"Yeah, I'd like that." I smile. He's such a good guy, always offering to hang out with Carlton, even though Melody hates my man's guts. "If all else fails, Kiel, you have to sing me happy birthday."
"I'll do you one better, let me call up Maxwell," he says.
"You get Maxwell to sing more than a cheesy happy birthday song, something more along the lines of ‘until the cops come knocking,' we gotta deal." I give a wry smile, when – in this instance – I actually would prefer just the stupid birthday song from my best friend's husband. Or better yet, he writes another Grammy hit song, dedicated to Mel. Something is wrong with these two. Kiel's voice is what made Melody fall for him. We were at a house party, she always said she heard him before she saw him. Yeah, that's probably what saved her. Melody's family is very prestigious, and pro-black. Melody fell for his voice before even landing an eye on the grungy white boy. Now, she thought he was fine as hell but it took pure strategy on his part to land her.
The morning of my birthday sucks, I consider taking myself out to breakfast, but I can't make ‘our thing' my own. After a bowl of cereal, I force myself to attend the day spa and work out. I'm dripping with sweat in the locker room at the high end fitness center, when I see a text message from Carlton, telling me to get dressed for dinner. Smile on my face, and funky as ever, I hightail it home.
It's a quarter to six in the evening when the doorbell of my townhouse rings. Dressed in a robe and slippers, skin ultra-soft from my shower, I descend the stairs.
"Wow, this is early," I consider, while opening the door.
To my surprise, a stranger stands at my door. He has to be a cool six feet tall, with the voice of Tyrese. When he opens his mouth to sing, shock melts into a pleasant feeling in my bones. He's a sing-o-gram.
"Thank you," I reply when he finishes. "Am I to assume that Melody McIsaac sent you around my way?"
"Yes ma'am." He says, his voice has a syrupy drawl with a slight hint of urban that leaves me breathless and confused.
"I'm Dwight McIsaac." He says. So he's related to Kiel McIsaac. They both have honey brown hair, yet his isn't nearly as long as his kin. But his tanned skin is just as heartwarming.
"I'm not properly dressed." I take a gander at his outstretched hand.
"Oh, I thought you were Angelique Curtis," Dwight replies, flashing a smile, disregarding my comment. He doesn't even seem fazed that I refused to shake his hand.
I smirk, although glad that Mel didn't tell him my nickname. "Sure."
"Well, Miss Angelique – "
"Mel sent you my way, didn't she? Despite the little princess's upbringing, Kiel has more sense. So what are you, some sort of peace offering since Mel is on my shit list?"
"Uh … "
"Goodbye, Dwight. Go away." I call out. Melody promised to stop meddling in my love life. She's done well for almost a year, but today she had the gall to include her own in-laws. Grumbling I go back to my bedroom and search for my phone. Soon as I grab it from the dresser, I text Melody. If she's in a funky ass mood, she won't answer.
"MEL! I AM GOING TO STRANGLE THAT SCRAWNY NECK OF YOURS!"
Shortly after, the doorbell stops ringing. Mel's calls do, as well. Pursing my lips, I decide to settle on a Vera Wang peach wrap dress, Nine West boots and simple nude make up. I quickly glance at the digital clock then chose mascara as the finishing touch. I have to hurry downstairs, Carlton doesn't like to wait in his car too long. I step out of my condo a few minutes later and hurry down the steps.
The windows to his navy Mercedes AMG are down. I dread the talk radio that is blearing through the speakers. Carlton turns it down a tad as I get into the passenger seat.
"Hello birthday girl, you're looking very … citrusy," Carlton states while looking me up and down.
Citrusy? The dress graces over my generous curves, but leave it to my man to be illiterate in complementing.
~~~
Two hours later we are seated at a candlelit dinner. Carlton has been cracking King crab and sucking on prawns. Lemon butter glosses his sausage lips as he licks each of his fingertips. Every other second I stop myself from gritting my teeth as Carlton cracks another King crab and sucks another prawn. Chewing. Smacking. Hypersensitivity has me eyeing my butter knife, with a small child's knack for creativity, I want to transform it into a lethal weapon. I push the half-eaten vibrant colored Alaskan salmon around on my plate.
""This is a really nice place," I mention, trying not to be disgusted by the way he is eating. It's almost phallic in the worst of ways. Just to get Carlton to stop smacking, I make small talk. "Hey, where's my birthday gift?"
"Didn't we decide to forgo birthday gifts?" His eyebrow arches. Then Carlton reaches a very moisturized hand for his glass of Chardonnay as he continues to probe with, "We agreed that it was an unneeded expense."
"No, that was Christmas. And you said gifts for Christmas were unnecessary, since the holiday was about Jesus," I say as calmly as possible. "You also said that Christ's birthday wasn't in December, so I agreed."
Dark brown eyes rising upward, Carlton ponders for a second. "Angelique, you're right. We determined that the holiday season was a no-go for gift giving. I'll have my assistant pick out something nice for you."
He doesn't even notice the glare in my eye as he grabs his iPhone from his blazer breast pocket. "How about a pretty diamond necklace?"
"No need. I don't want your assistant to … " My voice drowns out as the live band announces that its my birthday. A song commences with the sultry piano player. Carlton holds up a finger, gesturing for me to hold that thought, then continues to text his assistant too, most likely "buy me anything."
"Happy birthday." Our waiter places a birthday tiramisu in front of me. The chocolate sprinkles shiny, the sweet essence is my first smile today.
"Hey, my man," Carlton catches him before he can scurry along. "May I have an extra fork? My lady is counting calories."
The waiter glances at me in horror, his baby blues apologizing then he nods and pulls out a fork from his apron before dashing away.
After Carlton helps me eat most of my dessert, the check arrives. I'm surprised when he doesn't show it to me or mention how much is my portion. I scour my mind for the few birthdays we've been together. The norm when we go out is to split everything down the middle.
"Excuse me." His fingers snap for the waiter. Carlton pulls his reading glasses from his suit, and holds the receipt up to the waiter.
"You charged an extra soup to the order," he says.
"Yes, sir, I did. Your wife – "
"Not my wife," Carlton's chuckle is contrite.
"Well, the Misses' dinner came with soup or salad. The salad was more expensive so I just charged for the added soup," the waiter grins, implying that this is final before moving along.
"Eight-damn-dollars for clam chowder," Carlton mumbles under his breath while taking out his wallet.
"I have cash," I murmur, disregarding the fact that my entire meal is still a fraction of his.
"No, no, Jelly, it's your birthday. Next time read the menu. This place is ridiculous."
"Yes, the prices are ridiculous." I murmur, lips tensed. I'm not in the mood to turn this into a therapeutic lesson learned, I reply sardonically, "It's a good thing we both didn't order the crab legs."
"Isn't it?" He chuckles, clearly in agreement.
Once again a detestable sound slithers against my eardrums, yet somehow not due to Carlton chewing. Laughter. Instead of taking my sarcasm to another level, I down the dry ass wine Carlton boasted that we must have for dinner …
~~~
It's the day after my birthday, but Melody called last night after the worst dinner date in my entire life. The norm would have been for us to be mad at each other for at least a couple of days. She'd apologized about Dwight, and I apologized about going off. When it came to talk of her and Kiel's attempts to get pregnant, well, she refused.
Melody and I ended up at an Italian café on the quaint streets of Balboa Island. The mimosas had triumphed and the croissants made me moan. This is my day – Melody has said for the umpteenth time. So, I didn't get to ask what the hell is up with her and Kiel. With my emphasis in relationship therapy, she refuses my advice since she's known me longer than I've been giving sound advice. Somehow the convo landed on Chef de León.
"Girl, did you see that video of some half-pint, not even to his chin, trying to get de León to stop from leaving the Food Network Channel building!" Melody chuckled. For this moment she becomes the friend that I had always loved and not the woman whose marriage is breaking. And I am comfortably noshing on carbohydrates without a care in the world.