Hook Shot
Our chuckles and laughing eyes meet over the table. I block out the other diners, the clang of dishes, and the murmur of conversation. I focus on any breadcrumbs she might drop that could help me understand what shaped her.
“So should I call you Glad?” she asks cheekily.
“What? Hell, no.”
“But I heard people calling you that today at the park.”
“Yeah, but it’s like teammates, media.” I shake my head. “Some sports reporter said I was a warrior in the paint and that evolved to Gladiator, and a lot of people shorten it to Glad.”
“Everyone calls me Lo.”
“I think I’ll call you Button,” I say teasingly. “I mean, considering that’s what lead to our first kiss.”
I can’t know if a blush lurks under her copper-tinted cheeks, but her lashes sweep down and her pretty mouth curls at the corners.
“As in, cute as a button?” she asks. “I’m already height-challenged.”
“In the real world, we call that short.”
“At least I can walk into a restaurant without squatting.”
“You got me there,” I concede, chuckling. “Okay. How about if I only call you Button when it’s just the two of us? It’ll be our thing.”
“Do friends have ‘things’?” The look she levels over the rim of her glass asks a dozen other questions I want to answer.
“I think we’re the kind of friends who do what we want.”
Her brows arch, speculation in the mysterious dark eyes. “Oh, are we?”
This conversation has only deepened my attraction to Lotus, and I have no intention of turning back now.
“We will be,” I affirm, holding her stare.
If we’re two friends who do what we want, I know what I want. And the more I discover about Lotus, the less simple it seems.
12
Kenan
There’s no place like home.
Being here in Philly brings back so many memories, most of them connected to my dad. His markings on the wall for Kenya and me as we shot past our father and mother in height. Him reading his Sunday paper in the bright kitchen of our Society Hill townhouse. His sigh, half weariness, half relief when he’d walk through the front door after a long day in court. I feel his presence and hear his voice in every room.
Simone and I are unloading the groceries we bought from Whole Foods. Since my mother sprained her ankle and stayed home while we shopped, it was good time alone with my daughter. Simone opens the cabinet to the left of the stove to put away salt, pepper, and oregano.
“Spices to the right, Moni,” Mama says, glancing up from her crossword puzzle.
“Sorry, Grandma.” Simone smiles at my mom and moves to the other side. “Daddy, can we go to Geno’s?”
Her eyes brighten with rare excitement and possibly hunger for the famous cheesesteaks.
“Sure. We’ll swing by after we check on Faded with Uncle Lucius. Sound good?”
She nods and presses in to me, batting the longest lashes known to man, or at least known to this man. “And Federal Donuts, too?”
“Cheesesteaks and Federal?” My arteries just wept.
“Where else can I get fried chicken and donuts together?” she asks, like that’s a logical rationale. “We have to hit Federal while we’re here.”
“Kenan, now you know you did Federal for breakfast and Geno’s for lunch growing up,” Mama says, her smile wider than I’ve seen it in a long time. “He might eat all strict and vegan now, Moni, but believe me when I tell you he didn’t always.”
She’s right. Lucius and I ate and screwed our way through the city back in the day. Neither of my favorite ladies need to know about the trail of condoms I left behind.
“Mama, I told you I’m not vegan.” To my mother, you’re either eating cheesesteaks and donuts or you’re vegan. Apparently, there’s no middle ground. “Moni, let’s do cheesesteaks today and Federal tomorrow,” I suggest. “Sound good?”
“Yes.” She nods and an eager light enters her blue eyes. “And maybe some shopping.”
My gut clenches. I gulp.
“Shopping?” I ask, trying disguise my trepidation.
“Daddy, please.” Simone presses her hands together and pushes her bottom lip out. “Maybe Forever 21 and GAP, and I think there’s a J.Crew at the—”
“Okay.” I massage the subtle throb that has started in my temple. “Some shopping. And I thought we could catch the outdoor movie at the Oval.”
“Eeeeek!” She throws her arms around my neck. “I’m gonna go change clothes.”
She practically skips toward the kitchen door.
“Erin Simone Ross,” Mama says, using my daughter’s full name and never lifting her eyes from the crossword puzzle. “If you don’t get back in here and finish putting those groceries away.”
Simone stops in her tracks and turns toward us with a sheepish grin.
“Yes, ma’am,” she says.
She chatters about shopping and donuts and dance class for the next few minutes while we put away the last of the groceries. I’m glad I brought her to Philly with me. Not only because we needed time alone out from under Bridget’s shadow, but because I think it’s done my mother good seeing her. And Simone has seemed happier, too.
How different would things have been if I hadn’t traveled so much, hadn’t spent so much time away from my daughter? There’s never been a time since she was born when I wasn’t playing ball nine months of every year.
“Done,” Simone announces triumphantly. “Now can I go change?”
“Yeah.” I love-swipe her face. “Your Uncle Lucius will be here soon, so hurry up.”
She’s gone in a flash of coltish legs and a mop of wild hair.
“Thanks for bringing Simone to see me,” Mama says once we’re alone in the kitchen.
“Sorry it’s been a while. It was hard to get away.” I join her at the table. “And it’s tough for me to be here sometimes because it makes me miss Dad. You thought any more about selling?”
“Why would I? Him being gone is what makes me miss him,” she says, turning the ink pen in her hands. “Doesn’t matter where I sleep at night. What matters is he’s not beside me when I wake up.”
Her mouth turns down at the corners and she blinks several times. I hate that I said anything. It’s been more than a year, and Kenya and I keep trying to help her work through the grief, but sometimes I think she wants it. Like if all she has left of my father is grief, she’ll take it.
She’s a small woman in a family of giants. My father was six-five. My sister, six-three. Me, six-seven, almost six-eight. My mother is five-five in her socks. And she still has about an inch on Lotus.
Thinking of Lotus challenging me in the middle of Rucker Park makes me smile. She makes me smile.
“So how’s Bridget?” My mother’s tone cools noticeably. She didn’t see through Bridget like my father did. She embraced her as a daughter and loved her from the beginning. In spite of Dad’s years of behooving, she was shocked and hurt when news of Bridget’s infidelity broke.
“Bridget is Bridget.” I sigh, wrapping my hands around the tiny teacup Mama set in front of me. She loves her tea even when it’s ninety degrees outside. “This new reality show she’s doing . . . I don’t even want to talk about it.”
“She still thinks the two of you will get back together?”
I laugh, the sound hard and humorless in the kitchen. “If she does, she’ll be sorely disappointed.”
“She should find someone who will love her the way she’s looking for,” Mama says decisively.
“Are you saying I didn’t?”
Mama tilts her head in a way I recognize in myself, assessing and weighing her words. “I think she had a harder road than she thought, being married to you.”
“Wow, thanks. It almost sounds like you think she was justified in cheating on me.”
“No.” Mama says firmly. “Never.”
“But you do think I didn’t love her enough?” I ask with a frown.
“I think your father saw something I didn’t see. You and he are so much alike.” She twists her lips into a bitter smile. “Were so much alike. He was like you before we met.”
“How do you mean?”
“Hard to know. Not prone to open up. Men like you have to be pried open slowly, and Bridget tried to crack you like a nut. For the woman you love, though, really love, it’s not hard work. I didn’t have to crack your father. Didn’t have to pry. He spilled himself with me.” She shrugs and shakes her head. “I don’t know why, really. I didn’t do anything special.”
“No, but you were someone special. It wasn’t what you did. It’s who you are.”
I get that. I feel that with Lotus. It’s too early to think that way, but it’s hard not to draw the comparison.
“It’s not too late for you to find that, Son.” Mama reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You or Kenya, if she would sit herself down long enough.”
I grin at that and walk my cup over to the sink to dump the untouched tea. “She said she has someone for me to meet when she comes to New York, so all’s not lost on that front.”
“I might get grandbabies yet!” She claps her hands and cackles.
“Excuse me, what’s Simone? Chopped liver?”
“One?” She demands, eyes wide, but sparkling with humor I haven’t seen much lately. “I need at least a spare, since you don’t have any prospects.”
“Who said I don’t have any prospects?” I mutter, grinning and braced for her third degree.
“Kenan Admiral Ross, what are you not telling me?”
“I’m not holding out . . . not really.” I lean against the sink and cross my arms over my chest. “There is this . . . uh, girl, I like talking to.” PrevNextTip: You can use left and right keyboard keys to browse between pages.
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