Should Have Known Better

“He might.” Sasha put her glass down and looked up at my ocean sky smiling.

“What?” I scowled at her. “What are you saying? You really think I should do that? Like have some other woman in my bed . . . with my husband?”

“Not just some other woman. Someone you trust. Someone you . . .”

“You mean you?”

Sasha gazed at me.

“I’d do it,” she said, like I’d just asked her.

“What?” My head tipped forward on that word. “I can’t do that. With you?” I giggled, but Sasha was quiet.

“What’s wrong with me?” she asked.

“Nothing . . . I just . . . A threesome? With you?” I looked at the house, at my dark bedroom window. “You think he’d like that? No. I couldn’t do that.” I sat up in the swing again in an attempt to shake off the alcohol and any prospects of anything in the conversation. “I couldn’t . . . my father was a preacher . . . my . . . I’m not into women. That’s crazy.” I got up from the swing. “Let’s go inside.”

I walked away from her, slid my glass into the basket with the wine bottle, and picked up the basket. I felt Sasha following behind me to the house, but I couldn’t turn around. I didn’t have any reason to turn around, but I just kept reminding myself that I couldn’t. I didn’t want to look at her.

“You’re beautiful,” Sasha said when we were halfway up the path to the back door.

“Thank you,” I said dismissively. I felt myself swaying and discerned that the faster I got into the house the better.

“What, are you mad at me?”

“No, I’m just trying to get inside. It’s getting a little chilly out here.” I stepped onto the first wooden step at the back door.

Sasha took my arm and turned me around.

“What?” I said.

She stole the basket and tossed it to the ground.

I went to grab it, for fear that the glasses would break, but before I could, she grabbed my chin and pulled my face to hers. She kissed me. Spread my lips with her tongue and pushed it into my mouth.

I pulled back, but she held my chin tightly and then wrapped her other arm around my back.

Soon, my tongue was in her mouth, too, and I felt like the ocean was falling into me. It wasn’t like kissing a man. It was like kissing her. Her. Everything that she was, that I wasn’t. Everything beautiful. Everything strong. Everything easy. It was a delight. And I can only say that right now. Looking back. Because then I was scared and confused by that feeling. How my whole body vibrated with hers. And as soon as I felt my own hand wrapping around her back, I snapped.

“No,” I said, pulling back from her hold. “No. What are you doing?”

“You’re so beautiful,” Sasha said.

“I’m not a lesbian!”

“God, Dawn, will you relax?” she said lightly. “It’s nothing. It’s just a kiss. A little practice.”

“I don’t need practice,” I said. “I said no.” I went to open the door, but she grabbed my arm again.

“I’m not some crazy lesbian chick—you know that,” she said. “I just want you to be happy. I just want to help.” She paused. “I really do.”

“Look, I know down in Atlanta, you all call that help, but it’s not what I need in my marriage right now. I’m OK. He’ll come around.”

I slipped into the kitchen and finished off the bottle of wine the next morning. I needed something to face the folks at my breakfast table and forget what happened the night before. I kept complaining to myself about the weird kiss and the weird moment, but it was really all about how I felt. How that weird kiss and weird moment made me feel was just abrupt. I didn’t want to look at Sasha. I didn’t want to look at Reginald. I just wanted to get through breakfast, get the kids to school, and have this last moment at the nail shop with Sasha. I told myself to let it go. I didn’t think she’d actually meant anything by it. I believed what she said about the kiss being “nothing” and just wanting to help. But what I felt wasn’t nothing. It was a rush. And I didn’t know what to do with that.

So, with the wine and the weirdness, I was in this odd kind of autopilot that next morning. I overslept again and missed R. J.’s story, only to find out that Sasha had done it again. And made pancakes . . . again. I listened to a joke about a lion named Nino Brown and laughed as Reginald tried to retell it and added in his own lines from New Jack City. I got the kids to school. I called into work. I got dressed and went to Sasha’s room to let her know I was ready for our “girl’s day.” I just needed to make one stop.

“OK,” she said, sliding her nude toes with red polish into a pair of heels.