“I missed my best buddy.” He kicks his legs, and I put him down. He grabs my hand and pulls me into the kitchen. Myra places a plate filled with bacon and eggs in front of him.
After breakfast, Evan follows me into my bedroom. He climbs in the bed with me, and we watch last night’s game while he gives me commentary on everything I did wrong. I send all the staff home, determined to spend the day with my son despite how tired I am. He must sense my fatigue though. After we watch the game, I put on his favorite cartoon. When I open my eyes a few hours later, he’s sleeping soundly next to me, and I run a hand through his hair.
I roll out of bed, grab my phone, and walk into my bathroom. There are two missed calls from Queen Vee. My face is red and my chin, which normally has about one day’s worth of hair growth, now has three. I run my hand over it and decide to leave it alone for now.
I return her call and she answers right away. She stares into the phone and inches closer, as if she’s trying to study me.
“I called you twice.” She leans the phone on something, and I see that she’s at a desk with a laptop opened in front of her.
“Sorry, my queen. I fell asleep with Evan. I have to shower and be at practice in an hour.”
Her eyes soften, and I think it’s at the mention of my son. “Okay. I’ll see you at tomorrow’s game.” She looks at the ceiling and exhales loudly. “Assuming you want me there.” She puts both hands to her face and says, “God, I hate this relationship crap.” She looks back at the screen, clearly frazzled and unsure of what to do next. The laugh bubbles in my throat and soon fills the large bathroom. Vickie starts to laugh too, and I’ve never seen her so unguarded. She leans back in her chair and covers her face with both hands while her body shakes with laughter.
“Have your driver bring you here in three hours. And pack a bag, darlin’.”
“I will come, but I will not pack a bag. You have a child, so we have to set a good example.” She purses her lips and nods once.
“Pack a bag.”
TWENTY-FOUR
He meets me outside.Right in front of his Central Park building, where hundreds of people are walking by at every moment. I barely have time to step out of the car before long arms wrap around me and lift me off my feet. His warm lips land on mine, and I give in to the kiss. I yank the Mischiefs cap off his head and ruffle his hair. He lifts me higher, and I wrap my legs around him. He spins us around and walks to his building, where a doorman holds the door open for us. He carries me into the elevator and kisses me senseless the instant the doors close behind us. I slide down his body, and he snakes an arm around my waist.
I lean my head against him, and because he’s so tall, it ends up right under his armpit.
“You smell good,” I tell him.
“I showered for you. I didn’t miss you, though.” The elevator dings, and we step out. His apartment is open and spacious. We walk down a narrow hallway until we get to his living room. It’s decorated in neutral browns with splashes of yellow. There are toys and stuffed animals everywhere.
There’s a middle-aged woman in an apron and chef’s hat pulling something out of the oven. She looks up and smiles at me. She’s a short woman with a round belly. Her dark skin has neither a blemish nor a wrinkle. I offer her my hand, and she wraps her warm one around mine.
“Myra, this is Victoria Taylor. Queen Vee, this is my chef, Myra. If you want anything special, just let her know.”
“Welcome, Ms. Taylor,” Myra says with a slight Caribbean accent.
“Vickie, please.” She nods and returns to the stove. I’m not sure what she’s cooking, but it smells good
“Let me show you around.” Colt takes my hand and gives me a tour of his apartment. It’s got to be at least forty-five hundred square feet. It’s about half the size of Ethan and Tara’s place, but it overlooks Central Park. I look out one of the large bay windows and see a crowd of people down below. The apartment is beautiful, with modern appliances, but is warm and inviting. There are pictures of Evan throughout.
We enter his workout room, and I see a quote. ‘Definitions belong to the definers, not the defined…’
“Toni Morrison?” I ask, clearly impressed.
“What? I’m just a dumb jock.” There’s a framed photograph on the wall. It’s a picture of Colt and an older man. I trace my finger along it, and he watches me.
“Who’s this? Your uncle or somebody?”
He puts a hand to his chest and drops himself on his workout bench. He pants as if he’s wounded. I cross my arms and look down at him.
“My uncle? Queen Vee, I’m hurt. Do I have to educate you on everythang? That man is Nick Saban.”
“Am I supposed to know who the hell that is?”
He stands and runs a hand over his face in disappointment.
“Only the best college football coach in the history of the world. I’m going to introduce you to him when you come to Alabama. If you think I’m a god, wait until you meet him.”
“Whatever. I’m rethinking this Alabama trip if you’re going to subject me to football. I can barely stand the sport you play.”
