Page 22 of Wall

Forty flashes me a half-smile. “Good luck, brother.”

“I need it.”

Mona’s got no reason to forgive me. It’s been four years, but the basic facts of the matter haven’t changed. She was hurting, and in a moment of weakness, I slept with another woman. She kicked me out, and instead of fighting for her, I lost my damn mind.

Some women forgive a man a dozen times for doing what I did. They’ll ignore it for years. Lord knows Ernestine’s been putting up with Grinder’s shit since the eighties.

Mona’s not like that. But she’s got a warm, loving heart.

Maybe she would give a man a chance. If he really changed. If he showed her that’s he’s all in.

That’s all I need. One chance.

That’s what my whole heart is ridin’ on.

CHAPTER 5

MONA

It would’ve been really desperate to get my hair cut this afternoon. Earlier today, John couldn’t see my hair under that dumb hat, so he wouldn’t know that I went to the salon and got a trim—maybe just a blowout—butI’dknow.

I glare at the mirror.

Well, I have my pride, and I also have split ends. I’m going to have to live with it. As it is, I spent the afternoon on the treadmill, trying to sweat off thirty pounds. Didn’t work.

Then, I got mad at myself. What do I care what John Wall thinks of my body? He cheated on me with a woman named Stephanie.

My friend Lorraine showed me the woman’s social media. She’s taller than me—thinner, blonder, and she goes paddle boardinga lot. So many pictures of her in bikinis, and she doesn’t have just the one for when she’s sunning in her backyard. She hasmany. For different occasions.

John Wall cheated on me, and I sunk so low as to cyberstalk some woman, and all he had to say to me wasWe can’t sell. We’re underwater on the mortgage. Why don’t you stay in the house?

So I had myself a good cry in my sweat-soaked, too-tight yoga pants, and then I got in the shower.

Now I’m fussing over my hair, and trying to spackle on enough foundation that you can’t tell I’ve been crying.

I was crazy to invite John Wall back into my life. My days are boring, but I haven’t broken down in my bathroom inyears.

I need to pull it together. The way I make meatloaf doesn’t take too long, and I already washed and cut the potatoes, but I’m on a schedule. I don’t want to be massaging raw meat with my bare hands when he rings the bell.

I made cake from a box before I got on the treadmill. If this goes terribly wrong, at least there’ll be cake after he leaves. Right now, I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat dinner. My stomach’s nothing but flapping butterflies.

After I apply some mascara—no eyeshadow or lipstick, I don’t want to act like this is athing—I open my underwear drawer. I still have a few lacy pairs from when we were together, but they’re shoved way in the back. I tug on a pair of plain pink panties and a white T-Shirt bra.

No one’s gonna see them, but you feel better in decent underwear. That’s the same reason I’m going to wear my favorite pale blue cashmere sweater and the jeans that make my butt look an inch higher than it rests in real life. I need as much confidence as I can get.

This is uncharted territory.

When John and I split, I thought about dating. I downloaded an app. I swiped. It only made me sad. And that pissed me off. I’d think: maybe in a few months. Once I’ve had a chance to go to the gym. (I didn’t.) Once this class is finished. Never got around to it, though.

I haven’t been alone with a man in that way in four years. But this isn’t a date. There’s no quid pro quo in a date. The man doesn’t invite himself over.

This is more like a job. A gig. A favor. No need to get all sweaty-palmed.

I give myself a good shake and head for the kitchen, tying on my old apron that says, “Kiss the Cook.” I need to remember to take it off before John gets here.

I take out the ground beef and eggs and open a can of vegetable soup. My meatloaf’s really not complicated, but for some reason, I keep screwing up, dropping things. I almost add Italian seasoning instead of garlic powder. And I knock the carton of eggs on the floor. Thank the Lord none broke.

I try to focus, but the clock’s getting on my nerves. I turn on some music, try to drown out the ticking, and that works for a while, but then I keep thinking I hear someone knocking at the door, and I go to check, and no one’s there.

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