn’t, which I found frustrating. Again and again I buried my head, insisting we give up, but he wouldn’t allow it. My frustration soon turned into anger, then finally I did it. We stared at each other for a brief moment beneath the surface, then he smiled at me. I rose to the top, wiped my eyes and pushed my hair back. My patient instructor swam to me and gave me a kiss, proud of my effort, not giving a damn about the chaos going on outside of our house.
The following afternoon we were back at it. I was told to get comfortable with my opening my eyes in the water, before learning how to properly hold my breath below. Up and down he moved my head with a three count, relentless with his method. ‘God he will not let up.’ One hour—every day—I had a lesson. Kicks, strokes, and breathing techniques. By the end of the week I was floating on my back and swimming a small distance. It was a small victory for him, but a huge one for myself.
I was instructed to stay out of the pool, while he fulfilled his contractual obligations over the weekend with Harv Legend. The ink was barely dry of making our marriage legal, and we were already in the midst of our first hurdle—because of me. His career and brand was facing ruin, he was now at odds with a longtime colleague, disputing with his management, and having to lie about his personal life. I couldn’t help but feel responsible. My compromise to abandon my home seemed trivial, compared to what he was facing, and I was the common denominator of these newfound problems.
To ease my sorrows, I opened a bottle of wine to keep me company for the evening, ending in a drunken stupor. Mash called after sound check, sharing the details of his meeting with his PR team and Davie, his manager, “I’m not on board with the way they want to spin. They want me to deny I’m married in interviews, and stage photos eluding I’m dating around,” he seethed.
He sounded terribly flustered, and I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to pacify his frustration. Primarily because I blamed myself. “I was thinking, maybe I should leave. Not because I want to, but because it’s the right thing to do. Let’s face it, you wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for me.”
“Rubbish. How much have you had?” he laughed.
“I’m almost done with this bottle, but I’m speaking facts. Your life can go back to normal if I wasn’t here,” I rambled.
“I told you not to worry. I’m taking care of it,” he exhaled deeply, “You should have been here with me. I’d be all over you right now. Show me something to hold me over.”
I flashed my breast and screamed of embarrassment. Mash blushed and grinned, promising he’d be home as soon as the final show closed, while I promised to sleep off the tipsiness. It pained me to be the root cause of his drama. My feelings were being spared, but the truth was the truth. The last thing I wanted was to be his downfall, and when the alcohol wore off in the morning, I opened my notebook and wrote a pro and con list of our relationship.
I was halfway down the page when I received a notification on my phone. I took a pause and learned I had a new follower on social media, a few direct messages, and one missed call from Khai. I sent her a message that I would call
her later, then checked my social account. “Son of a bitch!” I shouted. My new follower turned out to be Harv Legend, and the direct messages were from him, along with a photo of a woman and Mash in what perceived to be a deep conversation.
My chest felt as though it could cave in. My head felt a sharp pain from the back that pierced like a yo-yo. I threw my phone to the opposite side of the bed. Wanting to look at the pictures again, but knowing I shouldn’t. I jumped up and painted the floor with my slippers, dragging my feet while coming up with an explanation of what I saw to soothe my soul. I looked out of the window, then caught a glimpse of myself in the glass. It was as if outside mimicked how I felt inside, as the rain depicted tears on my face before they fell. ‘This can’t be happening.’
The first tear fell and I dialed Mash. No answer. I tried a second time. No answer. I needed to hear him say nothing happened last night, or the picture was taken before we met, or the photo was staged, and he had no choice but to go along with his manager’s ridiculous plan this one time. Anything. I needed to hear his voice give me a reasonable explanation to make my rage go away.
After he didn’t answer the third time, a million worse case scenarios plagued my thoughts. I went back to the photograph and examined it. The malicious Harv Legend uprooted my world with this image. I enlarged it looking for the wedding band, the hotel name in the background, or a logo of some sort. I finally read the message attached:
From what I saw tonight you are fair game.
I told you Queens belong with Kings
@ me.
Immediately I thought of what he said that morning he and Mash squared up, “Seems like you would have mentioned that last night. But then again…” ‘What did he mean then, and what did he mean now?’
The longer I didn’t hear from Mash, the more enraged I became. My thoughts got the best of me as I waited for my phone to ring. Harv ran a brilliant number on me. Since I had time to think, I realized I was caught in a trap. If I mentioned the photo to Mash and who sent it to me, he would most likely lose his temper, and only God knows what would happen—but I would be at fault for telling him. If I waited to show him the messages when he got home, I would be blamed for not telling him right away. It was the typical conundrum for a woman—always holding the blame no matter what.
Within seconds, I skipped being mad, jumped over angry, bypassed rage, and embraced crazy. The drama, questionable deceit, and humiliation was too much for me to handle, on top of already feeling like the catalyst of a potential downfall. And the fact that I failed to reach my husband after three attempts. Multiple scenarios ran through my mind:
‘Is he with her right now?
Is that why he didn’t answer my call?
Why the fuck would he play me like this?
Is this a staged photo his PR put together?
How can a person make you feel so loved, and betray you at the same time?
It doesn’t make sense.
What are my friends going to think?
God I look stupid. Again!
I know he loves me.
He treats me like any woman would dream of being treated.
Will I ever know the truth?
I trusted him.
What the fuck is going on!”
Then it hit me. I had seen the girl in the photo before. I ran to the bedroom and flipped through his albums until I searched the right one. It was the memory book with the pretty models and famous people. There she was. Smiling in at least ten or more pictures with him.
I threw the album across the room, breathing heavily like a monster. Unable to calm down, I went into the kitchen and threw myself into some serious cooking and baking. My go to when I’m stressed. I baked and prepared casserole dishes, two flavors of cookie dough, eating the chocolate chip dough raw. I baked a sourdough loaf and sautéed peppers and onions to dress up a sandwich. I stood against the island and took a bite, bursting into tears, spitting the perfectly dressed hoagie on the floor to catch my breath.
I wasn’t this woman. I didn’t want to be this woman. I didn’t like this woman, as I had already been her years before. The fairytale was over, and I was tired and defeated. I dumped on myself for abandoning my okay life, for what I thought was a better one, and could no longer fight the inevitable.
I packed what I could in two suitcases, and framed a picture of us in Italy, I had stuck in the crevice of the mirror on the dresser. I placed it in the center of the pool table in the dining room, and said good-bye to the house I thought was going to be my home. The taxi called for entry through the gate, and I lugged my bags outside and set the alarm. As the driver drove me away, a song I used to know so well came on the radio, and I sang along to it in my head. ‘Good morning heartache, what’s new.’
Chapter Ten
Realism
The credit from my cancelled flight months ago came in handy. I caught the next flight into the states, Denver, then waited two hours for a layover to GSP. I silenced my phone for a “peace” of mind and roamed the airport, searching for the apocalyptic art people raved about. Creepy as fuck. Fires, coffins, and weird looking children of the corn figures. I love art but the one mural I found was made of nightmares. I went back to my gate, beyond happy to get the hell out of Satan’s airport.
The real home of home. Mama’s house. My voice of reason. I don’t think she’s ever hugged me so tight, or so long. To be in her embrace soothed my bleeding soul, and just like that I felt like a little girl again. Her house wasn’t the house I grew up in, but the scent of it was the same. A blend of roasted coffee and baked goods lived inside the walls, with a hint of bleach and ammonia in the air.
We sat in the kitchen playing catch up, waiting for the timer to ding, to take her sweet bread out of the oven. I turned my phone on to show her pictures of my travels, with continuous interruptions of texts, calls, and voice messages.
“Something seems important. You ought to get that,” she said.
“It can wait. I wanted to show you one picture in particular.”
“Oh my. Weren’t you a smashing bride. When was this?”
“About a month ago.”
“When do I get to meet my new son? Is this what you came home to tell me?”
“Sort of?” I fidgeted.
“Well you don’t need my approval because it’s already done. And you know I was going to tell you, you looked beautiful as ever. So, what is it?”
“I think it’s over.”
My mother laughed deep from her belly. The timer dinged and she removed the bread from the oven and placed it on top of a towel, on top of the toaster. Sighing and making comical noises she asked, “Over. Why?”
“It’s a long story.”
“It always is,” she scoffed.
“And before you say it, I know marriage takes work but…We’ve hit a huge bump in the road.”
“Is it that bad? Because honey to be honest, you look happy to me.”
“I was happy, but I don’t think I’m going back.”
“What do you mean was? I know the look of love when I see it. Especially on my baby.”
The phone rang again. “Is that him?” she asked. I nodded yes, unable to survive her stare. “Talk to him,” she said.
“I need more time.”
“Okay Ms. Need more time. Some other woman is going to take your time,” Mom sassed.
“One already has. I think.”
“Start from the beginning.”
Mom listened to my dilemma, and shared a story with me about perspective and perception. She went on to tell me that sometimes things aren’t what they seem, and without me hearing what Mash had to say, I was making a mistake. “A picture is worth a thousand words,” she said, “People don’t always have good intentions. Are you going to allow the person who sent you that photo, to control your happiness?”
After making her point, she finished schooling me by saying as long as I knew the truth about the fake pict
ures, other people’s insight shouldn’t matter. “People are going to think whatever they want to think anyway, and in a marriage, communication can make it or break it,” she said, handing me a slice of the bread still slightly warm.
I sat on the stool nearly healed from the taste of my mother’s cooking, ready to hear my husband’s explanation. I returned his call and he answered on the first ring, looking at me through the glass with seething eyes in utter silence. “Hey,” I mumbled. He took a few seconds to respond, and not at all what I imagined came from his mouth, “What the fuck babe, I’ve been calling you all day.” After throwing me for a loop I responded, “I turned my ringer off. I needed to figure some things out.”
We sat in silence, waiting for the other to speak. “Why did you leave?” he asked in a softer tone than before, “Where are you and when are you coming home?”
“At my mother’s and I don’t know the answer to that question.”
“You have no idea how I’m feeling right now. I rushed home to be with you, but I find you’ve left me. And for what?”
“For started, I don’t want you to resent me. I don’t want to be the reason you lose everything you’ve worked for.”
“I would never resent you. I told you to let me worry about work. Come home.”
My heart rate increased and my palms began to sweat. There wasn’t an easy way to ask him about the picture. I blurted out, “Did anything happen this weekend? Something I should hear from you and no one else.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
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