Chapter Four
Kwame
Lady Luck
My phone vibrates with a text from Paloma. “Thirty minutes away, traffic is a nightmare.”
I text her back right away. “Hey Lo. Sorry my dad got his wires crossed. I can’t make dinner tonight.”
An exclamation point appears on my delivered message and then my phone rings.
I groan and answer it.
“I’ve had this on my calendar for two weeks,” she says before I can say hello.
“How? Until a few hours ago he and I had plans for dinner.”
“That may be true but his assistant sent me the calendar invite two weeks ago and I planned my whole day around it.”
“Lo, since when does my dad plan my social schedule? Why didn’t you call me?”
“I didn’t think I’d have to. I mean, I figured you’d want to see me.” She sounds hurt and I could wring my father’s neck.
“I would have loved to see you, but this is a quick trip.”
“Let’s have dinner anyway. I’m thirty minutes away. We’re overdue for a catch-up.”
“I’m not at the hotel. I made plans with an old coworker,” I improvise badly.
“Fine, then I’ll eat by myself. I’ve been dying to try Dogon.”
“I already cancelled the reservation.” I wince at the lie.
“What the hell, Kwame?” She raises her voice. “Do you know how hard it is to get a table there?”
“Yes. Which is why, when I knew I couldn’t make it, I called to make sure they didn’t hold it.” I’m not proud of how easily these lies are rolling off my tongue. She’s one of my oldest friends, but our relationship is complicated and she’s unpredictable as hell. “I’m sorry, Lo. Next time.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
“I know you will.”
“See you soon, bye.” She sings her exit.
I exhale a deep breath and immediately call down to Dogon to cancel the table. The line rings busy. “Of course.”
I should have known my father wouldn’t call Lo. I hate that she got caught up in my father’s machinations.
It was his micromanagement and need for control that drove me away in the first place. The three months we’d spent playing father and son while we watched my mother die wasn’t enough to make me forget all I’ve ever been to him is a pawn.
I may not be in the mood to eat with Lo but I’m hungry. It’s thirty minutes until seven. I could use a drink first.
I slip my shoes on and stab the elevator call button inside my suite, grateful the doors open immediately.
I spend the ride down trying to stop my anger from spiraling.
Tomorrow, I’ll close the door on my life in DC for good and go back to my life in California where no one knows I’m Al Palmer’s son.
The bar is packed, but I find a seat and slide into it.
Then, I smell it again.
That fragrance. I look to my right and the seat that had been empty when I arrived is occupied by the woman I ran into today.
Her braids are caught in a high ponytail instead of bun and she’s wearing a blue and orange wrap dress instead of jeans, but I know it’s her.
I’m about to speak to her when she turns away and answers her phone.
I glance at my watch and settle in to wait for my table.