Page 5

The follow-up kiss is a final memento of what we just experienced. “Perfect. Now let’s get back to bed.”

“I got you, pretty woman. I’ll be there in a few.”

“Don’t be too long,” she forewarns, “Because otherwise, I’m waking Miami up.”

The next morning arrives like Amtrak. Quicker than I can prepare for it. I wake up in bed, all alone with the exception of my phone. Miami’s gone, so is my wife. My eyes are wearing the weight of exhaustion. It takes me two attempts to wake up completely, slowly rising in the bed like Michael Myers once I do. I wait for the temporary blur to dissipate from my eyes after rubbing them, straightening my arms into a tight stretch. My right side window is cracked, allowing me to hear the neighbors' kids argue over who kicks their ball next.

Someone’s barbecuing outside too. Probably their parents with their seemingly year-long supply of Brats. The sultry smell creeps in, talking right to my stomach. As if I weren’t hungry already. A long night of weed and sex will have you wanting to devour an entire barn. Let alone a horse. My mind starts to run rampant with breakfast ideas. Protein waffles? Maybe a steak and potatoes? Pussy? That’s always a great meal. Healthy and nutritious.

Only after Morgan’s been located, at least. My baby’s still nowhere in sight. Her even being awake before me is actually a surprise. Usually, I’m the early bird getting to a worm before the sun’s even up, while she’s wrapped in the sheets like a snail. And here I was hoping to start my day with a handful of ass. Guess I’m settling for my phone instead.

The daily routine follows. Sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through every app like a bored teenager. Facebook first. Next is Twitt-oh sorry, X. Gmail, where an army of emails awaits my presence. Most of which are business-related. Or Hulu trying again to sweet talk me into upgrading my subscription. Fuck that. Thirty dollars is already a lot. Lucky for them, I need to keep up with my NBA, Boxing and NFL. Lastly, Shopify, to check the online sales for the day.

I’m up ten percent in decaf sales. Espresso and Colombian sales are still steady. Medium Roast profits are a bit down, but that’s been the story for the last two days. Guess people just need a bigger caffeine boost nowadays. I’ll figure it out. I always do.

After surviving that chaos, I take a pit stop to my text message history. Where hell really breaks loose. Out of ten new texts from my parents, little sister Destiny, and business partners, it’s my younger brother Rayne’s message that stands out the most.

Rayne: Bro! I need to holla at you. I’m really fucked up. Meet me on 60th and Hampton.

Dread and annoyance split residence in my body. The sigh that leaves my body could’ve destroyed small towns. My brother Rayne isn’t necessarily a joy to deal with. I love him. God knows that’s the case. My issue with the mothafucka is him always finding a way to stir up shit. Until the day Morgan comes to me with a positive pregnancy test, I’m nobody’s biological parent. Yet, when it comes to Rayne, I feel that I am. Maybe that’s because my folks hardly deal with his knuckleheaded ass. And who could blame them?

He’s wasted more of my family’s money than a bad stock. If it wasn’t bailing him out of jail, he’s always coming around begging. Only for him to blow whatever’s given on some bullshit he either didn’t need or wasn’t important to his future. Like drugs, shoes, pussy, or pints of Honey Jack. Fuckin’ loser. The only thing he likes to get intoxicated on more than dark liquor or drugs is his ego. Last month, he told my sister Destiny, in secret, or so he thought, homie could be in my spot if he really wanted to be. I’m just lucky. Yeah, alright. Dogs also have wings. Cats can sing. Fish can crip walk.

Mom, at one time his only supporter, still prays for him. Yet, even she’s put the proverbial line in the sand as to how much she communicates with him. My mother. Devina Ross. The same woman who casually gives money to the kids selling boxes of chocolate, telling them to keep the candy. That woman. Rayne is a complete fuckin’ lost cause. The epitome of wasted potential.

Irresponsible as all fuck. A major liar. A vandal. And since coming back to town, he’s turned into a compulsive gambler too. A bad one at that. Not to mention, being a hothead with the impulsivity of a misdirected pet rabbit.

In fact, Rayne’s massive temper got him into some deep shit a while back. Not only in Madison but in the state of Minnesota too. Wild, wild shit. Which, of course, brought his dumb ass right back to Milwaukee. The perfect proof of him never owning up to mistakes. He’d rather tuck his tail between his legs and run from the issue he created until it solves itself. Or someone, usually me, solves it for him. Which is the ironic thing. My brother’s so blinded with envy, he

can’t see I’m still here, stretching out my hand to pull him out of the proverbial grave. Which is why he hits me up whenever his back is against the wall. Ungrateful fuck.

Still, he’s my little brother. At one rare time in life, my best friend. Part of me feels responsible for how he’s turned out. I was supposed to look out for him. Make sure he stayed out of bullshit growing up. I failed miserably at that. So, texting him back feels almost involuntary. The ten percent of me with love still in my heart for the fool just won’t shut the fuck up. That doesn’t mean I have to be nice about it though.

Me: What the fuck you into now, Rayne? Fuck. I’ll be there. Forty minutes. Be there or I’m pulling off.

I’m grumbling things that would make the Devil blush heading into the hallway. The smell of breakfast cooking intensifies the closer I get to the kitchen. I walk in, finally seeing my wife. All alone. She’s standing with her back turned, stirring a pot of something obscured from my sight with her right hand. Her left hand is occupied with her phone. The sound is on full blast, giving me a clear idea of what she’s watching.

“Girlies of Milwaukee, if you need a hot new spot to check out that serves great wings and margaritas, come with me to Good Girl Haven on Third Ward,” I hear a woman announce from the video, “The only lounge in the city dedicated solely to us. The ladies. Open from six to midnight. Trust me, you’ll want to be here.”

She’s watching TikTok reviews of her business again. Which means the world couldn’t exist less to her at that moment. I just take it all in, standing in awe of her natural beauty. From her bare face to her effortlessly swaying hips. This is my wife. This is what I have to look forward to until my heart beats for the last time. The Bucks could win the NBA finals every year going forward. Somebody could throw a million dollars through my window in a burlap sack. I could own every sports car known to mankind. Free of charge. None of it means anything compared to having her. On God.

After a minute of watching her, she finally turns her head, giving me a look of love. The silence is thick, but her slow rising smile speaks a million languages.

“Well, good morning, lover. Look who’s finally up,” she says, cheesing, pointing over to the kitchen table. A plate of homemade blueberry waffles, fried summer sausage, and steaming coffee sits right in the center of it. It’s like IHOP catered to the house or some shit. Everything is made with a care only Morgan can bring. The smells are hypnotizing enough. Every whiff flashes memories of family breakfast at Ma Fischer’s every Sunday after church.

Usually, I cook breakfast. But I’ll never complain when she does. Baby still hooks it up like Chef Ramsey. Funny though, just hours before, I was feeding on something else. Right where I’m standing. The thought raises my blood pressure all over again.

“Just waiting for the cheese grits to finish,” she goes back to her video, not even noticing me creeping up from behind to wrap my arms around her waist. It causes her to jump, then laugh.

“Missed you next to me this morning,” I say in a low tone, kissing her twice behind the neck.

“Oh, I know,” she turns to kiss me back, “And you also missed Miami leaving. She said she’ll hit you up once she makes it though.”

“Aight, bet. I appreciate you for breakfast too.”

“And I appreciate you for the dick this morning.” “Well, you’ll really appreciate me later tonight then.” “Oh really?”

“Hell yeah,” my face transitions into a scowl, “As soon as I deal with this fucking Rayne problem.”