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SOLANGE
Having fantastical, dramatic, exquisite sex with gorgeous strangers reminded me of what was potent about having great sex with just one good man. That wasn’t the goal of S.E.C.R.E.T.; that wasn’t even my goal. But that was my epiphany on my flight home, as I shook off the sickening Pierre interlude with every mile I put between us, rocking my body to make the plane go faster. I had people waiting for me. My people: my boy and my man.
I almost steamrolled everyone at the arrivals gate, everyone keeping me away from Gus a second longer. My need to grab my son and smell him and squeeze him was so overwhelming, I was worried I’d break him. And there, standing behind Gus, was my impossibly handsome ex-husband, his smile full of questions. Why are you home early, Solange? Why did you insist I pick you up at the airport? Why are you wearing your hair the way I love? And why are you looking at me with those brown eyes as though you’re seeing me for the first time?
The answers to those questions would naturally surface over the next few weeks and months. But that day, I didn’t have words for my feelings, which is why I said very little on the way home. I just stole glances at Julius from the passenger side of the food truck. He had had to park the truck far away because it was too tall for the short-term airport garage. Instead of feeling frustrated, hypervigilant and over-competent, I let that man carry all my luggage. I let him be the man he wanted to be, instead of molding him into the one I had thought he should be. It is a strange revelation to look at someone you know well and see a whole dimension you have been blind to.
While Gus sat buckled in the trundle seat behind his dad, playing a game on my phone, Julius caught me up on his business, which had expanded yet again for Jazz Fest.
“Three trucks total. After Jazz Fest, two are fully paid for so it’s all profit from now on. It’s crazy, Solange. But I’m thinking of opening a small, permanent kiosk off Jackson Square. I’ve been talking to other franchises to see if we can share space.”
“Congratulations, Julius. You found your niche.”
“It took me a while. But yeah, I did.”
“It takes what it takes.”
He looked at me, on his face another unspoken question: Who are you and what have you done with my hyper-critical ex-wife? I was noticing how happiness made him even more handsome, and how success had made him sexier. It wasn’t that Julius was now worthy of my attention because he had found some confidence and security. It was that he finally seemed worthy to himself. And for some reason, this … relaxed me. I would take a bumpy, lumbering ride in a glossy food truck over a carriage ride in Paris any day.
When he pulled into my driveway on State Street, he was as shocked at the invitation to stay for dinner as I was when he accepted. We ordered pizza. We chatted about the week, what they did, what I did, what Paris was like, what I was like in Paris. I told them I sang, that it was a lark and a fluke, but it was something I needed to try to do again, even just for me. And I told Julius the truth, that the interview with the elusive, infamous Bayou Billionaire was a total bust, that it hadn’t yielded what I had hoped it would.
“Turns out that the man doesn’t have much to say. Not much worth listening to anyway,” I said, tossing crust into the pizza box. The truth might come out, and it might shatter my world. But all
I felt in that moment was gratitude and confidence. And at least for now, all my secrets were still safe.
After Gus went to bed, my ex-husband stood in the darkened doorway of my childhood home saying good night to me for far too long. At one point I was laughing at something he said, unconsciously hooking my index finger in the waist of his jeans, an intimacy so automatic it was like breathing.
He looked down at my hand with a note of alarm and I pulled it away like I’d touched a hot flame.
“I should … go,” he said, looking slightly concerned.
“Okay.”
“Good night then.” He turned.
“Right,” I said, waving to the back of his head. He was hurriedly making his way to his food truck parked in front of the house. I was the one who had ended our marriage. I had to remember that. Trust wasn’t going to come easy. And Pierre was a loaded gun. Once he exposed my involvement in S.E.C.R.E.T., a reunion might be out of the question anyway. Julius may not judge me, but the revelations wouldn’t endear me to him either. Still, I had come to a kind of peace with that on the plane ride home. I decided I had meant the words I said to Pierre; I had done nothing to be ashamed of; this was a great story with a happy ending, regardless of whether Julius and I reunited. Over time, I came to realize that mine was a story that mirrored the experience of every woman in S.E.C.R.E.T. We were all made better for its existence, me, Cassie, Dauphine, Matilda, Angela, Bernice, all of us.
In fact, far from being diminished or tarnished by S.E.C.R.E.T., our lives had been greatly enhanced.
If I was to be exposed, so be it.
If there were consequences, I’d face them.
If I lost my second chance with Julius, I might as well find out sooner rather than later.
A week later I received a package at work, special delivery from Pierre Castille. Inside were two envelopes, a thin one with my name on it and a thick one addressed to Matilda. I headed to the Coach House after work with a heavy heart.
Matilda and I sat across from each other at her desk. I went first, opening my envelope, which contained a note and a loose charm that dropped from its folds, a Step Eight charm, Bravery scrolled on one side.
Dear Solange,
I apologize for my abominable behavior. Should our paths ever cross again, I can only hope to exhibit an ounce of the bravery you showed that day. By the way, your secret is safe. It’s your story to tell.
With head bowed,
Pierre Castille
I looked at Matilda, whose eyes were saucers behind her thick stack of papers. “I can scarcely believe it,” she said, her voice cracking.
