The Cheating Curve

by Paula T. Renfroe

  “How was brunch?” Sean asked between bites of crispy chicken.

  “It was cool,” Lang said, moving in to kiss Sean’s lips. He turned his head.

  “Damn, babe, you see I’m eating. How’s Aminah doing?”

  “She’s fine,” Lang replied suspiciously. “I see your stomach’s better.”

  “Oh, yeah, appetite’s back and in full effect,” he said, patting his full yet ripped stomach. “I feel like a new man.”

  “A new man, huh?”

  “Yup. A new and improved Sean.”

  Langston peaked inside the pots and pans Sean had left on the stove. Everything looked delicious. Smelled even better.

  I don’t want to give all this up, Lang thought as she nibbled on a piece of cornbread. I’d be a fool to trade certainty for unpredictability.

  “No need to pick,” Sean said without turning around to face his wife. “You know I made you a plate. It’s in the fridge where it always is.”

  Chapter 22

  “…instincts don’t lie.”

  As she crept past all the double-parked cars lined up two-by-two like kindergarteners holding hands on a school trip, Aminah cursed the little New York City gnomes responsible for alternate-side-of-the-street parking. While the opposite side of the street was completely void of cars, antiquated parking rules forbade her to park over there for another two hours.

  Nearly a month had passed since Miss Lenora had suggested her daughter make an appointment with Dorian at G’s Urban Hairstyles. He was the premier hairstylist at the Aveda concept salon, Brooklyn’s own Louis Vuitton Don and Aminah’s mane keeper for the last five years.

  After Aminah fed a meter on Flatbush Avenue, she glanced at her watch and smiled to herself. She quickly crossed over the street and strolled into G’s, relieved that she was at least still eleven minutes early.

  Aminah was Dorian’s first client the morning before Christmas Eve, though he didn’t strut in till twenty minutes after she did, sporting a short, curly mohawk, a Louis man bag, belt, watch, sunglasses, and neck-to-ankle fitted black Prada. After carefully hanging up his “fripperies,” he beckoned Aminah to his chair.

  “Where have you been, girl?” Dorian asked, loosening her thick ponytail. “You know better than to stay away from me this long.”

  “I only missed a couple appointments,” Aminah replied lamely, knowing she’d stood Dorian up for the last six or seven Friday mornings. “Needed time to hibernate.”

  “Mmmm-hmmmm. No excuse,” Dorian reprimanded.

  “But, I…”

  “And please tell me you’re not really tryna leave Fame, girl. Say it ain’t so, girl. Say it ain’t so!”

  Aminah laughed hysterically. God, she missed Dorian. She wasn’t the least bit surprised that he and the rest of the trendy salon were well informed of her separation from Fame.

  “Well, I’ll tell you this,” Aminah said.

  “Do tell.”

  “I’ve made my decision.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And while I love you like a sister, Dorian…”

  “This I know.”

  “Fame deserves to hear it first.”

  The front of the salon seemed to let out a collective sigh as Aminah smiled to herself. Dorian reluctantly agreed to respect her wishes after futile attempts at prying for hints while he touched up, washed, conditioned, and trimmed Aminah’s locks. An hour later he slicked on Aveda’s finishing gloss, preparing to pull her hair back in her signature sleek ponytail.

  “I want my hair down,” Aminah said, stopping Dorian mid brushstroke.

  “Excuse you?”

  “You heard me, Dorian. I want some curls, some layers, something sexy, something fresh.”

  “Well, all right, Miss Minah,” Dorian said, clapping his hands excitedly. “It’ll be a minute though. I didn’t exactly schedule you for an extreme makeover.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, no one said anything about a makeover,” Aminah said, holding up her left hand still bearing her emerald-cut wedding ring. “And extreme…?”

  “Oh, just stop it, Mrs. Pretty Famous. Lemme just get my next client prepped, and I will hook you up something fierce.”

  Aminah mindlessly flipped through Essence, Sophisticate’s Black Hair, Redbook, and Cosmopolitan as she waited for Dorian. She returned a couple e-mails on her Sidekick and checked her voice mail. Miss Lenora had left a message firmly stating that she expected to see her grandchildren at her Kwanzaa celebration next week with or without their father.

  “Yeah, so, I really admire my client,” Dorian said as he sliced into Aminah’s hair with his thousand-dollar sapphire titanium shears.

  Aminah kept her eyes shut.

  “She’s paying her own way through Barnard by dancing on the side.”

  “By on-the-side dancing, you mean stripping?” Aminah asked, refusing to acknowledge the hair piling up in her lap.

  Dorian laughed. “Well, yes, she is an exotic dancer, but a real bright girl, Aminah. Four-point-oh student. Determined. You’d never know she danced. Rocks conservative gear. Performs exclusively for high-profile clients. Like, just the other night she did Imon Alstar’s bachelor party, and he handpicked her to service him.”

  Aminah had completely forgotten about Rebekkah’s New Year’s Eve wedding to Imon. She wondered if Fame had even bothered to RSVP, not that she’d planned on attending.

  “You can open your eyes, Aminah.”

  She refused.

  “Don’t worry, honey, this ain’t Waiting to Exhale. You’re no Angela Bassett, and I’m definitely not Loretta Devine,” Dorian said, putting down his straightedge and picking up his shears to create a dramatic, sweeping bang.

  “So, by service, you mean a private dance?”

  Dorian chuckled. “No, hon, service meaning performing a job, if you know what I mean. Think blow, not hand. And let’s just say they know each very well now, in the biblical sense.”

  “Isn’t his wedding next week?” Aminah asked, peering through her long, slanted bang.

  “Yup, she only did his bachelor party. So technically, he didn’t break any vows. I mean, really, what’s a boy to do anyway?”

  Aminah didn’t answer. She shut her eyes and contemplated calling Rebekkah, though they hadn’t spoken in a couple months.

  “Now, Aminah, honey, I’m just giving you some shape so your hair sashays like Sting and The Police with every step you take and every breath you take. Okay, you’ve still got most of your length, baby girl. Now open your eyes again.”

  Aminah loved it. She shook her head from side to side, admiring the layered movement. She stood up to hug Dorian. Customers in nearby chairs nodded approvingly.

  “Hold the applause,” Dorian said, taking a bow. “I’m not done yet. If it looks this good bone straight, imagine what it’s gonna look like once I’m done curling the hell out of it.”

  As Dorian magically maneuvered his flatiron like a curling iron, Aminah questioned whether it was even her place to tell the bride a week before her wedding that her fiancé had indulged in a tryst. Besides, homegirl had insulted her marriage to Fame. Still, she felt this nagging sense of obligation. Perhaps because the last couple times they’d spoken, their main topic of conversation had been trust and mistrust, loyalty and disloyalty.

  Aminah felt as incredible as she looked. She had flips that rivaled Farrah’s and layers Mary would envy. She doubled Dorian’s usual tip and called Rebekkah on her walk to her car.

  Rebekkah was genuinely happy to hear from Aminah and readily agreed to meet Aminah to “catchup.”

  Aminah was delighted to find Rebekkah already seated with a wooden tray of appetizers, a glass of wine, and a tall bottle of Voss water in the cozy lounge area of the modish bistro. Rebekkah embraced Aminah fully, complimented her hair, and insisted she try the delicious spring rolls.

  “I was so happy to hear from you,” Rebekkah said, smiling. “How have you been?”

  “Really, really good. You?”

  “I�
�ve been marvelous,” Rebekkah beamed. “After we last spoke, I decided to release all my fears and love like I’ve never been hurt, as that saying goes. I’m still a little nervous about the wedding, but that’s to be expected.”

  Aminah nodded in agreement. On the drive over, she had wrestled with her decision to tell or not to tell. She still hadn’t resolved if Rebekkah’s very personal matters were really any of her business.

  “I’m just going on and on about my wedding—how are you and Fame doing?” Rebekkah asked, touching Aminah’s thigh. “I’ve been hearing all these nasty rumors about you two splitting up.”

  “Yeah, rumors seem to follow our marriage,” Aminah responded casually, flipping back her new do. “I can’t really change that.”

  “I take my hat off to you, Aminah,” Rebekkah said after finishing off her second glass of wine. “How you stand by your husband. I admire that. I really do.”

  “Well, you’re about to get married and make that commitment for better or for worse, right?” Aminah questioned as the waitress refilled her water glass.

  “Yeah, we’re writing our own vows.”

  “Really?” Aminah asked, raising her eyebrow.

  “I confronted Imon about the whole infidelity thing. He said it was time for him to settle down, and he’d had enough of empty sexual relationships, and that was all I needed.”

  “His word?”

  “Yup, it’s enough for me. I’m happy. He’s happy. My son’s happy.”

  Great, Aminah thought, nibbling on another spring roll. How do I? Do I even…?

  “I would be devastated if Imon cheated on me, on us,” Rebekkah admitted, interrupting Aminah’s cross-examination of herself.

  Rebbekah had opened up the lane for Aminah to ask her—hypothetically, of course—if she’d consider working things out if she found out Imon had cheated. She emphasized to Rebekkah that it wasn’t only her feelings but her son’s well-being and stability to consider as well.

  “No. Absolutely not,” Rebekkah answered, firmly sitting her glass down.

  “Let’s say Imon were unfaithful before you even got married. Would you want to know?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But would you still go through with it?”

  Rebekkah paused. She picked up her wineglass and eyed Aminah suspiciously. “What are you getting at? If there’s something you’re trying to tell me, just say it.”

  While Aminah took no pleasure in revealing Imon’s indiscretions, the irony of the situation hadn’t escaped her. Rebekkah had all but called Aminah an idiot for staying married to Fame all these years, and now she had information that could potentially have Rebekkah looking rather foolish.

  “Look, Rebekkah, I need to be honest with you. I overheard something about Imon.”

  “Overheard something?”

  Aminah cleared her throat. “At the salon today someone was talking about Imon’s bachelor party and how this exotic-dancer friend of theirs had worked it. And, well…”

  Aminah struggled with the most tactful way to say “Your future husband just got a blow job from a stripper.”

  “Tell me, Aminah,” Rebekkah demanded.

  “Well, allegedly, she performed oral sex on him.”

  Rebekkah shook her head in disbelief. “He got head from a stripper before our wedding?”

  “Well, that’s not all. I mean, supposedly he had sex with her, too.”

  “Oh, my God,” Rebekkah said, dropping her glass of wine. “We made love the morning of his bachelor party and, and every morning since.”

  A busboy rushed over to sweep up the shattered glass, but Rebekkah was oblivious to him. “I’m gonna be sick,” she said, holding her stomach.

  Aminah rubbed her back.

  “You don’t understand. I also gave him…Ugh, I’m gonna be sick.”

  Aminah gently wiped the beads of sweat forming on Rebekkah’s forehead.

  “My mouth was at the same place as some nasty stripper’s!”

  Before Aminah could utter another comforting word, Rebekkah threw up all over the polished ebony lacquer floors. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I need to get tested. I need some air. I need to get out of here.”

  “Okay, Rebekkah, slow down a minute. Just calm down.”

  Rebekkah’s stomach tightened in continuous knots. She closed her eyes.

  Aminah wetted a cloth napkin and wiped Rebekkah’s mouth and hands.

  “I’m sorry, Rebekkah, that I had to come to you with this. My conscience just wouldn’t let me ignore what I heard without letting you know your instincts were right all along. You know if anybody understands what you’re goin’ through right now, it’s me.”

  “For once I wish I were wrong,” Rebekkah said, sniffling.

  “I don’t know how much good wishing does, sweetie, but I do know that instincts don’t lie.”

  Aminah took Rebekkah to the bathroom and apologized again for being the bearer of bad news. She offered to drive Rebekkah home, but she insisted on walking.

  By the time Aminah swiped the key to her hotel room later that evening, she’d received an e-mail blast on her Sidekick informing all the invited guests that the wedding of Imon Alstar and Rebekkah Morrison had been officially called off due to unforeseen circumstances.

  Chapter 23

  “What you whisper will be proclaimed from the roofs.”

  Sean woke up just after dawn on Christmas Eve, thankful that it was a Friday. He was anxious to get his holiday started. He had been even more anxious than his students to exit Boys and Girls High School yesterday afternoon. So much, in fact, he had stepped on one kid’s foot rushing out the door.

  “Yo, Mr. Rogers, watch the Timbs, son.”

  “My bad, Marcus, I’m rushin’ home to wifey,” Sean lied. “You know how it is?”

  Marcus didn’t but nodded his head anyway, thinking if his Shawna looked anything like that dime Mr. Rogers was married to, he’d fuck up fifty pairs of new Timberlands to get to her, too.

  Usually, Sean slept late on Christmas Eve. He’d take the day off whether it was an official school holiday or not.

  He and Langston typically spent December twenty-fifth house hopping, gift delivering, and food sampling. In direct contrast, the twenty-fourth was an all-day, indoor love fest reserved exclusively for the two of them.

  On the afternoon of their very first Christmas Eve together, Lang had stacked all her gifts on Sean’s dining room table while he’d prepared Belgian waffles in the small kitchen of his co-op.

  “What are you doing over there, Langston?” Sean had asked, topping the waffles with fresh strawberries and powdered sugar. “You know Christmas isn’t till tomorrow, young lady.”

  “Oh, I don’t wanna wait, Sean,” Lang had whined, shaking a weighty box. “Let’s open them today, please.” They did and had every Christmas Eve thereafter.

  Breaking tradition was never easy, but this year it simply couldn’t be helped. Sean had promised himself peace and some solitude on Jesus’ birthday.

  He showered and dressed quickly as Lang slept soundly that Friday morning. Before loading up the BMW with gifts for his parents, Alia, and Amir, he slowly scanned their bedecked living room.

  Lang loved trimming their home for the holiday season. A stunning arrangement of three dozen dark red calla lilies in a crystal Baccarat vase that Fame and Aminah had given them last year for their third wedding anniversary stood in the center of their coffee table. Fresh mistletoe and pepperberry sprays hung over the arches, cream poinsettias with gold-splashed leaves topped every other stair step, and a spicy blend of cinnamon and something citrusy faintly cologned the air. Sean could never figure out how Langston kept that scent perpetually lingering. He made a mental note to light the fireplace when he returned.

  Sean picked up a present from Langston more out of instinct than out of curiosity. Whoever had said Christmas was for the kids never got good shit. Say what you wanted about Lang, but that girl had impeccable taste and gave as
good as she got. Sean counted seven gifts from his wife. He’d gotten her only two this year.

  On the drive down to his parents’ in Moorestown, New Jersey, Sean thought about all the fun holidays he and Lang had shared together—all the laughter, good memories, all the joy. They outnumbered the bad (because really there was only one). A couple blemishes here and there, sure (but only one scar). Did it make sense to abandon all that? Today he’d confront his wife.

  “You know, I wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow,” Sean’s mother said an hour and a half later, placing a plate of salmon cakes, home fries, and scrambled eggs in front of him.

  “I may still drive back down,” Sean said, breaking off a piece of the hot, flaky salmon cake.

  His mother immediately popped him with her dishcloth. “Boy, you know better than to partake without giving thanks first.”

  Sean rubbed his upper arm, said a quick grace, and shoveled a huge scoop of home fries into his mouth.

  “And what do you mean may drive back down?” Mrs. Rogers asked indignantly.

  “Aw, Ma, don’t be offended,” Sean said, one-arm hugging his mother around her waist. “I’m just switching things up this holiday, that’s all. I’d rather do all my running around today and relax in my own home on Christmas. Makes more sense.”

  “Now hold on one minute. Is something going on between you and Langston?” Mrs. Rogers asked suspiciously.

  “Ma, why would you ask me something like that?”

  “Mmmm-hmmm. I knew it.”

  “Knew what?”

  “Sean Sekou Rogers, you act like I didn’t know you before you knew yourself. First of all, you show up here on Christmas Eve without your wife, and I’m not supposed to notice? And how many times have you told me, ‘Do not disturb us on Christmas Eve? You can call us the twenty-third, and you’ll see us on the twenty-fifth, but do not, I repeat, do not disturb us on Christmas Eve lock-down,’” Mrs. Rogers said, mocking her son.

  “Don’t even respond to that, son,” Mr. Rogers said, strolling into their spacious country kitchen.