It’s only been five days, and while I’m still processing the fact that I’m about to be somebody’s mother, he has fully accepted his father role. I would have never pegged that about him either but he’s proof positive that you can’t judge a book by its cover.
“You ready?” Rebel calls out. She must have gotten out of her ride and walked over while I was texting him. She’s standing outside of my passenger side so I roll my window down.
“Yeah. Let me get out.”
I roll my window up, kill my engine, then get out. She meets me at the back of my Jeep. We look each other up and down then laugh. We never, and I mean never, dress alike. While we both know how to put shit on, our tastes are totally opposite. She’s tomboy sexy and I’m fly girl sexy, both turning heads in any room with our own distinct styles. However today, we are damn near twins, both rocking purple, body-fitting, sleeveless dresses. Our shoes are the only things different. She’s wearing cute purple and white dunks and I have on my purple patent leather Tory Burch sandals.
“Not you wearing DAZ colors, bitch!” I exclaim. Not only is she my bestie but she’s also my line sister. We pledged together and she had my back in the line just like she does in real life. We both love our DAZ but I rep it more than she does.
“My heart bleeds purple and white. I dreamed of being DAZ, day and night. Then one day, I crossed the line. A DAZ girl, proud and fine,” she says, reciting one of our mini chants.
“Okay!” I gush before pulling her in for a much-needed hug. I’ve missed her. While we talk every damn day, between my shifts at the hospital and her online classes and coaching job, our face-to-face time isn’t as frequent as I would like.
“I hope you are ready to drink because a margarita flight hates to see me coming,” she says as we walk to the door.
“You got that. I think I might be coming down with something,” I say, dancing around the truth. We need to be seated before I spill my tea.
“Contagious?” she asks and I grin, thinking about how I blurted that out to Tyriq.
“No, not at all.”
“Well, I’ll drink enough for the both of us.”
“And I can be your designated driver.”
“Girl, if I get that fucked up, Kassir will come right here and get my drunk ass.” We get to the door and there’s a long ass line. “I’m so glad you made a reservation,” she says and I agree.
Take Flight is always crowded but Friday evenings and Sundays are the worst. To avoid this long ass line, not only did I book a table online, but we decided to come at four, before the real Friday crowd gets here. By eight, it’s a wrap. Every seat, booth, table, and section will be filled.
“Hell, me too. I’m ready to sit down, eat some good ass food, and catch up. Being in that line is not the business,” I admit.
We walk inside and maneuver through the crowd of people waiting up to the host stand. I give her my name and we are seated right away into one of the cushioned booths. The vibe, of course, is lit. It’s a full, sit down restaurant with an extensive menu, but it also has a club vibe. In a few hours, the music switches from a sound system to a live DJ, hookah service begins, and bottle service is available. The menu changes after eight as well. This five-page menu reduces to two.
As Rebel and I look over the menu, our server approaches and we order our drinks. While I order a Shirley Temple and a water with lime, she orders the margarita of the month flight that has an original, Ciderita, mango, and black cherry. We will order our food after we get our drinks.
“Do you know what you want?” Rebel asks.
While looking over the menu and praying my stomach stays quiet and food friendly, I say, “You know I eat with my eyes so I’m torn between shrimp wonton tacos, swamp pasta, or the Monte Cristo with the beer battered onion rings.” My appetite is back, my stomach feels calm, and all three of these look delicious as hell.
“Um, that’s random as hell. I was hoping you would help me out because I don’t have a clue what I want. You just made it worse cause that all sounds good. Where is the Monte Cristo?”
“The back page, specialty sandwiches and wraps.”
She flips her menu and I scan mine again. When the parmesan-crusted, grilled chicken tenders catch my eye, I close it and shake my head. If I keep looking, I’ll never decide on one thing.
“Let’s do the onion rings as an appetizer so we can have those and something else.”
“Perfect. That sandwich looks so good. I can get that and sub the onion rings for the spinach salad. Yeah. That’s what I’m getting,” I say with finality.
“And I’m going to get the wonton tacos. I wonder if I can mix up the three: one shrimp, one chicken, and one beef.”
“I’m sure you can.”
Right on time, our server returns with my water, my Shirley Temple, and her mouth-watering margaritas that I can’t have. Then we order our appetizer and meals. Rebel’s combination request for the tacos can be done for a small upcharge.
Our server leaves and Rebel goes for her Ciderita first. It used to be one of my favorites. It’s garnished with a green apple slice and the glass is filled with the perfect mix of tequila, lime juice, apple cider, dash of cinnamon, and agave. I watch as shetakes her first sip then I grab my water cup. When I do, she grabs hold of my wrist.
“Not you, Miss I don’t see the point of an Apple Watch with one on and with this bad-ass strap. When did this happen and what kind of strap is this?” she asks as she examines my watch.
