Page 18 of The Seven Month Itch
I scrolled through endless photos of him with clients on social media, which put me in a dark place. He jet-setted across the world while I struggled to cope with the aftermath of our pregnancy losses. He popped up in posts with attractive women and celebrities.
It was too much.
We became strangers over time. Soon enough, I hit my breaking point. The ache to ease the pain outweighed the desire to stay. I saved up money for an apartment and new furniture, found a decent spot on the other side of the city, and moved gradually, when he was away on business trips.
By the time he noticed, it was too late.
Terrence lost it the night I left him. I’ve never seen him so angry. So cold. He couldn’t look at me after I told him I had my own place. His silence was my farewell gift. I loved him, but I did what I needed to do: I saved myself.
My body stills at the hand on my knee. I clench my fists and sob. “I’m so mad at him.”
Emma wraps me in her arms and rests her chin on my shoulder. Through it all, she’s been my rock. She refused to let me close up when my world caved in on all sides. Even with her busy schedule, she made time to fly to Austin. She loves Terrence but never pushed me to reconcile. To her, marriage is transactional. She scoffs at people who dedicate their lives to each other. But deep down, she rooted for us.
“Whatever you decide, I’m here for you,” she says against my hair. “And if we need to get Madison out of the way, I’ll push her off a mountain myself.”
Laughter finds its way through my ragged breaths. She’s such a good friend. A sister. “Love you.”
“Love you back.”
Chapter 8
Terrence
It’s three in the afternoon by the time I wake up. Extra sleep does wonders, even if I missed lunch. A fifteen-hour flight from Japan is no joke.
My phone pings. Six missed calls and ten text messages from Miles. It takes two rings for him to answer.
“What’s up?” I run a hand over my face and wait to hear about whatever mess he got himself in.
“What’supis you’ve been MIA since yesterday.” Who needs an ex-wife when you have a pissed-off man-baby for a friend? So much for not needing a wingman. “Did you stay up all night with Madison?”
“Nah,” I say through a yawn. “We left the mixer to grab drinks and catch up. Came back to my room right after.”
He sucks his teeth. It scrapes my eardrum and my last nerve. The disapproval is loud and clear. In his mind, if I were reallyover Justice, I would’ve moved on by now. “Sounds like you blew your chance.”
The only thing that matters to Miles is whose legs he’s between, which is why he equates marriage to a terminal illness. I’m still hopeful my childhood friend will grow up one of these days. He’s thirty-nine. It needs to happen soon.
But underneath his brash and offensive behavior is a guy you want in your corner. Besides Justice, Miles is one of the few constants in my life.
We grew up a few doors down from each other, in a dingy apartment complex in Newark with questionable water pressure and stained vinyl floors. Single moms raised us. He never knew his dad, and mine walked out on us when I was seven to play house with a woman in the Bronx who shared his Dominican roots. My mom couldn’t raise three kids alone, so we moved in with my abuela—my only connection to my sperm donor—who watched us and every child on the block, much to the family’s dismay.
Graciela Reyes embodied every part of the blessing her name signifies. Colorism is real, and it cuts deep in our community. She knew the family would push my mom to the side without a second thought. As the darkest of four children, Abuela Reyes understood being an outcast firsthand, and she opened her two-bedroom apartment and her heart to us.
I learned cleaning to Fernando Villalona is not up for discussion and not question my abuela when she said, “Mira, coño,” because that person probably deserved it. She’s the reason I keepVivaporuin my bag for ailments and eatsancochoon summer days.
Not once did her bastard of a son ever check on us or send her money. His own mother.
Seeing my mom go through the shit she did is one of the reasons I would never cheat on my wife or not provide for my family. Miles, on the other hand, decided to take a different path.
The streets claimed him by the time he was eleven. With his mother at the hospital on double shifts, he got into trouble left and right. My mother did her best to talk some sense into him. She made him stay with us most nights while his mom worked so he didn’t get himself arrested—or worse.
He was the older brother I never had, the one who pushed me to do better than him. It’s a miracle he turned his life around in high school. Miles had become a rising star on the football team by the time I came along as a freshman. He was Jersey royalty when Bodie University scooped him up, and I followed him out to California on a scholarship of my own two years later. I was a walking stereotype during my first two years of college. People treated us like kings on and off the field. We had endless women on tap and access to whatever we wanted.
But then I met Justice.
A knock on the door snaps me out of my thoughts. I look down at my phone to see the call has ended.
Shit.
