Page 1 of Insatiable

The lyrics fall out of my mouth with conviction. These words are my life right now. This song has been on repeat for the past few minutes while I wait. I lifted my eyebrows in surprise when I heard the opening notes, I didn’t know I added this song. “Good Enough” by Jazmine Sullivan, I guess it’s relevant to my situation. I have a theory though . . . Oh, wait, as the chorus comes on, I own it. I belt out loud about not being good enough. I pour my heart and soul into singing about no matter how hard I try, and despite what I change about myself, I am still ignored. Singing to the steering wheel, my empty car is my audience as I pour all my emotions into these words. I bob my head and hit my fist on my thighs, feeling the lyrics like they are my own. I love music. It is my driving force, and it got me through the good and the bad. Music just makes life better. Who doesn’t love a good song? Whether you can sing or not, you will still belt out those lyrics with a hope and prayer in your heart.

The oh's and ah’s flow easily as I pull them from the depths of my soul. I take in a deep breath and let my diaphragm and vocal cords do the rest. The harmony blends with the riffs, and I smile as I let my voice soar with the singers.

As a kid, my grandmother always took me to church with her on Sundays. My parents weren’t that religious, but my grandmother insisted on “introducing me to Jesus,” as she would put it. It’s where my love for singing derived. There’s nothing like raising your voice in a chorus with multiple singers. Sopranos, Altos, and Basses coming together to make one powerful sound. It was awe-inspiring. Let’s just say I was never dragged to church, I went willingly. Even though I loved it, I never considered doing it professionally because I loved clothes more. So, I went into Costume Design. Singing is never far from my heart, though.

A Tate Charles truth. What’s the saying? “People come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime.” Well, I think the same can apply to music. The right song will always find you when you need it. You will love it for a time, replay it over and over again, and then eventually, it will fade into the background. Then you have those profound albums that you hold on to for dear life because just listening to them once resets your mindset, and you are ready to face the world. Like an old friend. That type of music is your life soundtrack. Then there’s the seasonal songs, the love songs, all warm and fuzzy, like honey pouring over your skin. Tear-jerking, feel good because you're happy with life songs. My logic is sound. It makes sense. I used to argue the point with a friend of mine . . . well, he is no longer a part of my life . . . so, there’s that.

“No reason to go down that road, Tate. You chose the road less traveled, remember?” I grumble to myself as I turn the radio down. Jazminne Sullivan continues to sing about not being “Good Enough,” and I close my eyes and rock my head to the beat. Yeah, I can understand that all too well. Not being good enough is the story of my life.

Love is a twisted motherfucker. Luring you in with hopes and promises. You literally lose yourself, looking in the mirror every morning with rose-tinted glasses. Love makes you believe the sun rises and sets for the one person you’ve opened yourself up to. The person you once were, long gone, blinded by the person who holds your heart in the palm of their hand. Love makes you trust. Love makes your thoughts singular. Love is beautiful—until it isn’t. Love can kiss my ass. I have given myself over to love for five years and look where the hell it’s gotten me. Sitting in the front seat of my car, black wide brim hat flopping down over my face, oversized shades in place just in case one of my neighbors walks by and notices me stalking my own house. Looking down, I check the clock, reminding myself that I don’t have long before I need to go to work. One hour.

The sun shines through the palm tree hanging over my SUV, allowing me extra cover as I sit and wait. What I’m waiting for exactly, I’m not sure. I have my thoughts, of course. Maybe my intuition is wrong. The money missing from our accounts, justifiably spent. The texting in the middle of the night when he thinks I’m asleep, a dream. Our lack of intimacy, my fault, I’m so tired from work that I fall into bed like a zombie every night. My five o’clock in the morning blow jobs go unnoticed as he groans and grunts, coming down my throat then, falls asleep without reciprocation. Yes, my gut is telling me something is wrong, and I finally have the nerve to want to find out. In a hurry, I snatch those blinders off, needing desperately to see the truth.

Thanks for nothing, love.

The sound of wheels on gravel catches my attention as James’s car comes barreling by so fast that I almost think he’s spotted my car and opted to pass the house up. Like I wouldn’t have noticed him if he had. Instead, the red Audi TT coupe whips past the driveway only to do a Tokyo drift style reverse. The garage door lifts just in time for him to slide in and out of sight.

“Was there someone in there with him?” I wonder out loud as I begin to impatiently drum my fingers on the steering wheel of my car. The tinted windows on the glass of his car make it hard to tell for sure, so I lean forward, as if that will allow me to see further into the garage and wait. Tipping the brim of my hat up just a bit, I spot James exiting through the garage door to walk around to the front of the house.

Tall, dark, and to be a cliché, handsome. He walks with a swagger, his steps slow and measured, like he knows that he’s a woman’s wet dream. He walks around the front of the house in charcoal grey slacks with a crisp white business shirt, no tie, and chest exposed just slightly. The soles of his leather brogues hit the pavement, making a clicking sound as he makes his way towards the front door. I track his every move, each sound he makes heightens my awareness of everything around me. My heart is in my throat as I wait to see what he is up to. He stops and looks up, and I slump in my seat as he mysteriously scans the houses in front of us, which makes me crane my neck to see what he’s looking at. There are no neighbors around this time of day. I quickly turn my head, keeping my movements small so I can continue to go unnoticed. Just some random black SUV chilling under the palm trees.

The sound of clicking heels and high-pitched laughter has my head shooting around to see where it’s coming from. My mouth doesn’t drop open in shock like you would expect when witnessing your fiancé reach out to grab the hand of another woman. No, I grit my teeth and snarl like a fucking rabid dog. Time stands still as I watch them walk side by side, familiar with one another’s touch. ‘How long?’ I think to myself, as this mystery woman sways her hips a little too hard. She’s wearing skintight skinny jeans, a bright red tank top with her breasts spilling out, long black and blonde box braids that fall to her ass, and so much makeup she looks fake.

I never thought I would be that woman, the one who compares herself to the other women but as I watch her hold my man from behind as she waits for him to open the door to our home, I’m helpless, I just do it. I am nothing like her. She looks about five years younger than me, and a lot less meat on her bones for sure. I’m shorter with an hourglass shape, where she’s all legs and ass. I’m only twenty-nine years old. My best years are still ahead of me. Is this what he wants?

“Fuck that! Oh, hell no!” I yell aloud. My voice bounces off the walls of my now silent car. I watch as James pulls her inside. My home. I pay our mortgage. I paid for his Audi TT with my inheritance I received from my grandmother a year ago. The last member of my small family gone. But I had James, and he was my family now.

‘I was a fool,’ I think to myself as I contemplate all the sacrifices I’ve made in this relationship. I go to work every day, working twelve- or fourteen-hour days, depending on if I am working a show or not. A career in Theatre, Film, and Television is hard on any relationship, but considering James is an actor, he promised, we promised each other it would work. In fact, why the hell is he dressed up like he’s been to work? He is in between acting gigs and has been sitting on his ass all day waiting for his agent to call for four months now. Five years of perpetual wedding planning and it was always bad timing. Or let’s wait until. Until what? Until you show up with another woman? Trying to calm my rapidly beating heart, I take a deep breath. Eyes glued to the front door, I mentally will my body to move.

“Get out of the car, Tate,” I say to myself, reaching over to grab my tote bag from the passenger seat. Before I know it, I am moving. A door slamming in the distance registers, but I pay it no mind; I am on automatic pilot as I walk up the driveway. Walking past the garage, I frown at the Audi TT, already mentally cataloging what is mine and what he won’t be taking with him. Everything is mine. Shit, I’ve even made the suits he wears in the closet. I will keep them and make myself a bonfire. If this is what he wants, then he can have her. Just not in my goddamn house.

“Miss Charles.” I almost jump out of my skin at the sound of my name. Tripping over my own feet, I turn quickly, the mailman Darin is halfway up the drive and I rush over to meet him. Anything to avoid opening the door to my own house. Even with the brave, strong woman vibes I have going on in my head, I am just not ready to face what’s behind door number one just yet.

“Hey, Darin.” I try to smile but I can’t get the muscles in my face to work. My lips tremble at the sight of his warm, pleasant smile, and he’s always so kind. We’ve had the same mailman since we moved here two years ago. His salt and pepper hair and laugh lines tell a story of a happy, fulfilled life. Always has a funny story about his family on the tip of his tongue whenever I see him.

“I’m surprised to see you, Tate. I usually hand the mail off to James on my late mail runs. Are you ok?” He asks with a hint of concern in his voice. I reach for the envelopes. My hands are outstretched for what feels like a lifetime as I fight my warring emotions.

“I was on my way out. I forgot something in the house.” The lie falls from my mouth so easily. No need to share my pain with this man. Let me not taint his day with my drama. Darin’s smile tightens, it’s almost like he can sense my untruth as he drops the mail into my hand. He sighs, slinging his mailbag to the opposite shoulder, clearly in pain. He grimaces before offering me another smile, turns, and walks away.

“You have a good evening now, Tate.” He throws his hand up, waving goodbye, and begins to cross the street.

“You take care of that shoulder, Darin. I saw that. You need to make sure you see a Physio about it,” I shout back, sprouting out professional advice is just ingrained in me. I am a Costumer, and Theatre life is tough. There is always someone waiting in the wings to take your job, taking care of yourself mentally and physically is always your main concern. Job security is few and far between.

“You sound like my wife,” he turns and says once he reaches the other side of the road.

“Well, she’s right.” I try to laugh, but it comes out all wrong, more like a sputter than a chuckle. I watch Darin continue down the street, stuffing mailboxes until he is out of my sight. Flipping through the mail in my hands like that was the actual reason for me to be standing out in the middle of the drive. Everything has my name plastered on it until I hit one envelope addressed to James.

“Sims Life Insurance,” I pronounce the name of the well-known company out loud. Recalling the commercial on constant rotation on the television late at night. ‘Why would he need life insurance?’ I can’t help but wonder. My only reasoning would be that his agent suggested it because he damn sure never listens to me. I am glad he is thinking about the future, at least. A future that I will no longer be a part of. How in the hell is this actually happening? What did I do to deserve any of this?

Well, I can’t stand out here forever.

My eyes swim with unshed tears as I turn and face my one-story modern farmhouse. The cozy combination of old and new, the white stone walls are a stark contrast to the navy blue trim. High gable roofs and a large welcoming porch. A home I bought for us. This home was our future, it symbolizes so many things that will never come to pass. Marriage, children, and growing old together. I put one foot in front of the other and before I know it, I am putting my key in the lock.

“Oh, shit! James!” I don’t even make it through the front door before I hear the woman’s shouts and loud moans ring out through the house. I don’t make a sound as I drop my tote and the mail on the side table in the entryway. Pictures of James and me in various stages of our relationship stare at me mockingly as I take baby steps towards the sounds.

“Fuck, Precious, your pussy tastes delicious,” James’s muffled voice greets me. It makes my stomach turn. Who names their child Precious? Or is that his nickname for her? The nausea hits me hard as I double over, bracing myself on my knees. I take deep, calming breaths to stop myself from being sick. This is fucking happening. If hearing it makes me react this way, then why am I even attempting to catch him in the act? I should turn around and just leave. Some things are just not meant to be seen. Unfortunately, I am a glutton for punishment and decide to keep going. The sound of sex continues all around me as I finally start to feel in control of myself once more. I straighten and keep walking. Passing our open planned living and dining room, it appears that they have shed clothes along the way. I follow the trail of discarded items all the way to my sanctuary. ‘Anywhere else but here,’ I say to myself as I pass the archway leading to my kitchen.

“James! Yes! Yes!” Precious screams as I stand like a statue, trying not to go ape shit at the scene in front of me.