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“I know you, of all people, ain’t talking. I know you ain’t.”

“Worry about your fuck-ups, not mine. And anyway, the past doesn’t matter. You can’t fight what’s meant to be. What the women be saying? Soul ties and all that.”

“Soul ties?” Dallas frowned. “We still talking about me, or did the subject switch to you?”

“We’re talking about you,” Pardi answered pointedly. “What’s mine is mine and I ain’t in denial about that.”

“Seems like it to me. Or else what’s yours wouldn’t be running around here with another nigga, would she?”

As Pardi grew silent, Dallas smirked, knowing that he’d gotten under his friend's skin.

“Fuck you. It’s a work in progress,” he finally spat.

Dallas laughed. “Yeah, aight. From what I’ve seen, it ain’t been no progress. Prayerfully, you work that shit out before you turn eighty. I gotta go. I’ll get up with you later.”

“Aye, come up with a code word and send it to me. If you start feeling dizzy or like you can’t keep your head on straight, shoot me a text and I’m on the way.”

“Nigga, go to hell,” Dallas said, this time hanging up the phone and silencing his notifications. Drumming his fingers along the table, he glanced down at his watch again. He’d talked a good game to Pardi, but nervousness was starting to creep in.

What the hell had he been thinking?

As crazy as it sounded, Dallas would be a liar if he didn’t admit that the woman he’d been chatting with for the past few weeks had him completely enamored. They’d shared a few laughs via direct messages and seemed to have a lot in common. She was into sports enough to keep up with the few things he mentioned about them, seemed to have a knack for cooking, and was very family-oriented. But, he knew nothing about her personal life.

He’d had to give the hostess his name, well, the name that he used on the app, as a means to help his date find him since they’d agreed not to share any confidential information, even down to their phone numbers, until after they’d met. The only thing he’d had to go on was her name. Serena. If that was her real name.

“Shit,” Dallas murmured to himself. “What if she’s white?”

He might have been on the pale end of the spectrum himself, but Dallas was 100% African-American and took pride in it. He could never picture loving or building a life with anyone other than a black woman. It wasn’t his ministry.

Not to mention, his family would kill him. Namely, his mother. She’d grown up during a time where a majority of the white neighbors around them couldn’t be trusted, something that festered over the years.

If Dallas brought home a white woman, his mother was liable to not even allow the woman to cross her threshold. It’d be embarrassing for all parties involved, and Dallas had little interest in the drama.

Rubbing his forehead, he exhaled deeply.

“Alright,” he said aloud, preparing to give himself a pep talk. “Leaving would be fucked up. So, if she’s white, just suffer through dinner and delete her later. Same thing if she’s ugly.”

Sweat beads popped up on his forehead as his eyes found his watch again. Five minutes. There was still time for him to make a grand escape if necessary. Or, so he thought. The sound of heels clicking in his direction signaled that the jig was up.

He had no choice other than to stick around. The hostess appeared, and the first thing that Dallas noticed on the woman behind her was a pair of toned, brown legs.

“Oh thank God her ass is black,” he thought, sighing in relief.

His eyes trailed up her body, lingering momentarily on the dress that clung to her curves, with a deep V cut that revealed the slight swell of her breasts. However, his heart nearly stopped when they reached her breathtaking face.

“Here’s the rest of your party, ma’am,” the hostess said, gesturing towards Dallas, clearly oblivious to what was happening around her.

As his date’s eyes went wide, he was sure his face shifted into a deep shade of red.

“Dallas?” she questioned.

“Sevyn?”