The Cheating Curve (8 page)

L
ang tackled Mondays thoroughly while perpetually caffeinated. It was the only day of the week she arrived in the office before the rest of her staff to professionally and personally prep for her week—materials read, notes jotted, meetings set, e-mails sent, appointments made, and calls returned.

By late afternoon, Lang found herself staring at her phone only to pick it up and place it back down. She rang her assistant to get Aminah on the line.

Lang’s phone line buzzed.

“Aminah?”

“No, it’s me.” Merrick cleared her throat. “Aminah said, and I quote, ‘No offense, Merrick, but tell Lang to pick up the phone and call me her damn self. You have yourself a good day.’”

“What a bitch. Fine. And, Merrick, would you please order me a grilled salmon Niçoise salad? Thanks.”

Lang released the line and dialed Aminah. Minah picked up on the third ring. “Why must you be so difficult? I just wanted to confirm a spot for brunch next Sunday,” Lang said.

“Why, hello to you too, Langston,” Aminah said, dropping her keys on the table in her foyer. She’d just returned from bringing Amir home from school. “Are we
still
doing brunch next Sunday?”

“So you wanna cancel?” Lang asked, more disappointed than surprised.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Aminah replied as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. “After everything I discovered about you last Sunday, I don’t enjoy being in your company.”

Lang put Aminah on hold to close her office door. She paced in front of her pewter and glass desk a couple times before picking up the phone again. “So you’re judging me now, Minah? You’ve got nerve. For years—you hear me—not
days
, for years I’ve watched you stand by Fame while he did his dirt, and not one time have I ever judged you. Disagreed with your decisions, maybe. But judged you? Never. Defended you? Always. And now you’re gonna fuckin’ judge me?”

“I’m not judging you,” Aminah answered calmly. “I just don’t agree with you.”

“Bullshit. You’ve already chosen sides. You’re on Team Sean.”

“I’m siding with what’s right,” Aminah said firmly.

“See? And there’s the judgment.”

Merrick knocked on the door to bring in her boss’s lunch. Lang motioned with her hand to leave it on her desk and shut the door behind her.

“Not once have I ever said that you forgiving Fame or staying with Fame was wrong or right. I just supported you,” Lang continued.

“Wait. You can’t possibly expect me to support your decision to cheat on your husband?” Aminah asked, scrunching her face.

“Not my decision, Minah. Damn. Me. I expected my best friend to support
me
through my shit like I’ve had
your
back through your shit. Is that asking too much?”

“I…I…I hadn’t thought about it that way,” Aminah said, shaking her head.

“’Cause you were so quick to criticize me with no thought of me and my position.”

“How could I, Lang? You knew where I’d stand on this. You’re asking too much. You know my position.”

“The same exact way I thought of you and not my own position when you chose to start your family right away instead of a career after graduating summa cum laude. Shit. You know I’m one hundred percent for women getting their own money first before starting a family they can support on their own, by themselves, married or not. But when folks started saying you were wasting your education, or, better yet, when you yourself asked me if I thought you were crazy not to be a working mom, I said, ‘Crazy? No. What a blessing to even have that dilemma.’ Do you not remember that, Minah?”

“I do.”

“Minah, I’ve felt like something’s been missing in my life for a little while, and I’m trying to figure out what that is. I love Sean, and I love my marriage, but it’s not enough to keep me fulfilled. At least I don’t think it is, or maybe it’s not supposed to be. I dunno. Maybe I’m asking too much from matrimony.”

“Listen, Lang, I didn’t mean to judge you,” Aminah apologized. “But, honey, marriage isn’t always gonna be fulfilling. It takes work. The same way you work at your career, you’ve got to work at marriage, and you’re never gonna find the remedy for your relationship outside of it.”

“That makes sense, but…”

“But nothing, Lang.”

“No, hear me out,” Lang requested. “I’m not looking for my marriage to fulfill me. I want—no, I crave self-fulfillment. I mean, sue me for wanting it all—a great career, a nice home, a loving husband, and an amazing sex life. I’m not okay with just good sex. I want great, mind-blowing, turn-me-out sex. And, quite honestly, I want that more than I want kids. I work hard, I’m a great catch, and I deserve it. I mean, maybe we can’t have it all, but I’m damn sure gonna find out before I give one up for the other.”

“Wow, Lang. Did you just say you wanted sex more than you wanted children?”

“Something like that.”

“Okay, okay, let’s finish this discussion on Sunday,” Aminah said, resigned, shaking her head in disbelief.

“See, now you done lost your right to choose,” Lang said after chewing her salad. “I’ll pick. It’s my turn to treat anyway.”

“Where to?” Aminah asked Lang as they buckled up inside her immaculate BMW, careful not to smudge their nails. Aminah had left her Range Rover in front of the Rogers’ brownstone. Sean had offered to wash and vacuum out her truck while the ladies brunched in Manhattan. They’d just finished spoiling themselves with some especially good pampering at Pretty Inside.

Lang and Aminah had passed up their usual Sunday Sessions for services a bit more indulgent. Lang had treated herself to a luxurious Oatmeal Almond Crunch pedicure, and Aminah to pink rhinestone
A
s encrusted on both her pinkie nails. Soaking in the warm oatmeal batter, being rubbed in an almond/apricot scrub, and then immersed in grape-seed and jojoba oils had Lang’s feet feeling not only smoother than Sade’s operator (no need to ask), but smelling sweeter than her taboos.

At Pretty Inside they’d discussed the details of Sean and Lang’s trip to Hilton Head next week with Alia and Amir, lamented how fast the summer was disappearing, and joked about Lang’s cleaning obsession with no mention of the conversation they’d had earlier in the week.

“I’ve been thinking about fish and grits ever since I mentioned them the last time, so I had Merrick make us a reservation at that li’l spot in Chelsea.”

A vocally challenged Langston Rogers drove to Manhattan unhurried, butchering songs from
Epiphany: The Best of Chaka Khan, Volume One
the entire ride. She passed her invisible microphone to Aminah for the powerful notes she couldn’t hang with, just like she had in their junior high school days.

Aminah belted out,
“Problem is you ain’t been loved like you should. What I got to give will sure ’nuff do you good,
” resuscitating Chaka’s “Tell Me Something Good” before Lang mutilated it beyond revival.

“Minah, it makes no sense that you never sang professionally—you know that, right?” Lang said, looking for parking.

“Sure it does. I’ve never wanted to,” Aminah explained. “Lang, we’ve beaten this topic to death for the past twenty years. See, now that’s why I don’t like singing around you.”

“You’ve never wanted to, or Master—I mean, Maestro—Fame never wanted you to?” Lang asked playfully.

“Ha-ha, very funny,” Aminah said, nodding her head to Chaka’s electric “I Know You, I Live You.” “Keep playing, Langston Neale Rogers. You don’t want me to bring up the fact that at the very premenopausal age of thirty-three, you’re still an unpublished author named after not one, but two literary legends and have yet to live up to your namesakes. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe I’ve heard any plans from you to write any kind of novel or even so much as develop a short story for that matter. Instead you’ve chosen to head up a rag—I mean, a tabloid, I mean, a, uh, what do you call that thing you run?” Aminah asked sarcastically while snapping her fingers. “A magazine. Yes, that’s it, a glossy ghetto magazine. Now, if that’s not fulfilling your destiny, then—”

“’Nuff said,” Lang interrupted.

“Uh-huh, I thought so,” Aminah said, smiling as Lang pulled into a parking garage. She knew that would shut Lang right up. Aminah enjoyed singing in the privacy of her shower, her car, and around her house. She’d entertained the idea of being a singer as a teenager, but her parents weren’t very supportive. They saw it as a waste of time and intelligence. Plus, Aminah wasn’t a big fan of the business side of music either—though she couldn’t deny that the business side of music kept her family well dressed, well fed, well heeled, and well housed.

Lang, however, really wanted to write her great American novel someday. She simply was not ready to focus or commit that kind of time and energy just yet. Her mother frequently asked her which should she expect first from her, “a fine piece of literary fiction” or “an adorable specimen of a grandchild.”

“And my magazine is
not
ghetto,” Lang said, opening the door for Aminah.

Lang and Aminah strolled into the small yet charming restaurant hand in hand, laughing and smiling. It was practically filled to capacity.

Aminah made her way to the table with Lang’s hand on the small of her back. They were seated next to another pair of women. The well-dressed duo smiled at them, and they smiled back.

Both Aminah and Lang ordered the extra-flaky-on-the-outside, so-tender-on-the-inside fried whiting with the smooth, not-at-all-grainy, creamy grits. Lang had hers with a Bellini and Aminah a mimosa.

“So how’d that meeting with Rebekkah go?” Lang asked, buttering her visibly steaming-hot piece of cornbread.

“Oh, you’re not gonna believe this, Lang,” Aminah said. “The real reason she wanted to meet with me was for some premarital counseling. We barely even discussed her wedding.”

“You’re lying, Minah. Y’all aren’t even cool like that,” Lang said, taking a sip of her Bellini.

“I know, but apparently she thought so. She basically asked to borrow my manual on coping with a cheating husband in the entertainment industry and then chastised me for writing it.
‘I don’t know how you deal with all the rumors of your man sleeping around. I know I couldn’t, but could you still tell me how just in case I change my mind?
’” Aminah said, imitating Rebekkah.

Langston laughed so loud the woman seated next to her in the black knit tube top and cultured pearls with matching earrings gave her a disapproving look, but Lang ignored her. “No, Minah, what’d you do?”

“I left. And the sad part is before she ripped into me, I was really enjoying her company. But then she had to get all nutty with me.”

Lang laughed. “Well, you always said she was.”

“Is,” Aminah corrected.

“So are you still going to do their wedding?” Lang asked.

“You can’t be serious, Lang.”

“I so am, Aminah. Business is business.”

“Excuse you, this isn’t my business. It’s barely a hobby,” Aminah reminded.

“Girl, please,” Lang said, taking another bite of her delicious cornbread. “It could be your business. You and Fame are always on Imon’s guest lists anyway. You know you could easily be the urban Preston Bailey.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t even lie to you,” Aminah said after taking a sip of her tangy mimosa. “I was really looking forward to doing it. Though she did kind of throw me for a loop when she said Imon wanted some kind of winter-white-wedding-wonderland extravaganza done up Harlem style, darling,” Aminah said, snapping her fingers in the air.

Lang laughed so hard she had to swallow her piece of cornbread whole just to keep from choking on it. “What in the hell is that?” she asked, finishing off her Bellini.

“I’m not quite sure, but I’m seeing this huge wedding at Abyssinian, tons of white and silver or white and gold; the reception at a brownstone on Strivers’ Row maybe; and all these fabulous guests decked out in winter white and red velvet, I guess. I don’t know, Lang. It all sounds very tasteless. I just know he wanted something flashy with all the A-list people there.”

“Oh, goodness, that sounds like Imon Alstar,” Lang said. “He must be seen. He’s such a media whore. Don’t get me wrong, I love media whores, especially the ones who give me exclusive all-access to their wedding. Shit, that brother gets mad when we’re
not
talking about him in the magazine. I’ve met Rebekkah only a couple times, but I pictured her wanting something a bit more, I don’t know, Afrocentric, for lack of a better word. You know, more cultural.”

“And your picture ain’t blurry,” Aminah said, laughing at her own corny joke. “She just doesn’t know how to tell Imon that.”

“Oh, well, it doesn’t really matter to me,” Lang said, flipping her hand. “You know the deal.
Urban Celebrity
is only interested in her because of who she’s marrying. What is she anyway, like, a math teacher or something?”

“No, Lang, damn. The sister is a former sociology professor and a consultant on that new black family drama coming to HBO. Oh, wait a minute,” Aminah said, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms. “I finally get it now. So I’ve only been featured in
Urban Celebrity
because of who I’m married to. Is that how this pseudo-celebrity thing works?”

“Yeah, girl, I thought you knew,” Lang said, smiling. “That and who you’re best friends with.”

They both laughed loud and hard. This time the modish woman in the tortoiseshell Ferragamo eyeglasses gave Langston a disapproving look. She ignored her, too.

“Minah, how is a sociologist-slash-consultant gonna seek advice from a mere acquaintance? That makes absolutely no sense at all.”

“No, it sort of does,” Aminah explained. “I’ve gotten better advice in one night from a bartender whose name I never knew than from that marriage counselor we saw once a week for two years straight.” Aminah chuckled at her own admission.

“No, thanks, then. I’ll pass on the therapist and stick with my favorite bartender up in 40/40. Hey, did I ever tell you I fucked Imon? Well, I tried to anyway.”

The lady in pearls cleared her throat. Lang gave her a phony smile, and Aminah gagged on her mimosa. “Lang, shhhh,” Aminah managed to get out through a bit of a coughing seizure. “Wait, what do you mean tried to?”