Page 58 of False Start
His touch, his voice so close to my ear, and the reverence in his voice almost breaks me. Almost. I need a few hours without him to sort out my thoughts. I’ll forgive him because I love him and because he’s sincere. But I should be afforded the opportunity to process my feelings before I’m ready to put it behind me. “I know you have never really seen me upset, but I need time to process before I can talk about what happened last night. Please give me that time. We’ll talk when you get home from work before your curfew.”
I quickly wash up and step out of the shower to allow him to do the same. I feel like lying around all day and being lazy. Maybe, it’ll do the soreness in my body some good. Since graduate courses began last month, I haven’t had a lot of down time to relax. So I get comfortable on our big, gray couch covered in a million pillows with cute sayings, and I turn on the television.
Bryant steps into the living room with his duffel bag thrown over his shoulder. “I love you.”
One thing I’ll never do is not tell him I love him because I’m angry. “I love you, too. Have a good practice.”
He pauses for a moment before he finally walks across the room and leans down to press a kiss to the side of my mouth. “I love you more than life itself.” And then he’s gone.
I sleep for most of the day, spent by the toll of my emotions and self-doubt. While Kirstyn was harsh in her little assessment of my relationship with Bryant, she pushed a button with her comment about my being a starter wife. And it was as though she was blocking my entrance to protect Bryant and Priscilla, or at least Priscilla. As far as Priscilla goes, I don’t buy the agent line. I think Bryant believes the woman wants him as a client, but I saw the way she blatantly touched him knowing anyone, especially me, could walk in at any moment and find them. I don’t trust the woman as far as I can throw her. Also, who pulls their hair that tight without catching a migraine of epic proportions? Maybe, her face is just naturally pinched tightly.
I decide to call my mom and fill her in on the events of last night. I don’t make it a habit to share our personal business, especially disagreements, but Mom has experience in the industry as a WAG (Wives and Girlfriends). She also had a successful marriage to a career professional athlete and coach. I’m sure she has a thing or two to say on the matter.
“Hey, sweetheart, how are you?” she answers.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, and then I immediately break down in tears.
“Oh, no. What happened?”
I manage to blubber my way through the story. I feel both better and worse for reliving the tale and crying it out with my mother. Nothing makes a girl feel better about boys than her mother.
“Priscilla Pavers,” Mom says. “Watch that one, sweetie. She’s got snakes coming out of her head, and if she had her hands all over Bryant, she wants him as more than just a client.”
“That’s what I said. So you think I read the situation correctly?” I ask.
“A woman has to trust her gut, and yours is screaming at you to protect your man. The best piece of advice I can give you is to remember Bryant is young and having fame thrown at him left and right. Unfortunately, fame entails women throwing themselves at your husband in hopes that he’ll make them the next Mrs. Hudson after he boots you to the curb.”
Her words weigh heavily on me. “Did I make a mistake marrying him, Mom?”
“No, darling, not at all. You’re just going to need a thicker skin for the world you now live in. That’s okay. The best way you can fight them is by showing them how strong you and your husband are together. Show them you’re a team and how in love are. How can they compete with love? And it’ll chap their asses to see you happy.”
I giggle. “You’re quite manipulative, Mother.”
“You have to fight fire with fire, sweetheart.”
I feel better after my conversation with my mom, and when the call ends, I see a few missed messages from Bryant.
Bryant: You’ve been on my mind all practice. I hope you’re having a relaxing day.
Bryant: You being mad at me has to be the worst thing I’ve ever experienced.
Bryant: I love you.
Zhanna: I love you, too.
At half past five, Bryant walks in through the kitchen door via the garage. “Baby!”
“In here!” I say from the couch.
When he rounds the bar and comes into view, he stops and smirks at me as he puts his hands on his hips. “Have you moved today?”
I grin back at him. “I tried not to.”
“Can we talk?”
“I think we should.”
His face falls. “Zhanna, baby, it won’t happen again. Swear to Christ, I’m not ever letting another woman so much as hug me.”
