Page 4 of Someone Like You

“The difference is that my wife started this and dragged me along.”

“What did you hope to get out of these sessions, Mr. Perez?” I needed him to come to certain conclusions about his marriage on his own, and I had to be careful not to lead him. This journey had to be as much a soul-searching endeavor as it was a search for healing.

Shrugging, he turned his lips downward. “I don’t know. I guess . . .” He sighed and appeared to become lost in thought.

I waited for him to gather his thoughts, attempting to ignore the velvety harmony of the amber and leather notes of his cologne intermingled with mint and what I guessed was blood mandarin. It was a scent that would arouse the pheromones in a woman. That was what happened every time I encountered him, and I had to battle my fleshly thoughts against the spiritual ones that told me to turn away from temptation.

“I wanted her to really see herself for who she is. I didn’t want to come initially because I thought it was a joke. I gave in because that’s how it is with Beth. She gets her way, and it’s expected that she will. Yet, when she persisted after the first and second visits, I hoped that maybe she might be willing to see herself for a change. I dared dream she would be up for the challenge of dealing with her flaws, not really changing . . .” His eyes rolled up to stare at the ceiling as if an errant thought hadwandered up there. “No, more like recognizing herself for who she is and taking on self-responsibility. But she did what she always does.”

“What’s that?”

“Run. Beth always runs when she has to face the truth about herself.”

“And what is that truth, Mr. Perez?”

Clasping his hands together between his knees, he leaned forward slightly. Closing his eyes, he seemed to drift off in thought for what felt like a couple of minutes. I could tell that he did not want to bash his wife, and perhaps he, too, was struggling with the truth about who she was.

“She’s a narcissistic, manipulative, controlling, callous woman who lacks emotional intelligence. But she’s brilliant.”

Damn. I hadn’t expected that little rant.

“Brilliant. Is that what attracted you to your wife, Mr. Perez?”

He chuckled softly before sitting back on the couch again. “No, of course not. Not at first, anyway. My wife is a beautiful woman, Dr. Champagne. Beautiful in that good old American way. You know what I mean?”

I really didn’t. I had difficulty understanding why so many of my brothers were more attracted to a white woman than they were to their own sisters. The crap about them being intimidated by their female counterparts did not settle with me, nor did that piss-ass excuse about us giving our brothers hell and white women being subservient. No, I knew my black brothers were strong and not in the least intimidated by their black sisters. The issue was more convoluted than that, and it had its roots in the Willie Lynch letter.

African American people, especially women, had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker and had no clue. Oh yes, some of them thought they had a clue. Some of them had heard of it, but how many had taken the time to read it? And of that number, howmany truly understood the implications of it? And of those who understood, how many of them had analyzed their own lives and behaviors in conjunction with it and allowed the reversal of said thinking and behaviors to be enacted in their lives in such a way that they built the black nation strong or even starting within their own families?

“As long as you know what you mean, Mr. Perez, that’s what matters, right? Were you truly attracted to her for her beauty or for what you imagined she could do for you? Bethany Huffington-Bradwell was no stranger to most people, and surely, when you met her, you knew who she was. What were your true intentions when you became involved with her, Mr. Perez? Or marrying her?”

The worried expression that took over his face was unlike the usual confident and composed expression he displayed on a normal day.

“What are you saying, Dr. Champagne?”

“Mr. Perez, I’m merely suggesting that if you want to determine if your marriage is worth salvaging, you not only point the finger at your wife but assess your motives. Did you know who she was and her personality before marrying her? If so, and you chose to go forward anyway, then it sounds like you have vows to uphold.”

From the contemplative look on his face, I could tell that although he did not like my words, he knew they were true. Unlocking my iPad, I made a series of notes that would later be transferred to the file I kept on the Perezes. One of those notes included a reference to Dr. Amelia Childs. It was high time that I referred the couple to another counselor. One who wasn’t as prejudiced toward this case as I had become. Dr. Childs was in her mid-sixties, married for more than forty years, and as sweet as they came. For me, my feelings had become too involved for me to remain professional and unbiased.

Casimir

I pulled up in front of my three-story home in Cherokee Springs, Georgia, specifically in Cherokee Falls, the wealthiest part of the city. The home that I hated. It was nothing more than another showpiece for Beth, a talking point. It wasn’t a home; it was a museum, as far as I was concerned. At just under 10.5 million dollars, the eleven-thousand-plus square-foot monstrosity was bought and paid for by her maternal grandfather as a wedding gift. Initially, I was mad as hell at the extravagant display of wealth. It felt like a pissing contest, as the men in her family wanted to show me what I could never give to her. Her father had already purchased her a custom Bentley that year.

But my father urged me to accept the truth for what it was, and the sooner that I did, the sooner I could just live my life and say fuck them. It was the rich man’s symbolic gesture meant to convey what Kendrick Lamar said, “they not like us.” And my family wasn’t like theirs. No matter how much wealth we obtained, we would never be on their level.

Beth and I had experienced our first argument as a married couple about this house. I had wanted to get something that was more along the lines of what we could afford at the time. Something that I had purchased with my money and that did not include a guest house, an in-law suite, a formal and semi-formal garden, and not one but two in-ground Olympic-sized swimming pools and one indoor pool. Even now, with the position I held, I would not purchase something that costly.

We had no children who would leave toys strewn around and fill the bedrooms. There weren’t any sounds of little feet running through the house and leaving handprints all over and spills for us to clean up.

A smirk tilted my lips when I thought about Beth’s response to that point I made.

“Why would we have to clean their messes, Casimir?”

“Who else would do it, babe? Surely, you don’t expect our children to clean certain messes.”

“No, that’s what housekeepers and nannies are for.”

Laughing, I replied, “Look, I know you grew up in a certain manner, but my kids won’t have strangers raising them. That’s what they have two loving parents for.”

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