If he was ever faithful to me after our wedding, it was probably for about three minutes. It’s amazing the stuff people are willing to tell you once the divorce papers have been signed. I only wish these friends and family members had seen it wise to give me this information before I married the man.
Somewhere along the way, though, it seems I’ve gotten some poetic justice. As I always knew he would, David has come to his senses and realized that I am the best thing that ever happened to him. Though the divorce became final over a year ago, he wants me back in a bad way.
I can’t tell you how much pleasure it gives me to be able to reject him.
That thought makes me smile, and I sit up straight. I eye my phone warily though, hoping it won’t ring again. I am getting tired of David’s phone calls. I’ve changed my home number and my cell number, but the bad thing is he knows where I work. I can’t quite escape that one. I’m a prominent newscaster at Channel Four news.
In the last couple years, I’ve advanced from field reporter to news anchor. I can’t help but wonder if this is why David wants me back. I have a more prestigious role at the news station, one that’s giving me fame and more money. Funny that this might interest David now, because he never liked me pursuing my dream before. In fact, he once told me that he was tired of hearing his police colleagues tell him they had seen me on the news.
Karen—the woman he’d cheated with—is a teacher. Nice and safe for David; i.e., noncompetitive in terms of his job.
I have to give Karen credit, though. Apparently even she has a limit to what she will put up with. Guess she finally realized that my ex is a worthless cheater and worthless cheaters aren’t even faithful to their mistresses. Bet she now wishes she’d found an unattached man to get involved with. I do take some pleasure in this. And why shouldn’t I? I’ve never understood how some women get off on being home wreckers.
David will never admit it, but I heard through the grapevine that Karen left with their child while he was at work. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall when David returned home.
Anyway, enough about my ex. Despite my long-winded rant, I really don’t think about him. He called to say that he has changed, that if I give him another chance I will see, but I am so not going there again. He thinks it’s because there’s someone else in my life. This time, I let him believe that.
The truth is, there’s no one special in my life. I hate to say it, but the men I meet these days are losers with a capital L. If they’re not starstruck because of who I am, then they’re just plain weirdos. For the most part, if the man is someone a self-respecting woman wouldn’t be caught dead with, then you can bet he’ll hit on me. Trust me, it never fails.
There’s something about being on television that makes people think they know you. And when guys think they know you, they’re much more forward. For example, a few weeks ago at a fund-raising event, a well-dressed black man approached me and passed me a note. It read, “You and me, outside in the gazebo in five minutes.”
Needless to say, I didn’t make that date.
I have such shitty luck with men that I have sworn off dating. I really have. What’s the point? There’s not one decent single guy out there.
But Rhonda, a camerawoman at the station, tells me I’m wrong. She swears that she’s got the perfect man for me—her cousin.
I’m not particularly interested in seeing this guy, but Rhonda has been on my case about it for months. So, despite my obvious bad luck with men, I have decided I am a glutton for punishment and have accepted a date with Rhonda’s cousin for this evening. I put off meeting Trevor for months—until I realized that Rhonda wasn’t going to drop the issue.
There is a knock on my dressing-room door. “Come in,” I call.
Rhonda pokes her head through the door. “Hey, Lishelle.”
“Hey.”
“I love your hair like that.”
I tuck some locks behind my ear. I’m still a bit self-conscious about it. When it comes to hair, I’m pretty conservative. I keep it nape length, and never color it anything other than black. At least I hadn’t. All that changed last weekend when my stylist urged me to do something different. I caved under pressure and allowed her to add some auburn highlights. Believe me, I started having a panic attack once I’d passed the point of no return. But Jenny, my stylist, promised me it would complement my skin tone. And she was right.
“Thanks,” I say to Rhonda.
“Trevor will be impressed.” She winks.
But will I be impressed with Trevor? For Rhonda’s sake, I hope so. She’s been trying for so long to get us together.
“What time are you meeting him?” she asks.
“Eight o’clock.” That will give me a little time to freshen up after the newscast is over. I plan to meet Trevor at a restaurant downtown. He offered to pick me up, but I politely declined. If I have my own car and things don’t go well, I can leave.
I’m jaded, can you tell?
“You’ll have a good time,” Rhonda assures me. “Trevor really is a sweetheart.”
“I hope so.”
Rhonda gives me a smile then disappears. Knowing I have work to do, I force myself out of my chair. I still have to get my hair and makeup done, and after that, it’s showtime.
Two hours later, my head is still pounding. I’m at the restaurant now, sitting in my car in the parking lot, dreading the thought of going inside. I just don’t know if I should do this. Knowing my luck, this date will cap off a stressful day with even more stress. I should probably just go home and go to bed.
But I am here already, resigned to my fate. I may as well try to enjoy myself. There are worse ways to spend a Thursday night than meeting a potential new boyfriend.
I apply more lipstick before getting out of the car. Then, as I walk up to the restaurant door, my stomach flutters with nerves. I hope I’m not making a mistake. Really, it’s not like I need a man, although I admit that having one might be nice.
“Hello,” I say to the male host once I’m inside. “I’m meeting someone. Crenshaw. Trevor.”
The host peruses his open schedule book. “Ah, yes. Right this way.”
My hands sweat on my Louis Vuitton clutch as I follow the host through the Macaroni Grill. This was Trevor’s choice, and a good one. It’s casual but upscale and has great food.
“Here you go.”
“Thank—” The rest of the word dies on my lips as I see a man rise. For a moment, I am stunned. Pleasantly stunned.
So this is Trevor. Wow. He is tall, very well groomed. A gorgeous dark-skinned brother. I am definitely impressed.
“Lishelle, hello.”
God, that smile must have broken countless hearts.
“You found the place okay?”
I force myself to speak. “Yes, yes, I did.” I smile awkwardly. “Hi.”
I extend my hand, but Trevor steps toward me and gives me a hug instead. “It’s so good to meet you. Believe me, I’m a fan.”
I smile bashfully and wave off his compliment. (I really did smile bashfully. Sheesh, what’s come over me?)
Without missing a beat, Trevor pulls out my chair for me. As I sit, I can’t help thinking that his mama must have raised him right.
“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering some wine,” he tells me, and gestures to the chilled carafe. “It’s white, Riesling.”
“Lovely,” I practically sing. Lovely? Lord, when was the last time I used that word? Really, I need to tamp down on my overexcitement. Trevor is going to think I’ve been dating men from