Four: Stories of Marriage

by Nia Forrester

  “You’re her husband, you should know,” she said, jokingly.

  “That’s true. I should.”

  Tracy remembered her conversation with Riley the day of her art-and-lunch appointment with Thierry Wolfe, and the sense she had that something wasn’t quite right in the Gardner household.

  Shawn’s tone seemed to confirm it. She made a mental note to grill Riley the next time they saw each other. If Riley was having issues in her marriage, it was practically a requirement that she share that with her best friend. Her self-sufficiency was so irritating sometimes.

  Tracy looked up to find Brendan in the crowd and spotted him as he leaned over the bar to shake hands with the bartender, feeling the same possessive pride that always filled her when she saw the easy way he had with people. She didn’t have that talent. People read her as standoffish, and cold, and honestly, for much of her adult life, that was an accurate description of who she was.

  Being with Brendan helped temper all that, and now, even if people still tended to be intimidated by her, they were more likely to give her the benefit of the doubt because of him. And she was more likely to want to open herself up to new people just because of he was Exhibit A for the amazing results a little opening up could yield.

  Thinking that she might get up to go join him on his walkabout, Tracy paused when she saw a blonde woman approach him and place a hand on his shoulder.

  Brendan turned to face her and smiled in surprise. It was only when the woman leaned in and kissed Brendan on both cheeks that Tracy realized who it was: Simone Wolfe. And with her, her husband, Thierry.

  10

  Brendan kept one eye on the floor of the club, and another on the far end of the VIP lounge where Simone and Thierry Wolfe and three of their friends seemed to have commandeered all of Tracy’s time. The second couple was a German banker named Oskar and his wife, Kari, and the third person was a woman, Petra, who was Thierry’s assistant back in Switzerland, visiting for a month.

  The group of Europeans was atypical of the usual crowd that patronized Two-Twelve, and the fact that they were practically on display in the VIP areas made people curious, slowing down to observe them as they walked by.

  “They’re dropping ten-grand tonight, easy,” Shawn said from Brendan’s side.

  “Yeah. Probably.”

  “She tell you she was coming?”

  “Nope.”

  But why would she? There was no reason for Simone to have shared with him that she and her husband and their friends would be coming to Two-Twelve. It was one of the hottest nightspots in the city after all, and co-owned by her bosses, so her curiosity was understandable. And Brendan had no idea whether she may have been here before. For all he knew, she was here regularly, though he felt certain Shawn would have mentioned it.

  Whatever the case may have been, he resented it. Two-Twelve was like a home away from home for him. And now, it felt like work away from the office. His plan had been to ply his wife with drinks, dance and flirt with her, and engage in some discreet public foreplay so she would be distracted from her disappointment about not getting pregnant this month. A little Saturday morning friskiness didn’t mean they were completely out-of-the-woods. His wife had a long memory of life’s disappointments, big and small, and his goal tonight had been to smooth it all over between them.

  But now she was being monopolized by the European contingent.

  Folks who fancied themselves among the Beautiful People were always drawn to Tracy. Because she was so beautiful herself, and had a cool, forbidding demeanor. She didn’t feel the need to fill silences with chatter and was more likely to observe than contribute to social interaction, which made people perform for her, try to draw her out, amuse or impress her. Her sophistication was a shield, but people tended to see it as a sword—sharp, cutting, deadly—and would do almost anything to make sure she didn’t use it against them.

  Now, she leaned her head to one side, so that her long ponytail was resting on her left shoulder. Brendan watched as she reached for and twisted a few strands of hair around her forefinger, a slight smile on her face while the woman named Petra prattled on. Knowing his wife, she was probably wondering about Layla and the sitter, and not listening to a single word. In a moment, he was going to have to rescue her.

  “I told Riley about what we were talkin’ ‘bout the other day,” Shawn said unexpectedly.

  Brendan turned to look at his friend, surprised. “Word? What’d she say?”

  Shawn shrugged. “Exactly what I told you she would say. That it’s great. That I should do ‘what feels right’.”

  “And so … what? That’s what you wanted, right?”

  “She doesn’t mean it though.” Shawn shook his head. “Or at least, she’s not sure about it. I could tell from the way she didn’t ask any questions. Riley always asks questions.”

  “So what? You’re not sure about it either. Just get in there, man. See what happens.”

  “I am. But something just …” Shawn broke off. “Anyway, yeah. It’s a go. I’ma start getting’ some folks together, seein’ what we come up with.”

  Brendan didn’t say as much aloud, but he could hear in his friend’s voice that the excitement at the idea of making new music that had been there when Shawn first mentioned it was absent. And it didn’t take a genius to guess why. Riley was only half-assed on board. That didn’t seem like her, though. She was usually all in for anything that Shawn wanted to do, career-wise. So maybe there were other reasons for trouble in paradise.

  “Hey, you still got that box in the back of the office?” Brendan asked. “You know the one I mean.”

  Shawn looked at him and grinned. “Yeah. What you got in mind?”

  “Damn, I miss this,” Shawn said taking a deep pull on the spliff.

  Brendan laughed and snatched it out of his hand. “Gimme that. Over there bogartin’.”

  “Remember when we used to get high before breakfast meetings? Six a.m. on the roof of the Crowne Plaza in Midtown, burnin’ one.” Shawn shook his head in nostalgic remembrance.

  They were out back, and he was leaning against the wall opposite where Brendan had propped a box in the exit that led from their office and out into a small courtyard.

  “You used to get high before breakfast meetings,” Brendan said. “I always had to be straight. You’d be over there, eyes all red, half-shut, eatin’ every-damn-thing in sight while I’m tryin’ to conduct business with some old white dude in his five-thousand-dollar Brioni suit.”

  “They loved that shit though. I was just livin’ up to what they saw on TV. A real live ‘street nigga’ up close. I was playin’ a role they wanted me to play.”

  Brendan laughed. “But times are changin’ though, man. So we got to change the game, too.”

  “I know. Some of what I used to put out there … We gotta take these young ‘uns to a higher plane. Show them some higher thinkin’.”

  “You started writin’ yet?”

  “Never stopped. I have like ten CDs worth, jus’ sittin’ there waiting to be heard. I need some good beats though.”

  Brendan nodded and took a long drag, passing the spliff back to Shawn. “Cool.”

  They smoked in companionable silence for a few minutes, both of them lost in their own thoughts. It was no lie that things were different for them now. They were married men, fathers, business-owners. They weren’t chasing dollars, and Shawn was no longer chasing fame. Or women.

  In so many ways, and by most measures they had arrived. But neither of them was conditioned to slow down and smell the roses. Shawn was itching to get back in the mix with his music, and despite his wife’s complaints, Brendan still didn’t feel comfortable easing his foot off the gas pedal either. It still felt like there was too much ground to cover.

  “Remember when we first started working together?” he asked Shawn now. “And we had that trip to L.A.?”

  “Man, I can’t remember shit like that. We had a thousand trips to L.A.”

 
; “It was like two months in, and I had to take you to a show. and Chris thought you might get distracted. Like you might not show up, or something.”

  Shawn shrugged.

  “It was the first big trip we did as manager and client,” Brendan said. “I had to get on a plane with you, and at the same time, back in the city I was being evicted from my apartment. Just before we got on the plane, I was on the phone with my cousin, tellin’ him to go over there and make sure he grabbed my TV, my stereo and my clothes and sneakers and shit before they put everything out on the curb.”

  Shawn looked at Brendan with interest now and laughed. “I don’t think I knew about all that.”

  “Maybe not,” Brendan said. “We weren’t tight like that yet for me to sharin’ all my messy shit. Maybe I never told you. But I was getting evicted. And I had to go on this trip with you, knowing that when I came back I would be more or less homeless.”

  “And were you?”

  “Yeah. Crashed with Cameron for a few weeks until that first big K Smooth check came in and I got a shitty-ass crib downtown.”

  “So, I saved your ass basically?”

  “Basically.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  They both laughed.

  “But I wasn’t no better off than you,” Shawn admitted. “Those first few years, dudes was robbin’ me blind ‘til Chris set me up with a wealth manager, and got me straight. Before he yanked on my coattail, I ain’ even know what to do with all those zeros. Millions. That was some crazy shit. Realizing that I had like seven-hundred grand just sittin’ in a checking account.”

  Just as he was about to respond, Brendan heard the door to the office open behind him and quickly, lowered the hand with the weed down to his side.

  “I was wondering where you two went.”

  It was Tracy. She stood still for a moment, taking in the scene, and then her hazel-eyed gaze fell to the still smoldering marijuana cigar in Brendan’s hand. Her eyes hardened, and her lips pursed into a thin line.

  Even in a moment like this, it was tough not to think about how damned beautiful she was. Sometimes Brendan looked at her and for a nanosecond felt the same awe that struck him when they first met. She was regal when she was angry. And right now, she was definitely angry.

  “I’ll see you both back out there,” she said, turning on her heel.

  When she was gone, Shawn grimaced, took the cigar from Brendan and dropped it on the flagstone beneath his feet, crushing it.

  “Shit. Looks like you’re in trouble.”

  Brendan shrugged. “She’ll be a’ight.”

  By the time he and Shawn went back inside, Tracy had been enveloped by Simone and her group once again.

  Their drive home was quiet. As was the brief transaction with Trish, who was asleep on the front room sofa when they got in. Brendan paid her and in hushed tones, told her she could crash there until morning if she wanted to, or he could drive her home. She opted to be driven home.

  When he got back, it was almost three-thirty a.m., but Tracy was still awake. She had washed her face, loosened her hair, and changed into an oversized and frayed t-shirt of his. She sat up when he entered the bedroom and watched as Brendan got undressed, clearly having waited for him to return.

  “Did you check on Layla again?” she asked.

  “Yeah. She’s okay.”

  There was a pause of a few beats, during which Brendan knew—because he knew Tracy like the back of his hand—that she was choosing how to lower the boom, and what words to use for maximum impact.

  “Do you know what marijuana does to sperm count?”

  Here it came. The reckoning.

  “I’m guessing nothing good,” he said.

  “Right. Nothing good.”

  Brendan sighed, stepping out of his shoes and kicking them under the bed. “It was about a half-dozen pulls on an old-ass, probably been there since the Ice Age blunt, Tracy. I didn’t even get the kind of buzz I wanted to. So, let’s not start imagining I killed all our unborn children.”

  “It’s just symbolic, that’s all.”

  “What’s symbolic?”

  “I mean, the fact that you didn’t consider it. The fact that nothing you do ever seems to take into account that we’re supposedly trying to get pregnant. Not the way you spend your time, not the things you put into your body … And then you tell me I’m crazy for not believing that you want more kids.”

  “I thought you said we were relaxing all that. All the rules, and …”

  “I meant we wouldn’t schedule things and be all rigid about it. I didn’t mean we’d stop trying. I didn’t mean we’d do things to work against getting pregnant.”

  “Tracy, it’s almost four in the morning …”

  “You’re always trying to deflect this conversation! Just admit, once and for all, that you don’t give a crap about us having another baby and I’ll …”

  “You had wine tonight, didn’t you? And some of that expensive champagne, too, right? I guess that means you don’t give a crap either. Last I heard, alcohol doesn’t exactly create a hospitable environment for an embryo.” He shrugged.

  “This is where we are?” Tracy asked, her voice uncharacteristically quiet for an argument. “Tossing blame back and forth?”

  “Just don’t be a hypocrite. I’m walking around on eggshells trying to meet standards you aren’t even livin’ up to your-damn-self.”

  “Except you’re not actually trying to meet the standards. I keep lowering the bar for you, and still …”

  “Lowering the bar?”

  “Yes!”

  “Y’know what, Tracy …” Brendan bit down hard onto his lower lip. “Stop talking. Right now. Because this is takin’ a turn and I don’t like where we’re goin’.”

  “You don’t like where we’re going?” She made a scoffing noise. “I don’t like where we are. And I haven’t liked it for a long, long …”

  “If you don’t stop right-fucking-now, I’m getting back in the car, and I’m going to the condo.”

  Shoving the sheets aside, Tracy lowered her feet to the floor. “How nice that must be for you,” she said coldly. “To be the one who gets to walk out in a huff. To be the one who knows that even if you absent yourself from your home, the wheels will just keep right on turning. Our daughter will still get fed, the clothes will still get washed …”

  “Okay, look …”

  “How about if I leave, Brendan? Why don’t I go to the condo, and you stay here?” She had gotten up now, striding over to the dressing room had flung it open.

  “Y’know what? Do it,” Brendan dared her.

  When she turned to look at him, Tracy’s eyes were on ablaze. On fire, but also filled with tears. He couldn’t tell if they were tears of rage or hurt. He had never asked her to leave before. She had never earnestly suggested that she might.

  But so help him, in this moment, he wanted her gone.

  Tracy slammed herself into the dressing room and Brendan let himself fall backward onto the bed. He lay there for a few moments staring at the ceiling, before going in to the bathroom. When he returned to bed, Tracy still hadn’t emerged from the dressing room.

  He was under the covers, had turned out all the lights, and was drifting between sleep and wakefulness when he finally felt her join him.

  She said nothing and did not reach for him.

  But neither did he reach for her.

  11

  They were playing two-on-two against Chris and Jamal, and Brendan had been distracted all morning, missing shots and passes left and right. When Shawn finally asked him what was up, Brendan gave him the Cliff’s Notes version of how his evening at Two-Twelve ended, including the fight with Tracy. He didn’t mention that for the first time ever in their marriage, he and his wife had not spoken to each other before he left the house.

  At the other end of the court, Chris and Jamal were taking a quick break, rehydrating and deep in conversation. They were probably talking shop, and not—despite how
it might appear—planning how they would complete this morning’s humiliation. They had been effortlessly getting in basket after basket, so what need did they have to strategize?

  Brendan had three inches on Chris in height and the benefit of being eight years younger. And Jamal, being buff like he was, didn’t have either Brendan’s, or Shawn’s speed and agility. So why the hell were they losing the game?

  Brendan’s preoccupation was probably only half of it. Shawn was more than likely still mulling over Riley’s underwhelmed response when he told her he wanted to work on new music. They were both distracted, plain and simple. While Chris and Jamal appeared relaxed and untroubled, more than capable of bringing their A-games.

  “Turner!” Brendan yelled. “You gon’ wife that young girl you holdin’ hostage in your high-rise, or what? It’s been a minute, man! I might have to call Child Protective Services on yo’ ass!”

  Next to him, Shawn laughed.

  Turner didn’t get fazed by much, but his relationship with ‘that young girl’ whose name Brendan knew good and well was Makayla Hughes, was a tender spot. If you poked him there long enough, he just might lose his cool. It didn’t work this time, though. Turner simply flipped Brendan the double-bird and picked up the ball, beginning a slow, leisurely dribble.

  “Ready for more of this ass-whuppin’, pretty boy?” he asked.

  “He’s talkin’ to you,” Brendan told Shawn. “I got too much edge to be pretty.”

  The game broke up almost an hour later, with plans that they would hit the showers at their respective homes and meet up later for drinks in a sports bar where they weren’t likely to get too much attention. For their weekend games, there was always security milling around the park. Shawn and Chris were too famous, and collectively, they were all worth way too much money to roll without some big men lurking nearby.

  Shawn had two body men, and Turner and Chris had one apiece. Brendan was the only in their foursome who could comfortably move among regular folks without risking having to fight off a groupie or worse. At best, he was known as part of Chris Scaife and K Smooth’s crew. He was interesting only because of his connection to them, and to the always-popular-with-the-ladies, Jamal Turner.