Lance Bethel pursed his lips. “Tell me why you say that.”
Ryann leaned in. “Lance, he was accused of stealing. Like some no ‘count hoodlum. As an African American man in a position of power, there’s a few things you can do—have a bunch of out-of-wedlock babies, womanize … Bad behavior of a highly-sexual nature? They think that’s just how we are, and that we can’t help it. But to steal? That conjures up the worst images, of a sneaky field Negro grabbing pork he ain’t have no business having, from Massa’s kitchen.”
Ryann could see that her plain-spokenness had taken him aback. And then, he gave a brief laugh, sighed, and nodded.
“Thank you for that,” he said.
“I‘m pretty sure I didn’t tell you anything you don’t already know.”
“True enough.”
They sat without speaking for a minute or so, then Lance Bethel took a breath.
“So that’s that,” he said.
Ryann said nothing. She could soften the blow, but didn’t want to. Everything she said hadn’t been gentle, but it had been honest.
“You still have dinner with Parris, his wife and some key advisors tonight,” he said. “After all that nonsense, how about we make your trip at least a little worthwhile and go out for drinks?”
Ryann smiled. “What makes you so sure going out for drinks with you would be worth my while?”
Lance Bethel leaned in again. “Don’t worry about that. I fully intend to make sure it is.”
~19~
“Hey! Where are you?”
Spencer heard her before he saw her, as was usually the case. Sitting up, and taking one last quick look around the immediate vicinity, he arranged himself on the sofa with his legs spread wide apart, remote in hand as though he’d been watching the game.
Ryann came breezing in seconds later, and tossed an item of clothing at him. For one panicky moment, he thought it was something else until she collapsed next to him and retrieved it. Opening it and holding it in front of him, she nudged him in the side.
“Thought I’d return the favor. Don’t ever say I never got you nothin’.”
He raised his eyes and saw that it was a souvenir t-shirt, the kind that could be picked up in airports, with ‘Chicago Cubs’ emblazoned across the front. She knew he was a rabid Nationals fan, so he guessed it was meant to be a joke. And at any other time, he might have found it funny. But not today.
“Thanks,” he said, setting it aside.
“He was a complete pig, Spencer,” Ryann said, not noticing his mood. “You hear what I tell you? A pig. With his wife sitting no more than ten feet away, this nigga …”
Then she went on to describe the former-congressman getting touchy-feely under the table at a dinner he was hosting. At that, Spencer sat up straighter.
“He did what now?”
“It was like a bad movie,” Ryann continued, shaking her head. She folded her legs to one side and leaned into him. “Hand on the thigh, sliding higher … I mean, what did he think? That it would make me more enthusiastic about helping him raise money if he fingered me under the table?”
Spencer’s head whipped around, making almost a full rotation, a la ‘The Exorcist’. “That motherf …”
Ryann abruptly stopped talking and looked at him, amused. “He didn’t actually do it. But I swear that’s where he was headed had I not dug my nails into the back of his hand.” She laughed. “You should’ve heard him swallow his grunt at the pain.”
“You think that was funny?” Spencer demanded. “He can’t just put his hands on you, and …”
“Okay, I’ll swear out a complaint for sexual harassment as soon as I get to the office on Monday,” Ryann said rolling her eyes. “This might come as a shock to you, but it isn’t that unusual for men to get it in their heads that if they see something they like, it should be theirs to touch, and grab at will.”
“And you put up with that?”
“No. I told you, I dug my fingernails into his hand. Why you so …”
“What else did he do?” Spencer cut her off, imagining Ryann spending the week dodging unwanted sexual advances at every turn.
“Wasn’t the one groping incident enough? I’m thirsty. It’s as hot as …” She swung her legs over the edge of the sofa and stood, but Spencer pulled her back down. A little harder than he’d intended; and she jerked back into a seated position.
“Spencer! What the hell …?”
“Tell me what else he did,” he said. “Everything, Ryann.”
“Nothing,” she said. “He didn’t do anything else. I shut it down. Believe me, I’ve had worse situations than a little grabbing under the table.”
Spencer let her go, and she stood, sauntering over to the refrigerator.
“The way you dress, I bet you have.”
“Excuse me?” This time, it was Ryann who almost gave herself whiplash.
“I’m jus’ sayin’ …”
“Just saying what exactly?” Her voice was saccharine.
“You dress kinda sexy all the time, that’s all,” he mumbled shaking his head. “Men are bound to look at you.”
“I wear professional attire. I can’t help my body-type.”
“You don’t have to play it up either, though. You could …”
“I could what? Wear a muumuu? Pretend I don’t have breasts, and hips and a glorious ass?” Ryann demanded. “Well, no, fuck you very much.”
Spencer made a ‘pfft’ sound and shook his head, turning up the volume on the television. “And the way you cuss …”
“What about it? Is it a little too un-fucking-ladylike for you?”
“Okay, y’know what?” Spencer said, sensing that they were approaching a point of no return. “Let’s just … chill. Okay? I just …”
“No, because now you’re pissing me off.” Ryann came to stand directly in front of him, blocking his view of the television.
He didn’t care since he hadn’t been watching the damn thing anyway, but she didn’t know that.
“Suddenly you don’t like the way I dress, the way I talk … what else? You have any more complaints you’d like to lodge, Spencer? Because I’ve had a long-ass week, and thought it might be relaxing to come over here, but if you have something on your chest, you may as well take your shot.”
“No one’s taking any … shots at you. It’s just you can’t act like you don’t know what’s gon’ happen when you dress a certain …”
Leaning back, he exhaled and looked at the ceiling. Ryann took two steps closer and her hand went up. Her fuse had been lit, and it was his fault. But now he was getting hot too. If there was one thing he hated, it was when someone put their hand near his face. Through narrowed eyes, he watched as Ryann’s finger came closer, until it was pointing directly at his forehead.
“Continue,” she urged. “When I dress … finish what you’re about to say.”
He loved the way she dressed. It was one of the things he’d noticed first about her. The way she elevated clothing to art. Everything playing up what was best about her figure, and her coloring. She was never less than perfectly turned out in his eyes. Her anger would defuse in an instant if he told her that. But that wasn’t what he did.
“Ryann. Back the hell up off me. I’m tellin’ you.”
“Why?” She challenged. “What’re you gon’ do?”
“Ryann, stop.”
“No. I want to know what your problem is. I come in here, in a perfectly good mood, and you just want to wreck my …”
“Look who’s talkin’! That’s my every day with your miserable-ass! Every day with you is like a roller-coaster. If I’m on a high and you’re on the low, you pull me right down there with you. Every-fuckin’-day! So don’t come in here talkin’ ‘bout somebody wrecked your good mood. You’re the queen of messing up a good thing!”
At that, Ryann’s hand dropped, and she said nothing. Spencer sat up and looked at her. There were tears in her eyes.
“If that’s what you really think
of me, you don’t have to worry about it anymore.”
“Ryann …” He reached out for her and she stepped back, slapping away his extended arm.
She blinked three times rapidly and then she was digging into her pocket, for what he didn’t know. Finally, she found it. It was the key to his house. She held it up.
Shaking his head, Spencer looked up in exasperation. This was just like her, to take things all the way there.
“Something told me not to put this on my key-ring,” she said, her voice wobbling. Then she dropped it on the rug between them.
“Ryann,” he said again.
“Fuck off, Spencer.” She stepped over his legs and turned, walking out of the room.
When he heard the front door slam, he exhaled and went to pick up the key, setting it on the coffee table. He would bring it back over to her place later when they both calmed down, and when he’d gotten his shit together.
That was going to take a minute because the guilt had been gnawing at his gut since this morning. He woke up to a vaguely achy feeling just behind his eyes and the memory of Mariana in his kitchen, barefoot and moving from cabinet to counter to stove, making them dinner. They drank an entire bottle of wine as they cooked, and talked. And then half of a second bottle while they ate. And then there was afterwards …
Though his head hurt when he woke up, Spencer didn’t have drunkenness as an excuse. Only stupidity. And arrogance. And the delusional conviction that because he and Ryann weren’t exactly committed, a little piece on the side couldn’t hurt. Seeing Mariana in the store, he’d flirted with her out of habit. Because he could, and because that was so clearly what she wanted him to do.
And how many men out there could say, in all honesty, that when presented with a chick like that, they would pass up her offer to cook for them, and possibly more? And Ryann was just so damned difficult sometimes. Moody as fuck and never sure whether she wanted to let him in, or push him away.
Muttering a curse, Spencer went to his fridge and grabbed a beer. He was rationalizing, or at least trying to rationalize away an emotion that by all rights, he should not feel: guilt. Because how the hell did he know what Ryann had been up to in Chicago?
She hadn’t called him not one time while she was gone. Not even to say she landed okay. And what she told him about the congressman only confirmed his suspicions. She had probably been fighting off male attention from the moment she arrived. Hadn’t he seen what it was like for her, with his own eyes?
Just a week before she left, they’d pulled up at a gas station, Ryann in the passenger seat, when Spencer noticed a young buck at one of the other pumps looking her way out of the corner of his eyes. He did it slyly, in that way dudes sometimes do when a woman is with her man. Spencer had barely even pulled up and cut off the engine, and this dude … Anyway, Ryann, oblivious to the attention she was attracting, fluffed her hair in the mirror then got out, telling Spencer she was going to grab herself a bottled water while he pumped the gas.
‘You want something?’ she asked over her shoulder.
‘Nah, baby, I’m good,’ he said.
And Ryann shot him a strange look, probably wondering why he called her ‘baby’—which he hardly ever did out of bed—and why he was talking so damn loud.
Her slow, swaying walk made the young ‘un lose all his prior cool, and soon he was craning his scrawny little neck her way, watching her until she disappeared inside. Only then did he straighten up. Spencer made sure he gave him a long, hard stare that was universally understood among men as a warning not to step into someone else’s lane.
The minute he decided to plant his seed in her, Ryann, in his mind had become restricted territory. He’d been fighting it, but there it was.
And it had still been there when Mariana came over to cook for him, her eyes filled with salacious intent. Even eating the meal she prepared felt like he was doing something wrong, never mind what came later. And so, the guilt had been there, eating at him from the inside out and only growing when Ryann came walking in through the door, as comfortable as a wife returning home to a husband whose fidelity she had never doubted for a second.
And that only made him feel worse, because without warning, or planning, something else Spencer didn’t anticipate had happened. In his mind, he had become restricted territory as well. Ryann’s territory.
“It was just a fight, Ryann.”
“Uh uh. I was there. It was more than that. He started a fight. On purpose. He’s having second thoughts,” she said.
Curled up on her sofa, Ryann held a glass of wine aloft in her right hand. A big one. She hadn’t been drinking as much lately, because Dr. Billingsley told her it was better not to, if they were serious about getting pregnant. And they were. At least, she was.
“You don’t know that. Just give it a couple of days to cool off and then talk to him.”
“I don’t think so. I mean, maybe it’s not happening anyway. It’s been three months and nothing. So maybe this wasn’t meant to be.”
“You’re giving up too easily,” Ivy said. “And since when have you started using phrases like ‘meant to be’?”
Ryann smiled at that. Ivy knew her too well. She was the least fatalistic person in the world, under normal circumstances. The only things that were ‘meant to be’ were the things you made happen.
“Spencer and I, we’re not tied to each other in any way. We can both just walk away before we start hating each other. And anyway, Tone is looking to come back and do some filming with the Coalition and go back in the jail, so it’s best not to let things get messy until that deal is all buttoned-up.”
“Oh,” Ivy’s voice sounded small. “You didn’t tell me. Congrats! So he’s doing the documentary after all?”
“Yeah. I thought I mentioned it.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. But you’ve been so busy.”
Ryann sighed. She was no busier than usual. It was just that now she spent all her free time with Spencer. Enough time that she’d let herself forget. This was just an arrangement they had—to try to get her knocked up so they could both have the kid they wanted. The kid she wanted.
Feeling a tear at the corner of one eye, Ryann hastily wiped it away, horrified.
“The fights can be awful,” Ivy was saying. “Whenever Eli and I have one …”
“You and Eli fight? You never talk about that.”
“Of course. And when we do …” Her friend made a groaning sound. “It’s like the end of the world. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. I look at my phone every five seconds, and I’m sure that this time we’re really over. And then he calls and we talk, and we get over it. One time he even cried. It was so sweet.”
Ryann rolled her eyes. Even Ivy and Eli’s arguments were like a romance novel. “Punk,” she said.
Ivy laughed. “You shut up. He’s sensitive sometimes. He’s …”
“Yes, I know,” Ryann said, deadpan. “Perfect.”
“No, he’s not perfect. He’s still kind of a chauvinist. But sometimes even that is kind of sexy, I can’t lie.”
Ryann sighed.
“Sorry. Am I talking about him too much again?”
“Yes.”
“My point is, just give it a minute. Leave Spencer alone, and leave yourself alone. Try not to go around in circles in your head about what you might have done or said wrong. Just take a breather, and you’ll see, he’ll come around. And neither of you are about to start hating the other. That’s just you being melodramatic.”
“Or not,” Ryann said, emptying her wineglass. She pushed herself up and went to refill it.
“You’re just a little raw right now, that’s all.”
Raw. That described it perfectly. Like someone had peeled back the topmost layer of her skin so that everything hurt. The fight, and the prospect of coming so close and maybe losing the chance at a baby was only part of it though. The other part, that she didn’t dare confess, was that when she’d walked into his house, she was excited to see him.
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Despite the fact that they hadn’t spoken while she was away, Ryann planned not to even broach the subject. Her evening with Lance Bethel had taken the edge off her annoyance, and reminded her that even if it was easy for Spencer to forget her when she was out of sight and reach, she had no shortage of male admirers wherever she went.
Using her own key to get into Spencer’s townhouse had added to the anticipatory thrill of seeing him, and she was looking forward to settling on his now-familiar sofa, getting one of his amazing foot massages and then napping, snuggled close to his side, while he complained about her hogging all the room.
It was so damn easy, she thought now, to fall into the trap of unspoken expectations, into the habit of wanting to ‘snuggle’ next to someone. But their disagreement had set her head back on straight. So, on some level, maybe she should be grateful it happened. Better now than later, when it would be much more difficult to drop his key and storm out in a cloud of righteous indignation.
“I’ll be fine, Ivy. I probably just need to get some rest, take a long nap in my own bed.”
And she needed someone who could show her how to do this—how to be with someone, as often as she’d been with Spencer and not begin to feel what she was beginning to feel.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You want me to come over? I can bring ice cream.”
It was a generous offer, but as much as Ryann wanted to take her up on it, she knew she wouldn’t. Sundays were always busy for her friend. Jaden was in summer day camp, and Ivy had often complained that it was only slightly less time-consuming than getting him ready for school during the year.
“No. No ice cream necessary. And yes, I’m sure. I’m fine.”
It was a lie. She wasn’t fine, but she would be. Because she was alone again. And that, she definitely knew how to do.
Sugar.
It had become her mother’s substitute vice, once the alcohol was no longer an option. Now, whenever Ryann went to see her, she made sure she brought along a pound cake, or apple strudels, drizzled with a crust of white icing. Or a rich-tasting cake. This time, when she exited her car in front of her mother’s apartment building in the Shaw neighborhood of the city, Ryann was carrying a German chocolate cake. It was store-bought because her mother never appreciated the fancier stuff, which was made with butter rather than lard. The expensive stuff had finer, more flavorful, and less cloyingly-sweet confections, and that wouldn’t do. When it came to her desserts, her mother wasn’t as much of a stickler for “quality”. She just wanted the sugar-high.
The Lover Page 19