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)
Damn, she didn’t buy this thousand-dollar dress, girl.
As Latrice draped the bag over my arms, I added, “Uh, you should know, he wants to hold me against my will for three dates. So, work your magic, then you can be my stand-in.” Or call the police when I’m on my first date with him. Latrice probably wouldn’t report Washington for temporary abduction.
“Don’t worry, I’ma put it on him!” Latrice strutted around her car.
That thirsty woman could have Washington. If he’d fall in love with her … then love was love. Still, as a mother, I never understood how I’d catch her staring at him or other men when we attended galas and spritzers. She’d be the last one to leave Judge DuVall’s Christmas event, trying to catch someone’s attention. And she had children at home. Shouldn’t her children be the most important to her?
In my bedroom, tears flushed my cheeks and my cellphone flashed with a missed call from Washington and a text from … Omari. Again?
OMARI: I got another hypothetical. But thought you’d get tired of reading my texted dissertations. Call me.
A frown creased my face. Three texts. I pressed on the app and called. The second the man answered, I said, “What’s the hypothetical? If it sucks, I’m blocking you for good.”
“If I wanted to apologize, do I bring you flowers or a parental gag order? Either way, I’m prepared, Ms. Spencer.” Yep, it was the man with a Southern drawl, just not the honeyed Creole drawl that once made my heart race.
“Uh-uh. You call me Madison, or the little situation you’ve started crashes and burns right now.”
“Alright.” Omari’s voice became smoother than molten glass. “Maddy.”
“I didn’t say all that. Madison will do.” A smile entered my tone. “You can send hydrangeas to the following address.” I tapped into the text box.
Seconds later, he sighed. “That’s a restaurant.”
“I know.”
“You … work there?”
“Nope.”
Sounding confused, Omari asked, “You wanna meet there for lunch?”
“Not at all.” But you’re not getting my address.
washington
. . .
If I thought yesterday was a nightmare, talking through my worst day, today was a whole Garden District goes up in flames type of day. Straight New Orleans disaster.
Latrice was confused. She wanted us to go to lunch solo? No, ma’am. Never. That woman worked for me. And the fantasies in her mind were staying hidden, tucked underneath those tight-ass cornrows. I’d rather get baptized in Popeye’s grease. Scalding, funky-ass grease that had sat there since the Saints won Super Bowl XLIV. The only explicit thing between us was how detailed I was when offering her twenty dollars for lunch to knock on Madison’s window and report back my wife’s level of shock.
And yeah. I called Madison my wife.
The State of Louisiana had revoked that title, but my heart pulled a Steve Gleason block on the paperwork. Saints fans knew. Rebirth, bébé.
Latrice caught an attitude but confirmed Madison got the dress I purchased from Canal Place. A little while later, as I strolled down Royal Street, Madison texted me back.
Thanks! May I have the receipt?
ME: For what?
WIFEY: You know…
ME:
WIFEY: Pahlezzz! I’ll wait until after our date to return it .
She hadn’t responded earlier. Now, she came at me sideways by cooking up a scheme to return that dress for cash. Nope. I left her ass on read like she’d left me all day. Then I strolled past a violist seated at the edge of Royal Street and pushed through the emerald doors of Hot Chicken & Peach Pit Maison. Momma, Auntie Peaches, and Montana owned the upscale urban-and-Creole fusion restaurant. I walked over the dark herringbone, past the emerald velvet banquettes, to a table in the back where Momma hosted us all on Wednesday nights. Was I happy that Montana wasn’t here with his soon-to-be bride? Yep. A little. I was the tiniest bit jealous of them. It had been a long time since Madison had joined our midweek dinners, and now Montana and Zuri were in Glendale for his Dodger spring training. I prayed my woman was at my side by the time they came home.
I ordered a Creole Kool-Aid Royale, basically childhood diabetes, heavy on the Southern Comfort, light on the Kool-Aid.
Was I pretending? Absolutely. Sitting there acting like I needed to take the edge off when I needed therapy and a miracle. But the drink was cheaper.
My youngest brother, Tennessee, approached the table in his fire department shirt, sleeves rolled high. Soot covered his tattooed forearms. He had flecks of ash in his cornrows. The only clean thing about him was the glass he held. He nursed something dark enough to erase memories.
“Pardon.” He set the drink down and rubbed his dirty hands together. “Thought I’d be late. You know how Momma is. Had to get myself a drink first.”
When Tennessee returned from the bathroom, he didn’t look any better. He had another drink in hand. I glanced toward the door as he sat.