Blinking away tears, Aria wrung her hands. “I always feel like I am waiting for the other shoe to drop. I feel like this marriage is what everyone dreams of but no one has—no one I know anyway. And so I was waiting for something to pop off, something to prove that . . . that . . . that . . .”
“That what, Aria?” Dr. Matheson nudged.
“I don’t know. I . . . I . . . don’t . . . I don’t know.” Aria shrugged.
“You’re right, you don’t know,” Kingston muttered under his breath.
Aria side-eyed him. “No, what I don’t know is if my husband fucked my friend. I don’t know if my husband was planning on leaving me to be with my friend. That’s what the hell I don’t know.”
“Because I’m too good to be true,” he drawled.
“Damn right,” she flung back.
“So if I beat on you, cuss at you, cheat on you, lie to you, and disrespect you, then what?” he asked, turning in heat to face her, his expression incredulous. “Why is it so hard to believe that there are good men—good black men. That’s crazy!”
“Because I know men can’t be trusted. As soon as you give them a foot of space they no good ass is off cheating and tricking and doing shit they got no business. I know,” she stressed with emotion. “I. Know.”
Dr. Matheson jotted something on his notepad. “And how do you know that, Aria?”
She froze, hating that her eyes shifted. She hated that the fear she carried with her was just as strong as ever. Secrets had a way of revealing themselves. Secrets that filled her with guilt every day. Secrets that could—would—ruin her marriage.
Wild teen years filled with lots of partying, weed, and even more men—most married. Trying to be grown way too soon. Abortions. Liquors. Scheming. Lying.
And now she couldn’t have children.
That was the secret she’d confided to a friend and she’d been afraid Jessa would tell Kingston about it. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t have because he would have confronted her about it. Having children was the next step in his plan for their happily ever after.
Kingston didn’t know.
“I just know,” was all that she finally answered.
“This myth that there are no good black men is just that: a myth,” Kingston said. “I’ve done nothing to make my wife suspect me. Nothing but do what I’m supposed to do as man—as a husband: love my wife. That’s it. I love my wife. I’m good to my wife. And I’m being punished for that. A brotha can’t win for losing.”
Aria’s eyes were troubled as she shifted them out the window to the late summer scene. All of her doubts plagued her. Was it possible that Kingston was not the guilty husband? Was she punishing her husband for nothing and ruining her marriage?
Was the fact that a little ghetto girl from Newark with brains enough for a full scholarship to Columbia had actually snagged an upper-middle-class man who seemed to step right out of a romance book so hard to believe?
“And do you love Kingston, Aria?”
“With all my heart, Dr. Matheson,” she stated, without hesitation, question, or second thought.
“And Kingston, do you love Aria?”
“I love her. I love the hell out of her. . . .”
Aria felt waves of relief flood over her.
“But if she doesn’t appreciate me and trust me . . . then I don’t know if we’ll make it.”
Aria turned to face him. She knew her husband very well. There was no doubt that the words he spoke were not an idle threat.
Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child. Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child. Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child.
Anotherwomanispregnantwithmyhusbandschild.
Renee Clinton dropped her head into her hands and fought the urge to scream at the top of her lungs. To release all the pain, the frustration, and the disappointment. “Maybe if I get it out it’ll stop eating me up inside,” she muttered, her eyes closed as she leaned back heavily in her office chair.
Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child. Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child. Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child.
Anotherwomanispregnantwithmyhusbandschild.
“I hate my life.”
She folded her feet beneath her in the chair as she looked at the framed pictures of her family. Snapshots of a better time—not the best of times but definitely better than now. She laughed bitterly at the thought that she’d spent a full day worrying about whether Jessa Bell had fucked her husband when she’d been completely blindsided by the news that her husband had cheated and his mistress was pregnant with his child. “Talk about not seeing the forest for the trees,” she muttered sarcastically.
Jessa was the least of her damn worries.
Brrrnnnggg.
She cut her eyes over to the cordless phone ringing on the base. Who could it be?
Her husband with his new responsibilities and obligations to another woman? Or her kids off enjoying their young lives without a real care in the world? Or her friends who were caught up in the drama of their own marriages?
Beep . . . beep . . . beep.
“Hi, this is Jackson . . . Renee . . . Aaron . . . and Kieran. The Clintons. We’re not available to take your message. After the beep, do your thing.”
“Hmph. I need to change that shit.” After the gun she’d pulled on him the night of his big “revelation” Jackson didn’t have any choice but to move the hell out. Jackson’s no-good cheating ass was now the proud renter of a two-bedroom town house downtown.
Beep.
“Renee, this is Darren. You really need to show up at the luncheon for the upcoming CancerWalk. All the head figures are looking for you to be there. Call me back so I know what to say.”
That shit went right out of her head. It was Sunday. How many weekends had she been off at work while her husband had been fucking another woman? No. She couldn’t handle it anyway. Her assistant was a handy little thing and she knew he would handle things. “Tomorrow, I will go to work. Tomorrow,” she promised, her words sounding hollow to her own ears.
The job she’d once loved was now a reminder of her failed marriage. Her need for a career had caused such a wedge in her marriage. These days she couldn’t muster the passion and love she’d had for working for a nonprofit benefiting cancer. These days she was too busy nursing a shattered heart.
“Love don’t live here anymore,” Renee sang, completely off-key as she reached for the bottle of Patrón and poured herself a hefty shot.
Beep . . . beep . . . beep.
Straight tequila was an acquired taste, especially for a causal drinker, but for the last month she had come to love everything about the liquor. Every single thing. The look of it as it poured into a clear glass. The smell of it filling her nose as she held the glass to her lip and prepared to take a sip. Even the slight burn in her throat as she swallowed. And finally . . . finally . . . the way the liquor made her numb.
Her husband’s outside baby. Her job. Her marriage. Her stress. Her kids. Her secrets. Her husband’s secret. Her bullshit.
The bullshit.
All of it went away when she was deep into her Patrón. All of it.
“Fuck that shit,” she muttered, swiveling in her chair to turn away from the photo of her two children, smiling and happy without a true care in the world.
And how would they feel when they discovered their father had a child on the way with another woman? How do you explain that to children? Especially teenagers.
She couldn’t even grasp all of the emotions that flittered through her in the course of a day. How was she supposed to be ready to take on their feelings, their reactions, and their questions as well?
“I shouldn’t be dealing with this shit.” Sighing, Renee lifted her glass, took a deep inhale that filled her chest, and then sipped intensely, letting the tequila float over her tongue before she swallowed it with only a slight wince.
This last month of her li
fe had been the absolute worst. She never dreamed shit could be so damn bad.
Never.
And she needed her friends. Although she was confident that Jackson was too busy fucking some other woman to slut around with Jessa Bell, just the fact that the scandalous bitch had sent the text was enough for Renee to cut her ass loose. Plus, if she was dirty enough to fuck either Aria’s or Jaime’s husband then Renee figured the slut could have just as well have stabbed her in the back, too.
“So fuck you, Jessa Bell,” Renee said aloud, wiping a bit of spittle from the corner of her mouth.
Since Jaime had walked away from Eric and their marriage, Renee hadn’t seen her and they’d spoken on the phone only briefly. Whatever new life she was carving for herself didn’t seem to include her husband or her friends.
“C’est la fucking vie, Jaime.”
And Aria.
“Hmph.” Renee shook her head, running her trembling free hand through her short, ebony curls.
She couldn’t believe that Aria had had the nerve to judge her. Yes, her marriage had been so shaky and she had felt so neglected by Jackson that she’d almost given in to a fleeting attraction to her assistant, Darren. Only his homosexuality had kept them from sealing the deal on the most awkward foreplay ever.
In a moment of weakness she’d admitted her near infidelity to a friend and she’d felt Aria’s cold shoulder ever since. No lunches. No random phone calls throughout the day. No dropping by each other’s house to gossip or catch up. Just bullshit waves or head nods usually shared by strangers.
“To hell with you, too, Aria.”
She really needed her friends more than ever. In truth they all had shit to deal with, but it would be a helluva lot easier if they toughed the bullshit out together.
They hadn’t even discussed the message or Jessa Bell since that day.
Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child. Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child. Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child.
Pain that was becoming as familiar as well-worn slippers clutched at her chest and refused to let go . . . until she swallowed down another drink. And another. And another.
“Ma! We’re home.”
Renee lifted her head from the desk, using her hand to wipe the drool connecting the side of her face to the executive desk mat. Her head suddenly pounded and her heart raced like crazy. Sweat matted her short, ebony curls to her head.
“Ma! Where you at?”
“When the hell did I fall asleep?” she asked herself, as her eyes shot to the door of the office she used to share with her husband. Her kids were home from their weekend visit to their father’s new bachelorhood.
Renee grabbed the bottle of Patrón and hid it beneath the papers and discarded bills in her wastepaper basket.
“Ma! You home?”
Their voices were getting closer. That innocent teenage chatter about crushes, the newest sneakers, or the hottest videos. Lives that shouldn’t be filled with lies and pain.
“Shit,” she swore, yanking open the drawer to her desk to frantically push stuff aside to find gum or a breath mint.
Nothing.
The office door swung open and Renee looked up with red-rimmed eyes as her seventeen-year-old son and fifteen-year-old daughter came to a stop. The expression on their faces went from happy to completely devoid of emotion.
Kieran eyed her with clear and present anger. “Is that what you did all weekend, Ma? Drink?”
So they know, Renee thought, wiping her face with her hands as she struggled to sit up straight in her chair. “Excuse me, but I’m your mother. Not the other way around.”
“You don’t act like a mother anymore,” Aaron snapped, his broad face a junior replica of his father.
Inwardly, Renee couldn’t handle it. The truth of their words was just another problem. Another wrong. Another damn stressor. She couldn’t handle it. Not now. She wanted to shut the door, close the curtains, and turn off the lights. It was a struggle to maintain any semblance of composure.
“So I’m the bad parent, huh?” she asked them, welcoming the anger she felt rising as the alcohol still in her system fueled her emotions.
“Is your drinking the reason Daddy left?” Aaron asked.
Ain’t that a bitch?
Renee laughed bitterly as she rose to her bare feet and stumbled around the desk to stand in front of her children. “So I’m the reason your daddy and I broke up? You two think that, huh? You had to find somebody to blame for this . . . and you two picked me?”
They both stepped back from her, their eyes widening. “Ma, why are you drinking so much!” Kieran yelled, crossing her slender arms over her chest.
“I’m just toasting your father’s new baby that’s on the way,” she snapped, closing her eyes and tilting her head back as soon as the words left her mouth.
“You’re lying!” Kieran screamed.
WHAP!
It wasn’t until her hand landed on her daughter’s cheek that Renee even realized she’d swung at her. Kieran gasped and held her own hand to her cheek.
“Dayum, Ma,” Aaron said in obvious disbelief.
Renee reached out for her daughter, who turned and ran from the room, the sound of her sneakered feet tearing up the stairs echoing.
BAM!
Renee felt the slam of her daughter’s door reverberate through her body. She craved a drink.
“Is what you said true, Ma?” Aaron asked. “Does Daddy have a baby on the way?”
Renee just dropped into a nearby armchair, putting her head in her hands. “I don’t want to talk about this right now, Aaron. Just go to your room and I’ll be up in a minute. Okay?”
Aaron stepped close to her and lightly placed his hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay, Ma?” he asked.
She kept her face—with its tears and embarrassment—in her hands and nodded her head. And she felt relief when her son finally turned and left the room.
Renee knew without a doubt that she had just made a bad-enough mess horribly worse. She reached over and grabbed the wastepaper basket, quickly snatching the bottle from beneath the paper camouflage. For the first time ever, she didn’t even bother with a glass, just popped the top and took a swig.
She just wanted to forget. Fuck it.
Chapter 2
Jaime released a heavy breath filled with every bit of the emotions she was feeling. The nervousness. The anxiety. The fear and the triumph.
For so long she had been the woman scorned in her marriage. She had to admit to herself—and anybody else that would listen—that she got a thrill from Eric chasing behind her.
When he had me, he didn’t want me, she thought, easing out of her silver Volvo C70 in a strapless gray dress by Tracy Reese.
The valet drove off in her car just as one of the heavy wooden double doors of the restaurant opened. She eased her long slender clutch under her arm as Eric left the restaurant and walked up to her. With deep-set feline eyes that hinted at her mother’s Asian legacy, Jaime watched the handsome man she had once loved and cherished. The hard lines of his clean-cut bronzed face with those soft and full lips that she’d thought she would kiss forever. The broadness of his shoulders. The cocky strut of his walk. The way his clothes hung off of his frame. She couldn’t ever deny that he was a handsome man, but now she knew there’d been an evil streak deep within him all that time.
Her affair had brought it to the surface.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet me, Jaime,” Eric said, stepping forward to wrap his arms around her. “You look so different but still beautiful as ever.”
Jaime stepped back, thinking of the harsh words and sexual cruelty he’d put her through in the past. “It was time,” was all that she said, stiffening her spine. A memory of his hand around her throat the night she left him came back to her. She reached in her purse for a cigarette and lighter.
“It’s time, Jaime. Go hard or go back home . . . to Eric. ”
Eric let his ar
ms drop back to his side with a lick of his lips. “You always loved the food here,” he said, saying nothing about her smoking even though his eyes dipped down to her filled hands.
Rolling her eyes, Jaime said nothing as she shoved the items back into her purse as she walked beside him back to Ma Belle’s, the upscale soul food restaurant in Maplewood, New Jersey. Every year Eric and she had come to the spot to celebrate all of their events: anniversaries, birthdays, and holidays. So many different milestones in the life of Eric and Jaime Hall. And eventually so many occasions of pretending to be happy in public.
As soon as they walked into the brick building, the flamboyant host’s smile became brighter than a thousand lit bulbs. “Our favorite couple. How are you, Mr. and Mrs. Hall?” he asked, already reaching for two leather-bound menus.
Jaime froze when Eric slid his arm around her waist and snuggled her close to his side. “Thanks, Antoine. We’re doing real good.”
Jaime smiled even though she was busy thinking: No, this Negro is not about to front?
“Right this way.” Antoine turned away from them.
No. No. Hell no.
Jaime jutted her elbow back hard enough to knock Eric’s arm from her body. “Um, Antoine,” she called out softly.
He turned. “Yes, Mrs. Hall.”
“Actually, I’d like for you to address me as Ms. Pine. That’s the name I’ll be using when our divorce is final,” she said with ease.
Antoine’s lips pursed as his eyes widened just a bit at her words. “Um . . . okay. Right. Yes. Then, um . . . um . . . Mr. Hall and Ms. Pine, right this way.”
Antoine was polite but his eyes said “DRA-MA!” before he turned again, avoiding Eric’s eyes.
Jaime followed behind him, feeling free of the bullshit. Eric’s hand tightly gripped her upper am, stopping her. She turned enough to look down at his hand and then up into his eyes. He released her and smoothed his double-knotted silk tie.
“Was that necessary, Jaime?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes, Eric. It was very necessary and very true,” she said, before turning to follow Antoine.
The smell of the Southern-food-with-a-twist cuisine made her stomach growl like crazy. I guess my diet of Pleasure’s dick isn’t very filling.
Mistress No More Page 2