chapter five.
cyn
I shouldn’t have agreed to this. I knew it the moment I turned into the High Grove Estates community where the ultra-wealthy of the city reside with their fancy brick homes safely tucked behind metal, coded gates and overpriced alarm systems. Just to think I used to live here with them, even though I never considered myself wealthy.
My income makes me middle-class. My husband is the wealthy one.
He fits right in here at Christenbury Hills.
He works at Christenbury General – one of the top hospitals in North Carolina – and his colleagues love him.
Who doesn’t love a handsome, intelligent, friendly doctor who you could kick it with, and get a diagnosis at the same time?
I doubt if he changed the code to the gate, so I punch in the six-digit code – his birth date, my birth date, our wedding date, and voilà, the gates to the kingdom open.
It’s surreal being back here. As I creep slowly down the driveway, I look out into the expanse of the yard – the lush green grass littered with leaves.
Brixton loves leaves. He makes the landscaper wait a while before cleaning them up.
I always thought it was a childhood nostalgia thing, but it’s a genuine love of nature.
Of creation. Of the things in life that humans didn’t create, yet we still have the opportunity to touch and enjoy them.
I like that about him. That he’s in touch with the environment.
The hedges are trimmed, sidewalk edged, and windows washed. The fountain in the center of the horseshoe driveway is operating – the sound of water trickling pleases my ears and calms me slightly. If there’s one thing Brixton knows how to do well, it’s keeping his home and property in tip-top shape.
I park and get out. Even the air smells fresher over this way - like the purification you get in the atmosphere after a heavy rainfall.
Opening the back door, I get my medium-sized suitcase out and tote it toward the door.
For a split second, I almost reached for the handle and went right in like nothing had changed, but I caught myself and rang the bell instead.
It doesn’t take long for Brix to make an appearance – shirtless. Not only am I greeted by his handsome face, but there are muscles. Abs. Nipples. And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that milk-chocolate brown hue to his skin that glows with moisturization.
That – all of it – caught me off guard. I’m so off, I forgot all of that used to be mine, and still could be if I wanted it to be. But, been there, failed at that, so I keep my focus and do what I came here to do – be his happy, doting wife in front of my in-laws.
“You know you don’t have to ring the bell, Cyn.”
“Of course I do. I haven’t lived here for eleven months. I’m not going to waltz into your house like it’s still mine,” I say, stepping inside. “And why are you answering the door butt naked?”
He grins. “I’m not naked.” He looks down at himself and adds, “I have on pants.”
“Well, put a shirt on. I don’t want to see all that.”
“You sure? For a minute there, I thought you forgot where my eyes were.”
I glare at him. As right as he is, I don’t want him reading too much into anything.
“Whatever.”
He laughs and heads toward the stairs, saying, “Yeah, I know it’s whatever.”
Meanwhile, I walk through the house, feeling melancholy and nostalgia converging upon me, swelling my chest. We’ve had so many memories here, and they weren’t all bad.
In fact, the majority of them are good. When we first got married, we made love in every inch of this house – that sofa, kitchen chairs, the island, counters…
tables, one of them which we broke – the coffee table in the living room.
It was replaced by a much sturdier one. One we never got around to testing.
Everything else in this unhumble abode is basically the same.
He even has our wedding photo hanging over the fireplace.
I suppose he put it back up since his parents were coming and why wouldn’t he?
It is of the utmost imperativeness that he pleases Mommy and Daddy – especially his nagging mama with her synthetic wigs and perfume that’s so strong, it’ll catch your nose hairs on fire.
She’s always at him about something and, at this point, I don’t know if he’s being a good son or a foolish man-boy because, at what point does a man put his foot down and let his mama know she ain’t running nothing up in his house?
“Is this suitable enough for you?” he asks. I turn around to see that he has on a white ribbed tank that contours to his pectorals. No, it’s not suitable, because my eyes can still trace the shape of his pectorals and ride the mountainous curves of his biceps, but I say, “Yes. Better.”
I turn back to look at the picture of us above the mantle and say, “You’re really going all-out for your folks, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
I thought it was self-explanatory, but I gesture toward our wedding photo and say, “You put that back up.”
He says, “No. I never took it down.”
Surprised, I turn to look at him and ask, “You didn’t?”
“No. Why would I? I still love you. You’re the one who hates me. The picture stays. Forever.”
Stunned, I stare into his eyes. I still see love in them, but unfortunately, I can’t handle bits and pieces of him. I want a whole man, a whole body, a whole mind. If I can’t have that, I won’t have anything.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Okay…um...what do we need to discuss?”
“Take a beat, Cyn. Everything doesn’t have to be rushed.”
“I’m not rushing. I just like getting straight to the point. Now, what are we doing?”
He smiles, sliding his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. It greatly pisses me off because I feel like he’s purposely trying to get under my skin.
He says, “Let’s go sit down in the kitchen. I have food.”
Huffing sharply, I roll my eyes. I wish I was at home in my cozy apartment, getting ready to eat dinner before crashing on the sofa. Instead, I’m here, about to get a lesson in faking a happy marriage.
Yay me…
“Have a seat,” he instructs.
I walk into the kitchen. There’s a spread on the dinette there with lasagna, a garden salad, and breadsticks.
“What’s all this?” I ask.
“I just had a lil’ something prepared since I knew you were coming. I figured you’d be less combative if I fed you first.”
I laugh and say, “Combative? Really, Brix? You think I’m combative?”
“Toward me you are.”
He hands me a plate. I dig into this lasagna, plowing through a thick bed of melted cheese, noodles, and sauce. Oh, it smells good! I haven’t had that in a long time, and this one looks like it was made for royalty.
I start eating right away, taking a couple breadsticks and really get into it.
Brix says, “So, I’m picking them up from the airport tomorrow around ten.”
“What about food?”
“I’m having everything catered.”
“So, they’re not expecting me to cook?”
“No. People like us pay people to cook.”
“Since when? I cooked last year, and the year before that.”
“You didn’t cook last year. We went to your parents’ house last year, remember?”
“Well, the year before that, I cooked.”
“It really doesn’t matter, Cyn. Having the food catered this year is the best thing we can do in this scenario. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“If you say so. I can hear your mom now talking about how I should’ve cooked her only son a homemade meal.”
“You won’t have to worry about that.”
“And she bet’ not be up in here critiquing everything like she’s the host of Love It or List It.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, either.”
Yeah, right. Since I moved out, the house feels dark. There are no flowers, candles, no color – this man couldn’t make a house a home if the blueprint was laid out for him, but he can cut people open and stitch them back up.
I dip a breadstick into cheese and sauce, take a bite and enjoy the flavors for a moment, knowing good and well these thighs don’t need no more carbs, especially savored ones, then say, “Let’s get right down to business. What exactly do you need from me?”
“I need you to be my wife.”
“I am your wife.”
“Yes—” he says, then chews. “In name only. You don’t feel anything for me anymore.”
“How do you know what I feel?”
“Okay, well, let me ask—do you feel anything for me?”
My eyes narrow. The truth he seeks is hidden behind a frown and anger-induced sarcasm.
“Exactly,” he continues as if he were right to begin with. “I know it’ll be difficult for you to pretend, but please act like you love me. My mother will be able to tell right away if something’s amiss.”
My mother will be able to tell right away if something’s amiss, I repeat mockingly in my mind.
Them plastic wigs she wears are a miss. Her son is a millionaire, and she’s out here looking like the corner beauty supply store failed her.
You know what? Let me stop. I like my mother-in-law.
I don’t like the authority she wields over my husband.
She has more clout than I do, and I said vows with the man.
I hold his gaze, wondering what’s truly going on behind those dark brown eyes of his.
Brix has never faltered in the looks department – and his eyes – they are so telling.
He still loves me. I can see it every time he beams deep into my soul.
Goosebumps flutter across my skin when I think about how we used to be.
Now we feel like strangers in this house we had made a home, but now it’s back to a house again.
We’re sitting at opposite ends of a six-chair dinette with the world between us, prompting us to keep the distance we established all this year.
“Cyn, did you hear me?”
“Yeah. I got it. I’ll put on my best performance like Viola Davis did in Fences, with snot bubbles and all.
You know she won an Oscar for that. Boy, she let Troy have it with his cheating fool behind.
What you ain’t gon do is cheat on me, then turn around and bring a baby home for me to take care of. I wish I would!”
“Cyn?”