“When? Oh, when Washington drove me home after my jail stint?”
“Yeah.” She dropped her head into her hands. “I tried to take up for you, and I saw something in your eyes. You had lied to me. About the divorce. Am I right? I’m so sorry.”
I nodded. “Don’t apologize, sis. It only hurt. A little. I’m the one who needs to apologize. For the last year, I have been Cocoa Pebbles crazy. Confused.” I sobbed. “I took you for granted.”
“No!”
“I didn’t try to pay you rent.” My sobs got ugly, and people were looking, but who cared? Not me.
“I didn’t want it until you talked about my bracket butt!” She sniffed, wiping a tear. “I shouldn’t have started charging you rent.”
“I shouldn’t have stolen your socks.” At this point, we laughed through the tears, and then I cried some more. “Girl, I got evicted. I allowed my shop to fail.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want anything until Mad Bold & Blown was all I had left. Figured I’d been too aggressive, too ambitious. I was so stuck-up. I told Wash let’s go on a last-minute trip. We’d start with an art festival in New York, go shopping, and then Wash agreed to meet up with a buddy from Stanford. Miss Frequent Flyer Miles is the reason Elijah died. ”
“Maddy, accidents happen. Bad things happen to good people. No one was to blame. Not you or Wash?—”
“No! Ambition cost me my son.”
“Alright, you believe that. Here’s another point of view.” Lynetta nodded. “When I’m assessing companies for damages, it’s the mom-and-pop businesses that always have the resilience. The big corporations where the owners have silver spoons in their mouths, they look ready to check out on life if I don’t give them a good assessment. You’re the corporation.” She chuckled, picking up the baroque silverware, and muttered this was why Mom booked dinner here.
“Yes, I was the corporation. Dead inside.” I didn’t know whether to chuckle or cry. Either might lead to confinement in a scratchy-ass Bad Behavior Blazer or a secure room in a mental institution.Nope.I wouldn’t laugh at the raw honesty of my sister’s statement. This self-deprecation needed to stop. “I should’ve been the mom-and-pop. Resilient. Or just less bougie, Lynn. I should not have wanted so much in the first place. Which is why I backstabbed myself in the divorce.”
She chuckled once more. “Wanna geocache with my friends tonight?”
Noooo.Ignoring her, I fished a strawberry out of my sangria with a fork. Failed. Then focused again.
“Then, girl, call your husband. Go to him. Text me a thumbs-up once he gives you his gift. Or a thumbs down if it’s something dumb, so I can prepare my mean mug for the next time we cross paths.”
“Dang sis. You really are ride or die?”
“Ride or die. No lie, honey.” She snorted.
“Lynnetta, I love you.” I smacked her forehead with a kiss before climbing out of the booth. “Anyway, we’ll geo …” I snapped my fingers. “Cache, one day. Maybeyourbirthday. If it rains, I’ll be with you in spirit while baking my famous red velvet box cake.”
“Whatever.” She twisted a mint leaf, then placed it back into her mojito. “Call that man. You didn’t plaster on those baby hairs this morning for nothing! And you know Wash was probably at the airport at 8:00 a.m., prepared for his midnight flight. Tardiness is unlawful.”
No lie, on both accounts. It took work to create my beloved baby hairs, and Washington was seriously timely. I giggled, tugging my phone from my purse. A server, holding enough paella to feed an entire small country, was heading my way. My heel wobbled, and I yelped and spun like I was in somebody’s second-line parade I didn’t sign up for. I danced out of the restaurant with its nightclub music. My body chose choreography, not tension and anger.
By the time I hit the pavement, breathless and offended by gravity, my call skidded to voicemail.Dang.I kept running since my car sat on the other side of the Mississippi, with the way parking lots were so scarce.
“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 likeIwas 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!
