The Cheating Curve (17 page)

“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.

“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.”

A
s 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
.