“You a baller’s wife, huh?” she asks, glancing at Sarai in the stroller.
“Um, girlfriend.”
I know what people think when they see me: that I’ve got it made and Sarai is the meal ticket that sets me up for life, or at least until she’s eighteen. They have no idea that under this silk blouse tucked into my designer jeans, bruises, black and blue and yellow, often splatter my ribs like ink blots—that on the regular, I taste my own blood. I’d trade with the poorest, with the homeless, with this young lady right here, just to be free of the tailless devil I sleep with every night.
“I heard I might be able to put my baby in daycare while I’m volunteering.” I look around the small lobby curiously. “Could I see it?”
I definitely need to know what it’s like before I leave Sarai there.
When we round the corner, an older woman, probably somebody’s grandmother, makes her way over to the half-door, the bottom secured and the top open.
“Who’s this little darling?” she asks, leaning out and smiling widely at Sarai. My daughter never meets a stranger and immediately begins blowing bubbles and waving her little starfish hands.
“Her name’s Sarai.” I pull her out of the stroller. “You have room for her?”
“Sure do.” She opens the bottom half of the door and gestures for me to come in. “I’m Audrey.”
The space designated for the daycare is small, but tidy and orderly, with just a few kids around Sarai’s age crawling and toddling around. Changing tables line the perimeter of the room, and shelves stocked with books and toys dot the walls. The four other daycare workers range from about my age to Audrey’s. All are either changing babies or playing with them on the floor or rocking them in the glider in the corner. It feels warm and safe. I can breathe easy for two hours.
Once I’ve checked Sarai in and taken the little pager they issued in case they needed me, I head back to the front desk. Two other women stand there, similarly attired in designer jeans, like me, but where I opted for flats, they wear stilettos. Their glamor quotient is definitely several notches above mine. No rings in sight.
“The kids will be going in that room down the hall on your left.” The young desk attendant points in that direction. “They’ll be in after they wrap up their morning activity. You can wait if you’d like.”
Both women start down the hall without really acknowledging me, their heads bent together in whispers while they walk. When we reach the room and it’s just the three of us, it’s awkward for me to just stand here. I extend my hand to one of them. “Hey, I’m Iris.”
They look at my hand for a few seconds before one and then the other shake it.
The second one grabs my left hand when she shakes my right.
“Oh, nice.” She eyes my ring so long I wonder if she’ll pull out a magnifying glass. “And she said you went to the nursery. You got the baby and the bling.”
They exchange a meaningful look and then turn back to me with new respect in their eyes.
“You are #Goals, honey. Smart to get what you can while you can. You think a baller has a short run? Our shelf life is even less,” one of them says. Flattering highlighted extensions fall past her shoulders, and she has a body that men must drool over. “I’m Sheila.”
“Nice to meet you, Sheila,” I reply with a smile that’s not an open door, but not quite slammed in your face. It’s … ajar. I’m ajar. Since Caleb showed his true colors, I find myself closing ranks around Sarai and me. I can’t afford attachments or vulnerabilities or friendships. I don’t know who to trust anymore. The last person I trust is myself because I didn’t truly see Caleb until it was too late. Trusting the wrong person can destroy you.
“And I’m Torrie,” the other woman, statuesque with skin smooth as whipped chocolate and a cap of dark curls, offers her hand, tipped with a metallic manicure.
“I think it’s just the three of us today,” Sheila says, pulling up a red plastic chair and gesturing for me to do the same. “Bonnie is ‘sick’ again.” She air quotes sick.
Torrie leans close and speaks her next words sotto voce. “Her man plays for the Stingers, too, and she is always fly.”
“But he beats her ass every chance he gets,” Sheila finishes, her mouth tipped at one corner. “So when she’s ‘sick,’ we know that’s code for ‘he got hold of her again.’”
I freeze in my chair, nausea starting in my belly and slowly crawling over my body, touching every inch of flesh and bone Caleb has terrorized. I keep my face a mask of mild curiosity, but my fingers clench in my palm, the nails cutting into the skin. It’s been a few weeks since the last time Caleb really beat me, so other than the occasional easily hidden bruise or cut, you wouldn’t look at me and know the hell I’ve lived through. Right now, though, I may as well be naked I feel so exposed.
“She won’t ever leave,” Torrie says, sitting down in the seat between us. “That money’s too good.”
Or maybe she’s afraid he’ll kill her.
“Girl, the first time a man hits me,” Torrie says, lips twisted with disdain, “he’s getting hit back. Slapped upside his head.”
But what if he’s a foot taller? A hundred pounds heavier? What if he has a gun?
“I don’t know why she stays,” Torrie continues. “But me and my kids would be out the door.”
But could he bring them back? Could he take her children?
“She has kids?” I ask, not wanting to show too much interest.
“Girl, they have four kids,” Sheila confirms. “Been together like seven years, since college.”
“Maybe she’s afraid he’ll get custody or something,” I offer.
“Not if he beats her!” Torrie’s voice is indignant. “They won’t give him the kids if he’s abusive.”
“They do,” I counter quietly. “It happens all the time, especially if he’s never abused the children and has no record. Lots of abusers get partial custody. Some even get to visit at the women’s shelter she ran to. Our system fails women in lots of ways.”
“Hmmmph. She’s failing herself,” Sheila says. “When somebody is beating the shit out of you, how hard is ‘bye?’”
Sheila and Torrie share a cackling laugh and high-five over the joke, moving on to other juicy bits of gossip. Their conversation passes me by. I’m too busy processing what my life looks like from the outside. I know I’m not what people might assume—I’m not a mercenary, or a weak-willed woman afraid to leave her man, or even confused because I think Caleb loves me. Still, shame takes root in my heart. The same shame I feel when Andrew tends my cuts and scrapes the morning after. The same shame I feel when I see my puffy face in the mirror, one eye swollen shut. There’s a rebel inside, but the girl he hits and kicks and rapes and scorns, the one biding her time and straining her eyes for a way out, she feels shame.
“Either of you know what we’re doing today?” Torrie reaches for gum in her purse and offers us both a stick. “My man’s in Germany scoping, so I needed something to do anyway.”
“Today’s the first day,” Sheila says, popping the stick of gum into her mouth. “We’ll pass out some jerseys and autographed photos. They’ll want to get pictures, some with us, but mostly with the basketball player.”
“Basketball player?” I ask. “I thought we were standing in for the basketball players.”
“They found someone to come in to cover this week,” Torrie says. “Not sure who. It’ll be pretty laidback this first day. He’ll work on a few fundamentals, some simple drills, and then some role model stuff.”
“At least that’s how it’s gone before,” Shelia adds.
Sylvia enters the room before I can probe further. She splits a smile between the three of us and greets us warmly.
“Thank you, ladies, for being here today.” She eyes me nervously, maybe because of how much Caleb resisted me coming. “The kids are in for a real treat. One of the most popular players of the game today will be here all week.”
“Who is it?” I
ask idly, not really caring.
“It’s me,” a familiar voice reaches across the room and snares my full attention.
All the air leaves the room, leaves my lungs. My heart is a boom of thunder, and lightning streaks through my veins. Just like at the basketball game, and like every time I’ve seen him, I can’t ignore him; I can’t take my eyes off August West standing in the doorway.
I only allow myself a second of shock before the danger of this situation crystallizes as a stone in my belly. I have no idea what this will drive Caleb to do if he finds out. If Ramone sees, he’s sure to tell.
Self-preservation has me on my feet. Wisdom has me brushing past August without looking him in the eye. Desperation has me doing what Caleb’s lies and brutality keep me from doing every day.
I run.
26
August
“Iris!” I call after her retreating back. She doesn’t pause or even glance over her shoulder.
I’ll be damned if she’s leaving without at least talking to me. My legs are much longer than hers, so I ignore the pain and take two stretched steps to catch her.
“Hey.” I take her elbow, firm, but gentle, and turn her to face me, one hand on her arm, one hand at her waist. “Iris, wait.”
When I dip my head to line up our eyes, I don’t think about the titanium pin holding the tendons and bones of my leg together. The dull ache in my knee and the long weeks I’ve been immobilized and frustrated—it all fades. I don’t consider the months of grueling rehab ahead. I’ve been worried I won’t be full strength when I return next season, maybe ever again, but right now I can’t think beyond this mesmerizing moment. All those things pale and dry up, diminished by the woman in front of me. Even though I know Caleb did this because of her, right now it doesn’t matter.
Just like at the Stingers game and at All-Star weekend, like the night we met, we don’t look away. That thread that draws us in and close every time we’re together shrinks the space separating us, even though we don’t move an inch. A hundred missed moments and a thousand never-spoken words pass between us, and everything held rigid and tight in her body, in her face, softens as she leans closer.
The squeak of tennis shoes on the gym floor in the distance punctures the moment, and we both blink. I absorb the surroundings, which had folded into the background. She shakes her head and pulls away.
“Why are you here, August?” Iris asks. Her brown eyes, flecked with autumn, green and gold, seem darker than the last time I saw her. It’s not the color. Something behind them. Something inside is darker. Dulled.
“I’m volunteering,” I answer.
“And it’s a coincidence? That we’re volunteering here the same week?”
“Yeah, it is.”
Her eyes search mine, seemingly not satisfied with my answer.
“Okay, I did know you’d be here,” I admit, but speak quickly before she jumps to conclusions. “But I didn’t arrange it. I told the league from the beginning I wanted to volunteer some locally, here where I grew up, not just in my team’s town. My mom’s house isn’t far. I balled here all the time when I was a kid.”
She studies me, the long lashes unblinking, before nodding. “I’ll leave then.”
She moves away, but I catch her, holding her in place. Eyes on my fingers around her wrist, she flinches and sucks in a sharp breath.
My hand looks huge wrapped around the delicate bones of her wrist.
I release her and step back.
“I’m sorry, Iris. Did I …damn, did I hurt you?”
I feel like some Incredible Hulk motherfucker who doesn’t even know my own strength, grabbing her like that.
“No.” She studies the ground for a moment, shaking her head and rubbing her wrist. “I …no. You didn’t hurt me. I’m just tired, I guess, and on edge.”
“All the more reason to do something you were looking forward to, right?” I ask. “Don’t go. We aren’t doing anything wrong.”
She looks up and scoffs, her laugh humorless. “August, I can’t do this.”
“Do what?” I take a cautious step closer.
“This.” Our eyes hold. Her voice comes husky and low. “I need to go.”
I’m close enough to catch her scent and her warmth. I could do this all day. Just smell her. Touch her. Though we’ve only seen each other a few times, I’ve missed her. There’s no one else I fall into so quickly, the conversation and banter and connection. The chemistry. I crave it again. Yes, I wanted to volunteer where I grew up, but right now, Iris is the reason I’m here.
“I bet you’ve been looking forward to volunteering, right?” I ask. “The last time we talked, you wanted some outlets.”
“The last time we talked, I was suffering from post-partum depression and had no idea.” She yields the smallest smile. “Until you suggested I talk to my doctor. Thank you, by the way.”
“So you’re feeling better?”
“Yeah, much better, but you’re right. I was looking forward to volunteering.” She shakes her head, resolve in the set of her mouth and chin. “There’ll be other chances to help out, though.”
“But this one’s here now.” I shake her wrist and tease her with a grin. “I promise I don’t bite or have the cooties.”
She rolls her eyes, her laugh soft and barely there, but an encouraging sign. Her glance drops to my leg and she sobers. “Does it still hurt? Your leg?”
I look down, too. I wear an Aircast under my jeans. I can walk carefully but have only recently been cleared to put weight on it.
“It’s not bad.” I shrug. “All part of the game.”
She squeezes her eyes shut, pressing her lips tight. So tight I almost miss what she says next.
“He saw us, August.”
I don’t have to ask what she means. I know. I saw him seeing us at the game. And I saw the rage it caused before he made sure I felt it. “I know.”
She raises startled eyes that fill with tears. “This happened because of me.” She gestures toward my injured leg. “I’m so sorry. God, I feel so guilty.”
“There’s nothing to feel guilty about. It wasn’t you. It was him.”
“Right, and I don’t want him hurting you again because of me.” She steadies trembling lips into a firm line. “I don’t want him hurting anyone because of me.”
“Why are you with him, Iris?” I ask, confusion propelling the question out of me.
That something—that unfamiliar thing lurking behind her eyes slips a shadowy veil over her expression, and the truth goes into hiding.
“Things aren’t always the way they seem. They aren’t simple.” She steps back until my hands fall away from her completely. “Nothing’s simple.”
“Then explain them to me. I can’t believe, knowing he’d do something like this,” I say, pointing to my leg, “that you would stay with him.”
“Iris!” Sylvia calls from the end of the hall, her eyes darting between Iris and me. “Um, is everything okay?”
She’s probably created all kinds of scenarios in her head by now about the relationship between Iris and me, especially since I asked her not to tell Iris I would be here. Seeing us together this way, she probably has more questions. I don’t care, but I know Iris will.
“Everything’s fine,” Iris answers quickly, taking another step back. “I thought the daycare was paging me about my daughter, so I came to check. She’s okay, though.”
She touches the pager I hadn’t noticed on her hip. That’s when I spot something else I hadn’t noticed. A huge engagement ring.
Shit. I’m deluding myself. This thing I’ve been chasing in my dreams, this connection I even told my mom about, it’s all in my head and all on my side. Her eyes follow mine to the ring on her finger.
“August,” she whispers. “I can ex—”
“Guess I better get back in there, huh?” I cut over her harshly, addressing Sylvia.
“We are ready to start,” Sylvia says uncertainly. “The kids are coming into the rec r
oom now.”
“Good.” Without looking at Iris again, I head up the hall and into the rec room.
I’m an idiot. It’s complicated? No, it’s simple. She had his baby. She’s wearing his ring. She’s going to marry him. The sooner I get that through my thick skull, the better. I’ve lost enough pining over a girl who belongs to someone else. I’ve lost sleep and precious time.
I grimace at the pain arrowing up my leg from overuse today. I may have lost my career, my future, for something that doesn’t exist. I’m going to shut down my disappointment and anger, board up my heart long enough to get through this talk, and then I’ll put this fantasy away for good. I glance at the walls, plastered with motivational sayings and photos of famous role models. The community center has barely changed from when I balled here as a kid. The paint peels from the wall in places, and the hoops in the gym have seen better days. The best thing to dispose of a fantasy is a dose of reality, and this community will always remind you of what’s real.
My family was middle class. My mom was a teacher and once my stepfather retired from the military, he was in sales. My home life was stable, but I was always trying to find my place. I felt like a cog that didn’t fit in any wheel. A stray puzzle piece.
The best ballers in the city played pick-up games here. I wanted to be challenged and stretched, so I played here, too. I didn’t expect to find lost pieces of myself on these courts; of the culture my father would have shared with me had he lived.
Basketball helped me find my place. Not number thirty-three, point guard, basketball champion, or All-American player. Those things aren’t who I am. I’m more than that. This place helped make me more than that.
LONG SHOT: (A HOOPS Novel) Page 19