My Sister’s Ex: A Novel

by Cydney Rax

  “Oh, Marlene, okay, you gotta check out this guy. He’s—”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Rachel.”

  “But hold on. His screen name is OldSkool214, but he says to call him Smoky. He claims he’s really feeling me, my profile, and just wants to get to know me better. He says he loves my photo, but would love to see who the real me is, behind the gorgeous face and body. And the best thing is he’s local.”

  I frown. “He sounds like a nut bag.”

  “Girl, stop. I am a little curious.”

  “Curiosity killed the—”

  “Jeez, now two other guys are trying to IM me. I haven’t even replied to the first two yet. Goodness. Who has time for this?”

  “Why’d you get on the site if you’re not going to do what you’re expected to do, Rachel? Huh?”

  Rachel finally stops clicking her mouse and turns to stare at me with a puzzled expression etched on her face. “Why are you still here?” she asks and casually glances at the wall clock. “I thought you would have skedaddled with what’s-his-face.”

  “Apparently, what’s-his-face is running somewhat late.”

  “And you hate waiting on folks.” She cackles. “Jeff had better have a damn good excuse for making a sista wait on his ass.”

  She makes a “that’s a shame” noise in her throat. I settle on her bed, then lie back on the comforter, and let my eyes wander to the ceiling. I am starting to feel like the people I see at church. Well-packaged on the outside, but the outside veils what’s on the inside. When it comes to Jeff’s and my relationship, I have my pride, but what am I getting in exchange for it? When you lose pride, you start doing things you never imagined you’d do.

  “I think I am having second thoughts about all this.”

  “Wh-what?” Rachel screeches.

  “I mean, he’s a good man and all, but sometimes he can be …”

  “What? Go ahead. Say it.” She turns off her monitor and fully swivels her chair and gives me her complete attention.

  “He’s not always respectful and considerate. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe he’s just being a man. You know they’re thinkers more than feelers. So I can accept that—”

  “But?”

  “But as women, why do we always have to be understanding when it comes to guys’ flaws? It’s like they’re born to be a certain way. Insensitive at times. Self-centered. Rude. And we are forced to accept men just the way they are.”

  “Preach, girl.”

  “No, really. How many guys start off great? They act sweet and have great attention to detail … They’re always on time. They pay for dates—”

  “Jeff doesn’t pay for dates anymore?”

  I stare at her, think. “He still does from time to time.”

  “But.”

  “He’s asked to borrow money. And he has me doing strange monetary transactions.”

  “Nooo. Dang, girl, asking to borrow money is asking a bit much. Jeff’s not rich, but he has enough. What’s he need your money for?”

  “I was hoping … you’d be able to tell me,” I say with a twinge of sadness. “You know him way better than I do.”

  “Jeez, girl. I dunno. I am trying to forget him, trying to move on, and now you are asking me to psychoanalyze his actions? Give you advice about my ex? That takes a lot of nerve, Marlene.”

  “I was only asking—”

  “You may be asking the wrong person.”

  “Okay then forget it, Rachel. Just forget I brought it up. But according to what you’ve recently told me, you are over him. You couldn’t care less what he’s doing. So if that’s true, what’s the harm in talking to me?”

  “As much as I hate hearing myself admit this, I’m Jeff’s ex, dummy—”

  “I am not dumb; don’t ever call me that again.”

  “Dummy.”

  I sit up and pounce at her like a tigress. I ball my fingers into a solid fist and swing at her head like it’s a volley ball. But Rachel is quick; she jumps from the chair, dodging and ducking me in one swift move. She stands back a few inches away with her feet spaced apart, hands drawn to her side.

  I catch my breath, laugh at how goofy she looks. “Oh, so you think you’re one of Charlie’s Angels now, huh? Which one?”

  “Fuck you, Marlene.”

  “Rachel, stop the profanity. Jeez, do you have any respect for the church?”

  “Oh, like you do. That’s what I hate about you, girl. You’re a hypocrite who can’t see her own self. Look in the mirror, Marlene. Open up your eyes, look in a fucking mirror, and see yourself for who you really are, not who you tell yourself you are, but who you really are.”

  I want to swing at her again, but I lack the energy, focus. My mind is too split to do any harm to her. Plus she’s not the true reason for my attitude. It’s way past two-thirty almost three. Jeff could have called to explain his whereabouts. Is that too much to ask? What’s so hard about showing consideration to the one you claim you like? If this is how he treats people he likes, how does he treat those he doesn’t like? Or maybe I’m overreacting. Guys are set up so different from women that he probably doesn’t realize his tardiness irks me. He says he cares about me, so no way he’d be doing this stuff on purpose. And that’s fine. But why is he becoming slack lately? Women always want to know why. But how many times are we given a suitable answer? I wish I knew.

  — 13 —

  RACHEL

  Bastard of the Year

  My mama once said that if you want revenge on someone who’s done you wrong, don’t do anything. She said the wrongs that people commit will always catch up to them, and the only thing I’m required to do is sit back and witness the big payback. So when I see Marlene look so despondent about Jeff’s recent behavior, the first thing I do is think about my mother’s advice. Could this be what she’s referring to? If it is, there really is a God. I never imagined that she, the one who seems so crazy and boldly in love with Jeff, would start to have doubts about the guy.

  So while she’s here trying to get me to answer her silly little questions, I feel torn. One part of me wants to jump up and down, pump my fists in the air, and scream “hallelujah.” I want to laugh loud and hard like I’m in the comedy club. Giggle right in her face and tell the girl, “You’re getting just what your ass deserves.” The other part of me, the wiser part, says not to do anything too over the top. Shut my mouth, hush up with the I-told-you-so stuff, and simply wait it out. Let Marlene talk. My job is to listen and gain as much information as possible.

  But because I am the way that I am, my solution is to settle for a combination of both.

  We’re still in my bedroom. I’ve just called her a hypocrite. But she doesn’t seem fazed or bothered by my words. I wonder if she’s losing the will to fight.

  “Marlene, are you okay? You have this strange look on your face.”

  “I’m not surprised. I think it’s only because I am so hungry. I didn’t eat much breakfast, trying to save my appetite for this afternoon.” She takes her hand, makes wide circles on her belly as she strokes its roundness.

  “Forgive me for asking, Marlene, but what’s stopping you from picking up a phone and calling the guy?”

  “Oh, Rachel. I hate when I am waiting, and I give in and call. I just don’t like doing it.”

  “Ha, better you than me.”

  “Why are you saying that?”

  “Fuck Jeff. I mean, really … it’s just making me mad hearing you talk this way. It’s not like it’s a once-in-a-lifetime event that’s going on this afternoon, and like if you aren’t able to go, then you’re really missing out on something big.”

  “Like Discovery Green.”

  “Oh, well, yeah, but still. That’s not about anything, either.” Actually, that hurts. I remember asking Jeff to take me there, too, but something would always come up, so we never got to go.

  “So what would you do if you were in my shoes?”

  I smile and think about her question. If she only knew that if
I were in her shoes, so many things would be different. If things had turned out the way they should have, and we were able to resolve any premarital concerns, Jeff and I would probably be headed down the aisle by now. She’d be my maid of honor. I’d be on the road to perhaps the best times of my life. Getting married, doing the honeymoon, setting up the Mr. and Mrs. Jeffrey Williams household.

  None of these very real alternatives would be occurring now. We wouldn’t be having this conversation, and I definitely would have no reason to be signing up with some freaking online dating site. So her question is both pointless … and cruel.

  “Marlene, I think you should either shit or get off the pot.”

  “Eww.”

  “Stop it, girl, get real for once in your life. You get annoyed at me for cussing, yet the guy you’re attracted to also cusses sometimes. Or had you overlooked that part of him? He’s no better than me.”

  “Okay, Rachel, you are right. But I guess it’s a little different because he’s a guy, the man I’m attracted to, and you’re—”

  “Just your sister? So that automatically gives you the right to be stricter with me than with the guy you’re sleeping with?”

  “Please. I get it, okay? I’ll try to be easier on you … Rachel.” She starts vigorously massaging her forehead, and I can sense her weariness. I actually feel sorry for Marlene. But before I give in to the temptation of going to pat her on the back, I remember the awful things she’s said to me lately. How she didn’t care about my feelings when I pleaded with her to leave Jeff alone. Her only priority was Marlene Draper. And I decide then to not let my heart grow soft. Let her suffer a little longer. By ignoring my wishes, she’s invited herself to fully experience any misery that comes with dating your sister’s ex.

  “Okay, let me just think a bit,” Marlene speaks up. “It’s been an hour now. No Jeff, no calls. I wonder if something bad has happened. He deals with some shady characters sometimes. His tenants can be hostile. And I know that he’s angry at a couple of tenants who haven’t paid rent. He wants to evict them. Maybe that’s what he’s doing right now. Trying to make that paper … for me.”

  I sit back and listen to Marlene come up with all kinds of excuses, feeble attempts to cover her man’s misconduct. Yep, she really does love him. Maybe it’s my cue to step out of the way. A woman in love is like a blind person walking down the middle of the street. Everyone in the blind person’s path will have to move out of his way.

  Alita, London, and I are laughing our asses off. It’s midweek, a few days after I agreed to meet OldSkool214, aka Smoky. He and I swapped dozens of e-mails on Sunday, then chatted on the phone yesterday. And now my girls and I are extra hyped because I told Smoky I’d be happy to meet him in a public place for a cup of coffee. So we agreed upon a Starbucks that’s on Westheimer and Fondren.

  The girls are sitting in my car while I sit outdoors at a green metal round table. And when Smoky arrives, I immediately know it’s him. Very few black folks come to this spot. And if they do it’s usually going to be early in the morning, on their way to work. But it’s almost eight at night. And this black guy pulls up in a chocolate-colored Jaguar. Old but classy. Dude takes his time getting out of the car. I can see him looking at himself in his rearview. Eventually, when he emerges, he walks so slow it looks like he’s floating on air. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with white letters that say, “It’s Hard Out Here for a Republican.” And his blue jeans are crisply ironed.

  I see his eyes moving around, like he’s looking for the girl he saw in the profile. I wave at him. He sees me, hesitates, waves back.

  “Smoky?”

  He looks around and behind him even though we’re the only two people in the café area.

  “Hello, Smoky.” I rise up and smile.

  “Do I know you?”

  “We met online.”

  He looks confused. “Okay?”

  It’s hard not to laugh. “How has your day gone so far?”

  He stares at me. I point at the seat next to me. He pulls out the chair, still peering at me, and slowly sits down.

  “My day has gone all right.”

  The moment is awkward. I feel like getting up and leaving.

  But he takes one last look at me and slumps in his seat, pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Holds them toward me. I shake my head. He shrugs and lights up one.

  “I didn’t know that you smoked. Your profile said you’re a nonsmoker.”

  “Things change.”

  I stiffen. Wait for him to talk.

  “What did you say your name was again?”

  “I’ve never given my name, but my screen name is HoneyBrownTX.”

  “Oh, all right,” he says, but there’s no flicker of recognition on his face. He starts inhaling from his cigarette.

  “How long have you been on the dating site?” I ask.

  “Two years, five months.”

  I gasp. “Why so long? Doesn’t that cost a lot of money?”

  “It takes that long to find who you’re feeling, and who’s feeling you, you know what I’m saying?”

  “I can imagine.”

  Soon the smoke from his smoking habit nearly causes me to choke. The air is thick with the stifling smell of marijuana. I stare at him in disbelief, but he keeps taking a drag on his “cigarette.”

  For the next several minutes, I try to ignore the smoke, and I ask him frivolous questions. He politely answers. Even though he’s calm, pleasant, and seems nonthreatening, I can never truly relax. Something about him bothers me.

  I cough and clear my throat, glance at my watch. “Well, it’s almost that time.”

  “Oh, yeah, you got to go to your second job, right? You watch some kids who live in River Oaks?”

  With a frozen smile plastered on my face, I nod emphatically. “You remembered. You have an excellent memory, Smoky.”

  I hop up so fast my purse falls to the ground. My leather checkbook falls out, and my driver’s license photo is showing through the clear plastic sleeve.

  Smoky says, “Let me get that.” He reaches for my checkbook, glances at the photo, stares at me briefly, then hands it over.

  “Well, anyway, like you said, I gotta be going so I can babysit all those kids. Nice meeting you. Good-bye.”

  I don’t wait for him to say anything. I just start walking east down Westheimer, never looking back. My cell rings. It’s him. I ignore the call. The cell rings again.

  “Hey, Alita. Y’all see me. Come get me. When it comes to this Internet dating stuff, it’s time for me to go back to the drawing board.”

  Alita’s car pulls up next to me minutes later, and I climb in the backseat.

  “You sure know how to pick ’em—”

  “Don’t start, Alita.”

  London says, “Now we know why he wants you to call him ‘Smoky.’”

  “Yeah,” I say, blushing, “I should have read between the lines. Anyway, he’s definitely coming off my favorites. And I’m blocking him from e-mailing me.”

  “You do what you need to do, girl,” Alita says.

  I sigh, feeling disappointed. “I know I just got on the site, but if this is how it’s going to be, I’m not sure I’ll ever connect with the right kind of man.”

  “Stop stressing,” London says. “You’re there to have fun, but sure, you want to make that love connection, too. You’re bound to go through some undesirables first before you meet the cream-of-the-crop type guys.”

  “Hmm, I hope you’re right.”

  “Change your search criteria, girl. Don’t settle. Be specific.” Alita lectures me like she is the online dating pro or something.

  “But won’t that limit my opportunities?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Alita says.

  They drop me off at home. Once I get inside and settled in my bedroom, I immediately log on to the Internet. I delete five messages that Smoky has sent me in the past half hour. The fact that he didn’t even comment on my appearance and how I look nothing like my
profile photo really shows me he isn’t serious at all. He’ll date anything, anybody, no standards. Well, I don’t wanna be that girl. I am not interested in meeting someone as long as he’s a member of the opposite sex and that’s it. No way.

  I remember the day I met Jeff. I remember feeling and looking fantastic. I just got my hair done and had a fresh cut and perm. I sported a pair of my favorite jeans and a Tennessee Titans jersey signed by Vince Young. You could walk into any room in that two-story house and you’d find a stunning looking woman. Half the women were college educated or professionals in their field. I recognized this other distinctive woman because she’s always appearing in Houston Style Magazine touting her successful Cajun restaurant. So even though competition was fierce, that day I just wanted to relax and enjoy myself. I was comfortably seated in the great room on this huge couch that could fit twenty people. The ceilings were fifteen feet high, there was a sixty-five-inch flat-screen television, a wet bar, and plenty of buffalo wings and sauce, chips and dip, cold bottles of beer, and other goodies.

  One guy saw me, sat next to me, immediately introduced himself. I felt flattered that he’d single me out. But when a taller, more well-endowed woman entered the room, talking loud and smiling, the guy who made me feel good made me feel bad when he got up and struck up a conversation with the Next Woman. I tried not to let his rejection bother me, but when the couple started dancing and there wasn’t any music playing, I had enough. I quietly excused myself and sought a spot that was less busy. I noticed a room down the hallway with some French doors and decided to go in there. Soothing music played on a radio. I sat on the sofa, soon fell asleep. I woke up when I heard someone talking to me.

  “Hey, there, you look so adorable I didn’t want to wake you. But they’re about to serve dessert …”

  I opened my eyes and blinked. “Who are you?”

  “Jeff. Jeffrey Williams.” He extended his hand. And when I extended mine he shook it but held my fingers tight in his grasp while he continued introducing himself. I felt so at ease with him. I sat up. Listened. Asked questions. Laughed at his jokes. He asked if I minded if he sat. I didn’t. And we talked for an hour, not thinking about dessert or who was winning the football game.