Chapter 2
“ I t really isn’t a bother. I don’t know how to cook small portions. There’s plenty for you and Aryel to join us,” Sheena, one of the moms, says, flirting as always. And as always, I turn her down as politely as I can.
“We have our schedule on Wednesdays. Joining you would throw us off but thanks,” I tell her and the big ass smile on her face drops.
Thankfully my little angel runs over before Sheena can try and shoot her shot again. Some of these moms are persistent as fuck. Being the only dad at these practices makes me a target for single moms. Hell, even for a few of the married ones too. Women say that men can be persistent but I know firsthand that some women are beasts. They say and do some wild shit to get my attention during these practices and competitions.
“Daddy, did you see my spread eagle? I got it,” my baby girl says excitedly, smiling, showing her two missing teeth.
“I saw you, baby, and I took pictures. I’m so proud of you.”
“You did really great, Aryel. Maybe you can come help Kiana with hers. We are having tacos. You two can come to dinner,” Sheena says and I swear the vein in my neck throbs.
“As I said, our schedule is packed,” I grit, displaying the anger on my face and not in my tone.
“And I’m having spaghetti tonight. Right, Daddy?”
“That’s right, baby girl. Go tell Coach Kris goodnight so we can go,” I tell her and pat her back gently. As soon as she takes off, I step closer to Sheena. I’m finally closer to her but not like she wants. “When I say something, that’s it. Don’t ever approach my daughter like that again.”
“I’m sor—” she begins but I walk off before she can finish her damn sentence.
After grabbing Aryel’s bag and lunchbox, I meet her in the corner with her coach. They hug then Aryel rushes to me. Our schedule is tight, especially on practice nights, Mondays and Wednesdays. I pick her up from school at three forty-five. We head straight here for practice then we usually have dinner at Redmond’s before going home. I can’t cook for shit so Redmond’s saves my life. It’s not fast food; it’s down-home cooking and it’s delicious. She loves the spaghetti and they only have it on Wednesdays and Fridays. If I miss a Wednesday, she will remind me on that Friday.
“Miss Sheena wants to be your girlfriend,” Aryel says as soon as we are in my Denali.
“Well, she’s not gonna be. And what do you know about girlfriends anyway?” I question. “You’re seven.”
“But I know about boyfriends and girlfriends, Daddy,” she says, giggling. “Miss Chantel is Uncle Dax’s girlfriend.”
“Right because he loves her and they are getting married. The only girl I love is you. Now, buckle up so I can drive. I’m hungry.”
“Me too.”
We fasten our seatbelts and I pull off. Both Redmond’s and the sports complex are here on the southside so we make it to the restaurant in fifteen minutes. My city is filled with many five- star restaurants, but in my opinion, not one of them can touch Redmond’s and the filled parking lot and line inside proves it.
As we wait, I study the menu I probably have committed to memory. Aryel’s meal is set, a kid’s spaghetti with corn and a garlic roll, but I’m too hungry to decide on just one thing. We were super busy today at the store and I didn’t have time to eat lunch. I found myself on the showcase floor more than I was in my office. Many call income tax time paper tag season but I honestly think more furniture is sold than cars when the refunds hit. My first quarter profits are typically three times more than other quarters.
“Hey, pretty girl,” the girl at the register says. She’s leaning on the counter to face Aryel. “You want the spaghetti tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am. With corn and garlic bread. Oh, and some lemonade, please.”
“You got it. What about you, Mr. Goode?” she asks and my eyebrows furrow. While we do come here a lot, I’m not on a name basis with too many of the employees. I guess she reads my face because she quickly adds while tapping on her shirt, “Your nametag.”
“Oh yeah. I forgot to take that off.” The nametag is a requirement at my furniture store. When people are spending nice sums of money at a business, they feel more comfortable if the transaction feels personal. They hesitate to give over their hard earned money to strangers. “I’ll have the smothered chicken, mixed.”
“And which two sides?”
Because I cannot choose, I ask, “What’s good tonight?”
The swinging door behind the cashier opens and she walks out, Truce Redmond, my first draw to this restaurant. Four years ago, when I found myself back in Crescent Falls, I came to Redmond’s looking for the pretty teenage girl who changed my life years ago one day then disappeared the next. What I found was the gorgeous, more mature, and definitely thicker adult version of the girl. Truce had aged beautifully. Her dark chocolate skin looked smoother, her eyes more mysterious, and her full lips more kissable. Somehow perfection had gotten even more perfect.
“Everything here is good,” Truce says in her silky yet sultry voice and parts of me react to her that shouldn’t in front of my daughter.
“I believe it is but I meant the sides,” I say and she smiles wider.
The cashier actually mumbles, “Okay!” but I hear her. So does Truce.
“His order,” Truce says, refocusing the cashier. Then she looks at me. “Like I said, everything is delicious, but I recommend the cabbage and yams.”
“Then I’ll have those and a large lemonade.”
“Got it.” She totals my bill and I pay as she grabs two red acrylic cups and fills them with our lemonade.
“Enjoy your meal and good night, Michelle,” Truce says before walking her sexy ass back through the swinging door.
Michelle places a plastic tray on the counter then adds our drinks, dining ware, napkins, straws, and the wait number on the tray. I grab it and Aryel and I find a table. The walls of the restaurant are filled with pictures of local celebrities, the founders, and local athletes. Aryel likes to sit as close as we can to the picture of me when I was a heavyweight boxer. The photo is ten years old but feels like a lifetime ago.
In it, I was at the height of my career and living out my dream. I was the reigning champion, looking to defend my title in three months. My personal life seemed as wonderful as my professional one. I was married and my pregnant wife and I were living the dream in Miami, Florida. However, six months after that picture, my life spiraled to hell. A drunk driver barreling down I-95 totaled my SUV and crushed my left arm and hand.
My bones healed but my nerve and tissue damage took me out of the ring. Three months after that, my wife, who I believed loved me, left me with our newborn baby girl. She married a heavyweight boxing champion, not a retired one. We divorced and I got full custody of Aryel. I toughed it out for about three years but I knew I needed my family. I needed mother figures in Aryel’s life, so I moved back home, bought the old furniture store, rebranded and renamed it, and restarted our lives.
Aryel removes her sanitizing wipes from her purse and we both thoroughly clean our hands before she unravels our silverware from the thick cloth napkins. She lays my spoon, knife, and fork on mine then duplicates her actions for herself. Then she takes the drinks off the tray, places them on the table, and walks the tray to the used tray stack. When she returns to the table, she has a bottle of hot sauce for me and grated parmesan cheese for her. This is her little routine; she loves to help. When she’s back in her seat, I thank her and her entire pretty face beams. She is my baby sister’s twin and as Aryel gets older, she looks more and more like Lyra did before the scars.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, baby?”
“We get the cookies Saturday,” she reminds me, although I unfortunately remember.
My little Girl Scout will be selling cookies. Actually, I’ll be selling them. Between my furniture store and my older brother Dax’s auto shop, she usually sells the most in her troop. She’s won Cookie Diva the last two years and this year she wants the Top Cookie Seller patch. Stakes are high.
“I think we are only getting three boxes,” I tease.
“Daddy!” she exclaims with a scowl on her pretty little round face.
“Calm down. I got you.”
Our food arrives, we say grace, and enjoy our food. While I finish mine, we take the rest of Aryel’s to-go. My angel is knocked out by the time we make it home. I carry her into the house upstairs to her room. She starts to wake when I lay her on her bed. Groggily, she ambles to the bathroom to shower. She always showers before bed time.
As she showers, I head back downstairs, clean out her lunchbox, then restock it. She typically eats the school lunch but I always make sure she has options. After placing her lunch bag into the fridge, I trek back up to her room. She’s in her PJs, her bonnet is covering her braids, and she’s in bed. I turn on her TV, find the Disney channel, then turn the volume down to three; she can’t sleep without a little white noise in the background. She’s back to sleep before I walk out of her room.
I’m about as exhausted as she is so I take a long hot shower as soon as I enter my room. I turn my TV to the sports network then get comfortable on my bed. About fifteen minutes into game highlights, I hear Aryel’s iPad. It’s ringing and it’s almost ten. No one should be calling her this late so I ease off my bed then journey to her room. I grab her iPad and see it’s Aria, my ex-wife.
“It’s late,” I answer when I’m out in the hall.
“Hello to you too, Rex. Where’s Aryel?”
“In bed and asleep. She’s seven and it’s after ten,” I snap.
“I’m her mother. Wake her up,” she says with too much damn audacity.
It’s almost laughable that she even calls herself a mother especially since she’s never been that to my daughter. She left our baby, she barely calls, and she visits even less. A mother is the last thing she is. I’m getting tired of her on and off relationship with our daughter. It’s doing more harm than good. When Aria first showed back up when Aryel was three, I wasn’t going to let her see Aryel, but my mom encouraged me to. She would come around, and when I moved back home, she even came here to visit every few months. The months between visits increased then turned into a year. Aryel barely knows her.
“I’m not doing that and you know it. If you want to talk to her, call at a decent time. I’m not interrupting her sleep just because you decided to be her mother at ten-fifteen at night.”
“You know what, nigga, I’m not arguing with you tonight,” she huffs then ends the call before I can respond.
“Fuck,” I grit lowly. In case she tries some dumb shit and calls again, I take Aryel’s iPad with me back to my room.