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FLETCH
Private business is kept private, more often than not, because society is apt to form an opinion about a man, despite having no fucking clue of the details around a situation.
Myprivate business could be judged. A hell of a fucking lot.
And often, it is.
If I tell someone about Jada, I’m judged. If I admit to the things that went down between us a few years back, folks go straight to the assumption that it was all my fault. And even if these outsiders are generous enough to not make those wild assumptions straight off the bat, they soon condemn me for the fact I didn’t stick around for the rollercoaster ride thatalwaysends in an explosion.
But just because I walked away doesn’t mean I’m not here five nights out of seven.
Trudging up the stairs inside a shithole apartment complex about twelve blocks from my place, I ignore the graffitied walls and the trash in the stairwell. I mosey on past the paper-thin doors where the occupants inside argue sotheirprivate business is aired for anyone within a mile radius to hear. I keep my hands free of my pockets, my reflexes ready just in case someone wants to make a little drama, but in my gut, I work hard to ignore the boiling ball of lead that has been a constant companion since the day my relationship broke down and I had to evacuate or go down with the ship—so to speak.
Wheel of Fortuneplays on television sets, and the sounds of cooking echo into the hall. Pots and pans clang together, couples bicker, and children whine. The stench of old grease, sweat, and stale dope lingers in the air, making my palms sweat and that ball in my stomach pulse and grow larger.
Finally, I stop on Jada’s floor and force myself to take a deep breath. One in, then out. Another in as I straighten my shirt, then I exhale, and shove my fingers through my hair to work out the nerves zinging in my veins.
Clearing my throat in silence, I set my hand on the doorknob and sigh when, with a single twist of my wrist, the door opens.
It wasn’t locked. Wasn’t secure. Anyone could walk in, but Jada doesn’t give a fuck.
More often than not, she welcomes her intruders in hopes that one of them comes with a treat; drugs or groceries. Sex or money. Or all four.
This apartment is almost always dark. With heavy, smoke-yellowed drapes pulled across the windows, and the lights turned off to save on the cost of electricity. The couch is old and musty, shoved into the corner, and the blankets tossed on top don’t tell me it’s a cozy place to rest, but rather, a convenient place to collapse when Jada can’t be bothered to walk all the way to her bedroom.
The carpet is stained, a bowl sits in the middle of a filthy rug, and beside it, a little green plastic cup, sticky with leftover residue from whatever was in it.
Juice, maybe. Perhaps soda.
“Jada?” I wander through the living room, past the box television that plays fuzzy cartoons on mute, then I pause at thetap-tap-tapof feet dashing from one room to another.
Sullen, I step into the kitchen to find the sink overflowing with dirty dishes, and the fridge door sitting ajar. “Jada?” I raise my voice a little louder. “Where are you?”
“Charlie?”
My stomach drops at her croaking voice, but my instincts have my body turning toward the hall.
I don’t want to see her, and yet, my feet carry me that way anyway.
“Charlie, is that you?”
“It’s me.”
Moving into the hall, I pass the empty bathroom and head toward the main bedroom. I let the scent of stale sweat and old coffee and fuck-knows-what-else lead the way, and stopping on the threshold of more filth, I shake my head at the pathetic sight laid out in front of me.
A woman lying in her bed, cocooned in dirty blankets, wrapped up so her torso is covered but her arms and legs remain free. Her hair is matted, and her face is smudged with old makeup.
Jada Watson was once a dancer. Beautiful and strong, professional, the lead in a big production company’s lineup while they toured the country for half the year, then stayed here the rest to choreograph something new and graceful.
She had been a dancer since she was a toddler. She came from a family of wealth and privilege. She was my high school everything, and later, she was my wife.
And then… shit exploded when Beau Fox walked into her life and seduced her the way he tries to with so many others.
Things aren’t all his fault. And though it hurts me to admit that, I know deep in my soul he’s just a guy who fucked a beautiful woman.
What he did sucks, but that’s as far as his guilt goes in this game.
They had sex. Our marriage went to hell in a handbasket, since I’m not the guy who’s gonna stay home and tell an adulterous wife that what she did was only a little naughty, and soon after that, I filed for divorce and moved into the apartment I now live in.
