Page 6 of Tyriq & Teaira
“Um. That’s relationship behavior,” I say, no longer able to keep quiet. Between him wanting to stay, calling me his good luck charm, kissing me goodbye, and now this, something has to be said. He’s switching things up and I’m hella confused. “You good?” I ask as I walk toward him.
“I’m straight,” is all he says. “I’ll get up with you when I come back.” I truly don’t have the energy for this conversation right now and he needs to make it back to Crescent Falls for practice anyway. So I keep my lips sealed as I disarm my alarm. When I unlock the door, he steps behind me, wraps one of his long arms around me, then plants a kiss on the side of my neck. “Go back to sleep,” he utters before releasing me and opening the door.
I watch him until he gets into his black Lincoln Navigator then close my door. My bed is truly calling my name but so is my tub. After locking up and straightening up my sectional, I take my ass upstairs and trek straight into my bathroom.
There are a number of things I love about my little townhouse: my huge living room, the small, open space upstairs in front of my bedroom that I call my calm corner, my backyard, and my tub. I have an extra-large whirlpool tub that can comfortably hold two people. Some nights after I shower my work day off my body, I like to run a tub of hot water and let the jets massage my stress away.
Before undressing, I stop my tub, turn the water to ninety-eight degrees, pour in a packet of my favorite oatmeal bath powder, then pour in three capfuls of Dr. Teal’s Melatonin Sleep Soak. When the tub is filled right above the jet streams, I turn the water off, slide off my clothes, then ease into the hot water. My body is already enjoying the soothing water andI haven’t even turned the jets on but when I do…baby!Pure heaven!
After sinking down more into the magic water, I place my head back on my inflated bath pillow, close my eyes, and enjoy my bath. It’s much needed and appreciated. While the jets massage the tension from my body, the bath soak does its thing too. By the time my water temperature drops, I feel like a new woman. So I drain the tub, step out on my instant dry rug, then rush into the shower to wash my body.
Clean, refreshed, and relaxed as hell, the moment I’m out of the shower, I moisturize with my body butter, throw on a tee and panties, grab my cell, then head downstairs. I’m officially up and need my morning fuel. My cup is already on my Keurig, so I pump two squirts of caramel syrup in it then pop the pod in. As it brews, I rummage through my freezer and fridge for something to eat but it becomes painfully obvious that I need groceries.
I can do a lot of things but cooking is not on my list of skills. I have three dishes that I can slay: spaghetti with a bomb ass bottled sauce, tacos, and tuna salad. Growing up with a natural chef had its privileges. My mom did all the cooking and all me and my dad had to do was show up in the dining room or at the kitchen table to enjoy her meals. Hell, I still enjoy her cooking. She’s a stay-at-home wife, and when my dad, Troy, comes home from a long shift at the Black Ops Distillery, there’s always a hot plate waiting on him.
I wonder what she cooked today?
After grabbing my drink, I make another unsuccessful search in my fridge then check my pantry for shits and giggles. Besides bottled water, boxes of cereal, and a few canned goods and noodles, there’s nothing more in there either. I’m hungry and need groceries—a sad situation.
With my cup and cell in hand, I journey to my living room and ease into my extra-large accent chair. After taking a much-needed sip of my drink, I place my cup on the table then turn on the TV. When I was in high school, one of my mom’s favorite shows wasScandal. I didn’t watch it then but I’m hooked now. I just started it last week during my three days off and I’m already on season two. Olivia Pope is that bitch and I love her and that bad ass white coat she sports.
I start the next episode and adjust the volume. Then my damn stomach growls.I’m really hungry.I give in and unlock my phone. The moment I open the Munchies app, my mom’s contact comes across my screen as my phone starts to vibrate. She’s FaceTiming me. I answer and a red bowl with a few avocados around it fills my screen.
“Momma. Hey,” I say.
“One second. I dropped this knife and need to clean it,” she yells. I also hear water running in the background. When she shows up on my screen, she has a knife and a cutting board with lobsters on it.
Lobsters!
“What are you making?”
“They’re having that hundred days of safety luncheon tomorrow and your daddy requested his favorite,” she says as she places the board on the table.
“He’s the only bougie distillery worker I know,” I tease.
“Don’t call him that. He just loves this salad.”
For their twenty-fifth anniversary, he took my mom on her dream vacation to Italy. She’s obsessed with Italian cooking and culture. After their two weeks there, my mom came back with more meals and recipes to add to her arsenal. One of them is this Sicilian Lobster Salad and I love it just as much as he does.
“So do I. I hope you’re calling to tell me to come get a bowl.”
“Of course I am. I want to lay eyes on my only child. You work so damn much I barely see you.”
“I was just there.”
“Two weeks ago,” she counters and I don’t miss her slight eye roll. “The Marketplace had a huge sale; their buy one get one sale. I picked up some stuff for you too.”
No matter how old I get, Diane Wilks will always look out for me and I love every moment of it. “What did you get?” I ask.
“Just come see,” she says curtly.
“Alright. I just got up. Give me an hour and I’ll head that way.”
“Bring me some of that body butter. I’m about out and your dad loves lick—”
“God, please no,” I scoff, cutting her off before she says something inappropriate.
She’s notorious for saying whatever the hell is on her mind. Some say that I inherited that same trait. On some days, I might agree but she’s definitely more outspoken than me. She doesn’t have a problem telling me anything at all and she has encouraged me to do the same my entire life.
