Should Have Known Better

Sharika nearly sounded like she was having an orgasm on the phone as I told her about my run-in with A. J. She moaned and groaned about how fine he was and asked if I’d taken a picture.

“No, why would I do that? I was looking tacky enough in my mother’s sweatshirt,” I said. “And even if I wasn’t, I was so shocked that he was talking to me that I wouldn’t remember how to take the picture.” I laughed and rolled over on the couch. My mother was sitting in her chair watching the news. We had one agreement: no CNN.

“Why are you laughing? He’s hot for you!” Sharika said.

“Nah. He’s one of those guys.”

“What kind of guy?”

“Those kinds who prey on different kinds of women for attention. They only like you so you like them. So you’ll sleep with them,” I explained. “I went to college with a bunch of dudes like that.”

“What makes you think he’s one of them?” Sharika asked.

“He’s so attractive and successful and smart,” I said. “Come on! Why would he really try to seriously date me? He has like a million or a billion women chasing him. Special women. Exotic women. Not ‘plain Janes’ like me.”

“Some men like that. Not any I date, but some.” Sharika laughed. “I say, just be nice to him. You never know.”

“And what kind of man tries to talk to a married woman? He claims he didn’t see my ring, but come on!”

“Oh no, men can always tell when a married woman is mentally available,” Sharika said. “It’s like in Madame Bovary when Rodolphe corners Emma. He knew she was married, but she wanted to give up those panties, too!”

“I doubt he’s ever read that.”

“He read you, though!”

“Fine. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’ll probably never see him again. And while my marriage is a disaster area, it still exists. I couldn’t consider something new until I know for sure what’s going. Just the idea of something new terrifies me. I think A. J. might just be a good thing to look at and think about.”

“Suit yourself,” Sharika said. “But don’t call me when you need your potato salad stirred. I don’t go that way!”

“Oh, you are so gross! Why do I talk to you?”

“Beca

use you don’t have any other friends,” Sharika quipped. “And the last one—”

“Please don’t continue that statement,” I said, cutting her off.

“Fine. I guess I’ll go into why I actually called you,” Sharika said. “I’ve been doing a little investigating over here. I stopped by Landon’s dealership today.”

“For what?” I sat up on the couch.

“A little car searching . . . and flirting. I wore my yellow stretch pants.”

“No, you didn’t.” I covered my eyes.

“Sure did. Walked right past Landon’s office and, whoops, I dropped my keys,” Sharika said dramatically.

“What happened?”

“He came out—after I dropped them the second time—and asked if I needed help. I asked if he needed help and he invited me into his office. Did you see that office, girl?”

“Yes,” I said. “What happened next? I can’t believe you did this.”

“He sat me down. I complained that my feet had been hurting all day from looking at cars. I pulled out my baby oil and massaged my ankles.”

“That’s gross.”

“Don’t knock it until you try it,” Sharika said, laughing like she was imagining that she was a character in one of the books she’d read. “Landon wasn’t grossed out. He was panting. He asked if I was free for dinner. And after I readjusted my breasts and my bra and talked about how much I loved rich white boys, I told him I’d never go out with him, because word on the street was that he was dating the sister on CNN. ‘Who told you that?’ he asked. I said it was a little birdie.”