Page 15 of Friend Zoned

Nothing happens. I press my ear to the door and am met with only silence. I knock again. Again, nothing. I exhale, not sure if I’m relieved or not. The idea of still holding on to the unknown is unsettling, but I’m also happy at not having to face what’s on the other side of that door.

I expel another breath and turn to leave. Before I can take a single step, the door flies open and the floor falls from under me.

“We don’t need housekeeping right now. Can you please—” The words die in her throat when she sees me.

Of all the things I was expecting on the other side of that door, it was not Camille Foster. Her hands fly to her collar, pulling it close together as if that would offer her some sort of protection. She’s in my husband’s shirt. I know that white shirt. I bought it for him.

I brush past her and go into the room. He’s not there, but the bed is a disheveled mess, with sheets and pillows strewn all over the floor. His pants and jacket are draped over a chair, and I hear the same damn whistling. The bathroom door opens, and he comes out.

He takes a step back when he sees me. His eyes dart around the room as if he’s expecting someone to explain why I’m here. I take the key out of my pocket and show it to them.

“You left this in your jacket pocket. It must be from your last tryst,” I tell them.

“I don’t love her.” Those are the first words out of Quintin’s mouth. “She’s a mistake,” he says.

I hear a gasp, but I don’t look at Camille right now. I stare at my husband. He’s the one who vowed to forsake all others.

“She came on to me,” he explains quickly. As if that would make everything okay. As if the fact that she came on to him strips him of all responsibility.

“Why?” is all I manage to say. The one word almost gets stuck in my throat. I want to say more. I want to scream, but my throat has gone dry. My knees almost buckle, but I don’t let it happen. Not here. Not in front of them.

“It doesn’t mean anything. You’ve been gone. You’re either working, at school, or studying, and—”

I turn away from him. He’s spouting nonsense.

“Why?” I ask Camille.

She looks down at the floor, but then she looks up, and the look in her eyes forces me to take a step back. It’s darkness. It’s hate. And I don’t know why.

“Because I could,” is all she says. I stare into her face, waiting for her to say more. I take a step closer.

“Because you could? You’re myfriend?” I turn to Quintin and say, “You’re my husband. I trusted you both.” I take another step closer to Camille. “I came to you about my marriage, and you’ve been fucking my husband behind my back. How long has this been going on?”

When she doesn’t answer me, I turn to Quintin. “How long?” He purses his lips and looks away, refusing to answer. “A month? Six months? A year?” When he doesn’t reply, I turn back to Camille.

She remains silent, but there’s a gleam in her eyes. It’s as if she’s beaten me at something, and my mother’s warning rings in my ears. ‘The way she looks at you is not the way a friend should look at you. Be careful. I don’t like that girl.’

I put that in the overprotective mom column. I’m her only child, and she loves deeply. More than that, she’s protective. She’d wrap me in bubble wrap if I let her.

Something inside of me snaps when they both remain quiet.

“How long?” I ask, louder this time.

“A long time,” Camille says. “I’ve been fucking your husband for almost a year, and you had no idea. And to think everyone thinks you’re the smart one. The pretty one. But I outsmarted you and took your man. I fucked him in your bed too.” She holds her head high as if she should be proud of her admission.

Six years of friendship flash through my mind. Could that have all been fake? I don’t have time to unpack it right now.

“You don’t have me,” Quintin says. “Jeanine, I love you. This doesn’t change that. Please, listen to me—”

He rambles on, but I ignore him and look at my former friend. She’s staring at Quintin. There’s hurt in her eyes, but it disappears and turns to defiance. She stands tall and grabs her collar again. The collar of the shirt I bought for my husband.

Without another thought, I deck her in the eye. She grabs her face and stumbles back. Before she can gain her footing, I punch her again. She falls on her ass and the shirt rides up. She’s not wearing underwear.

Quintin reaches for my elbow, but I step away and scratch his face. It draws blood.

“Jeanine, what has gotten into you? Stop this.” I punch him in the mouth, and I think he’s so shocked, he can’t move. Even as blood starts to ooze from the corner of his lips, he stands there, blinking fast. I punch him in the eye too, but my hit doesn’t have the same impact that it had on Camille, so I slap him hard across the face. He continues to stand there, stunned and immobile, so I scratch him again right before I knee him in the balls. He doubles over.

Camille comes at me from behind and grabs my hair, but I elbow her in the stomach, and she doubles over too. My eyes dart around the room in search of a weapon. There’s a half bottle of champagne. I grab it and break it against the windowsill, leaving half of the bottle with jagged glass.

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