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She shakes her head and looks away from me, saying something to Jasmine and Jeremiah. She’s avoiding me, so I give her a moment to get whatever she’s feeling out of her system. I walk over to the bar and get a drink. I hardly take my eyes off Leslie. Even as the bartender hands me my drink, I watch how Leslie easily interacts with her sister.
I toss back the rum and Coke I ordered and hang out at the bar for a few more minutes. As I reflect on the situation, I can't help but feel a sense of frustration.
What the heck am I doing? I didn't come here tonight to sit alone and get drunk. I pay the bartender and walk over to Leslie, my mind made up.
"C'mon, let's go," I tell her firmly.
Leslie seems hesitant and tries to explain, "Wait. I'm not ready to go. I was just—"
"Les, let's go," I interrupt, my tone leaving no room for argument.
She looks a bit aggravated, but she says her goodbyes to Jasmine and stands up. Jeremiah gives his farewell, "See you tomorrow, Wayne."
I glance back at him and say goodbye. I think about telling him to stay respectful with Jasmine, but Jasmine is a strong woman. She will keep Jeremiah, who appears to be smitten at the moment, in his place.
I lead Leslie out of the Zanga Bar, ready to put an end to a night that took an unexpected turn. At the car, I open the door and help her inside, and she is unusually quiet. I expected us to leave out of this place, barely able to make it to the car beforehaving to stop for a kiss and barely making it home without pulling over for me to get inside of her. Instead, we’re riding with dead silence, not even the music on the radio.
“Are you sure you’re okay, baby?” I ask as I turn into our neighborhood. I have asked her this question three times already, to which she has given the same reply.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
After those three words, she goes silent again.
“You know, you haven’t said much since we left the bar,” I press. “Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?”
She fiddles with her fingers in her lap. “You mean about her? The woman in the bathroom?”
“If that’s what’s on your mind, yes. Let’s just get that out of the way now. Let’s talk about it.”
“Like I said, I heard you tell her you had to go. I know she was trying to set a thirst trap with her outfit and followed you into the bathroom. I know all of that,” Leslie replies.
Though she says she understands what happened in the bathroom, her actions don’t match that admission. She turns her attention back to the overpriced homes we’re passing by in our neighborhood.
“Then, what’s the problem? Why are you tuning me out? Why does it feel like you think I did something with her?”
She sighs, her gaze fixed straight ahead. "I don't know. It threw me for a loop when I saw her fixing her skirt. I can't get that thought out of my mind. And she looked at me like she knew something I didn't know. It messed my head up. Though I trust you when you say nothing happened, it's just the thought of it won't leave my mind."
"I know what you saw, but you have to know I would never disrespect you like that," I reassure her earnestly.
"I know you wouldn't, Wayne, and I'll be over it by tomorrow. We've never had anything like this happen to us, andit's just a lot to take in right now," she admits, her uncertainty evident in her tone.
Her lack of confidence in what she's saying frustrates me further. There is no way my woman thinks I brought her around my peers, showed her off to the world, paid attention to her every thought and need, damn near sexed her on the dancefloor, and begged her to come to the bathroom with me, just to get caught with a random woman in the same bathroom.
I pull into the garage and hop out of the car. I go to her door and open it, but Leslie doesn’t move. Her hands are still in her lap, but now they’re clenched together. I squat down beside her.
“Baby…” I turn her face so that she’s looking into my eyes. “Baby, look at me.” I don’t believe in ‘I told you so’s, but I must remind her of her promise to me. “Being famous and having a public relationship comes with consequences. It means reporters were undoubtedly at the party snapping pictures of us, so what should be moments shared between us could end up in a blog with a made up story or caption. Also, my fame will make other women envy your position in my life. Heck, Dariel Grant will come back gunning for his position. Athletes from all over the country want to take my spot. There will be forces tugging at every corner of our happiness, but we have to be stronger than each one. You said you’d be able to handle it when people start to create illusions about me. Do you think you bit off more than you could chew?”
She opens her mouth as if she’s about to give a retort, then quiets again. After a few seconds of quiet contemplation, she lets out a deep breath along with, “I can handle it.”
“Well, what is this?” I touch her downturned cheeks. “Why have you been quiet and sad looking the entire ride home. You were so happy before all of this happened tonight. I hate that you let her steal our joy.”
Slowly, her gaze meets mine. “That woman was beautiful. With women like her throwing themselves at you, I don’t know if you should be asking if I can handle it. Will you be able to handle that pressure?”
“Les, I don’t see other women. I mean, I see them trying to get my attention. I know what they want, but I don’t give it much thought. So, I barely even saw that lady. I came out of that stall thinking about one thing: getting to you. The only pressure I had was pressing against my pants, begging me to find a way to get inside of you. You’re all the pressure I need.”
Her cheeks finally lift into a smile that reaches her eyes and ignites her chocolate-brown irises with a sparkle. “You’d better have been thinking about me,” she pretends to fuss.
“Of course I was. Situations like this are why I didn’t take this step until you convinced me you were strong enough to handle it. Les, have we made a mistake?”
