“Hawks lost, but they still have a shot.”
“Well, what time did it end?”
“I don’t remember. Why?”
“Because it’s 3:00 a.m., and I know it didn’t end at midnight,” I asked. “So, what happened?”
Reginald looked at me as if I’d just asked him seven questions and told him to take out the garbage.
“So?” I repeated.
He looked at my nightstand where the empty bottle of wine sat beneath the lamp.
“You been drinking?” he asked.
“I’m fine. I can have a little glass of wine.”
“Hum.”
“What’s ‘hum’ for?”
“I’m just surprised to see you drinking so much. It’s not like you.”
“Whatever, Reginald. You’ve clearly had your fill, too,” I said. “Anyway, what happened? Why did you take so long?”
“We went by Sasha’s house.”
“You had to drop her off. But where does she live that it took so long?”
He got up and pulled some shorts out of the dresser beneath the television.
“No, no. It wasn’t far. She just wanted us to see . . . inside.” Reginald put the shorts on and got into bed.
“Inside? You went—”
“It was amazing. She has an indoor pool.”
“An indoor pool?”
“Yeah . . . in Atlanta! She swims a lot. I guess that’s how she keeps her body so tight.”
“Her what?”
“I didn’t mean it like that. You know, I mean, she has good taste. Flat screens everywhere. Leather couches. All white. And the yard out back. Must be half an acre.”
“Half an acre?” I couldn’t imagine just how much land that was, but I knew it must’ve been a lot based on how wide my husband’s eyes were.
“Six bedrooms. Three-car garage. A Maserati.”
“She has a Maserati? I didn’t know journalists made that kind of money.”
Reginald laid back contentedly on his pillow. He stretched his hands behind his head and smiled at the ceiling.
“Well, it was her father’s before he died. She let me drive it.”
“You drove the car?” I sat up. “What was R. J. doing?”
“He stayed at the house with Sasha. Don’t worry; lil man was cool.”