Over dinner and while delighting in Erin’s imaginary play with chopsticks, I decide to check my calendar to mentally prepare for my weekend. I know I have a light schedule at work tomorrow, which is great. I want to preserve all my energy for the big guy. Other than picking up my birth control pills, I have very little else to do before my flight. I’m slightly annoyed that I punked out of getting the birth control shot after Azmir’s reaction to my mention of it to him that day in his office when Dawn and Shayna were meeting with him.
He predictably brought it up later when we were alone. He was extremely gentle in his approach, but it annoyed me that I had to make a production out of choosing my birth control. I want the convenience of a one application method; he doesn’t want the long-term commitment. It’s my body! For every argument Azmir presented as to why I should continue with my current regimen, I gave him pushback. I fought him on it simply because I felt it was not his decision. But I digressed remembering First Lady Twanece’s heeding: You don’t argue just to have a voice in a fight, you fight for a resolution. Love is yielding.
Still partially listening to Erin’s pretend chat, I then move on to glance at my email. We’re waiting on dessert and I want to be sure that Jim Katz has responded to a report I sent him this morning. In search of it, I see Sharon sent me an e-mail about thirty minutes after I left the office. It’s a forwarded email from Brett: Azmir’s itinerary. It’s strange getting it on a Thursday; they typically arrived on Mondays.
“Let’s go on the boat and fly kites,” Erin trills, totally engaged in play. I snicker, knowing she’s referring to Azmir’s cabin cruiser when we took her sailing and Azmir taught her how to fly a kite while we cruised against the mild winds.
I absentmindedly open the email out of pure idleness while we wait. I see the itinerary is from last week, stretched into this week. My concentration lands on this weekend’s schedule, hoping that my lazy plans won’t interfere too much with his promos. That’s when I discover that Azmir is due to appear, two hours, at a function at The George in Georgetown. If my geographical logic is working, Georgetown is not in the state of Washington where Dawn has set my itinerary. No. In fact, my itinerary from Dawn is set across the country from where Azmir scheduled to be in less than twenty-four hours.
I check Brett’s information against Dawn’s via his assistant again, and then three times over for clarity. Nothing changes about the locations being two separate states. This must be a mistake. Then again, probably not. But I have to be sure.
I send a text to Azmir: You think you can arrange a tour of the White House while I’m out there this weekend? Don’t try to front and tell me you’re not cool with Barry.
He replies seconds later as ice cream and cake is delivered to our table.
I don’t want your hospitality out here to be by your president. The only type you’ll receive is by your layman of a husband. I think you’ll enjoy mine better though.
That does it! It seals the deal. It confirms Dawn has sent a fraudulent itinerary.
Throughout dessert and Barbie shopping afterwards, with Erin, I brood over this sting of Dawn Taylor, trying not to tip off a shadowing John. This security thing is for the birds! This time, my first thought isn’t to go to Azmir. I have to handle this on my own, starting with finding a redeye out to D.C.—where my husband is. By the time I drop my princess off home, I have my flight booked for ten fifteen tonight. I also concoct a plan to ditch John for my early trip. He’ll think he’s seeing me home for the night, but I’ll slip into the car later and drive myself to the airport. He’s not contracted to travel with me to see Azmir anyway.
One my way to the marina, my phone rings and it’s April. Frustrated, I growl as I hit the screen to accept the call. I’m not in the mood to discuss why I didn’t invite someone to my private wedding. But it’s clear that April isn’t backing down.
“Hello,” I speak, irritatingly into the blue tooth.
“Rayna! Oh my, god, you answered!” April sounds almost out of breath.
“What choice did I have?”
“Rayna,” she sighs. “I didn’t call to fight.”
“Well, I hope not considering I have a flight to catch in a few short hours,” I hope John didn’t hear that.
“I just…it’s just that,” she can’t catch her words. “Geeze, Rayna, I’ve changed! I don’t want to fight with you anymore—not that I ever wanted to, but you made it a sport almost right after meeting you.” My brows rise at that statement. What’s she hitting at? “You know, I never really got you. We never had real beef…a legitimate fight, but you never liked us…Britni and me. For some reason, all we were ever met with from you is the typical rolling of the eyes, mumbled sarcasm under your breath, and an overall cold regard. We’d never done anything to you! You know, I hate to say it, but you were that…stereotypical black woman that we eventually regarded you as. And that became easy, because at least it made some sense.”