Sewa: Well, then. Getting you hot and ready for tomorrow’s surprise? Aye, aye, Captain!
Anjie: By the time we’re done, Little Caesar’s Pizza might send us a cease and desist.
I’m laughing when my pager beeps, and all thoughts of Cole and his gifts dissipate, replaced by a bubbling giddiness that only means one thing—my new patient is here. Putting my phone away, I gather the signed documentation stating I can work with the sweetest little girl, Danaya, and her family at no financial cost to the hospital. The only cost is my soul, which is now owned by the administration. You’d think the hospital would be happy to flaunt my work at the Foundation Gala at the end of the year, but evidently not.
There’s a high chance fighting to work pro bono will bite me in the ass, but as a developmental-behavioral pediatrician, my clients are my joy, especially my Black, low-income families, like this one. They’re the reason I applied to medical school and spent many nights crying on the phone to my dad. They’re why I fight, regardless of how much it pisses off a lot of senior staff members.
With my brightest smile of the morning, I readjust my pink scrubs, pat down my slicked-back hair, and make my way to reception.
Even more exciting than Cole’s gifts is whatever Sewa and Anjie have planned for our girls’ night. The one secret they’ve managed to keep. Tomorrow is a special day, but spending the night before with my girls is the icing on the cake.
My jaw drops when I open the door to my transformed living room.
“Surprise!” they yell, popping out from behind the kitchen island.
Hanging up my trench coat, I laugh. “I knew y’all were here.”
Sewa collects the chocolates and partially crumpled flowers from me. “Sorry for trying to be festive.”
“Welcome to your glam squad!” Anjie says, pulling me into a quick hug.
“We’re doing hair and nails ahead of tomorrow. Plus we got dinner,” Sewa says.
The setup of the wine glasses and food looks so good, it’s hard to believe the food is from our regular place a few miles away. The appetizers—springrolls, crab Rangoon, and chicken wings—sit on paper plates on my coffee table, while the delicious, salty, umami-filled fried rice and Kung Pao chicken are in the glass serving bowls my mother made me purchase when I moved in. Sewa, the cosmetic guru among us, has three different press-on nail sets for me to choose from. Tears spring to my eyes, and I pull both of them into a hug.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and they rub circles into my back.
Pulling back, Sewa grabs the nail options.
“We have classic French tip, almond nude, or green-and-clear ombre.”
I point to the green ones—the obvious choice.
Anjie connects to my speakers, and Styl-Plus’ R&B hit “Olufunmi” pours into the room. The familiar tune slips past our lips, the English verses coming easily to all of us, while Sewa preps my nails. As the song’s Yoruba chorus starts, her previously dutiful hand grabs my forearm. Anjie palms my shoulder. It only takes a second’s glance for our minds to sync. Like a rehearsed band, we belt the refrain in unison.
We’re not singers, but Anjie takes the lower harmony. Sewa does her best impression of a soprano with the nail file as a microphone, and I sing the melody, as we’ve done many times before. We spend the next ten minutes doing impromptu karaoke, Anjie grabbing the remote while I use my phone as a mic, easily flowing between English and Yoruba as each new song demands. We give in to the music, waists whining, bodies shaking, and asses twerking with no regard. When 112’s “Dance With Me” directs us to clap—because we are sexy, and we know it—we do.
“You clap like someone’s grandma at church,” I tell Anjie.
“Those women clap with conviction. I have conviction,” she says, continuing her thunderous applause.
“You’re not a serious person,” Sewa snickers.
When the song ends, Anjie pauses the playlist.
“Let’s pause for now ’cause we really need to get things moving. If not, we’ll dance all through the night,” she says, grabbing a spring roll. I attempt to pick up a crab Rangoon, but Sewa swats my hand.
“Don’t get your fingers dirty,” she says. “Anjie, feed her.” My oldest friend rolls her eyes, and I open my mouth and close my eyes.
“See how this babe opened her mouth?” Anjie hisses at Sewa. “Where does she think she is? Ancient Rome?”
I open my eyes. “In this house, I’m Zeus—wait, that’s wrong. Roman myth is the planets. In this house, I’m Jupiter.”
The girls look at me like I’ve grown another head.
“Cupid’s Bowgot you mythological?” Sewa asks, referencing the astrology dating app that matched Cole and me using our birth charts.
“It was fun to learn. Did y’all know that in astrology, the houses rule over different parts of your life?” I ask excitedly as Sewa preps my left hand.
