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 hersoapbox philosophyby 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,WIFEYflashed 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 wholeAye, where you been?
I sipped my beer and kept my stroll slow until I could see the end. Did I feel relief?
Please. I didn’t want to know anyone. I wanted …
Maddy?
She marched forward but looked sideways, searching the angry, frustrated faces in line.
I blocked her path.
“Who are you looking for,bébé?”
She glanced forward at the last second, and her face collided with my chest. Smiling, I gripped the small of her back.
When a couple chuckled at her expense, she popped my shoulder.Aightnow, tit for tat.My hands settled low on her ass, squeezed roughly.
“Hey,” she growled.
“Technically, I’m supposed to hit. It’s your birthday. Thirty-three?”
“Twenty-sevenswats. Uh-uh.”
“Girl, you were twenty-seven when we met.”
