Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
The silence that follows is how a cigar must feel inside a humidor. Complete quiet sealed in an airtight box.
“A date.” It sounds like he’s testing the word for its authenticity. “Wow. Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Mark Lancaster.”
“Figures,” he says, the word riding a derisive breath.
“What do you mean, figures?”
“Come on, Yas. Dude’s up on you every time he comes around. He hasn’t tried to hide it.”
“Maybe I like bold. I don’t have to wonder where I stand or what he wants.”
“And what do you think he wants?”
“A date. Obviously.”
“With guys like him, nothing’s ever obvious.”
“Guys like him? I need you to elaborate because I’m not sure what you—”
“Rich guys, Yas. Privileged men used to getting what they want whenever they want all the time.”
“Some might argue, considering the car you drive, the neighborhood you live in, the clothes you wear, and the cash you drop on sneakers without blinking, that you’re a rich guy yourself.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You mean white?”
“No. That’s not what I mean. I don’t want to get in your business—”
“And yet, I’m getting a definite all-up-in-my-business vibe when I have been very careful to stay the hell out of yours.”
“So that’s what this is? Tit for tat? I start dating Vashti so you go out and grab the first man who shows any interest?”
“Trust me, he is not the first to show interest.”
“I only meant that—”
“He’s just the first I’ve accepted. And I know you are not insinuating I’m going out with Mark because you’re dating now.”
A tiny voice in my head reminds me I didn’t give Mark’s offer much serious thought until I saw Vashti at Josiah’s place. But still, Josiah doesn’t get to say that to me.
“I didn’t mean to imply that, but I know it was obvious Vashti had spent the night and—”
“I’m not doing this with you,” I say, taking a rolling pin to the words and flattening them into a tone so even that only I know what it costs me.
He pauses, letting the dust settle on all the things we hurled at each other before going on. “And I don’t have time to do this with you,” he finally replies, the words clipped by impatience. “What time are you leaving the house? I’ll swing by to check on the kids.”
“Seven.”
“Cool. Gotta go.”
I plop the cell phone onto the counter and drop my head into my hands. “Well, that went great.”
I don’t have much time to dwell on the argument because soon it’s time for car pool and fighting traffic to pick the kids up on time. Fortunately, there’s no soccer practice tonight. On the way home, I send a sideways glance to Kassim in the passenger seat and watch Deja in the rearview mirror.
“So I’m going out tonight, guys,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “But your dad will come through to check on you.”
“We’ll be fine by ourselves,” Deja says, a defensive note creeping into her usual deliberate indifference. “I’m almost fourteen.”
“I know.” I shift my gaze from the road to meet her eyes in the mirror for a quick second. “But Clint and Brock won’t be next door, so your dad’ll just poke his head in maybe on his way home.”
“Where are you going?” Kassim asks.
I could lie. Skirt the truth. Avoid with a vague response, but why? With Vashti, they’ve demonstrated they have no problem seeing their parents date other people. Besides, Mark is picking me up from the house, and I don’t want the kids thrown off when the guy whose face is plastered all over campaign commercials shows up to take their mother out.
“I actually have a date.”
Judging by the shocked silence following my words, you would think I’d said I was joining Elon Musk on his next trip to Mars.
“Who is it?” Kassim asks, his voice tighter, more subdued.
I hazard a glance over at him, and something in his eyes squeezes my heart. Disappointment? Sadness? I don’t know, but it’s definitely not his usual optimism.
“It’s Mark Lancaster.”
“The white guy with the goofy signs all over the neighborhood?” Deja snorts, and puts on her best WAVE voice when she parrots Mark’s campaign slogan. “Lancaster Can.”
“He’s very nice, Day,” I continue in a measured tone, taking the exit for our house. “He’s picking me up at seven, and like I said, your dad will come through.”
“What’s for dinner?” Kassim asks.
I can’t tell if he really has gotten over it that fast, and his usual eat me out of house and home trigger has been activated, or if he’s redirecting because the topic is too uncomfortable. Either way, I welcome the change of subject.
“Leftover lasagna.”
I found one of Byrd’s handwritten cookbooks when we cleaned out her house. It’s my personal challenge to attempt each dish at least once, starting with her famous lasagna. At first it was just to learn a few tricks in the kitchen, but every time I prepare a recipe she handwrote, I feel closer to her somehow.