One Night (24 page)

Rubbing my neck, I got back in the shower. I was going to drink all the wine I could, then raid the minibar and drink and eat this buffet until I passed out. I thought I heard a sound, like metal against metal. It was an abrupt bump. My heart raced. I paused, turned the shower off, and listened. I stepped out, wrapped myself in a towel, and went to the room. No one was in there. The door was still locked, the deadbolt on, the security bar in place. I looked at the door. Wondered if that bump was Natalie messing with her mommy from the other side. I looked out the peephole, wished it was a fisheye that allowed me to see her in heaven, but I only saw the hallway. Saw no one. Then I cracked the door in case she was there. She wouldn't be tall enough to be seen. No one was in the hallway. I dropped the towel where I was, scratched my head as I headed back to the bathroom, and stepped back in the shower. My neck. I saw my necklace. I had almost forgotten about the red circle of hickeys he had given me. They ran from ear to ear and would look fantastic with a cream-colored pearl necklace. When I was naked in the hallway, the Latina who had left the elevator in shock, the fools rapping and taking photos as I headed back to my romping shop, the security guard who had come inside my room—all of them had seen the bite marks left over from my exorcism. I went to the bathroom, slipped on a housecoat, put on lip gloss, then returned to the room, turned the lights on, retrieved my cell phone, pulled the covers up to my nipples, and took two dozen selfies. I needed to remember this moment, this night, when I wasn't tipsy, when it didn't feel like a dream. I posted two on Instagram, knowing they would automatically appear on my Facebook account and link to Twitter. Chicken and Waffles was a friend and a follower. I wrote,
I've been drankin, I've been drankin'
on the post. Then I changed it
. La petite mort. La petite mort. So many little deaths visited me tonight. So many orgasms. I've been nasty. I've been nasty. I got filthy when good wood got into me. I'm a grown woman, a single lady, can do whatever I want, with whomever I want, and I've been drankin' with a nice, long, strong surfboard. Graining on that surfboard from Orange County like a mofo while Gladys Knight sang he was the best thing that ever happened to me. Nice to be with a handsome man who has a slow hand and knows how to make a grown woman come
.
La petite mort. La petite mort. So many little deaths. Until I die again, I will live with a smile.

I broke all my own Facebook etiquette rules. Wanted the world that knew me to see me now. I made the happiest face in the universe. I took a photo with the food tray and wine behind me, one where you could see the disheveled post-sex bed, one where you saw my clothing folded, and one where you saw my overnight bag in the frame. I let my dreadlocks down, had the housecoat where it barely revealed the darkness of my nipple. I took that one in black-and-white, very artsy, very erotic, and posted it.
Stop calling. Game over. Moved on to a better surfboard. Should've offered me more than chicken wings and waffles and been a real man and put a ring on it because I have done an upgrade, so to the left, to the left
. That was out of character and daring. Every woman on my page clicked like and sent high-fives and told me to get mine. Tommie McBroom posted a haiku on my page. Unhappiness is a sorority with many members. I put my business on social media. On a page called Natalie's Mom, a page that had hundreds of photos of my child and me, a page where I had always been a respectable single mother who had lost her child, I had a moment that couldn't be taken back. Social media is not erasable. The wine I had been sipping was using me as a mouthpiece. That's what the sex and orgasms had done to me. When that was done, the smile went away. I sat there waiting like a lonesome queen.

I had met Chicken and Waffles online. We had found each other on social media, had been in the cesspool of information that reveals how people really feel on the inside, where people go to reveal their true selves, a place where much of what is shared is negative, vindictive, and hopeless, where we learn to be racist in 140 characters or less. We broke up the same way: in less than 140 characters.

We were so advanced we'd found ways to be together without ever being together.

We'd learned how to create false connections to maintain false relationships.

The night with the man from Orange County had been filled with words.

We had talked. Shared ideas. Agreed. Disagreed. Had sex. Loved. Argued. Fought.

We had broken up. We had had a full relationship in a matter of hours.

I missed his voice. I missed his smell. I missed his touch.

I missed a man I barely knew.

Broken balloons were all over the room, stuck to the furniture, to the mirrors.

Maybe I'd clean my car. Maybe it was time.

The child seat. The plethora of Barbie dolls. The food on the floor mats.

I heard her laugh. I smiled. Thought about her. Almost went to the door again.

The money. I stared at it for a while. With that money, I could've taken her to Disneyland, stayed at the hotel for three days, ridden all the rides and eaten candy and hot dogs until our bellies burst.

Mommy was supposed to get rich for her, travel the world with her.

I picked the check up as well. Stacked it on the desk.

I sat the reality check on top of the money.

Not only was his name on his check, so was his home address.

That was stupid. His stupidity told me a lot.

He'd never had an affair before. A seasoned adulterer would never leave a paper trail. Never give your mistress your bank information or your home address. It was a sign of a man who was too trusting.

I looked at the four-hundred-dollar check, squinted and read his information, printed across the top, and picked up my phone and keyed his address into Google. Thanks to Google, all I needed to do was put an address into the Google browser, and the home or apartment or building would pop up in 3D. I saw palm trees, nice cars in long driveways, and the uniform bland color of the community's architecture. I could click arrows to walk through the entire neighborhood. I zoomed in, came so close I could see the fancy handles on his double front doors.

This was the address on the check, and I assumed that it was the man from Orange County's home address. I didn't want to be curious, but now I was throbbing, inquisitive.

I wanted to see where he lived, wanted to see how he was living.

Wanted see where he was going after he pleased me and left me enamored.

Like a teenage girl, I was jealous.

I went back to the browser and thumbed in the property address again. Property valuation, names of owners, and a heading that read
FIND OUT WHO LIVES AT
the address popped up. Another link took me to a real estate sight for Anaheim Hills. Jackpot. A description popped up, along with a virtual tour. Google had taken me to his front porch; now another site was letting me inside his home. This was a criminal's tool; how burglars could tell what you had and what room it was in, even see what type of security system you had. It made it easy to plan a break-in. Either the house was on the market or he and his wife had just bought it. Single-family home on Foxhollow Drive in the hills near Disneyland: four bedrooms, three and a half baths, three thousand square feet on a lot of more than five thousand square feet. Built in 1998. I took the virtual tour through thirty photos, looked at the double doors that led into the home and the impressive two-story ceiling over a formal living room that opened into the formal dining room, which in turn led to a grand wooden staircase.

The kitchen was boss. Spacious, with granite counters and a work island in the middle, and it had a breakfast nook. Next was a large family room with a fireplace. I was staring at my dream home.

There was a bedroom on the main floor: The master suite, where booties went to do doggy style, was oversize, with a private retreat, a space that looked like it could be a sweet fornicave, a place for all sorts of kinkiness, and there was a luxurious bath with dual vanities, an oval tub, and a separate shower.

I sat there grinding my teeth and rocking.

Mansion-smart.

If that was only house-smart, I would hate to see what his idea of mansion-smart was.

The house cost three quarters of a million.

Google is a stalker's best friend. Everything is on the Internet. That was why I never gave anyone my address. Or made sex tapes with anyone. The one who claimed to love you today would get pissed off and not hesitate to betray you tomorrow. My apartment had a living room, a kitchen with small gas stove, a bedroom with a twin bed, dull walls, and gray carpet that the landlord would clean once every six months, but wouldn't replace. Orange County's home was impressive. Compared to Leimert Park, his neighborhood was Beverly Hills. I could put his address in MapQuest, go to Orange County, sneak behind enemy lines. I dropped his name in the Google search engine.

His picture appeared, followed by the story of his life in black and white.

I whispered, “Oh. My. God.”

Then I sat with my head between my legs, panting, overheating.

Then I closed my eyes. Searched for Natalie Rose.

I needed to know that she wasn't alone.

All I found was darkness, a deep, peaceful darkness.

It felt beautiful.

I slept.

A key card was placed in the door. I jerked awake. It was placed in the wrong way, taken out, flipped over, put back in. Then the sound of a click, then the sound of metal against metal as the latch brought the opening door to an abrupt stop, a sound like an exclamation point in deep font. The door handle turned and was pushed forward. It was the same abrupt sound I had heard when I was in the shower. Someone had tried to come into the room before. I think I heard them again while I slept.

I called out, “Hi, rude person on the other side of the damn door. I'm available right now so you can speak to me personally. Please tell me what the hell you want this time after the beep.
Beep
.”

There was no reply. But someone was there. My heart thumped.

While I sat there in shock, a keycard was placed in the door again, and the door was shoved open, but was again stopped by the security bar. That terrified me. I jumped up and grabbed the box cutter.

Maybe I could cut somebody six ways to Sunday. Maybe I could.

I called out, “Yes? Are you deaf? Jesus Christmas, what's the issue now?”

“Are you okay?”

“Who is it? Is this a wellness check by a deaf person?”

“It's me.”

“Me who?”

“Guy from the gas station.”

“What guy from what gas station?”

“Guy you slapped so hard he saw the light.”

He'd come back.

I asked, “What's up?”

“What do you mean?”

“You sound angry.”

He said, “It's been that kind of night.”

“Thought you'd gone to your distraught wife.”

“I forgot my wedding ring.”

“Wow. That's it? You came back for your wedding ring?”

He said, “On the dresser.”

“You left in a hurry. Hope you made sure your drawers were on forward and not inside out.”

“Well, are you going to let me back inside?”

“Hold on for a second.”

“Why do I have to hold on?”

“Let me get dressed.”

“You're joking.”

“I'm serious.”

I grabbed my clothing, dressed. He'd come to put me out. He'd come back to put me out.

Once I'd pulled on my clothing, I opened the door, and he held up a plastic bag.

I asked, “What's that?”

“Cheesecake.”

He looked at me. I looked at him. It felt like the first day of spring.

With his left hand he touched my neck, touched the hickeys he had left behind.

I whispered, “You went out into the rain and bought me cheesecake.”

“From Pure Cheesecakes. Supposed to be the best cheesecake in L.A.”

“You drove in the rain to find cheesecake for me?”

“You're worth it. The moment I left here, I wanted to turn around and come back.”

“I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's fine. I'm sorry, too.”

We kissed, a soft kiss with lips touching, then with the dancing of tongues.

And that ended the fight.

I wanted to get undressed again, to get on the bed, sip wine, eat my treats.

But that was when I saw that he wasn't the same man. He was the man I had met in Hawaiian Gardens, but he wasn't the same man. He smiled, but it was a different smile. This smile was heavier. Distraught. It had been robbed of something. The energy had changed. The same went for his complexion. Not until that moment did I see him clearly. He looked sallow. Broken. He looked the same way I had looked, the same way I had felt when I gave my child back to the earth. He looked like he had seen death.

My tone shifted, filled with fear, anxiety, and I asked, “What happened?”

“Before it was too late, I wanted to bring you the cheesecake, like I promised.”

“What happened?”

Bad news came with the good.

He said, “My wife called.”

“Does she know you're with someone?”

“She suspects I've been in this hotel having the time of my life.”

“So what does that mean?”

“She was leaving to come here.”

“Here?”

“Here.”

“In traffic?”

“In traffic.”

“She's pissed.”

He said, “Traffic and rain would not stop anger and jealousy from reaching their destination.”

I paused. Looked at the room. I saw the insane fun we had had. I saw all we had shared. Heard the laughter. The time on the clock glowed. He gave me a tight hug, the kind that lifted me off my feet. When it was done, I went to where he had left his wedding ring, picked it up, took the circle that symbolized forever to him, put it on his finger as if I were asking him to be mine, then kissed him again.

In the softest voice I told him, “I should leave before she gets here.”

In a softer voice he said, “She's already downstairs.”