Commitment

by Forrester, Nia

  The guard at the front desk looked at him when he entered with a complete lack of recognition. Then Shawn realized that based on what he was wearing—baggy jeans, Timberlands and a mock turtleneck two sizes too big—the guy was probably going to be suspicious if he just hung out, looking like he was casing the joint.

  “‘Excuse me, man,” he leaned on the front desk. “What floor is Power to the People?”

  “Fourth,” the guard looked him over, his eyes betraying that he was thinking precisely what Shawn had suspected he would. “May I call someone for you?”

  “Nah. I’m meeting someone for lunch. I just thought she’d be down here.”

  The guard picked up the phone. “I can call her down for you. What’s her name?”

  Shawn hesitated. “Riley Gardner.”

  “Oh, I know Riley . . .” the guard started dialing before Shawn could object. And he got her with relative ease—something Shawn had not been able to accomplish in two weeks. “Your name sir?”

  This time Shawn didn’t hesitate. “Brendan Cole,” he said. No way would she come down for him.

  The guard exchanged a few more words with Riley and then hung up. “She’s on her way.”

  If she would come down for Brendan, that meant she was at least open to listening. She had to know that if Brendan came to see her, it could only be about him.

  When she got off the elevator, Shawn was waiting, leaning on the wall opposite its doors. A look of surprise and then resignation crossed her face. She stepped off and looked at him, saying nothing. He’d been so focused on getting her to come downstairs, on seeing her, that he’d completely forgotten to think of something to say once she was in front of him.

  “Riley . . .” he began.

  “Outside,” she cut him off, heading for the exit.

  Once on the curb, in the sunlight, he felt exposed. Tongue-tied.

  “Who?” she asked quietly.

  She was tense, her spine straight and rigid. Wearing a black sweater and black wide-legged pants that seemed to swallow her slender frame. Her arms crossed in front of her only exacerbated the effect. She looked lost.

  “Nobody,” Shawn said. “Nobody you need to worry about.”

  Riley gave a sad smile. “After you’ve already screwed her you’re telling me I don’t need to worry about it? Who is it, Shawn?”

  “Keisha. She’s a dancer who . . .”

  Her face opened up as though she’d just realized something. “At Xander’s. She was at the music video party.”

  Shawn nodded.

  “That long?” her voice broke.

  To see tears rising to her eyes caused his heart to clench as though someone had reached into his chest and dug their fingers into it. He instinctively reached out to her but she stepped back as though he’d lunged for her throat.

  “No,” he said. “Baby, I swear.”

  He could see the emotions at war in her face. She wanted to believe him, but she was hurt and angry. And maybe even a little bit scared.

  “Chris told me you hired her,” she said after a moment.

  Motherfucking Chris. “Yeah, but . . .”

  “Is that why you hired her? Because you were attracted to her?”

  “No,” he said firmly. “I hired her because she’s Mike’s cousin. That’s all. It’s not the way I planned it . . . it just . . .” he stopped.

  He’d been about to say it just ‘happened’. But that wasn’t what she wanted to hear. For Riley every little thing had significance. It couldn’t just be that he got drunk and allowed himself to be led into a compromising situation. In her mind, it had to mean something.

  “I want to come home,” he said.

  Riley looked down at the ground. “If you do, I won’t stay,” she said simply.

  Shawn wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “So . . . what . . . what are you planning to do?”

  “I’m planning to go out,” she said quietly. “And I’m going to find someone and I’m going to fuck him so you know exactly what this feels like.”

  Shawn felt his entire body go numb for a second and when feeling returned, he was burning hot. He swallowed. Riley was studying him, watching his reaction. She knew what that did to him, just hearing it.

  “Now imagine it’s happened,” she said, waiting a moment. “Good. Now you tell me. What would you plan to do?”

  Shawn ran a hand over his face. “I don’t know what you want me to say. Riley, it happened one time . . .”

  “What does that mean, one time?” she interrupted. “One occasion, or one time?"

  Shawn said nothing.

  "So one occasion, but more than once," Riley said, her face crumpling. “Did you . . . spend the night with her? Wake up with her?”

  “No. It only . . .”

  “Happened one time. Yes, you said that.”

  I know that’s not an excuse, but . . .”

  “You’re right, it’s not. So why keep saying it? You didn’t even use a frigging condom with her, did you? That’s why you needed to use one with me?!”

  Shawn closed his eyes. “It was fucked up. I know that. But I was drunk when I was with her, I didn’t plan . . . “

  “I don’t think I can handle any more details,” Riley held up a hand.

  He sighed. “All I’m saying is, I want us to be together, in the same house, working out whatever we have to work out.”

  “Whatever we have to work out,” she repeated dully. “So that’s where we are already. Where we have things to ‘work out’.”

  “What’s the alternative, Riley? You want a divorce?”

  Her head snapped up. “Is that what you want?”

  “No,” Shawn said, exasperated. “That’s why I’m here. That’s the last thing I want.”

  Her face softened almost imperceptibly, so he seized the opportunity and laid it on thicker.

  “I want you. That’s all I want. I want you.”

  He meant every word, but a small, mercenary part of him wished he could cry to emphasize the point, put on a really good show of it so that they could cut through all the bullshit and go back to being man and wife. But Riley wasn’t that simple. She never had been.

  “And on at least one occasion,” she said, stone cold, “you wanted Keisha.”

  His shoulders sagged. “Riley . . .”

  “I have to go back upstairs,” she interrupted him. “I have to go.”

  She turned away and Shawn held her arm. She pried herself loose but turned to look at him again.

  “Can I call you?” he asked. “At home? Will you pick up?”

  She hesitated then nodded.

  “Okay,” he sighed. “I’ll do that.”

  She started toward the building without looking back.

  “Riley, I love you,” he said when her hand was on the door. She paused and gave him one last glance.

  “I love you too,” she said before she went in.

  She didn’t say the words as endearment but with regret.

  g

  Once every couple of months, Brendan set up a meeting between Shawn and Philip Mark, a stylist who was supposedly the final word on what was in and what wasn’t even in yet but was going to be. The routine was that he would show them a series of outfits and Shawn would make the final decision on which ones he would wear. At the end of a Philip Mark session, Shawn was usually about twenty thousand poorer, and knew more about fabrics and color palettes than he’d ever wanted to know, but Brendan assured him it was necessary, what he called “image maintenance.”

  Since the new season’s stuff was almost out, it was time for another Philip Mark consultation, and if there was one day when Shawn didn’t feel up to it, this would be that day. His wife was considering leaving him and he had to go sit in a room with a guy whose entire life revolved around clothes, discussing warm and cool tones and how they interacted with his complexion and eyes.

  He met Brendan outside the warehouse on Houston Street where Philip Mark’s studio was located and they boarded
the old-fashioned death-trap of an elevator that would take them to the sixth floor.

  “You see Riley?” Brendan asked.

  “Yeah . . .”

  “So what she say?”

  “She said doesn’t know what to believe and, here’s the really good part, if I go home, she won’t stay there.”

  “What’d you expect?”

  “I don’t know, man.”

  They stepped off the elevator into the expansive loft and were greeted by a short, cute Puerto-Rican girl in a Kelly green suit. Shawn smiled, reflecting on the fact that he only knew the color of the suit was Kelly green as opposed to any other kind thanks to the tutelage of Philip Mark himself.

  “Hi,” she extended a hand to him and then to Brendan. “I’m Philip’s assistant, Aracely. He’s running a little late so he asked me to start. Come with me, please.”

  They followed her, Shawn’s eyes firmly on her derriere. She had a little twitch when she walked, and he couldn’t decide whether it was for their benefit, or the natural result of her too-high spike-heel boots.

  “Can I get you some coffee?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

  “No thanks,” Brendan said automatically.

  “Yeah,” Shawn said. “Coffee would be good.”

  He could feel Brendan looking at him curiously. He knew he didn’t drink coffee. He didn’t give a damn about the coffee, he just wanted to watch her walking away to fetch it. She led them to the private room where Philip hung about twenty outfits at a time to show to select clients, and seated them on a pair of comfortable over-stuffed armchairs in front of which was a book of swatches. When Aracely was gone, Brendan looked at Shawn with a raised eyebrow.

  “Coffee?”

  “Or tea, or Aracely,” Shawn said.

  “Keep that shit up. It’s what got your ass sleeping on my couch.”

  “Y’know what, B? As many bitches as you . . .”

  Brendan laughed. “But I’m not married though.”

  Aracely came back with a tray that she set on the table in front of them. Besides the coffee, there were assorted Italian pastries and a crystal pitcher of water. Brendan poured himself a glass of water and Shawn dug into a cannoli, looking up at Aracely.

  Her hair was chestnut brown with blonde highlights and barely brushed her shoulders; it was full and bouncy, obviously the part of her appearance she concentrated on most. Her face was slightly round, like that of someone constantly battling a weight problem. But Aracely most definitely did not have a weight problem. Shawn allowed his eyes to scan her figure once more and his eyes met hers when he looked once again up at her face. A very slight upward turn at the corners of her mouth confirmed that she’d noticed his admiration.

  Brendan sniffed and leaned back in his seat.

  “So what you got for us, Aracely?” he asked.

  “Ahm . . .” she turned to look at the clothes hanging on the rack behind them. “I think Philip said you wanted more evening wear. Somewhat fewer sports and casual wear . . .”

  She launched into her presentation, bringing over outfits for them to look at, encouraging Shawn to try them on, suggesting colors and fabrics occasionally. She was nervous, he noticed; sometimes stuttering or dropping things. Brendan picked a couple items for himself and Shawn amassed a pile of his own, paying less attention to the clothes than to Aracely.

  She didn’t have what Riley had—that something that made him want to delve deeper than the physical, find out what was happening behind her eyes. But no one else had whatever it was Riley had that kept him hooked; that was the problem. So Aracely was just a girl, obviously uncertain of herself and inexperienced dealing with high-profile clients, who was all the cuter because of that uncertainty.

  He wondered idly what she would say if he asked her out. Even wearing his wedding ring. He’d never taken it off but it never ceased to amaze him how some women managed to just pretend it wasn’t there, stepping to him like it didn’t mean shit. He felt reckless and for the moment, indifferent to consequences—Riley was probably going to leave him anyway, so what the hell?

  “So Aracely,” he said. “You ever heard any of my music?”

  His standard line. Meaningless because everyone had heard his music.

  Brendan was looking at him, sitting very still as though anticipating something terrible—like lightning striking him dead.

  She blushed. “Sure. I’ve heard your stuff.”

  “And?”

  She smiled. “I like it.”

  “You like it a lot, or you like it a little?”

  Her face was almost beet red now. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  “I like it a lot,” she said finally.

  “B, gimme your card,” Shawn said holding out a hand. It took Brendan a moment before he pulled out his business card holder and handed a card to Shawn. He passed it across the table to Aracely.

  “I’m doing a show at the Meadowlands next month,” he said. “Call and I’ll hook you up with some tickets and backstage passes.”

  “I bet if I came backstage you wouldn’t even remember me,” Aracely said.

  “Oh I’ll remember you,” Shawn said.

  At that moment Philip Mark walked in. He went straight for the pastry and grimaced at one of the suits on Shawn’s pile.

  “Who picked that?” he asked, his mouth full. “Did I pick that Aracely?”

  “Yeah you did,” she nodded.

  She looked intimidated. By Philip Mark, who was all of five-foot-three and a buck-fifty. He had an olive complexion and a head of kinky-curly dark hair that seemed to dominate his entire head, constantly falling about his face or sticking straight up, but never looking like it had been combed. His nose was prominent and beaklike. He was not a good-looking man, but had a certain air of privilege that made you naturally listen to him when he spoke.

  “How could I have been so wrong?” he held it up and tossed it aside. “That’s not for you, Shawn. Trust me.”

  Then he smiled and said hello for the first time since he’d walked in.

  Philip shooed Aracely out of the room and went through all the outfits that had been selected before he got there, vetoing some and confirming others. His energy was exhausting, and by the time they were done, Shawn was dying to get out of there. Aracely was gathering her bag and coat as Philip walked them to the elevator and Shawn stopped, turning to her.

  “You want a ride somewhere?” he asked her.

  She hesitated, looking at Philip as though for permission. “No. That’s okay,” she said.

  “You wouldn’t be going to the South Bronx anyway, I assume,” Philip said cattily.

  Aracely looked at her shoes and Shawn wanted to assure her that he didn’t care about where she was from but Brendan was pulling on his arm.

  “We have to go anyway, man.” He gave Aracely a brief wave. “Thanks for everything.”

  Shawn stepped onto the elevator behind Brendan, taking one last glance at her. As the doors closed, he could see her looking at him through her lashes.

  “You just love trouble.” Brendan said disgustedly.

  “I just want to be with someone who’s uncomplicated for a change. Someone who for just one fucking minute isn’t making me feel like I’m not good enough for her.”

  “Oh, so now it’s about what Riley made you feel?” Brendan shook his head in disbelief.

  “The one thing I don’t have issues with was whether or not I want to be with her. I still want to be with her. But I’m not sure she’s supposed to be with me.”

  Brendan sucked his teeth. “You can’t make her happy anyway, so what the hell, right? Might as well fuck it up.”

  “B, you don’t understand, man. Until you’re in my situation . . .”

  They headed out to the car and Brendan unlocked it so they could get in, but paused before opening the door.

  “Shawn, if I was married to Riley, I wouldn’t be in your situation. Believe that.”

  And there it was again. The ra
ge. He was almost relieved. After a couple weeks of being numb, anger was a welcome emotion. Brendan was looking at him, shaking his head in exasperation.

  “You want to fight me too? Because I see what you’ve got?”

  Shawn said nothing. One part of him was considering for a moment how much better he would feel if he could beat Brendan’s face in. But another part of him understood the point.

  “At the end of the day, Shawn, you do have her. That’s the messed up part. You’re so busy thinking about losing her you don’t even realize how good it is to have her.”

  Still, Shawn said nothing.

  Brendan sucked his teeth. “Man, get in the fucking car.”

  That night when he called Riley, she picked up just before the voicemail came on. She sounded tired, distracted.

  “How’s work going?” he asked. “I mean, coming up with stuff to write about and everything.”

  “Okay,” she said without enthusiasm. “Chris helped me out after all. I’m doing this piece on female producers in rap. He introduced me to some people. I might call your friend, Jodi.”

  Shawn swallowed his objections to her getting leads from Chris. His right to be jealous about anything had been revoked two and a half weeks ago.

  “Yeah?” he struggled to keep his voice even. “When?”

  “Look,” Riley sighed. “I don’t want to spend all night making casual conversation about my work and your work and the weather. Do you have something in particular to say?”

  Brendan was in the room, watching television and eating the Chinese food they’d ordered, so Shawn took the phone to the kitchen.

  “That I want to be with you. I don’t want to be with anyone else.”

  “And of course it’s all about what you want,” Riley said.

  Shawn held the phone away from his ear and took a deep breath.

  “No. It’s about what we both want,” he said, the exasperation slipping into his voice. “So maybe it’s time you told me. What do you want, Riley? You want to work on this or what?”