Chapter 5
Three hours had passed, and I was in the middle of pre-saving her upcoming album and admiring the cover art—her in a thong, no shirt, her back to the camera, her hair in cornrows, her long-fingernailed hand gripping her own ass cheek—when she finally called back. I almost dropped my damn phone again. I was going to have to get my shit together.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Hello, Mr. Rapp. Let me guess; you were calling to see if I’d answer?” she replied.
“No. I was calling to see why you called me last night,” I partially lied.
“Because I wanted to talk to you.”
“O…kay.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, why’d you wanna talk to me?”
“I was trying to see something.”
Leaning forward on my sofa, I scratched my forehead. “Something like what? My favorite book?”
“Yes. A person’s favorite book tells you a lot about them.”
“Word? What does mine tell you about me?”
“That you’re forward thinking, you believe in the power of transformation, that you care about our people, you thirst for knowledge, and you crave change in the world. All excellent traits.”
“You see all that, huh?”
“I do. Am I right?”
I smiled, resting my elbows on my knees as I held the phone to my ear. “You actually are.”
“I always am about these things.”
“Is that right? So…what’s your favorite book?”
“The Color Purple. Hey, I gotta go. In the middle of doing press for my album. You can tell me what that book says about me later.”
Later? There was going to be a later for us? Hell yeah!
“A’ight. You gon’ hit me back, then?”
“I definitely am.”
Jones: Just checking on your newly antisocial ass. Hit me back.
Ford: Nigga, is you still breathing?
Robin Stick: DJ Khaled! We da best!
I smiled and shook my head at those text messages before checking my voicemail.
“You have one new message from 504-555-2282,” the automated voice said, followed by a male human voice. “Mr. Rapp? This is Leonard Landry with the foundation. We’re getting close to that time of year again, so of course, I wanted to reach out and see if you’ll be attending the ceremony. We have chosen a wonderful group of artists to honor. As always, we’d love for you to present the awards to them…”
I played the voicemail two more times, trying to convince myself that I’d actually do it this time, that I’d fly there, put on a tux, and go to the gala.
It didn’t work.