The Cheating Curve

by Paula T. Renfroe

  “You okay?” she asked in a breathy voice.

  “I—I should go,” Sean stammered.

  He stepped back and thanked Aminah for listening to him. Sean grabbed his peacoat, skully, and scarf off the back of the sofa and headed toward the door.

  Aminah followed.

  “Wait, Sean, where are you going? We’re not done yet.”

  “Yeah, we are, gorgeous. You’re not gonna tell me what I want to know, and I should’ve known better. You’re loyal to her. She doesn’t deserve you either. But it’s cool. I know what I gotta do.”

  He kissed her lightly on the lips and then gently closed the door behind him. Aminah stood on the other side, hoping she hadn’t betrayed the wrong friend. Praying she’d protected the one who most deserved it.

  Chapter 21

  “What is the real point of confession? I think it’s over-rated and self-serving.”

  As she mindlessly dodged a couple of familiar potholes on Atlantic Avenue late Sunday morning, Lang tried to recall the last time she’d seen Aminah. She’d thought it was two weeks ago when she found her sleeping on Sean’s lap in his entertainment room. Lang had gotten home late that Friday night after a quickie with Dante in the back of his Escalade.

  I am too grown to be fuckin’ in cars. Lang snickered at the memory as she pulled her car directly behind Aminah’s.

  Aminah had called her two nights ago to apologize for not speaking to Lang earlier in the day and to reconfirm their Session and brunch since she’d canceled their last one.

  Aminah’s intention had been to ask Fame to pass the phone to Langston after she’d explained to him the reason she wouldn’t be home for Thanksgiving dinner. Instead she had hung up on her husband before he could finish his lame-ass attempt at an apology, splurged on four little two-ounce bottles of the insanely expensive Hawaiian Kona Nigari water at thirty-three dollars a pop, and soaked in a hot Bulgari bubble bath, forgetting all about wishing Langston a Happy Turkey Day.

  “I’ve missed you,” Lang said, embracing Aminah at Pretty Inside. “You look good, girl. How you feeling?”

  Aminah hesitated. While the intimate setting of Pretty Inside wasn’t her ideal place to freely vent, she needed to break up the chunks of confusion taking up entirely too much space inside her head.

  “I’m feeling kinda torn,” Aminah finally said, pulling out of Lang’s embrace and walking over to the rainbow wall of designer polishes.

  “Really?” Lang asked, following behind her. “Haven’t made up your mind yet, huh?”

  “Not quite. No,” Aminah admitted, comparing a deep metallic-plum polish to a saturated purple one. She wasn’t feeling particularly pink these days.

  “Life-changing decisions are never easy, sweetie,” Lang said, choosing Nars’s dark red Metropolis for both her hands and feet. “You know that.”

  “True,” Aminah agreed, placing the purple polish back on the crowded shelf.

  Lang and Aminah settled into their cushy seats at the nail stations, both adjusting their hibiscus-print pillows behind them as Natalie Cole sang “This Will Be (An Everlasting Love)” through the ceiling speakers above.

  “What’s the rush to make a decision anyway?” Lang asked as the manicurist placed her feet in the large porcelain bowl filled with warm water and fresh mint leaves. “You’ve only been away, what? Two weeks?”

  “Because what I’m wrestling with now is very time-sensitive.”

  “Now?” Lang asked, confused. “Hold up, Aminah. You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  Aminah shook her head and chuckled at the irony of that question. There’d been no baby-making action in her bed lately. In fact, she was feeling sort of sexually emaciated. She hadn’t had any in two weeks, and she was used to having it damn near every day and at least twice a day on the weekends.

  “Well, then, what’s so pressing?”

  Aminah sipped the cold lemon water Erika had brought over. Denying indiscretions and protecting secrets had left Aminah very frustrated and slightly parched. She needed Lang to be receptive, not deflective, of the truth.

  “Well, I’m torn because I had a visitor yesterday,” Aminah said, choosing her words cautiously. “And he was in so much pain that he’s thinking of walking away from his marriage to put himself out of his misery, and as much as I wanted to help him make a decision, I just couldn’t.”

  “A visitor? Oh, please,” Lang said dismissively as the manicurist massaged her right foot. “What’s with the cryptic shit, Minah? Fame has a lot of nerve talking about walking away from something. If anybody should be leaving somebody, that body should be you. Hmph. You didn’t fall for that bullshit, Aminah, did you?” Lang continued ranting. “Fame is just frontin’. We had dinner. He just wants you back and is trying to pull some sort of ultimatum tactic. He told me. You should have seen your husband’s pathetic ass at Thanksgiving. Pumpkins on the table. Flowers on the floor—”

  “That body is your husband, not mine, damnit!” Aminah snapped, raising her voice, startling both manicurists and stunning Lang.

  For a moment, Natalie Cole was the only one saying anything. “Huggin’ and squeezin’ and kissin’and pleasin’ together forever through rain or whatever…”

  “Ladies, I’ve got a nice red wine in the back,” Erika said with a forced smile and stern, reprimanding stare. She had “you two know so much better” written all up in her stance. Erika Kirkland promised her patrons a pleasing pampering experience in a serene setting, hence the ginger-lei-scented Er’go candles and the no-cell-phone policy. “I’ll be back in two seconds with a nice full glass for each of you.”

  As they sipped on their Bordeaux, Lang reluctantly agreed to finish their discussion outside of Pretty Inside. She didn’t know what the hell Aminah was talking about, but every time she initiated conversation—demanding clarification—Aminah held up her hand and closed her eyes. She was embarrassed for causing a mini-scene and refused to indulge Lang. She needed some time to get recentered.

  Why would Sean want out of our marriage? Lang wondered as she carefully slid her hands and feet under the nail driers. And exactly when did he go see Aminah yesterday?

  Lang felt a tinge of guilt as she recalled leaving the house early yesterday to go for a run in Fort Greene Park. She’d showered at Dante’s after her run. She’d sexed Dante after her shower. Not once had she given any thought to Sean’s whereabouts. She’d gotten careless.

  An hour and a half later Lang and Aminah pulled into a parking garage a couple blocks down from Bubby’s in DUMBO. Lang had picked the waterfront eatery for its child-friendly atmosphere in case things got heated again. No argument of theirs could compete with the sounds of bored and hungry toddlers. Plus, the great view of Manhattan couldn’t make Aminah’s mood any worse.

  On their quick, chilly walk to the restaurant, Lang expressed to Aminah that she found it hard to believe Sean would just want to divorce her out of nowhere. He’d given her no indication at all that anything was wrong. And on top of all that, she couldn’t understand why he’d talk to Aminah about it instead of coming to his own wife.

  “So let me get this straight,” Lang said after ordering Bubby’s popular sour-cream pancakes, “Sean came to visit you at your hotel yesterday and told you he wanted out of our marriage?”

  “You said you were ending your affair with Dante. I knew you were lying.”

  “I wasn’t lying. I just never said exactly when. And what does that have to do with Sean trying to leave me?”

  “Everything,” Aminah said, picking through the fresh bread in front of her, passing on the sourdough, selecting the pumpernickel. “Play with semantics all you want, Langston, but don’t play with your husband’s life.”

  Lang had a sudden epiphany. “Oh, my God, you told him.”

  Aminah rolled her eyes and finished off her mimosa. “No, Langston, you and your arrogant ass, swearing you’d never get caught, gloating about the fact that you were so much slicker, when really you’re just more deceptive than F
ame. You. Your sorry ass told him.”

  “Whatever, Aminah. Save the theatrics. I can’t believe you’d use your own relationship problems as an excuse to blow up my spot. So much for loyalty.”

  “Fuck you, Langston,” Aminah said, ignoring the Peasant French Toast the waiter had just placed in front of her and then standing up suddenly to leave. “And to think I protected you and your lies instead of telling Sean what he wanted and deserved to know. Your husband came crying to me. Not you. And I was there to comfort him—”

  “Well, why the hell would he need comforting if you didn’t tell him anything?”

  “Because he heard you having phone sex, you dumbass!” Aminah yelled, causing the diners at nearby tables, including the bored and hungry toddlers, to turn around and stare. “Langston Neale Rogers,” Aminah said, lowering her voice and leaning across the table, “your husband watched you finger fuck yourself last Saturday on the phone with another man on top of the same bed he makes love to you on. He listened to you tell Dante you couldn’t wait to see him. You told him everything. I told him nothing.”

  For the second time that day, Lang was silenced.

  Aminah glared down at her. She was done. Done with Langston. Done with other people’s problems. Done.

  “You got the bill, right?” Aminah asked, putting on her coat.

  “Don’t go,” Lang said weakly. “I’m sorry, Aminah.”

  “Yeah, you are.”

  “Okay, I deserved that.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Sit down, Minah, please,” Lang begged pathetically.

  Aminah stood for a few more seconds and shook her head before reluctantly sitting back down. She rubbed her temples over her lukewarm French toast. “Come clean, Langston. Sean’s in agony, and you’re responsible for putting him there.”

  “That wasn’t my intention.”

  “Your intention, Lang?” Aminah asked incredulously. “Unbelievable. I am so pissed off that you’ve got me in the middle of your mess when I’m dealing with my own damn marriage. And that’s all you can say. I’m outta here.”

  “I’m sorry, Minah,” Lang said, grabbing Aminah’s wrist.

  “Stop apologizing and repair what you’ve done, Lang,” Aminah said before the waiter interrupted to ask if they needed anything else. Aminah requested the check.

  Lang didn’t know how Aminah expected her to fix this. She needed time to think. Clearly, her best friend wasn’t the right person to talk to. She saw confession as the only solution. Lang wondered if Dante would make a good listener.

  “Well, if he already knows, what would be the purpose of me admitting to anything?” Lang questioned. “I mean, really, Minah, think about it. What is the real point of confession? I think it’s over-rated and self-serving. What purpose does it serve? To rid yourself of some guilt and in the process inflict pain on someone you love? That’s selfish. Why would I voluntarily do that?”

  “You’re unreal,” Aminah said, standing back up.

  “And phone sex isn’t even a good enough reason to throw away a marriage after four whole years,” Lang said, quickly signing the receipt.

  Aminah walked away.

  Lang grabbed her jacket and followed.

  “You’re not just guilty of phone sex, Langston,” Aminah said, glancing back at her as she exited the restaurant.

  “But the phone sex is all he knows about, right?”

  “Yes, as far as I know,” Aminah said, power walking back to the garage.

  “Listen, Aminah—”

  “No, I am done listening, Lang,” Aminah said, stopping abruptly. “You wanna throw your marriage away over some pubescent sex? Go right ahead. But I guarantee you, Lang, if you don’t tell Sean the truth now, your marriage is really over. You betrayed your husband. He knows it. I know it. And you did it.”

  “But why would I admit to anything, Minah?” Lang asked, pacing the sidewalk. “He’s known for, what, two weeks now and hasn’t said a word? I can’t see myself doing that.”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do,” Aminah said, exasperated. “Admit you’re wrong, beg for forgiveness, and work this out.”

  “Forgiveness for phone sex?”

  “No, forgiveness for cheating on your husband.”

  “Is that really cheating?” Lang questioned, quickening her pace to keep up with Aminah. “I mean, if that’s all he knows, I’m not copping to that. He’s just gonna have to confront me or get over it. Maybe he’s pretending it didn’t happen.”

  “Sean knows it’s not just phone sex, Lang,” Aminah said right before handing the valet her parking ticket. “He heard everything you said to Dante that day. You’re not listening to me.”

  Lang was listening, she just wasn’t accepting. She was more than willing to give up Dante. She’d miss the hot sex, his youthful energy, his unpredictably and spontaneity, sure, but all that was minor compared to losing the man she believed was her soul mate. She refused to let him just dispose of their marriage like some cheap BIC razor.

  “I won’t do it, Minah,” Lang said defiantly. “I’ll give up Dante, but I won’t confront Sean. If he hasn’t said anything by now, maybe he’s just dealing with it.”

  “Fine,” Aminah said, climbing into her truck. “Live your life, girl.”

  Lang watched as Aminah drove off, figuring she was probably going back to the hotel to drink some more designer water and soak in another fragrant bubble bath. Lang wasn’t ready to go home yet either. She told the valet to keep her car a little while longer.

  Lang thought about Sean’s moods and actions over the last few days on her cold, brisk walk through DUMBO. On Thanksgiving, Sean’s stomach was still acting up, she recalled. And he made a big deal about being able to keep his word. I didn’t know what the hell he was getting at.

  Lang remembered cleaning on Saturday without Sean, figuring maybe he’d had an early game or something. Saturday night she’d tried to make love to him, but he wasn’t in the mood. Said he was too tired. She assumed it was his stomach and suggested he see his doctor. He’d said it was fine and that in fact his appetite was on the rebound.

  Don’t worry, Sean, Lang thought as Dante buzzed her into his building. I’m gonna fix it. I just gotta do this my way, baby. Just hold tight.

  Lang exited Dante’s private elevator. He’d keyed her up and rushed back over to his waiting sofa. The Philadelphia Eagles were putting a hurting on the New York Giants, and he didn’t want to miss a single snap.

  Lang unzipped her Etu Evans leather boots and propped them on the bamboo mat to the left of the elevator. She slid off her trouser socks and removed the plastic Saran Wrap she’d asked the manicurist to put on for extra anti-smudge protection.

  “D, my husband knows about us,” Lang said, collapsing into Dante’s chest.

  “Word, how?” Dante asked, rubbing Lang’s back as she lay between his legs.

  “He overheard me talking to you on the phone.”

  “When?” Dante asked, sitting up.

  “Last Saturday. I was masturbating in our bedroom with you on the phone, and apparently, he just stood there listening and watching.”

  “Oh, yeah, you were extra nasty that day,” Dante recalled, smiling.

  Lang pinched Dante’s arm.

  “Ow. Damn. Sorry, Lang. That’s fucked up. I know I wouldn’t ever wanna be him. Wait, so he’s just now confronting you with all this?”

  “No, Aminah just did,” Lang said meekly. “He told her everything. I don’t really understand why he hasn’t said anything to me yet.”

  Dante wasn’t used to seeing Lang unsure of herself, so vulnerable, and while he hadn’t treated her with much tenderness, still, he was no cad.

  “She wants me to confess, come clean, and ask him to forgive me, but that just doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “Then don’t do it.”

  “But I’m not really sure what to do.”

  “Well, I don’t know either, but, man, if you were my wife…”


  “But I am not your wife.”

  “You got that right,” Dante said smugly. “’Cause if you were, you damn sure wouldn’t be at another man’s house giving him head while I’m home making a nice meal for you, playing the perfect husband. It’s not only humiliating—shit’s emasculating. A real man would know how to keep his horny wife home and satisfied.”

  “You know nothing about me or my husband.”

  “I know he’s not enough man for you.”

  “Fuck you, Dante.”

  “You already have, sweetheart. That’s exactly why you’re in the mess you’re in.”

  Lang slapped Dante across his face.

  Dante smirked and rubbed the side of his cheek. He flicked off the television. The Giants lost.

  “Your shit’s all fucked up, so I’m gonna let that slide. But your husband is too pedestrian for you, Langston. He’s not imaginative enough for you, and you’re not comfortable revealing all sides of yourself to him. Your marriage is a lie, and what you have with me is real, if nothing else. I know it, and you know it. It’s over. Trust me.”

  Lang left Dante’s loft furious. How dare he, she fumed, walking back to the garage. Judge my husband and our marriage. He doesn’t know shit about who we are and what we have.

  On her drive home it dawned on Lang that Dante’s haughty, preconceived notions about her husband and their marriage were probably based on her representation of their relationship. He’d witnessed Lang lie to Sean about her whereabouts over the phone while he was still inside her.

  Langston sat in front her brownstone prepping her defense. Deny. Deny. Deny. That’s my new mantra, Lang thought as she walked through the front door.

  She was surprised to find Sean eating a full plate of fried chicken, collard greens, candied yams, black-eyed peas, and cornbread while reading The New York Times Magazine at their kitchen table. Soul-food Sundays. Sean insisted on having them. He’d grown up on them.