Steven was right. This would never happen again.
I thought about waking him for one last romp, but when my cousin was going through detox, she’d told me that the best way to let go of something that wasn’t good for you was cold turkey. Since Steven had been intoxicating last night, this morning needed to be the beginning of cold turkey.
I turned on the shower and closed my eyes as the pellets of water hit my face. My mind started churning. How many days would I spend reminiscing about Steven’s touch? Would I ever be able to get over the way he made me feel? What would happen when Greg remembered to offer his lackluster lovemaking? Would I have to imagine Steven to get in the mood? How was I ever going to face Paula again? As I realized that Steven and I had opened another whole host of problems, I released a fresh stream of tears.
Fifteen minutes later, I was fresh, dressed, all cried out, and ready to face the one who got away.
“Hey, Steven,” I whispered, easing onto the bed. “I need to get going.” I ran my hands along the bottom of his feet. “You probably should, too.” When he didn’t stir, I pulled the covers back and ran my fingers down his naked back. That’s when I felt how cold his body was.
“Steven?” I said, turning him over. “Steven?” His arm fell on the side of the bed, and his head flopped to the side. “Oh, my God! Steven?”
I felt for a pulse. Nothing. I leaned in to see if he was breathing. Still nothing.
“Oh, no,” I cried, glancing wildly around the room. Maybe someone had come in while I was in the shower. But there were no signs of forced entry or foul play. He was dead! He was really dead!
Visions of him clutching his chest last night at the bar flashed through my head. Oh, my God. Did he have a heart attack?
I backed on unsteady feet into the bathroom, trying to calm myself while I figured out what to do. I was hyperventilating, and tears were streaming down my cheeks. How could this have happened? I noticed the phone in the bathroom and immediately reached for it to call 9-1-1. But I stopped just as I was about to pick up the phone. 9-1-1 would bring on questions, and I wasn’t ready to give answers. There would be a death report. Because I was with him, an inquiry. They’d take my information, include it in the report.
“No, I can’t get caught up in this,” I mumbled. I tried to take slow, deep breaths as I figured out my next move. Fran! My sister. She will know what to do.
I snatched my purse off the bathroom counter, fumbled for my cell phone, and nearly dropped it. At last I managed to call the only other person I knew who could help me out of this mess. I numbly watched my fingers scroll through until I came to Fran’s number.
“You’d better have a good reason for calling me this early,” she answered.
“Oh, my God, Fran,” I cried. “You’ve got to help me.”
“Felise? What are you doing? Are you crying?”
I couldn’t help it. The waterworks had begun again.
“Oh, my God. You are crying. Who do I need to come jack up? Did Greg do something to you?” she said.
Any other time I would’ve smiled. That was Fran, the ever-protective younger sister who was like a Chihuahua in size but a pit bull in spirit.
“I . . . I’m in a bad situation.”
“What is going on?” she demanded to know.
“You’re not going to believe this! I’m in a hotel—”
“A hotel? So that’s where you went for your anniversary?”
“I’m not with Greg.”
“Shut the front door! What? Is my sister getting her freak on with someone else—on her anniversary?”
“Fran, this is serious,” I cried.
“Okay, okay. Calm down and tell me what is going on.”
“I’m with someone.”
“Who?”
I couldn’t bring myself to utter the words, but if I was going to get my sister’s help, I had to tell her everything. “I’m with Steven.”
Silence filled the phone. “I hope you know another Steven, not Paula’s Steven,” she finally said, “because I know there’s no way in hell that’s who you’re talking about.”
My sob was her answer.
“Are you freakin’ kidding me, Felise? Why are you in a hotel with your best friend’s husband? No, don’t answer that. Tell me instead, why does it have you all worked up like this?”
“Because . . . because . . . he’s dead.”
Another pause before she said, “Come again.”
“You’re not going to believe this.”
“Try me,” she said calmly. It was as if she was waiting on the punch line of a bad joke.
“He’s dead. Steven is dead.”