“Yeah, well, that’s the reason why my job isn’t on the board. Enough about that.” I dismissed the topic. “Does anyone have progress reports?”
“I do.” Nikki leaned in and waved at us to get closer. “So the gig at a coffee shop . . . they want me to perform every other Saturday now,” she whispered.
“It’s okay. Cam can’t hear you downstairs.” I pointed toward the downstairs stairway.
“What? That’s awesome!” Sienna said at full volume and gave Nikki a high five. “Can we come see you?”
“Yeah. I’m on every Thursday starting at four o’clock, Saturdays at five. Don’t tell the menfolk, of course.”
“So you haven’t told James about the gig? And have you made a decision about the band yet?” Ms. Bucket of Cold Water, Kara, asked.
“I haven’t. I’m still figuring things out.” Nikki jerked her shoulders. “Anyway, who’s next?”
I took the heat off my best friend. “Well, nothing as exciting as Nikki, but I signed up for an online writing class.”
Kara went next. “I joined a wine study group.”
Sienna’s shoulders drooped. “Nothing for me. Christopher hasn’t responded to my calls or emails. But I’ll likely see him at the Mayor’s Ball.” Her lips thinned. “He can’t avoid me forever.”
“Or you could find someone else,” I suggested. “He isn’t the only campaign strategist in Atlanta.”
“He’s the best, and I want him.” She sprinkled glitter on her board and avoided eye contact.
“I bet you do want him,” I mumbled under my breath.
“You want that D.” Nikki snickered.
Sienna tossed a glue stick at Nikki. “Shut. Up. You know what I meant.”
“Sure we do.” Kara surprisingly joined in on the fun.
Sienna bit down on her lip, I could tell she was wrestling to remove the smile on her face. “I hate you guys.”
I reached over to hug my friend. “Aww, we know you love Keith too much to think about another man’s penis. Now, y’all need to hurry up and finish. I’ve gotta go in early for work tomorrow.”
“Are you serious? I’m not even halfway done,” Sienna protested.
“And this is why we will never have a meeting at Raina’s house again.” Kara pointed at me. “Agreed?”
Nikki, Sienna, and Kara all nodded together. “Agreed.”
* * *
I should’ve known today was going to be a clusterfuck. We had our boring-ass Monday-afternoon meetings for the entire station. No amount of caffeine or free coozies or donuts could make up for my getting approximately two hours of sleep.
Usually we started the meeting several minutes behind schedule because one of the hosts for the popular morning and midday shows would try to out-diva each other with crazy requests or stories about their listeners.
Before I could even step foot into the meeting, Colin, one half of the morning show, stepped into the elevator with me.
“What up, Rae-Rae?” He lifted his fist to give me a bump.
He received the silent treatment and the side-eye for several reasons. One, Colin was a middle-aged white guy. Thanks to Facebook, I knew he enjoyed country music (nothing wrong with that, I used to get my Shania Twain on), hiking, and brewing his own beer. I also know the closest contact he’s had with anything black was his Moleskine hardcover notebook he carried around like a security blanket. So, no, Colin, you may not bump fists with me, and you may not call me Rae-Rae. In the interest of keeping my job, I exercised my right to remain silent.
Colin cleared his throat and then turned his attention to the elevator door. He moved on to the subject of his wife and dog. I decided to contribute to that conversation because, honestly, his wife was nice and his dog had been friendly when he brought them to our last company picnic. Also, this was my way to silently teach Colin about how to converse with black people.
I should log this under my volunteer hours.
The elevator dinged and I rushed from the enclosed space. After the painful ninety-minute team meeting, I crashed on the sofa in the back, since my show would start in two hours, and tried to take a nap. I couldn’t sleep because again—the cheap-ass owners refused to crank up the heat. I guzzled down Earl Grey tea, donned my happy cat fuzzy socks, and geared up for my calls.
It was two weeks before Christmas, the most emotionally exhausting time of the year. During this season, I was extra sensitive and attentive. When I was a radio host in college, a freshman had called in. Her entire family had died on the way to visit her at college, and she wanted to be with them. I talked her off the ledge and we still emailed each other, even to this day. She is now married with two kids.
The holidays reminded people of those they lost, of what they didn’t have—the opposite of the reason for the season. I had to be on my A-game because one bad piece of advice could send someone jumping from a bridge into I-75 traffic. I even abstained from playing hangman from Thanksgiving until the New Year.
Which bought me to my caller. “Hello, raindrop!” I greeted my listener. “Who am I speaking to?”
“Bradle—I, um . . . mean Daniel from Midtown.”
More like Bradley from Buckhead, but whatever.
“My family left me, Raina.”
“I’m so sorry. Do you want to talk about it, or put in a request?”
“Both. And I’d like to request ‘Please Come Home for Christmas.’”
We got that request a lot, usually from douchebag boyfriends. Massaging my temples, I prayed for patience. Perhaps he was different. “Tell us your story, Daniel.” And prove me wrong.
“I just want my family home. I’ve got a boy and a girl, and my wife took them away from me. I want to win them back. I want my wife to love me again. I sent her an email, told her I planned to call you tonight. I’m hoping you can help me.”
“I can’t guarantee anything, but you have my ear.”
He sighed and continued. “I just wish my wife would’ve given me a chance to explain. She didn’t have to involve the kids and take them away. Hell, I didn’t mean anything by it. She didn’t mean anything to me. I just needed to blow off some steam.”
Cheater. Called it. In my peripheral vision, I caught Jamie with her two fingers in the shape of a gun, pretending to blow her brains out. Her auburn strands swished from the dramatic action. She and I were on the same page on cheating, especially after she caught her boyfriend of two years with another woman. Rhonda’s face was blank, serene even. I shouldn’t be surprised—the woman only cared about advertising dollars. Damn, I wish I had my whiteboard.
“She was just an indiscretion.”
“Daniel,” I interrupted, gentling my tone. “Sounds like a bunch of excuses to me. If you want to win your family back, try apologizing. Own up to your mistakes.”
And keep your dick in your pants! I refrained from saying the latter. The FCC would so not approve.
“That’s what I was getting to, Raina.” His voice sounded clipped.
“My apologies, Daniel. Please continue.”
“Right. So, here goes. Baby, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for cheating on you. I never should’ve touched our HOA president.”