Cinq A’ Sept

by Mj Fields

  “How about I cook for you?”

  He looks up and smiles. “All that and she cooks,” at that, he gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and walks out the door.

  When he leaves, I clean up the puddle of water from our dripping wet bodies. I decide to run upstairs and grab the dirty bedding. The least I can do is wash the sheets, comforter, and duvet.

  While getting the bikes a couple hours ago, I noticed his washer and dryer were in the garage. He admitted he didn’t think about a laundry room when he added on to the old carriage house, so he has them out in the garage for now.

  After starting the laundry, I brush my hair, throw it up in a messy bun, and then head to the kitchen to find something I can throw together.

  I look at the counter and see my phone has an air-dropped message.

  Maisie has a knot on her noggin and isn’t sure where she got it. Long story. I’m gonna play it safe and take her to the clinic to rule out a concussion.

  A second one comes through.

  Bridge, don’t leave while I’m gone. I’ll hurry back.

  I reply: Don’t be silly. I’m not going anywhere. You’re a good man, Joe.

  With Natasha gone, I hardly cook anymore and usually opt for takeout nearly every day. I have always loved to cook and am glad that I get to do it for him today.

  Along with respect and kindness, I have figured out a way to a woman’s heart—forehead kisses and multiple orgasms. I hope the way to his is through his stomach.

  Although we haven’t shared anything about who we are now, we have shared enough to know who we were before it became our choice. I suspect a meal not from a box or package will be appreciated.

  Shrimp scampi served on a bed of pasta with chopped vegetables on the side.

  I step back and smile at the dish I have prepared.

  When I look at the clock, I realize it’s been nearly two hours. I wrap the food up and put it in the refrigerator. It can be easily warmed on the stove when he gets back.

  I look at my phone for the tenth time, hoping he may be next door, and send a message, but he doesn’t receive it. I worry about the woman he seems to adore, but much less knowing she has him to help her.

  I walk out into the garage and grab the sheets and dry clothes out of the dryer. They are toasty warm. Bringing them into the house, I change into my sweatpants right in the living room, secretly hoping he walks in and catches me. When he doesn’t, I grab my phone and decide to cuddle up on the couch and wait. I hit my Kindle app and scroll through my library.

  Natasha and I decided it was time for her to stop watching so many movies and read more. When I was younger, I loved the escape a library book gave me. We decided on some of the classic romance novels.

  I hit Pride and Prejudice and screenshot it. I send it to Natasha with a message

  Can’t wait to discuss. Love you.

  I wait for her reply.

  Love you, Mom. I’ll start tomorrow.

  I wake to my phone ringing and jump, practically juggling the thing before hitting accept.

  “Hello? This is Angela.”

  “Angela, this is Alfred, Jean’s attorney. I need to meet with you first thing in the morning.”

  “But it’s—”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to cut your holiday short if it could be helped, and I have another morning appointment, and then a conference with the board first thing Tuesday. I could really use your help.”

  “Of course.” I try not to sound regretful when I reply

  “Six thirty too early?”

  “No, I’ll make it work.”

  “I knew you would. See you at the office.”

  Ending the call, I look at the time. “It’s ten p.m.?”

  I push myself up and walk to the glass patio doors. Pushing them open, I walk out far enough, hoping to see lights through the trees at Maisie’s home.

  It’s pitch black.

  I walk inside and begin opening drawers in search of an old phone bill so I can text him if he’s not back … soon.

  Rummaging through his things seems wrong, but there is little time. I feel like I’m going to cry.

  To stop myself from letting my emotions overtake me, I calculate the time I need to meet Alfred. Nearly two hours to the city from here, an hour to get office ready, and an hour and a half into the city, depending on traffic.

  I need to leave by one AM at the latest.

  I call Autumn, but it goes to voicemail. I don’t want to ruin her evening.

  Now it’s a quarter after eleven, and I still haven’t found a thing to tell me his name so I can let him know what’s going on.

  Oliver. I could call the restaurant … What the hell is the name of it?

  “How stupid can you be?” I scold myself.

  I sit down and try to calm myself, but then I remember I have to get my things packed. I have to leave soon. I just didn’t want it to be like this.

  I push myself off the couch and head upstairs where I empty the drawers and smile fondly at the fact that I wore nearly nothing I brought. Well, it will be good to go home with little to no laundry to do.

  Next I grab the items in the closet, leaving the maxi dress out to change into, and then fold the rest neatly before I close up the giant suitcase.

  Grabbing the smaller case that holds all my beauty supplies, I open it and get a little choked up that I haven’t applied much makeup or used the thousands of dollars of miracle creams, except for the day of the party.

  I think of the phrase, love is blind, but this isn’t love, just something that felt a lot like love should.

  I look at the red numbers on the clock beside his bed and see the numbers eleven, five, and nine. Red is the color we associate with love, but also a warning, or a stop.

  With all the emotional bewilderment playing in my head, I try to make sense of why this would be happening. It’s so confusing. I learned a long time ago to step back and deal with a situation without allowing myself to be sucked into the complexity of expectations. If I allow it, it will weaken me, and I can’t afford that.

  The reality is that numbers don’t lie and time doesn’t stand still.

  Time …

  I walk into the bathroom and grab my toothbrush, hairbrush, and the facewash. After packing them all away, I change my clothes and bring the bags downstairs.

  I pace back and forth and go outside several times to check for lights. I revert to the anxious child of a neglectful parent, the one who never cried because it made the situation worse. But holding back tears sometimes brings on anxiety attacks.

  There is no way to change this situation. I’m not a recent college grad. I’m a forty-year-old woman, a mother, an adult who has bills to pay and a career to focus on.

  I walk over and open a drawer I had opened earlier, pulling out the blank yellow legal pad and a black ball point pen.

  Dear Joe,

  I received a call from work and have an unscheduled meeting that is of high

  I look at my words and pull the page off, crinkling it up and tossing it on the island.

  My dearest Joe,

  I have no idea how to put into words how grateful I am for the amazing escape you gave to me these past few days.

  I read over my words and cringe. Then I rip it from the pad and begin again.

  With several crumpled papers in front of me, I look at the time.

  It’s nearly twelve thirty now.

  Why hasn’t he returned? Messaged?

  I anxiously begin to bite at my nails. Then I realize I won’t have time for a manicure. Hell, there is no place to go at six a.m. on a holiday.

  I pick up the pen.

  Joe,

  I had an unexpected call from work resulting in an early morning meeting.

  Words can’t express how much our time together meant to me. None that result in me not sounding like a freaking teenager.

  I rip it from the pad and crumple it up. Then I stand up and look at the countertop that is full of crumpled up yellow pap
ers. I scoop them up and toss them in the trash.

  I pace again and decide to check one more time for lights next door.

  There are none.

  I hit the Lyft app on my phone and thankfully don’t have to give my address, because I don’t think, somewhere in the Hamptons, is an actual address. I inwardly reprimand myself for being in this situation.

  I type in the address of the cottage where Autumn is staying, and cross my fingers that the car service is available. I hit a few icons and am told Kevin will be arriving in twenty minutes.

  I sit down and decide whatever I write is better than writing nothing at all.

  Joe,

  I received a call and have an early morning emergency meeting, or should I stick to the college grad story and write I have a job interview?

  This letter seems so impersonal, but duty calls and you’re not here.

  I sincerely hope Maisie is okay.

  I hate that I’m not able to say goodbye. It feels wrong leaving like this. I also understand we weren’t sure how we would say goodbye, but I would hope it was with real names and possibly numbers exchanged? If not, feel free to ignore this mess of a letter, written in haste, and accept my thank you for the most enjoyable moments in … longer than I can remember. I will cherish the memories of them.

  Would it be weird to say dinner’s in the fridge and it would be best to warm it up on the stovetop because microwaved scampi sounds disgusting?

  Well, either way, I said it.

  Kindest and truest regards,

  I read over the ridiculous letter, looking at the red lights of reality on the stove, and realize I’m out of time. This will have to do.

  I sign my name, Angela, put down my number, then add:

  P.S. Please let me know Maisie is okay.

  P.S.S. A text is fine if you don’t feel like talking and this was just … you know.

  What the hell am I doing? I’m a grown woman acting like a fool.

  When I’m alerted my ride is approaching, I realize I don’t have time for a rewrite. I place the note in the center of the island, put the pad and pen back in the drawer, and grab my bags.

  Outside, I look for lights one last time as the driver puts my bags in the back of the SUV.

  There are none.

  Seated in the back seat, I fight back the onset of tears.

  A realization hits that, if I fight it, anxiety will build, and I would rather let my tears flow naturally than worry about what it may look like to the outside world.

  Tears fall and anxiety lessens.

  Ten minutes down the road, I see a familiar sight. I watch the lights in the restaurant we had dinner at. Through the window, I see the neon lights in the bar windows turn off as we approach.

  “Kevin, can we please stop here for a minute?”

  Confused, he asks, “Ma’am?”

  Wiping away the tears, I laugh at the ridiculousness. “Twenty bucks for five minutes. Tops. Please, Kevin?”

  I grab my wallet that’s full of the cash I saved for this weekend yet had no chance to spend and throw a twenty on the seat in front of me. Then, before he puts the vehicle in park, I jump out and head up the steps.

  When I reach for the door, the redheaded bartender from the other night opens the door. It’s clear she’s leaving, so I step back.

  “Hi.” I smile.

  “We’re closed.”

  “I see that. I won’t trouble you but for a minute.”

  After she locks the door, she turns and faces me, crossing her arms. “You’ve got one.”

  Charming, I think.

  “I was here the other night with Joe.”

  “I don’t know a Joe,” she says, clearly annoyed by my presence.

  “You ID’d him.” She still acts as if she has no clue, but I can’t call her on it. “Anyway, I was at his house when a situation came up and he had to leave. Now I’ve been called away and would like to get his”—I pause, because it’s embarrassing that I don’t have his number—“friend Oliver’s number.”

  She purses her lips and leans back against the door, looking at me smugly. “Let me get this straight; you want Oliver’s number so you can contact Joe?”

  When I don’t respond immediately, she laughs.

  “As I said, I just left his home.”

  “Dump and dash.” She pushes off the door and begins to walk past me.

  “No, it’s not like that.” I force a confident-filled laugh and follow her.

  “Oh, please,” she huffs from over her shoulder. “Welcome to the Hamptons, Mrs. Robinson.”

  “Excuse me!”

  She stops, turns around, and looks me up and down. “Your time has passed, lady.”

  “Your tone—”

  “Un-fucking-believable.” She sighs in frustration. “Let me school your middle-aged ass on men with good old boy money, men who give a shit less about women like you.”

  “Women like me?” I reply with clear annoyance.

  “Women who have ex-hub’s alimony and come down here to get fucked by a man who has model good looks and a body you cougars can’t wait to sink your claws into. To these men, you’ll never be anything but a good time. Men far younger than you who have no intention of being anything but a beach bum. Who can suck off the tit of an old lady who fulfills some sick, twisted need to feel mothered. Men whose mommies have been playing the same game you are and not raising them to be men.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Get over it, lady. You may still have a few good years in you, but he has more. He also has a fucking black card. He dumped and dashed. I suggest, if the reality in that stings, you stay out of the kiddie pool.”

  “I’m not having this discussion with a girl my own daughter’s age.”

  She laughs, and I cringe because, yes, it may have helped prove her point.

  She opens the door to her Hyundai and gets in.

  “I can just call tomorrow and speak to Oliver myself.”

  “You could, but his last day was yesterday. Apparently, the cub has a big boy job. His going away party was tonight. Black card boy may or may not have stopped by. But I can’t confirm nor deny.” She slides into her car, shuts her door, starts it up, and puts it in reverse.

  I quickly step out of the way. Had I not, she probably would have hit me.

  Back inside the vehicle, Kevin the driver looks back at me with pity. “All set?”

  I nod.

  After several deep breaths, I lean forward. “Kevin, how much would it cost to take me to Brooklyn?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Inside my Brooklyn apartment, I kick off my flip flops and stand there, staring around the open space that makes up the kitchen, dining room, and living room. The gray walls are bland but serve as a backdrop for eighteen years of memories I will never regret. Memories that won’t fade and can’t be misinterpreted. Memories I cherish and will never wish away. Memories that are of Natasha and me.

  For each year, there is a collage of those moments, and there is room for so many more.

  It’s nearly three in the morning, and I know I could get some sleep, but my head hasn’t stopped spinning. The snapshots in my mind haven’t had enough time to fade and regret weighs heavy on my heart.

  After the schooling from the twenty-something redhead, what was a weekend full of beautiful moments has become tainted. He was at the bar tonight while I waited for him at his place.

  It makes sense that he wouldn’t just expect me to leave, but why would I stay in a place that I wasn’t wanted?

  What doesn’t make sense is that I felt no moment of disrespect from him. Not until now.

  I drag my small case into the master suite and into the bathroom to unload it. Then I decide to take a shower.

  After drying my hair, wrapped in my plush bathrobe, I decide to walk across the apartment and into Natasha’s room.

  The walls are covered in decals of all the places she would like to visit. Well, that’s what she told me when she asked for them.
I later found out that she someday wanted a love like those in the movies we watch together, and that she dreamed of being kissed while traveling the world with her soul mate.

  Pushing the pale pink, ruffled comforter away, I slide into her bed and cover myself. I set an alarm for four thirty just in case.

  When my phone rings, I jump. Then, without looking, I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Angela, this is Alfred. Sorry to have to do this, but something pertaining to Jean’s will requires my immediate attention.”

  I don’t say anything, because I’m angry at the situation. Angry that what could have been fond memories have been dirtied. And now I wonder, if I had just stayed …

  He sighs. “I apologize, Angela, I truly do.”

  “It’s fine, Alfred. If anything changes, I’m here.”

  “As you always have been.” His words lift my bruised ego a bit.

  When the call ends, I look at my screen. I even hit the messenger app, secretly hoping I missed one.

  Of course I haven’t.

  I think of Maisie and begin to wonder if she’s okay. I saw clear love in those beautiful chocolate eyes when he spoke of her. Then I remember Joe was at the bar and apparently couldn’t care less about what had happened with me. I was just another old lady, a dump and dash.

  I turn off my alarm and set the phone on Natasha’s charging station. I’m sure she will be calling soon, and I’m so ready to hear her voice and see her sweet smile.

  When my messenger alert goes off, I jump up and grab my phone. When I see Autumn’s name, I feel disappointed that it’s not him.

  I know it’s early, but I just saw I missed a call. When I tried to check your location, I saw it was off. HOW DARE YOU!

  I begin to type my reply when another message comes through.

  I’m over it, but seriously, let me know you’re okay, okay?

  I type out my reply and send.

  I’m fine, safe, and back in Brooklyn. Alfred called an early meeting, then cancelled after I got home. I’m exhausted. Chat later?

  Her reply

  Always the career woman. How did you get home? Never mind. Sleep. We have lots to discuss. I’m coming home this afternoon. Chat later.