Afterwards

by Nia Forrester

  Now that he was back, he would task Frank, Robyn and Jamal had to work on two scenarios. The first, and Chris’ preferred scenario, was that they convince the artists to ride out their current contracts with the promise of less-costly perks. If they went that route, Jamal would be the point-man. He was practiced and expert at getting artists to step back in line. He would work with Etienne to develop a flashy yet cost-effective incentive package that would keep them happy.

  And the second, far less attractive option was to come up with “Plan B contracts” that offered the complaining artists shorter contract terms for the same amount of money. Plan B was a longshot because as much as the Pouvoir Noir artists wanted more cash, they also wanted to remain with a label that was almost certain in a growth period; so persuading them that becoming free agents sooner was to their benefit would take some doing. In fact, Etienne’s prediction was that most of them would see the offer as a veiled threat that they were about to be dumped.

  Reaching a meeting of the minds on the Plan B strategy was going to take some doing, and after that, there would be lots of haggling with the artists’ lawyers as well. That last past was better done in person. So even though his work in Paris was done, there was a good chance one or two of them would have to go back, yet again, as part of a clean-up crew to quiet the disgruntled artists.

  “I would love go.”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  Everyone sitting around the conference room table looked up simultaneously. Fingers, poised over iPads, froze and foot tapping that may have been occurring under the table ceased; mouths hung almost agape. It wasn’t what he said, so much as how he said it.

  Robyn cleared her throat. “It was just . . . I did most of the work with local counsel when we were in Paris, so I thought it might be best for . . .”

  “We don’t need you for this,” Chris said, cutting her off. “Frank, you’ll take it.”

  But Frank was already shaking his head. “We’re in the twenty-first century, for chrissakes. We can videoconference or something if it comes to that.”

  “Work it out anyway you want,” Chris said, getting up from his seat. “But give me a plan by COB. And Robyn, I need to see you when you’re done here.”

  He grabbed the sheaf of papers on the table in front of him and headed for the exit before anyone could see read the emotions behind his outburst. He would no sooner approve of Robyn getting on a plane to Paris right now than he would put her on the back of a motorcycle—which come to think of it, she would probably think was just fine.

  As he left the room, he heard the tail-end of the conversation.

  “What about you, Turner?” Frank was saying. “You want to dust off your lawyer hat and go to Paris to make nice with a bunch of French attorneys?”

  “Oh hell no,” Jamal said. “I’m with you on the videoconferencing idea. My momma makes a mean jerk turkey. Ain’t no way I’m taking the chance of missing that.”

  ___________________

  It was just a thought, and a foolish, impulsive one at that. Occasionally, Robyn actually forgot that she was in the second trimester of her pregnancy. She had settled into her new body, loving and luxuriating in it and feeling lucky that she’d been permitted this amazing experience. But sometimes because she was feeling so settled, she didn’t realize the limitations that came along with it. Like being unable to fly eight hours across the Atlantic.

  Jamal looked over at Robyn now. “You want to go smooth over . . . whatever with the Boss-Man?” he said, grinning at her. “Bruh was lookin’ kinda hot when he left.”

  “Let’s finish up here first,” Robyn mumbled.

  Though there were sure to be rumors, no one knew that she and Chris were on the outs and had been for the entire time he was gone, although Jamal probably suspected given their cool and distant greeting earlier in the day.

  Missing Chris had become as much a part of her life that seeing him had almost had no effect. Almost. She’d wanted to drop the damn files and throw herself at him, but seeing him at all after so long, and looking so well had done her heart good. Even if she couldn’t touch him.

  “Okay, so without Chris here, this will be a short meeting,” Frank said now. “Let’s just brainstorm a few options for the Plan B contracts and shoot him over the outlines.”

  By the time the meeting was over, everyone else had forgotten that Robyn had been ordered to report to the principal’s office. Frank rushed off ahead of them to another engagement and Jamal asked her if she wanted to grab lunch before she looked down the hallway, rolling her eyes, pretending exasperation she didn’t feel. Delaying the inevitable, she walked Jamal to the elevator and stood with him as he waited talking about his mother’s jerk turkey before Lisa interrupted them.

  “Excuse me, Robyn?” she said, her voice small.

  Robyn turned and looked at her inquiringly.

  “I’ve been asked to make sure you don’t leave the floor before stopping in to talk to Chris.”

  Jamal smothered a laugh.

  “I won’t,” Robyn said, keeping her cool. “But if you could buzz him and let him know I do want to go to the bathroom first, I’d appreciate it.”

  Lisa gave her a half-hearted smile as though not sure whether it was a joke. Sighing somewhat melodramatically, Robyn waved at Jamal and went to face the music.

  Chris looked up when she entered, his eyes scanning her from head to toe. Robyn was wearing one of many new wrap dresses she’d bought because they were both loose and hugged her body at the same time, and the tie at the waist concealed her belly band, this genius contraption she’d found online that held her belly firmly like a hug, and felt as glorious as her best maternity bra. Robyn had liked the way she looked when she glanced in the mirror morning, and the wedge-heeled pumps she was wearing were only slightly uncomfortable. So it was a good outfit day and she didn’t mind at all being looked over the way Chris was looking her over now.

  “You want to shut the door?” he asked.

  Robyn turned and did as he asked, looking at him once again but not yet taking a seat so it actually did feel like being in the principal’s office.

  “Was that just to piss me off?” he asked. “Back in the meeting?”

  “No,” Robyn said right away. “Although, I could see why you might think so.”

  Chris looked taken aback by that admission.

  “I wouldn’t fly to Paris. I couldn’t,” she admitted. “I spoke without thinking. Sorry.”

  His expression transformed to suspicious, as though he didn’t know what to make of her being so agreeable, and certainly didn’t trust it.

  Robyn shrugged. “So, was that it?”

  Chris nodded. “Yeah.”

  Robyn turned.

  “No,” he said.

  Turning to face him again, Robyn took him in, paying attention to details for the first time—he looked a little tired (but he often did), but well. She hoped that he had been keeping up with the lean, low-salt, low-sugar diet Robyn told him helped her brother with his migraines. And she knew that come Hell or high water, Chris would be up every morning to run on a treadmill. He was probably okay. He’d been okay before her and would be okay after her as well.

  “How’re you doing?” he asked, his voice softer. “How’s . . ?” He looked down at her stomach.

  “The baby’s good,” she said. “Do you want to know what I’m . . . what we’re having?”

  One corner of Chris’ mouth lifted in half a smile. “You found out?”

  “Yeah. The first time we tried, we couldn’t tell and then the suspense was killing me so I went back the next week and asked Dr. Shayk to do another ultrasound. So, want to know?”

  His nod was barely perceptible.

  “Girl,” Robyn said, not able to contain her grin. She’d been bursting with the news too long, dying to tell him but not sure how he would react, or whether he would even care to hear from her.

  Chris stood and came around his desk toward her. Robyn held her breath, wa
iting. She wanted him to touch her so badly, her body positively vibrated as he approached.

  “Is that what you wanted?” he asked.

  He was inches away now, and extended a hand, palm open, placing it low on her belly. Instinctively, Robyn placed her hand over his.

  “I didn’t care which,” she said.

  His half-smile became a full one. Robyn could feel his breath, smell his scent. Almost without knowing she was doing it, she took a step closer, and once she was that close, it was impossible not to do what she did next. She put a hand at the side of his face and watched him react, his eyes reflecting a series of emotions in quick succession: relief, alarm, and then finally, guardedness.

  “Are you still angry with me?” she asked.

  Chris turned his head, so that her hand no longer made contact with his cheek. Robyn watched as he avoided making eye contact with her and then finally, let the hand on her stomach drop, turned and walked away, back to the safe space behind his desk.

  Tracy was right. He was scared.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” she said.

  “No. I’m not angry.”

  Robyn nodded. “Good. So let’s just stop, okay?”

  “Stop . . ?” Chris narrowed his eyes, not comprehending.

  “Stop behaving as though we are. I want to be able to drop by and tell you stuff, like I used to. Or call you and not be afraid that you won’t pick up, or that you will. And I want you to call me if you feel like it. And now I’m having this baby and . . .” she shrugged. “I just want to be able to share that with you. Everything about it, or as much as you want to know. Could we do that?”

  “Yeah,” he said, after a moment, “we could do that.”

  25

  “Hey Dad! Look at this one.”

  Deuce was standing next to a black, fully loaded BMW X6. Turning to Vincent, the salesman, Chris asked the price range and heard a couple numbers that were well above what he planned to spend on a sixteen-year old’s first ride.

  “Keep walking,” Chris called back to his son.

  “Aw, c’mon, man!” Deuce literally threw his hands up in the air and ambled away from the row of X6s and towards the more modest X3s. After a moment, he turned to look at Chris again. “Can I at least test-drive one?”

  Chris looked at Vincent for confirmation and he shrugged. “Sure.”

  “A’ight, take him out then. Just so we’re clear, there’s no way I’m getting him an X6.”

  Vincent laughed. “Okay, man.” Then he raised a hand and called Deuce over. “C’mon then, young ‘un, let’s get those keys.”

  Deuce let out a whoop and headed toward the dealership with Vincent. Chris watched them go, taking in his son’s height and the breadth of his shoulders. From behind, and when he wasn’t talking, he could be mistaken a grown-ass man. Though they’d never talked about it, Chris knew he had to have been experiencing some things, being a big, Black kid in a town like Bedford. And Deuce was definitely into girls, so maybe he had cute Black chicks in his school, but it was more likely that most of them were White. Did Deuce have a preference? Did he have a girlfriend? Chris hadn’t a clue.

  And unlike Karen, Sheryl didn’t volunteer information like that. She rationed out information about Deuce in miserly fashion, using each tidbit as bait to get Chris to come over to the house, or to get him to give her money. Since her wedding, he’d been avoiding her as much as he could, and had only seen for the first time today when he went to get Deuce to go car-shopping. He was still sending Sheryl a monthly check, even though she had her husband André living in the house now; and because she didn’t want to upset that apple-cart, Sheryl had been as sweet as pie when she saw him that morning.

  Still, it couldn’t go on like that, because Chris wasn’t about to start supporting André, too. What kind of man would even allow himself to be supported by some other dude, anyway? But hell, that was Sheryl’s concern, not his. If she wanted to keep some no ‘count stud as her husband, then that was on her, but it only highlighted for Chris that he needed to step up with Deuce more. No way was he going to let a man like that be his son’s role model.

  Deuce and Vincent emerged from the dealership, his son with keys in hand and his eyes alight with excitement.

  “You comin’?” he asked, as he bee-lined toward the black X6.

  Chris shook his head. “Nah. You go ahead. I’ll wait right here. Don’t hit no kids or old ladies.”

  “Got it,” Deuce said, giving him a thumbs-up. “Only adults and old men.”

  Shaking his head, Chris watched as his son slid behind the wheel of the hundred thousand dollar luxury vehicle, hoping he wouldn’t wreck it. Or himself. As the taillights disappeared around the corner, he pulled out his phone. They were only a few miles from Robyn’s house and it was a Saturday afternoon. Saturdays used to be their days, when there was scarcely a moment they were apart. If he worked in his office, she came to sit there with him, legs folded beneath her, reading something on her e-reader, making occasional comments out loud, talking to the characters, making impatient sounds.

  I can’t understand why my mother reads this crap, she said once.

  And yet, Chris said without looking up, here you are, you’re reading it too.

  Oh shut up, Christopher, she said, a smile in her voice.

  That exchange she’d taken as an invitation to interrupt him and moments later came around his desk, and sat astride him on his chair, her legs hanging over the arms.

  Since he’d called her into his office about a week earlier, they’d been cool again. Nothing like before, but not tense either.

  Chris sighed, pausing as he was about to put the phone away again.

  Let’s just stop, okay?

  That was what she said. They should just stop being angry with each other and share this experience. What happened afterwards . . . would happen. He dialed her number and was still considering what to say when she answered. Her voice was buoyant.

  “I’m in your neighborhood,” he said. “What’re you up to?”

  “My mother’s teaching me how to bake,” she said lowering her voice.

  “You already know how to cook,” he said, making idle conversation.

  “Cooking, baking—not the same. I’m a lousy baker. Why, were you thinking of coming to rescue me?”

  Chris smiled. “You need rescuing?”

  Robyn lowered her voice even further. “Probably not. I don’t have the heart to tell her that before I bake a cake, I’d run out to Whole Foods and buy one. So I’m letting her have this, y’know what I mean? Playing Grandma and all. She seems to think this baby’s going to pop out demanding chocolate chip cookies or something.”

  “So this would be her first one, huh?”

  “Yup. My brother’s younger. No wife yet, so no babies yet.” And then she paused. “Not that there has to be a . . . well, you know what I mean . . .” She sounded embarrassed. “. . . anyway, what’re you up to?”

  “I’m at a BMW dealership with Deuce. Looking at a car for him for his sixteenth birthday.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “Really? That’s great, Chris,” Robyn said finally.

  “Don’t sound so surprised.”

  “I’m not!”

  Then neither of them had anything to say, the silence stretching out.

  “Hey!” Robyn said, suddenly. “Did you want to maybe stop by? Bring Deuce. He can eat some of this chocolate cake because Lord knows, neither me nor my Mom are in need of cake.”

  “Speak for yourself!” a voice called from the background.

  “Yeah,” Chris said. “We might be able to help you out.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. We’ll be there. I’ll call when we’re headed your way,” Chris said.

  Chris ended the call. She sounded so happy. And whenever he spotted her in the office, she looked that way too, upbeat and smiling all the time. Maybe having him out of her life had taken a load off. Chris dismissed the thought. But fuck it. So wh
at if it had? They’d both moved on and were in a different place right now. Friends. And that was all.

  ___________________

  Deuce looked over his shoulder as Chris pulled down the driveway in front of Robyn’s mother’s townhome, lifting a hand to offer Robyn one last wave. Chris tried to read his expression but could not.

  “So I’ma have another sister, huh?” he said after a few minutes.

  Chris took a breath, thought of what the ‘fatherly’ thing to say might be. “Yeah. How do you feel about that?”

  Deuce gave a grunt then shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t make any difference,” he said. “I don’t ever see the sister I already have, so . . .”

  Struggling against the urge to ask whether Deuce wanted to see his sister, Chris said nothing. It didn’t matter if his son wanted to know his half-siblings, he should know them. And it was his duty as their parent in common, to make that happen. Karen would be all for it, and Sheryl would complain but wouldn’t prevent it. The only real impediment was him.

  “I’ll make sure you see her soon,” Chris said finally.

  “Cool.”

  “So what’d you think of Robyn?”

  “She’s cool,” Deuce said. “Pretty.” And then after a couple beats. “And that was some good chocolate cake, too.”

  “Well you ate enough of it.”

  Deuce laughed. “She did say she needed me to help her get rid of it.”

  “She was being polite,” Chris said, trying not to smile.

  “Hey, I’m a man, I need my sustenance, nah mean?”

  “You ain’t a man till you drive yourself to the BMW dealer and pay for your own ride,” Chris said. “But since we on the topic of manhood— you got anythin’ goin’ on with any of those girls at your school?”