Lauren sighed and looked over at the line of moms waiting to sign up. She walked over and waited impatiently. Of course, shewas last. Of course, everyone before her had already signed up for all the easy stuff.
“It would be easier to get the whole damn banquet sponsored,” she mumbled as she bent down to write down her dish.
DJ would have his mac and cheese.
“I hear it’s wet.”
She turned to find Nyair standing in front of her, wrapping battle ropes around muscular biceps as he prepared to leave.
“Excuse me?”
“Your son has been bragging about your macaroni and cheese all week. His exact words were, “My mama shit wet.”
“Oh, so he’s up here cussing like a grown-ass man?” She asked.
“Boys will be boys, Lauren. Nothing a few laps won’t correct,” Nyair responded with an amused leer. “He’s a good kid.”
“Thank you.”
“If you wait around ten minutes, I’ll walk you to your car. I heard about what went down.”
“Scariest moment of my life,” she whispered.
She still woke up in cold sweats some nights behind her shooting. One of Demi’s enemies had tried to abduct DJ, but she had done what mothers do; fight for their baby. Someone would have to kill her to take her child from her, and they almost had. She thanked God every day she was still breathing and that DJ was unharmed.
“I can imagine. Give me a minute. I’ll make sure you’re straight. It ain’t the best neighborhood,” Nyair answered. “Your Chanel bag is screaming, ‘snatch this shit.’”
She pulled her neck back in surprise. Nyair was more than a football coach. He was a pastor and a community juggernaut in the city.
“I know. A man of the cloth with a foul mouth. I’m working on it,” he said. His smile was contagious. It infected her as she shook her head. “You can have a seat. I’m almost done.”
Lauren waited for him on the team bench, pulling out her phone to answer emails that had gone unattended during DJ’s practice. There was always something to attend to in her life. It just came with the territory of entrepreneurship. When she wasn’t on her mom shit, she was working. There was very little downtime, but she didn’t complain. It was what she had asked for. She hadn’t known the dream included this much exhaustion, but it was worth it. The twenty minutes it took him to wrap up was uninterrupted time for her to handle a few pressing issues in her inbox. She didn’t even realize she had been waiting that long until he walked up to her as she was responding to a message.
“You ready?”
Her fingers danced on the screen. She heard him, but not really. All her focus was on her phone as she typed with urgency.
“Yo, you in there?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, what?” Lauren asked, looking up at Nyair, slightly frowning because the client in her email had her fucked up, and she could barely concentrate on anything else before pressing send on the message.
He scoffed. “You’re a busy woman,” he said.
She tapped her free hand with her iPhone and then dumped it into her bag.
“I’m sorry. I’m being rude. Yes, I’m ready.” Lauren stood and followed Nyair across the field and out of the building.
“So, what do you do?” Nyair asked. She couldn’t tell if he was asking out of courtesy or if it was genuine interest, so she kept it vague.
“I plan things for other people. Parties, weddings, corporate gatherings, concerts, red carpet events. You name it; I’ve done it.”
“How about little league banquets?” Nyair asked. “And in a week.”
She laughed. “What are you saying? You haven’t prepared anything?”
“I’m just a man, and I’m learning this is harder than it looks. It’s at my church; I have a budget. I could use the feminine touch, though. If it’s up to me, we’ll be eating pizza, and I don’t know about you, but some of these sign-ups are suspect. Cathy Greenfield signed up for potato salad.”
“Eww… hell nah,” Lauren snapped. “Sis, ain’t never got on a clean shirt, and her fingernails all dirty and unkempt. I wouldn’t eat anything out of her kitchen.”
