The Ex-Wife

by Dow, Candice

  Ayana

  My state of ecstasy spilled over into the next day. Cam texted me bright and early in the morning: CAN’T WAIT TO SEE U THIS AFTERNOON.

  I had planned to ask Quentin all about him since he was the one who had referred me to Cam. When I saw Quentin, I felt a little unsure of whether I should say anything. Cameron’s energy was right. He was honest and sincere. I’m usually right about these things so I wasn’t sure if I should solicit secondhand information. Then there was a side of me wondering if my analysis could have been wrong because I wanted it to be right. My intellect and my emotions battled as I tried to decide what to say to Quentin.

  He interrupted my preoccupation. “How’d the home search go?”

  “It was cool. We looked at two places and I’m looking at two today.”

  “See anything you like?”

  I wanted to laugh. Hell yeah, I saw something I liked. I only wished Quentin had forewarned me that his boy was so damn fine.

  “Yeah, I saw one place that I really liked.”

  “Cool. Cam is a real good dude.”

  “He seems like it.”

  Quentin and I went over notes for the show and neither of us mentioned Cam any further. I decided to delve more into Cameron’s background once we were off the air. I knew Quentin would know it, being that they’d been friends since high school.

  When I started the show, it was the first time in twelve hours that I wasn’t thinking about Cam, because I love my job more than anything. When I’m here, I feel most like myself. It’s not exactly what I dreamed I’d be doing, but it comes so naturally.

  While pursuing my PhD in psychology I started out on a journey to discover why all my good girlfriends and I were still single. We were all in our late twenties, attractive, and had good jobs or were pursuing professional degrees. Certainly the selection of good black men couldn’t be that bad. There had to be something wrong with us. Were we too dominant? Were we too picky? Or did we just have bad luck? Assuming this would be the perfect dissertation subject, I began my research. Naturally, I decided to start with the women who were in seemingly healthy marriages.

  After nearly ten interviews I was shocked to learn that many of these women in the socially imposed ideal situation were unhappy, and seven of them claimed they would not marry their husbands if they had it to do over again. While I had expected to get responses about how great it was to be committed to the one, I ended up disappointed with the reality that men are men.

  Besides being single, my friends and I were happy. Most of all we were free. With freedom came options and we knew we weren’t stuck. Maybe that was why we laughed, traveled, and absorbed life. Suddenly my research shifted to single women. Were they all as happy as we were? After interviewing a few single women, I found that a large percentage of them were unhappy too. They felt life had dealt them a bad hand. Could it be that being a woman is an unhappy existence in and of itself? Why did it seem that women were never satisfied? Finally it hit me. The one common denominator among the unhappy women was that none of them had really good girlfriends. The women, single or married, with thriving female friendships seemed to get the most out of life.

  I went to my adviser to let him know that my dissertation would be called Girlfriends: The Therapeutic Effect. He found my topic laughable until I began to explain. Women forgo the chance for true commitment and intimacy with each other, assuming that it can be found only in a marriage. My adviser was still quite perplexed as I continued. Men are completely incapable of giving women the amount of emotional security they seek. Women in turn beg, plead, and worry men to be something that they can never be, leaving themselves eternally unfulfilled. Finally my adviser began to let down his guard and smile.

  “Ayana, you’re right. I think this will be quite interesting, actually.”

  “When women get in relationships, they feel like their girlfriends are disposable. ‘Finally, now I can stop hanging out and just chill with my man.’”

  He laughed. “This is very true.”

  “That’s crazy. What is the shift in our brain that makes us believe that we can do without our girls now that we have a man?” I paused, hoping the concept would sink in. “Men don’t want to go to the mall. They don’t want to gossip. They don’t want to watch romantic comedies. Men don’t give up sports or beer when they get into relationships. So why do we give up our natural antidepressant? Real girlfriends?”

  He chuckled. “Ms. Blue, I’d like you to keep me posted. If your research is strong, I’ll approve the topic.”

  He approved it and offered to help me find a literary agent. I had never imagined myself as an author, but he encouraged me to turn my dissertation into a book. He found my research and recommendations profound. With the coaxing of my single-girl crew and my bestie/sister Aaliyah, I turned my research into a book titled Where My Girls At? I was offered a two-book deal from a major publishing house and had no clue what I could write as a second book. Then one of my good friends suggested that I write about how to be a good friend, because that was a skill not all women had.

  My first book talked about the importance of friends but didn’t give instructions. The sales for Where My Girls At? were nominal at best. A year later Girlfriend Confidential hit the shelves. My friends vowed that this one would not go down like the first. We had learned our lesson: getting the book on the shelves means absolutely nothing if no one knows anything about it. We all put our skills together and I had my own in-house publicity team. We sent press kits to every media outlet, every female organization, and every sorority, and attended every chick conference we could find. Girlfriend Confidential became the topic of discussion at hair salons, book clubs, and girl groups everywhere. Women began to deem me the relationship expert. I started to get e-mails from people asking for my advice on every aspect of their lives. I’d only had my PhD for a little over a year; how was I supposed to help all these people? I wasn’t ready for all this, but opportunity after opportunity came knocking at my door. The more speaking and workshop engagements I took on, the more popular I grew.

  Within eighteen months I was approached with an offer to host my own satellite radio show. I was offered an afternoon slot, from one to two. The time slot already had a listener base, primarily African-American women. The show would be named after my book: Girlfriend Confidential with Ayana Blue. I accepted the job.

  Before my first day on the air I was introduced to Quentin so we could map out the format of the show. He was a senior producer and had already designed a plan for success. On the first day he decided to have my girls in the studio with me. He felt that would give me an initial dose of confidence and he was right. Mandy, Cori, and my sister Aaliyah were there and it was just like a girls’ night out. With each phone call I became more relaxed. With each day I was more certain that this was where I was destined to be. My listeners needed me, my voice, and my advice.

  Now I listened to the caller on the line explaining why she was unhappy and why she felt neglected by her husband. Listening is the most important component of my job. Having compassion and understanding for people’s feelings is the one thing I think comes naturally for me. I needed the caller to redirect her focus, because positivity is the first step to any happy relationship.

  I said, “You really have to be thankful for the little things. Don’t focus so much on what he doesn’t do as opposed to what he does do. My dad’s favorite saying is ‘Accentuate the positives and eliminate the negatives.’ If you try that for one week, I bet you’ll feel differently about him and your relationship.”

  The caller didn’t say anything. So I continued, “You see what I’m saying?”

  “I guess it’s just hard for me to understand why he can go play golf all day and not even think about how I feel.”

  “When he’s out playing golf, he is thinking about you. He’s releasing stress, possibly making business deals. Despite what time he comes home, he’s happy. Right?”

  “No, ’cause he acts like I’m n
ot supposed to say anything to him.”

  “You mean he acts like you’re not supposed to nag him. Just imagine you’re having a wonderful day and you come home to him asking you ‘Where’s dinner? Did you feed the kids? Did you wash the clothes?’ Wouldn’t that irritate you?”

  “Probably.”

  “I’m sure it would. You don’t want anybody blowing your high. It’s really that simple.”

  She laughed. “I never looked at it like that.”

  “Before you start flipping out on the brother, put yourself in his shoes.”

  “Thanks, Ayana. I’ll try that.”

  “You’re very welcome, girlfriend. And thanks for your call.”

  Quentin gave me a thumbs-up as we neared the end of another successful show. He loved my insight into men, women, and relationships. As if it weren’t enough that my words had the ability to talk a woman off the cliff or boost her self-esteem, Quentin’s response was a daily reminder that I was called to do this.

  I paused. “You’ve been listening to Girlfriend Confidential. I’m your host, Ayana Blue, and we have time for one more call.”

  Quentin signaled to me that there was a caller on the line. “Girlfriend Confidential. Tell me what you want to talk about.”

  The caller cleared her throat. “I wanna talk about you.”

  “OK,” I said hesitantly, because I sensed agitation in her voice.

  This type of call came in at least once every few days: a woman who wanted to keep being a victim and disagreed with my trying to empower her. She huffed, “So you’re everybody’s good girlfriend, right?”

  “I’d like to think I am.”

  “If that’s the case, why did you fuck my husband last night? You fucking home-wrecker!”

  The engineer quickly disconnected the call, but her point had come across loud and clear on air. Everyone thought it was a random angry woman, but I knew I had gotten myself into some shit. Quentin winced and it was clear he knew the caller’s voice. The guilty look on my face probably didn’t help either.

  My heart pounded as I began to gather my belongings. The engineer joked about how crazy people were. I offered halfhearted chuckles, but all I could think about was calling Cam and getting to the bottom of this. The adrenaline in my body was on fast-forward as a million different thoughts stalked me. Is he really in a marriage as opposed to near divorce as he claimed? How did she know we’d been together? What if this was really just a prank call? No, it couldn’t be. There was no way some prank caller would know that I had recently slept with a married man.

  Quentin watched my frenzy in disbelief, sympathy in his eyes.

  “You need help?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  When the room cleared, I tried to avoid eye contact with Quentin. I could tell he wanted to ignore what he felt, but he couldn’t. Finally he said, “I knew her voice when she first called. I should have never put her through.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That was Yasmin, Cam’s wife. I mean his ex-wife.”

  I snapped. “Is she his wife or ex-wife?”

  “She is his ex-wife. They have another hearing for the divorce in the next week or so. It’s over.”

  I huffed. “This is ridiculous.”

  “She is ridiculous. I thought she had stopped stalking him.”

  Duh! Had he not thought that Cam and I might become interested in each other? Why hadn’t he thought about that when he referred me? This wasn’t good. I was writing Cam off as a one-night stand. There was no way I could risk my livelihood for a man with a crazy ex-wife.

  “Wow,” I said slowly. “So she’s a stalker. Looks like I’m going to have to find another Realtor.”

  “Listen, once she realizes you’re just a client, she’ll chill.”

  “Yeah, sure. Tell me anything. Is he giving you a cut of his commission?”

  Quentin laughed. “Not at all, Ayana. He’s a good dude.”

  “Yeah, you said that once already.”

  Yasmin

  The three consecutive beeps that let you know the call has been disconnected came through the phone, but by that time I had made my point. All the women in the salon were laughing as I slapped high five with my girl Casey. She was shaking her head.

  “What did she say?” Casey asked.

  “She didn’t have a chance to say anything. She really don’t know who she’s playing with.”

  “Yas, you are crazy.”

  “C’mon, Casey, that chick is bold. She’s on here every day telling people how they need to act and she out here sleeping with somebody else’s man. That’s crazy.”

  Casey just looked at me. I knew what she was thinking, but until the divorce is final, he is my husband and he needs to respect me as such. Because I’m a hairstylist, nothing happens that I don’t know about. I have eyes and ears in the strangest places. How bold of them? No, how trifling of them to have sex in a parking garage. I mean, we’re not sixteen. I’ve told Cam a million times not to disrespect me and I wouldn’t disrespect him.

  I walked back to the chemical room. My client’s color was ready to be rinsed. I loved to make Cam and his hussies uncomfortable. With Ms. Ayana being in the public eye, she was the ideal target. She had no clue what I was capable of and if she knew better she would just disappear like I’d forced all the rest to.

  It was going to be fun to make her life miserable, because I would get instant gratification. As she signed off the show, the quivering in her voice gave me a feeling of victory.

  My client looked at me and said, “You’re happy.”

  “I should be.”

  “So do you know Ayana Blue or do you just listen to the show?”

  I hadn’t thought she was in on that whole discussion so I was caught off guard. My neck snapped back. She said, “You just called in. Right?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Well, it doesn’t take a genius to know you were calling in to the show. We were listening. Then you turned it down.”

  I laughed because I’d thought I was being discreet and clearly I wasn’t but I didn’t care. When I get angry, I can feel heat rising in my diaphragm. At that point I spit fire and I am completely unaware of my surroundings.

  “Yeah, she slept with my husband in a car last night.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, they went to dinner and one of my clients waited the table. She recognized Cam and of course she recognized every girl’s best friend. She didn’t say anything to them because she wanted to spy. When she left work, she noticed they were still in the car. So she decided to watch them.”

  My client’s eyes got big just as mine had when I heard the story for the first time. I continued, “These dummies decide to bump and grind in the car. I mean, damn.”

  “What?”

  “And from what my informant says, they were clearly on a first date.”

  “What?”

  She was as shocked as me. Not to mention that my clients didn’t know it was over between Cam and me. We had been apart for about eighteen months, but I was still hopeful. See, the breakup was my fault and I figured it was my obligation to get the relationship back together. I don’t understand why life doesn’t come with a damn rewind button. It hurts my heart when I think about how I ruined my life.

  When the new FedEx guy first walked into the shop, I knew it was trouble because of the thoughts running through my mind as I watched his sexy ass. He must have read my mind because he came back every day smelling good and looking good and I tried my best to look cute for him. That was my entire mission each day. Finally I said something to him and he was game. After I had Caron, I felt like Cam just stopped paying me any attention. He was so caught up in work and making money, I felt invisible. But this guy brought me back to life.

  Six months later, I wanted to leave Cam. I wanted to be with Overnight Express, as I had dubbed him. Overnight Express made me feel young and special. Once I had my heart set on it, I did everything I could to make C
ameron leave me. He would tell me things like, “Because of Caron, I’m going to ignore that.” Or, “Yasmin, I want to work on this for his sake. He deserves two parents.”

  Overnight Express had me strung out on love and I couldn’t hear a damn thing that Cam was saying. Every time I acted a fool, Cam would make an excuse for why we should stay together. How stupid can you be, man? I’m trying to leave you. It became clear that I couldn’t just merely allude to wanting to break up. I had to be explicit. Even if I had walked in the door holding a huge poster that had our wedding picture on it with a big strike through it, he still wouldn’t have gotten the message. Casey warned me not to leave a good man for good sex, but I just couldn’t understand at that time. Cameron was an obstacle keeping me from my heart’s desire. He became the enemy and I never thought about how hurt he would be. I only thought about how it hurt me not to see Overnight Express.

  I got reckless and began to take Caron around my lover. We’d spend long days together. I hoped that he and Caron could get to know each other so that when we were a family, everyone would be familiar. Caron actually liked him too. I’d always say, “Don’t tell Daddy about our special friend.”

  Little boys are so loyal, because he never even hinted that we’d spent time with Overnight Express. One day I was at work and got a call from Cam. He started out slowly and calmly. “Yasmin, someone told me that they saw you and Caron with some nigga at the zoo.”

  “And?”

  “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “If I had something to tell you, I would have told you.”

  “Yasmin, don’t make me hurt you.”

  “Cam, you don’t want that kind of trouble.”

  “Yasmin, who were you with?”

  “My man,” I said without remorse.

  My words punched all the testosterone out of him. He was speechless, and the next thing I heard was the operator. I had to tell Cam what I was feeling now that it was out in the open. These emotions had been bottled up inside me for way too long. As I began to compose an e-mail to him, the words flowed effortlessly. I told him that I had been unhappy for a long time and had found someone else. I promised him that we’d split custody of Caron. I told him that I wouldn’t fight for the house, assuming that battle would be too lengthy because the house was in his name: when we got married I was young and had racked up a bunch of bills from college, so my credit wasn’t the best. The bad part about it was that I wrote the whole message on my BlackBerry. That’s how pressed I was to just get the monkey off my back. I hit Send before I could proofread the message. I texted Overnight Express to let him know I had done it. He responded: WORD?