The Exchange

  The EXchange

  Nikki Rashan

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  The Offer

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  The Exchange

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  The Return

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Discussion Questions

  Copyright Page

  The EXchange

  Nikki Rashan

  ex-change [iks-cheynj] to give up something for something else; to change for another

  Prologue

  Kyla

  Maybe I wasn’t relationship material, after all. After going to sleep and waking up next to Asia for nearly nine years, the monotony of our day-to-day lives had gotten the best of me. From the moment we rolled over to say “Good morning” to the last “Good night,” every move felt robotic. I would have even accepted a charming “Bonjour” or “Buenos días” from Asia, anything to alter our uniform days, which I could have mimicked in my sleep. Even though some days I wanted to set my hair on fire just to create some excitement in our lives, I didn’t intend to leave Asia. I just wanted to shake us out of the relationship coma we remained in. We were alive with beating hearts, but we were otherwise lifeless.

  I hadn’t felt that way for very long. For eight years, Asia and I had marveled at the beauty of our relationship. The ease with which we interacted, the level of respect we had for one another, and the trust we shared between us. Asia was still my truest, deepest love. Right?

  It hit me about a year ago. We had woken on a Monday morning, after a weekend spent lounging around the house together. Every movement we made from the shower to bedtime was a carbon copy of the day before. Before work, we had stood side by side, applied makeup, and prepared our hair together. Inside the walk-in closet, I had reached for a dark-colored business suit, while Asia had grabbed a comfortable pair of jeans and a long-sleeve cotton shirt. I had put on four-inch heels; she had put on walking shoes.

  Downstairs we had filled our individual thermoses with black coffee, grabbed our workbags (mine a briefcase, hers a duffel), kissed lightly on the lips, and headed to the garage. Asia had backed out first and tooted her horn before driving off, and I had left next. That was our morning routine every single workday.

  In the evenings, we would relax in the family room with carryout dinner or the latest recipe one of us had tried to make, and watch a blur of reality television shows Asia loved. The shows we watched weren’t dependent upon the season like a sitcom or drama. Reality TV had no preference for sunshine or snow; reality shows dominated television all year round, and Asia loved them all, from celebrity competitions to shows about backstabbing, two-faced women forced to fake friendships. Later, after we had watched the round of shows that appealed to Asia, we would go upstairs and perform most of the morning routine, but in reverse.

  Most nights we would change into comfortable pajamas, but it seemed that approximately every four days we would make love, and that particular Monday evening we were on our fourth day. So that night we emerged from the closet naked and hopped into bed. Asia promptly settled on top of me and swiftly performed her routine: She spent a few minutes kissing my lips, my ears, my neck, and my breasts. She stroked each nipple for about a minute each before her fingertips trailed down to my middle. She caressed me “there” the way she knew I loved, and didn’t stop until I was ready. I knew this because she always told me. With one final rub to my lower lips, she looked at me, grinned, and said, “She’s ready.” Then she lowered herself and proceeded to please me.

  Afterward, we swapped spots, and I pleased Asia in the ways in which she loved. As she approached orgasm, she whispered, “Yes, Kyla.” A few moments later, she repeated herself. “Yes, Kyla.” A longer gap followed. Her body tensed and tightened; her breathing halted. And in one exhale and release, she said it again. “Yessss, Kyla.” This, too, happened every time.

  I said all that not to suggest there was anything wrong with my and Asia’s relationship. We had yet to encounter any major disruptions since we had been together. We loved one another, and the love we had was good. It flowed effortlessly. It was comfortable. It was really comfortable. Maybe a bit too comfortable, as my ex-best friend Tori warned would happen with any long-term relationship. We certainly had our moments of spontaneity and new experiences. Occasionally, we’d go out at the last minute on a Friday night and dance until our thirtysomething bodies could no longer bend, shake, and sway. We treated ourselves to twice-a-year vacations, one to a place we both longed to go, usually to a Caribbean island, and another to one of our hometowns. We alternated between Wisconsin and Texas. And sometimes we’d make love from the moment we dropped our briefcase and duffel bag in the foyer, and ran into the family room, up the stairs, and into our bedroom, until the early morning hours. However, 9.5 days out of ten we stuck to our routine.

  The replication of each day had suddenly pinched me like a random twitching nerve on that particular Monday. With each repetitive day, the intensity had increased, until I had become a full-blown, walking, emotionally agitated funny bone, one filled with strange sensations that would not subside no matter how strongly I willed them to. What was a girl to do?

  Asia

  Nine years was a long time to be in a relationship, and I was proud of the fact that Kyla and I had succeeded in this feat. I had to admit that in the beginning, and even after we had moved in together, I was not always certain we would make it that far. Sure, I had faith we would last, and from the moment I fell in love with Kyla, I prayed we would grow together into little old women with canes. But based on Kyla’s previous hit-and-run track record, I didn’t know if she would have the stamina to maintain a long-term partnership. Her lengthiest relationship, four years, had been with Jeff, and in the end she . . . what? She cheated on him with Stephanie.

  Many days I had to remind myself that if it were not for their affair and Kyla’s revelation of her love for women, I wouldn’t have been able to have her. On those same days, I also hoped her cheating days, along with the “love ’em and leave ’em” habit she formed once she got to Atlanta, were over. Kyla had been intimate with more women than she could count, and I, like them, fell in love with her despite her seeming inability to settle. As time passed, Kyla had proven that I was the only one she wanted and desired. “You make me want to be a better me,” she once told me, and a better Kyla she had been. I was human, though, and every so often I had to rein in my doubtful thoughts and reaffirm to myself that our relationship was not about who she was in the past, but who she was with me.

  It had only been recently, in the past year or so, that I had had to remind myself of that more frequently. While Kyla had been every bit the woman I had hoped she would be, it seemed that one day there was a sudden shif
t in her temperament. Although we continued to maneuver through our days as usual, underneath her complacent behavior I felt her discontentment. She hadn’t done or said anything to make me feel that way. She didn’t have to. I could see it in her weary smile when we said good-bye each morning, and after twelve months of that familiar expression, still she had not opened up about the gloom that surrounded her. It seemed she had reverted to the reluctant Kyla I first met, afraid to share her truest emotions.

  In the evenings, when we reunited and I was greeted by the same smile, I tried to imagine the thoughts in her mind. On occasion, I attempted to talk to her and find out why she seemed so detached. But I got nowhere. About six months ago, we were sitting on the couch in the family room, our usual spot for dinner, and faced again with her reserved disposition, I had the urge to ask her if something was the matter.

  “You’ve been extra quiet lately, honey. Something been bothering you?”

  Kyla looked at me thoughtfully. Behind her still expression I could see a swirl of emotions and thoughts running through her mind. As in the past, no words found their way out of her mouth. She was determined to hold them in.

  “No, not really. Same stuff.”

  “Stuff like what?” I asked, pressing.

  She shrugged.

  “If something is wrong, I wish you’d talk to me.” I tried to conceal my agitation, but her unwillingness to share her feelings aggravated me more than whatever she had to say. Kyla could tell me she wanted to go live on the moon for a year, and while I would certainly tell her not only that she was crazy but also that it was impossible, at least I would know she trusted me with her feelings. I had to believe that whatever she was concealing made it too difficult for her to endure the invasion of her private thoughts.

  I only hoped she would be able to resolve whatever was causing her uneasiness in a manner that was conducive to us and the longevity of our relationship. And that she’d do so as soon as possible. The hazy state of our relationship couldn’t go on much longer.

  The Offer

  One

  Kyla

  “We broke up.”

  “You broke up?” I repeated and immediately stood to close my office door. I sat back down in my chair. “What happened?”

  “She said I was too much.”

  “Too much what?”

  “Too much everything. Too loving, too helpful, too willing to sacrifice myself for her.”

  “Angie . . .” I paused, uncertain what to say next. “That doesn’t make sense. Who says that?”

  “Deidra, apparently. She said I was too involved in every aspect of her life and she had no independence.”

  “Well, you’ve been together a long time. Of course, you’re supposed to be involved in her life. Asia and I involve each other in everything we do.”

  Angie sighed. “She told me she feels suffocated. That she has no room to breathe and be herself. She said I’m just too much.” She sighed again.

  Angie was my ex-girlfriend. Well, let me correct that statement. Angie and I used to “spend time” together, which meant we shared a fiercely intense intimate relationship. But we were never an official couple. We met shortly after my move to Atlanta, just as I was embarking on a year-plus-long deep voyage into Atlanta’s sea of gay women. I had laid my head on pillows across metro Atlanta, from Kennesaw to Morrow and every suburb in between. During that stage, Angie had been my only constant lover. Most of my interactions had been one-night stands or short-lived trysts. It was only when I had grown weary of my own behavior and had met Asia that I ended my extended fling with Angie.

  Ironically, Deidra just happened to be Asia’s ex. We ran into each other over eight years ago, and after an awkward reunion, the four of us became fast friends. Although it took a while for Asia to warm up to of a friendship with Deidra—she had learned that Deidra was seeing Angie before she and Asia officially broke up—they had grown to tolerate each other’s company again in a cool, platonic manner. We were an odd bunch: a foursome who had all directly and indirectly slept together. We had survived the “ex-to-friend” transition and had maintained trusting connections ever since.

  From what I knew about Angie, she was indeed a giver, a pleaser. She wanted nothing more than to see to it that her woman was happy. In fact, the more I silently thought about it, the more I realized that was part of the reason I didn’t settle with her myself. She wanted to “take care of me,” and I wasn’t the right woman to fill that need for her. I could imagine that after a while I would lose my independence owing to her protective nature. She wasn’t controlling, but she did want to be active in all areas of her woman’s life, from the simplest gesture of opening a car door to supporting her woman’s every need, emotionally and financially. Who wouldn’t want that? I didn’t. In the end, Deidra didn’t, either, despite the love she had exhibited toward Angie over the years I had witnessed their relationship.

  “I’m sorry, Angie. I never would have seen this coming.”

  “I think I did,” she confessed, to my surprise. “Ever since we got her beauty shop up and running, she’s been extra busy, spending more and more time at work or hanging out with the other stylists. Her wallet got thick, and her friends expanded. She didn’t need me anymore.” The way Angie spoke with such clarity and indifference, it was almost as if she were opining about the end of someone else’s relationship and not her own.

  I thought about the number of engagements we were supposed to attend as a group over the past several months but didn’t. Angie backed out because Deidra could not attend. We hadn’t realized those were signs of the beginning of the end.

  “Why don’t you come over tonight? Asia and I will be having an American Idol evening. Join us.”

  “You know I don’t watch TV,” she replied. I knew that as true. Before Deidra, Angie had one unplugged television in her apartment. When Angie wasn’t giving her attention to work, she was giving it to her woman. Why should she waste time gazing at a television when she could gaze at her woman? Damn, maybe she was too much. When Deidra moved in, two new televisions were added to their space, with cable channels and all.

  “One night of tube watching won’t kill those nerdy computer brain cells of yours,” I joked.

  She acquiesced with a slight chuckle. “Okay, I’ll come over.”

  “I should call Deidra.” Asia closed the cabinet door harder than necessary and opened the box of noodles she had retrieved from inside. She was making spaghetti. Again. It was a quick and easy dish and her favorite to make when we had guests. Only, she made it far more often than that.

  “You should,” I urged her. Asia hated to “not know” something, and already she had become irritated that Deidra hadn’t mentioned her veered feelings about Angie.

  “I can’t believe she didn’t tell me.”

  “Why would she tell you?” I asked. “She knows you’ll just tell me.”

  Asia placed the noodles in the pot of boiling water. “Say she did, and I told you. You would have told Angie, right?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “See, she could have told me, then,” she concluded.

  “That would have put us all in a weird position, so I’m glad she didn’t.”

  Asia squinted at me with her dark, beautiful eyes. She still handled me with calm aggression. She was always direct and to the point and didn’t allow me to shuffle my thoughts and feelings under the rug when we were in conversation. That was the main reason I hadn’t mentioned my boredom to her; she would eat me alive. I had already played the conversation in my mind.

  “You’re bored because what, Kyla?” She would ask, speaking in a cynical but gentle motherly tone.

  “Because we do the same thing every day.”

  “What do you want to do differently?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you tried to do anything differently?”

  “Not really.”

  “We have jobs, so we really can’t change that,” she would state.

>   “I know.”

  “We have to eat, and we’ve already been to nearly every restaurant in the city.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you want a new car?”

  “I just got one last year.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that. You just seem to need to liven things up a bit. I didn’t know if that would help.” Her eyes would look at me quizzically. “New house?”

  “Come on, Asia. No,” I would answer with a grateful look around our four-bedroom home.

  “New clothes? More money?”

  “No and no.”

  “Do you miss your family? Want to see your niece and nephew?”

  Years ago, my sister, Yvonne, had gifted me a niece, Gladyce, now ten. Since then she had had another child, James, who was six.

  “My trip home is already booked for the spring.”

  “So you’re happy with your house, car, job, clothes, and family. That leaves me.”

  Another stare standoff while she awaited a response to a question she didn’t ask. Of course I was happy with her, I would think. I just wanted something—anything—exciting.

  “I’m more than happy with you.”

  “I see. So the problem is what, then, Kyla?”

  The imaginary conversation always ended with that question because there was no way to explain the antsi-ness I felt inside and, worse, to cure it.

  Asia acquiesced with a soft sigh.“You’re right, it’ll be awkward because one of our couple friends has broken up and now we’re friends in the middle.” She paused for a second. “Let’s see if it’s really over first. Maybe there’s still hope for them.”

  “Sure,” I agreed.

  Asia stirred the boiling noodles and dismissed the subject. “How was your day?”

  And so we began our nightly rundown of what had happened during our day. Asia’s home health care business had expanded over the years, and to handle the increased patient count, she had hired a growing list of nurses and case managers. Asia’s love for personal care hadn’t diminished, and she still assigned a few special patients to herself.