Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“Hey Washington,” I huffed, weaving around outdoor tables, because of course, the night was too pretty not to throw in another curveball. “I’m leaving dinner with Lynn. If it sounds like I’m gasping, I’m not. It’s ambiance.” I tried to force a breath through my nose while I power-walked.
A saxophone wailed beside me, and I inhaled enough air to smell the marshlands in South Carolina, then continued at a pathetic jog. I resumed my voicemail. “I don’t know if you got past TSA, but there’s that one fancy étouffée place on the opposite side … if you feel like going through the TSA trenches again. My treat. And yes, I can buy things. Like one plate to share.”
I stopped to lean on a random lamppost, ankles ready to call it quits. They screamed, Washington has kissed every part of your body, except us. Why are we running? We don’t owe him nothing. We’re done, boo.
A thought hit me, and I ignored the pain. “Oh! If you’ve had to sacrifice your cocoa butter beard oil that TSA always takes from you, which you forget is over the limit, then food will make you happy.” Maybe I can still make you happy. “Anyway, like I said, I hope I see you tonight before your flight.”
Beep.
“If you’re satisfied with your message, press,” the automated message began.
Absolutely not. That message sounded like I was the desperate guy in a rom-com movie, five minutes before the end.
The call dropped. I glared at my phone. That was not my device telling me to leave that man alone. He was my husband!
After burning another five-million calories, I plopped behind the wheel of my car. In seconds, my internal body temperature soon dropped from my sweat-soaked workout. Okay, I didn’t sweat. I had good genes, but I wasn’t hot anymore.
I needed a heater. You’d think all cars had an automatic heater. Hello? Engines run hot. Maybe not all engines, but my Daewoo did. The smog sticker was physical evidence I shouldn’t need to do the bounce in a driver’s seat. Especially when I wouldn’t do this old-ass dance at a party.
I slipped my phone into my pocket and decided against calling Lynn to see what time she’d be doing weird people’s crap.
“Of course, Wash is settled in at the right terminal.” My murmur puffed out in a cloud. Ridiculous. It was literally sixty-eight degrees outside tonight. Inside this car was arctic.
I keyed the engine, wondering how to end my birthday night. Maybe I’d text Montana and Zuri a couple of emojis to encourage the superstar batter?
Or I could disappoint my big sister. She gave up the first couple of years of her dating life for me, and I’d repay her soapbox philosophy by returning to dinner? Intrude on her boring geo-whatsit and her friends. Nope. So, maybe I’d hit Popeyes’ drive-thru for some chicken and put a birthday candle in a biscuit.
Or … I could take Miss Virginia up on her offer. Since when hadn’t I eaten homemade cupcakes on my birthday? It had gotten awkward, though, in recent years, and last year she’d cornered me at Mad Bold & Blown for my birthday.
But as I drove, I realized my destination wasn’t the lively Hot Chicken & Peach Pit Maison in the Quarter. My baby hairs deserved to be seen by my man.
washington
. . .
As my iPhone traveled on the conveyor belt, WIFEY flashed on the screen.
“Wait,” I told the TSA agent. “Need to take that call. It’s my wife.”
The TSA personnel glanced at the tray before it went through the scanner, not even making a move to pull it back. “My man, you got a wife up this late and you ain’t home?” he asked. “She got questions. You sure you want that kinda smoke?” His hand continued to wave me through. Either he was one of those sign flippers in another life, or TSA agents got used to shuffling us through like sardines. “You may need three antacids.”
Bruh …
I raised my arms and went through the body scanner.
Ten minutes later, I was shoving my feet into chukka boots, had my belt in my hand and the phone in the other, going back beyond the security checkpoint. I wanted to find my wife, but that TSA line, though? It hadn’t been half that long when I’d first shown my passport and boarding pass.
Now it sat longer than the Shaka Zulu series Momma had all us boys watching when we were too damn young, pausing to offer her commentary. And Madison wasn’t answering me.
After grabbing a beer that cost more than a six-pack of Dat’Suma, I walked the line. I glanced at folks, took a pull of my drink, and searched for a familiar face. Told myself if I ended up strolling to economy parking before the line ended, I’d swing by Madison’s place. Or do something pathetic like walk my ass back in the other direction, get back in this damn line, strip down again, and try to catch my flight. Maybe greet someone with a hundred-dollar handshake. That whole Aye, where you been?