Afterwards

by Nia Forrester

  Robyn had shifted in her sleep, still clutching the pillow, looking like she would sleep through Armageddon, her face relaxed and her back rising and falling almost imperceptibly. He surprised himself with the hope that she kept right on sleeping, maybe until it got late, until morning turned to afternoon and then evening and then it would become impractical for her to go home.

  Chris had touched her on the tattoo on the small of her back. She’d placed it so low that even wearing a bikini might not reveal it. Only those most intimate would know that it was there. Robyn liked to hide her wild side. They’d definitely been wild that morning, going at each other like animals, not stopping to think the mature, practical thoughts that should have occurred to at least one of them. Like birth-control.

  The memory of how reckless he’d been jarred him back to the present. He could have insisted on condoms but hadn’t. Why the hell hadn’t he? Because he wanted to feel her, that was why. Every single part of her—her skin on his skin and nothing in between. The most immature and sophomoric of reasons.

  His phone rang, startling him for a moment, and Chris reached for it.

  “My friend,” Etienne Ballard said. “I am downstairs. Come eat with me.”

  There was always the tiniest bit of sarcasm in Ballard’s voice when he called Chris ‘my friend’. It was clear he still intermittently thought of him as little more than the American who’d raped him of a large chunk of his company. But at least he remained civil and could be counted on to get him drunk.

  “I’ll be right down,” Chris said.

  ___________________

  Maybe Etienne Ballard was his French alter-ego. Or at least his alter-ego when he was ten years younger.

  After a rich meal marked by wine and hard spirits in a crowded, loud and smoky restaurant, they had moved on to the drunken debauchery part of the evening, going to a strip club that was raunchy enough to rival some of the most disgustingly triple-X joints he’d been to in ATL. And after that, another club, this one a regular nightclub, where what felt like dozens of women stopped by their table. They were very French, very chic, very hip women. Some of them were even beautiful, but Chris found that mustering up enough energy to be interested in any of them felt like more than he was equipped for. He was drunk, and already knew he would have a headache before the night was over, and possibly a full-blown migraine in the morning.

  “My friend,” Etienne leaned over and yelled into Chris’ ear over the music. “Someone would like to know you.”

  Chris followed Ballard’s gaze in the direction of a young woman with a short haircut, spiky and reddish-blonde, wearing a black leather vest over a white tank, and tight capris in a camouflage print. Her lipstick was black, contrasting with her pale, white skin.

  “You take her,” Chris suggested.

  Ballard laughed. “You know my taste,” he said. “And sadly, Jeanette does not meet that standard.”

  “What is your taste?” Chris asked, knowing he probably shouldn’t ask.

  “You know. You flew . . .” Ballard, drunk himself, mimicked a plane or bird opening his arms wide, cigarette dangling from his lips, “. . . away with her. And cruelly, did not bring her back to me.”

  Chris sniffed and forced a smile. “That wasn’t never gon’ work out for you, Ballard.”

  “Oh, but why not?” He made a mournful face, taking a puff on his cigarette. “She enjoyed my company, I enjoyed hers . . .”

  Chris got the distinct impression he was being deliberately goaded, but even so, really, really wanted to punch this fucker in the face.

  “Does she belong to someone?” Ballard insisted.

  The choice of words irritated him. “She’s not the type of woman to belong to anyone,” Chris said.

  “And yet,” Ballard took another drag, releasing the smoke slowly, “she is exactly the type of woman one would want to own.” He shrugged. “C’est la vie.”

  24

  “It’s done.”

  Robyn looked up. Frank Casey was standing at the threshold of her office, jacket off, the sleeves of his shirt pulled up to his elbows, and grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

  “Done?”

  “Pouvoir Noir. Signed, sealed, delivered.”

  Robyn smiled, manufacturing the reaction she knew was expected of her. If the Pouvoir Noir deal was finalized, that meant Chris would be on his way back to the States, and to the office. It would mean that after weeks of not seeing him, and of missing him, and then finally, coming to terms with the fact that whatever they had was done, she was going to have to face him again. Her throat tightened, as though someone had clutched it. She swallowed hard.

  “I’d offer you some bubbly or something,” Frank said, “but clearly not appropriate in your . . . delicate state. But congratulations on a job well done, Robyn. Couldn’t have pulled it off without you.”

  Her “delicate state” as Frank put it, had become more apparent over the past seven weeks. Everyone in the office knew that she was pregnant, thus far, no one had been bold enough to ask about the parentage of her unborn child though many of them probably suspected. Robyn cared less about that than she thought she would. Over the last three weeks, her excitement at being pregnant had vastly overtaken her sadness at the end of her relationship with Chris. But now, knowing that he was on his way home, she wondered whether what she thought was her rebounding was really just denial.

  “A bunch of us are going out after work to get some drinks to celebrate. And I’m guessing you won’t be interested, so how ‘bout you take the rest of the afternoon off? Recover from all those late nights we’ve been pulling,” Frank offered.

  “I just might,” Robyn said, nodding.

  Frank stood there, waiting. “So c’mon,” he said. “Shut down the computer, get your stuff and go on home. Enjoy the rest of the afternoon.”

  Robyn hesitated. She still had a few loose ends she could tie up, but what the hell? She could veg out on the sofa and play with her belly, her endlessly fascinating, burgeoning mini-globe of a belly that she loved just as surely as if it were an actual infant.

  “Okay. Doing that right now,” she said nodding.

  Outside, Robyn hailed a cab. Lately, she preferred not to take the subway, even though she knew she was being silly. She imagined herself being elbowed in the stomach by some inconsiderate strap-hanger jockeying for room on one of the cars, or shoved to the platform by a rush of bodies hoping to get on or off the train. So instead she was wasting almost twenty dollars a day on cabs to and from 34th Street to catch the PATH train home. Once in the cab though, she decided not to go home and instead gave another address.

  Tracy answered the door to the apartment barefoot and wearing an apron of all things. Putting a finger to her lips, she motioned toward the bedroom.

  “Layla’s sleeping,” she whispered. “C’mon up to the kitchen with me.”

  Robyn followed her friend up the spiral staircase that led to the second level of the rather unique space. It used to be Brendan’s bachelor pad, and had the distinction of a kitchen and rec room in the loft, and the bedroom and living quarters on the lower level. It still looked like a place where a man might live alone except for the telltale signs of a family, like the diaper bag on the ultra-modern sofa, the play-yard on the living room floor and assorted baby toys on the just about every surface.

  “Something smells good,” Robyn said. “What’re you making?”

  “A turkey,” Tracy said.

  “A turkey?” Robyn laughed. “You and Brendan planning to eat that all by yourselves?”

  Tracy was crouching in front of the oven now, peering in the window. “We’re doing Thanksgiving in Atlanta with my mother and the rest of my family. I said I’d do the bird.”

  “Thanksgiving is weeks away.”

  Robyn took in Tracy’s sweatpants and tank top, her messily-fastened ponytail, face devoid of make-up; and yet strangely enough she looked even more beautiful. But it wasn’t what she was or wasn’t wearing, it was that she was
happy. After Layla was born, she’d gone back to work for about a month but, according to Riley, was miserable.

  So quit, Brendan had told her. Stay home.

  After another month or so of resisting, she had, insisting she would probably take only a year off. But Riley told Robyn confidentially that she didn’t think Tracy would ever go back. Riley had slowed down a little after her second baby but now was back in the swing of things, but Tracy seemed to have found her niche.

  She doesn’t know it yet, but crazy as it sounds, Riley said, I think Tracy’s going to be much happier as a homemaker.

  Watching her now, Robyn could believe it.

  “I know it’s weeks away, but I want my turkey to be perfect. My mother’s a stickler about the turkey.”

  “So this is a practice bird?” Robyn asked sitting at the kitchen counter.

  “Yeah.” And then her face lit up. “You want to stay for dinner and try it? It could be as dry as paper and Brendan would still pretend it’s delicious.”

  “Ahm, I think I’ll pass. If I eat turkey for dinner here, I may wind up asleep on your sofa. It’s hard enough to keep my eyes open these days.”

  Tracy wiped her hands on her thighs and went to the fridge to get Robyn a bottled water. “I know what you mean. I remember what that was like. How’re you feeling otherwise? Y’know, with . . .”

  “Okay. Except I got some news a little while ago. Chris is done in Paris. So he’ll be back any day now.”

  Sitting next to her at the kitchen counter, Tracy didn’t seem to know what to say. Instead she rested her chin on her fist and studied Robyn’s face.

  “I’m fine about it,” Robyn shrugged. “I’ve sort of been preparing. As much as you can prepare for something like that.”

  “So nothing? The whole time he was gone, he didn’t call or . . .”

  “We emailed back and forth. But only about work,” Robyn said, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

  It was tough even talking about that. She remembered the first time she saw email from him in her inbox after he’d left, how her heart leapt because she hoped—no, believed—that Chris had finally come to his senses and realized that she would never try to take advantage of him, and that the pregnancy had really, truly been unexpected. But when she opened it, it was about work, some random question he was asking about the Pouvoir Noir investment. So she responded as anyone else on the legal team might, making no reference whatsoever to anything even vaguely personal.

  For weeks that had gone on, him sending messages, sometimes only to her, sometimes copying Frank or others on the team, but always just about business. Soon she stopped hoping because it was clear that he was signaling that all they would have between them from now on would be work. Or worse yet, maybe he wasn’t even signaling anything; maybe he’d simply moved on.

  “I don’t think he’s that cold,” Tracy said shaking her head. “He’s masking.”

  “Well then he’s damned good at it.”

  “I was good at it,” Tracy said. “So I know it when I see it. He’s afraid of you.”

  Robyn laughed. “Afraid of me? Why?”

  “Because he doesn’t know what you are,” Tracy said. “You’re . . . outside of his experience.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to do about that, Tracy.”

  Tracy got up and crouching in front of the oven again, took another look at her turkey.

  “What you do about it, Robyn, is nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Yes, nothing. In the very beginning of our relationship? Mine and Brendan’s? When I was running like crazy, scared as hell about what I felt for him, that’s what he did. Nothing. He was always there, but he didn’t push, or pressure. He just let me work it out until I found my way back to him.”

  “I don’t know,” Robyn shook her head. “Chris and I were never that solid to begin with. It was so new, and then . . .” she gestured toward her belly. “I mean, what’s a man supposed to do with that?”

  “You’re a lawyer,” Tracy said. “Haven’t you ever heard the saying, ‘don’t bargain against yourself’?”

  “Of course,” Robyn said, laughing.

  “So don’t. Don’t start telling yourself that what you want is too much. Hold out for it until you get it, whatever that is. And in the meantime, just . . . be there, but let him work it out on his own.”

  Robyn heaved a deep sigh. “I don’t want to talk about him,” she said truthfully.

  Talking about Chris made her tense, and for the last couple of weeks, she had been anything but. Though he was always there in the back of her mind, the baby and her pregnancy were in the forefront. Thinking about being a mother didn’t make her tense; it made her effing euphoric. So that’s where she would focus her energy. Not on missing Chris, or hoping he would be or do anything other than he was. She was going to be a mother, and with any luck, motherhood would be as incredible for her as it obviously was for her friends.

  “Okay, so we’re not talking about Chris,” Tracy smiled. “Agreed. What’re we talking about then?”

  “Turkey,” Robyn said brightly, going to join Tracy in front of the oven. “I have a few tricks that will knock your mother’s socks off . . .”

  ___________________

  Wearing a lavender dress with a print that looked like blossoms all over it, Robyn came around the corner carrying an armload of file folders, laughing with Jamal Turner who was similarly burdened. Chris almost collided with them both and had to pull up short to avoid it. It was only then that Robyn turned and saw him, the laughter ceasing and transforming into a completely unrestrained look of pleasure; and for a moment, Chris’ expression mirrored her own.

  Slightly plumper in the face, she looked in most other respects the same. But different. Her eyes were brighter, her breasts bigger, and of course, she had a bump. Chris thought he would be prepared when he saw it, that it would be just as it had been when Sheryl was pregnant, and Karen. With their pregnancies he felt mild curiosity, but nothing more. This wasn’t at all like that. He saw Robyn’s stomach, a gradually sloping mound that began just beneath her breasts, and he immediately wanted to touch it.

  He almost did, until she spoke.

  “You’re back,” she said, her voice completely composed. “Congratulations.”

  It took him a moment to realize that she was talking about Pouvoir Noir.

  “Yeah, congratulations, Boss-Man,” Turner said. He reached awkwardly from beneath the files he was carrying to shake Chris’ hand. “Want to tell us how it finally went down?”

  “As much as I’d love to hear the war stories, I think I’ll just wait for the debrief,” Robyn said, readjusting the pile of file folders in her arms. “I need to get these back to the mailroom for scanning.”

  “I’ll take them,” Chris said. They were the first words he’d spoken to her in almost two months.

  Turning slightly to one side Robyn shook her head. “No need,” she said “If you take them I have no excuse to wander by the vending machine and get some chocolate. See you both later.”

  And then she kept walking.

  Chris didn’t know he was staring after her until he looked away and saw that Turner was watching him.

  “How is it,” Turner mused, “that some women get prettier when they’re pregnant, and some turn into cows?”

  Later, at the afternoon debrief, Chris thought he would be prepared this time. On the drive in that morning, when he thought about what he might do or say when he saw her in person, he decided that he would be perfectly fine. His last week in Paris, just to prove to himself how fine he was likely to be when he saw Robyn again, he’d finally screwed Jeanette, the skinny chick that was part of Etienne’s crew. She was damn near a contortionist in bed, and kept up a steady commentary in French the entire time. But once had been enough to convince Chris that while he was sure he was done with Robyn, he wasn’t ready to get into anything with anyone else just yet.

  Then, during the drive into the office, he rem
embered what it had been like taking that same route with her next to him in the car, talking a blue streak about any and everything. He could get used to the silence again. It was good; gave him time to get centered and prepared for the day.

  But when he saw her, walking down the hall and laughing with Turner, all Chris could think about was how good she looked, and how unnatural it felt not to be able to touch her.

  Now, as everyone was gathering in the conference room for him to download everything from his almost seven-week sojourn in Paris, his eyes drifted toward the door, waiting for Robyn to arrive, just so he could prove to himself he could do this.

  Finally showing up among the last wave, she had a pencil between her teeth and one of those black-and-white notebooks tucked under her arm, and in her hand was a candy bar. Sitting at the other end of the conference room table, near the opposite end, she unwrapped the chocolate just before he began speaking, holding it just beneath the surface of the table, as though that would muffle the noise of the cellophane wrapper.

  As he opened the meeting, accepting the ‘welcome-backs’ he was distracted by her eating it, the look of mindless bliss that crossed her features when she took the first bite, and the slow way she chewed as though wanting it to last for as long as possible. And then when it was done, she looked at the empty wrapper as though it had betrayed her by not containing anything more for her to snack on.

  Chris stifled a smile, but then remembered that there was serious business yet to be discussed. Prying his eyes and mind away from Robyn and her antics at the other end of the table, he described the problem to his team.

  Before he left Paris, Etienne Ballard alerted him to the fact that many of the label’s artists, having gotten wind that Pouvoir Noir was now bankrolled by Scaife, wanted a renegotiation of their contracts. And surprise, surprise, they wanted more money.

  What would have been a no-brainer under American law, was not as easy in France. As it was explained by their Paris counsel, under French law, a “change in circumstances” might trigger a duty to renegotiate terms of an existing contract. If one group of Pouvoir Noir’s artists succeeded in getting more favorable terms on their contract, others would go for the same deal, and what would follow would be an avalanche of renegotiations, making the investment in the label potentially millions of dollars more expensive than anticipated.