Enter The Black Oak: Chapter 11

MY EYES STRUGGLE TO OPEN the next morning as I awaken from the deep slumber that I never felt coming sometime in the early hours. The sun is bright and strong; it must be way past nine. As I get up, I see a note pushed under the door of the guest room where I spent the night.

I’ve kept every note that Jack has ever given me, every single one, from his ten-page love letters from when we were first dating to his funny notes quoting bad ’80s movies I’ve made him watch, to little post-its saying where he’s going. But this one I crumple up angrily and throw to the other side of the room.

I guess I should be thankful that he’s sorry at least. And I am. I vividly remember my mother telling me about her good friend Grace whose husband cheated on her, and when she found out, not only did he not apologize, but instead set about trying to make her life a living hell for some reason.

Fueled by stress hormones and indignation, I jump out of bed and into the shower, furiously scrubbing my hair, afraid of myself, of my emotions, of opening up portals within myself that I never knew existed.

As I get out of the shower, I stand naked for a few moments, paralyzed as I picture Alex Frost and my husband sneaking around behind their spouses’ backs. Or maybe just behind my back. Maybe it is true that Steven Frost doesn’t give a shit who sticks it to his wife. I wonder how many times I’ve crossed paths with Alex since the affair started. The woman is one of the queens of Manhattan. Not only does her husband own real estate all over the city, but she knows every secret about anyone who means anything here. She knows who’s screwing who, who’s scamming money from who, which housewives are blowing their personal trainers, which men spend their Friday nights with escorts, who’s in the closet, who’s hiding a coke habit, who’s had trouble with the law, who is hiding questionable proclivities—everything. The woman is powerful and dangerous. This is not some affair that can just be glossed over and forgotten about. Her tentacles reach deep into the city.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and switch it on to call Stella and tell her about Alex, a woman that the warm and loving Stella hates almost as much as she does her cheating ex. The phone comes on to a new message:

Hi sleepy. Tonight’s the night. My sister’s band’s playing. Would still love u to join us. Sean.

As I read Sean’s message over and over again, my breathing quickens and the sliver of a thought takes hold: how about if I stopped saying no to him and just went?

I mean, could I seriously do it?

Maybe…

I ignored the messages he texted me last night, not wanting to encourage him, but this time, I nervously decide to answer him back, writing and deleting and rewriting and deleting until I come up with:

Hi. Would love to come and see the band. If you’ll still have me?

My finger hovers over the Send button for a few moments before finally pressing it. I feel guilty about sending it and at the same time, a wave of jittery excitement lifts me out of the ferocious tempest. As water from my wet hair drips down my naked body, a beep leaves me jumping.

Awesome! Here’s a link with the address. 9pm. Please join us! No excuses.

I have no idea what the hell I’m doing, except I do know I’m playing with fire. I also know that if I don’t do something to take away this pain, I’ll end up divorcing Jack anyway.

I text back:

Okay, see you tonight.

Sean:

Call me when u arrive. I’ll be waiting.

As I get ready later that night, I take another shower and slowly shave my body all over, running the razor over my skin until there isn’t a single hair in sight. I rub coconut oil up and down my naked body, massaging it in deeply until my skin is soft and glistening. While I wait for the oil to soak in, I pull my hair into a high ponytail and do some stretching exercises before putting on some light make-up followed by a dark-blue bra and matching panties, a blue T-shirt with lace straps, skinny grey jeans, my black jacket and Doc Martens. I don’t want to dress up too much and give off the wrong impression about my intentions, just in case I do decide to back out.

After downing a can of cider to steady my nerves, I call Stella and Maddie—both extremely enthusiastic about my night out—and give them the name of the bar as well as Sean’s number. Then I call Jack. I get his voicemail and leave him the message that Maddie and I agreed on: she and I are going to a late screening of a movie in her neighborhood and I may spend the night at her place.

The tangerine sun is sliding low on the horizon as the cab driver takes me over the Brooklyn Bridge. I glance back to look at Manhattan, picturing Jack somewhere in the heart of the city. I haven’t been to Brooklyn without him for so long. In the moody evening light, it looks so much darker than Manhattan. I feel like the darkness is calling to me, pulling me in…

Butterflies flutter in my stomach as we pull up outside the bar where a handful of twenty to forty-year-olds are mingling and two stocky bouncers are standing looking alert. I pay and get out.

Deep breath.

Here goes.

As I get my phone out to text Sean that I’ve arrived, I spot him practically running out of the bar, a huge grin on his face as he bounds up to me.

“Hello, madam,” he sings breezily, looking slightly and adorably nervous as he envelops me in a bear hug.

“Hello, sir,” I answer back, certain that I must look just as flushed as he does. “Thanks for inviting me!”

“It’s awesome that you came! It’s my sister’s band—post-punk revival slash eighties soft rock, and fifty percent lesbian. There’s only three of them and one’s a guy, so figure that out.”

I beam at his mischievous, hot-as-hell smile. I’d somehow forgotten how gorgeous he is. With dirty-blond hair falling past his ears, the liveliest green eyes, strong cheekbones and a mouth that looks like it wants trouble, it’s hard to take your eyes off the guy.

“Well, follow me, madam. And don’t worry, if any of my lesbian friends try it on, I’ll protect you,” he winks.

“That’s okay. That idea actually sounds very tempting right now,” I mutter under my breath.

I follow Sean into the dive bar excitedly, inhaling the aroma of beer and greasy snack food as I glance over at the band playing onstage. The place is an incongruous mix of tattooed modern-punk-types and hipsters with eye-catching facial hair. The energy is electric as Sean leads me to a table on the right side of the joint not far from the stage where I see four out of five faces light up as I approach.

“Jess, this is my sister, Rhiannon, her girlfriend, Art, and these are my friends, Donovan, Andy and Casey.”

“Jessynia. Jess. Nice to meet you,” I say, smiling warmly. Everyone greets me enthusiastically, except for Casey, a short, pretty platinum blonde with a ring through her septum who throws me a glacial glare.

“What’ll it be?” Sean asks me as we take our seats at the tall table.

“Oh, I’ll have a lager—a pint, craft if possible,” I answer, getting my wallet out of my jacket.

“A pint?” he asks, trying to conceal a smile.

“Sure. I didn’t tell you—I come from a long line of alcohol-abusers. Anything less than a pint is a waste of mouth-time,” I jest. The reality is that I need some Dutch courage and pronto.

I try to give him a twenty-dollar bill, but he lifts both hands in the air to avoid taking it. “Your money’s no good here, sleepy.”

As he goes to the bar to get our drinks, I turn to his sister Rhiannon, a tall, stocky girl with gorgeous big round eyes accentuated by thick eyeliner, and dyed black hair with teal highlights in the front.

“So, I thought it was your band playing tonight?” I ask her.

“Yeah, the band on stage are the warm-up act. They’re shit!” she responds, her voice deep and booming.

Rhiannon, Art and I engage in some small talk about the band and I’m grateful for how adorable they are. As Sean comes back with drinks and sits himself down next to me, his eyes flick between me and the glass which I bring to my lips and gulp enthusiastically from.

“Are you sure you’re not Irish?” he asks in amusement.

“My mom’s English,” I retort.

“Oh dear God, that explains it. That’s even worse!”

He beams as I chuckle, his gorgeous jade-green eyes sparkling. “Tell me about it.”

“What about your dad? Where’s he from?” he asks.

“He’s from New York. His grandparents are from Estonia. They settled here in the fifties.”

“Ah, that explains the cheekbones,” he sighs and removes his grey sweater to reveal colorful tattoos covering his muscular arms.

“What about you?” I ask. “A hundred percent Irish?”

“You make me sound like a type of booze. Actually, my mom was born in the States, but her family’s from Ireland. She met my dad over there while visiting them, and they came back here to have me and my sister.”

“Aww, that’s sweet.”

“So, how have you been?” he asks over the tinny music.

“I’ve been good. Better.”

He scratches his unshaven chin. “I need to teach you to lie better.”

“Well, no more attacks of narcolepsy,” I jest, “so that’s something.”

“That is something.”

“I never really thanked you for—”

“Hey, just doing my job. Believe me, I’ve seen women in a much worse state than that on the Upper West Side.”

“Oh, go on, do tell.”

His lips extend into a mischievous smile. “Let’s just say there are a lot of unhappy birds in those gilded cages.”

“Oh God,” I moan. “I hope you don’t think—”

“—that you’re a desperate-housewife type? I’ve never met a married woman who wasn’t.”

As I contemplate defending my pride, Casey, the pretty blonde with the septum piercing, suddenly leans across the table towards me. “So, how’s your husband?” she asks, her tone a hair away from aggressive.

Somewhat taken aback, I don’t answer immediately but glance at Sean who seems to be shaking his head at her.

“He’s… fine,” I stammer.

“Will he be joining us tonight?” she asks.

“That’s enough, Casey,” Sean interjects. “Jess is a friend of mine. She doesn’t have to explain herself to you.”

“Right,” she spits out, eyes narrowed. “You two enjoy your evening.” With that, she gets up and leaves, taking her beer with her as she shoots both of us a final look of disgust. Her departure doesn’t make me feel any less mortified.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told her how we met. Just ignore her,” reassures Sean.

“Don’t worry about her,” Rhiannon’s girlfriend Art shouts over the table. “It’s that time of the month.”

I return her kindness with a smile but feel embarrassed nonetheless. I wonder if everyone at the table is asking themselves what a married woman is doing in a bar with their friend.

“This will make you laugh,” Art says as she shuffles slightly closer to me, running short black fingernails through her ginger faux hawk. She recounts an encounter from earlier that day that she and Rhiannon had with a weird fan of their band.

I try to laugh, but can’t. Luckily Rhiannon stands up and shifts the energy.

“Well, it’s time,” she says, downing the dregs of a beer before she, Art and Donovan get up and head towards the wings of the stage.

Sean looks at me as if trying to gauge my mood, and I smile back, trying to at least look comfortable.

“I used to date her.” He gestures towards the seat where Casey was sitting. “I can’t think why we broke up.”

“I feel a bit awkward. I mean, I don’t want you to think I’m—”

“Jessie, stop. We’re friends, right? You’re allowed to go out for a drink with a friend. It’s not a crime. There’s nothing in the Bible about not socializing with other Homo sapiens when you’re married. Don’t listen to her. She’s known for being quite the bitch, God love her.” He takes a swig of his pint, running strong fingers through gorgeously unkempt hair. “Plus my sister and Art nearly wet themselves when I told them how hot you are, so you have to stay now or they’ll kill me.”

“Thanks. You can tell them I think they’re hot too.” I down the rest of my pint. I’m not used to downing pints. In fact, I’d probably had less than a dozen drinks in the twelve months before discovery day. Now I’m drinking whiskey alone at home and downing pints when I’m out. Very healthy. I place my empty glass on the table. “I’m gonna get another—you want?”

“Sit down, madam,” he says, standing up. “I told you, your money’s no good here. The same?”

“Thanks.”

A minute later, Sean is back at our table with our drinks and a bag of salt and vinegar chips, just in time for the band to start playing. The beat is electric and Rhiannon sings with the power and charisma of an opera singer, bouncing around the stage to rapturous applause as Art and Donovan accompany her boisterously on guitar and drums respectively. One minute into them playing, it’s clear that they are insanely talented. Sean turns to look at me and we both exclaim in delight at hearing this gifted band set the bar on fire.

As the first song comes to a close, the crowd applauds wildly and I down half of my second pint, exhilarated and giddy at being able to blow off the cobwebs and forget about my disaster of a relationship on the other side of the bridge.

“How’s your dad?” I ask Sean over the mellower second song.

“He’s doing much better. I bought him the herbs and tinctures you suggested. It was really good of you to take the time to do that.”

“Oh, I’m so glad.”

“So, how’s your husband?”

Oh boy. Talk about a non-sequitur. “Oh, he’s okay. Same.”

“Still an asshole, then,” Sean deadpans.

“Yeah, he’s somewhere on the asshole spectrum, for sure,” I chuckle.

As the band plays song after delicious song, Sean makes me laugh with stories about his travels, his big Irish family and his adventures as a trainee paramedic. Over a third beer, he tells me about Rhiannon’s band and his thoughts of becoming a firefighter. He leaves my sides hurting with laughter as he recounts the stories behind some of his tattoos, asks me about some of the activism my parents are involved in and laughs at my bad jokes. It is surreal to be engrossed in someone other than Jack. I haven’t laughed this hard in a long time and the memories of the last few weeks dissolve momentarily as the dim light of the dingy bar, the music, the musty air, the dirty-looking barmen and the beer release me from thoughts of my crumbling marriage.

At some point I feel my ponytail get loose and pull the band out of my hair, letting my shiny locks fall down my back. And somewhere in all that, Sean’s finger brushes mine accidentally as his eyes lock into mine, leaving a burst of electricity shooting through my body. As the band launches into another effervescent number, he tells me about his three-legged rescue dog and the cute way it hops around like a rabbit.

“Oh my God. Poor little thing!” I can’t help laughing at the way Sean describes his fur baby.

“Yeah, you’ll have to meet the mutt one day.”

“Oh, I want to!”

“You know…”

“What?”

“Uh… no, nevermind.”

“Hey, you told me earlier that Irish boys don’t get shy…”

“Well, my house is a couple of streets away,” he says softly and I swallow hard as tingling warmth radiates up my skin and my heart starts to beat… fast. “I can take you to meet him now… if you like?”

The music around us fades out and everything gets quiet and slow in the bubble we’re in. The bar is jam-packed, but I could swear we’re the only people in the room. As I contemplate his invitation, my eyes drift towards the milky skin of his neck and onto his cleanly shaven jaw. I take a second to think, downing the rest of my third pint of ale as I do so.

Going to Sean’s place is playing with fire. The Jess from a month ago would never have considered it, but right now I’m not sure how much I can afford to care. The only thing that matters is erasing the image of Jack fucking Alexandra Frost from my mind.

As the hunger in Sean’s eyes stuns me and tension crackles between us, I know what I have to do: venture into the unknown and see that three-legged dog.

“Okay. Let’s go.” I say, swallowing hard.

Sean stands up and catches Rhiannon’s eyes mid-song, gesturing to her that we’re leaving. As she belts out another catchy number, we wave her goodbye, put on our jackets and leave.