by Kim Roshell
Clearly, two other people were responsible for her existence. Ashley hinted at there being more to the story than some impersonal hand-off. I never pushed for more.
An emotion I can’t decipher steals over Simone’s features, pulling her brows taut. She recovers quickly, shakes her head. “Not much to tell. I just wondered.”
Well, hell. Now I’m wondering, too, because like I said before, the girl can’t lie for crap. Whatever her story, it’s what chased her away from her usual place of safety this morning. “Won’t matter what you say, I’ll still think you’re amazing.”
I expected that to make her smile. It didn’t.
“Even if the woman who gave birth to me was a prostitute?” she finally asks.
Okay. That was like peas—nothing to smile about. “Even then.”
“I doubt she ever wanted me. Pretty sure I was the trick gone wrong. Positive really. She said as much every chance she got. I’m amazed she kept me around as long as she did.”
“Remember a lot about your time with her?”
“Enough. None of it good, though it took me a while to figure that out. I actually cried for her for a while. My parents . . . they were so patient with me,” she says, lost in her past. “I had bad dreams a lot. My mom would hold me for hours while my dad read stories. Benny would snuggle in with us, hold my hand. Every day, he’d say, ‘I love you, Simone’ and ‘Thanks for being my sister.’ Like I was doing him some kind of favor.”
“They sound amazing.”
“They are. Were. Lightyears better than Leann.”
“That’s her name? The woman who gave you up?”
“The one and only. She wants to see me.”
Peas. “Oh?”
“More like she wants my money, but I’m not supposed to realize that.”
“Your money?”
“Trust fund.”
“You have a trust fund?” I know she and Ms. Katie aren’t paupers, either. The car alone is evidence of that. Add the house and those eye-catching outfits Simone wears, it’s easy to conclude they’re nowhere near the poverty line.
Simone having independent wealth, however, hadn’t really crossed my mind.
“My parents—my very rich parents—and little brother were killed in accident because some trucker decided he wasn’t too sleepy to drive awhile longer. As sole survivor, of course, I have a trust fund. Turn eighteen, my bank account swells, Turn twenty-five, it explodes. Think Leann believes her abandonment was a premeditated gift for both of us.”
“Uh, why do you work?”
“I know how it feels not to eat for days,” she answers succinctly, then seems to rethink her honesty. Once again, she bites her lip. I fight to keep my brain above my shoulders while giving her time to regain her slippery composure. Using the worst technique I’ve ever witnessed, she tries dribbling the ball. “Work gives me something to do so I’m not sitting around the house while my friends are out on dates.”
Wow. “Thinking about doing it? Meeting her?”
She nods. “Tomorrow.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“Ms. Katie going with you?”
“I’ll tell her about it after.”
“Bad idea, Simone. Biological ties or not.”
“We’re meeting at Tate’s.”
Should offer her the soup. “Time?”
“Noon.”
“I’ll ditch practice, keep you company.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t, I offered.”
“No, thanks.”
“I’ll come, anyway.”
“No, you won’t. You’re my friend, not my babysitter.”
Something about that comment stings. “Okay. Well, as your friend, I care about your wellbeing.”
“Everyone at the restaurant will look out for me, like always. I’ll be fine.”
Like it or not, I’ll be there. We’ll argue afterward once I’m satisfied she’s safe. “Then you’re going to the amusement park with Coop and me on Saturday.”
During our zoo outing, I filled her in on the promise I’d made to Coop and his girl before Simone and I made our agreement. She, in turn, mentioned she’s never stepped foot in an amusement park. Said she doesn’t get people’s fascination with roller coasters, purposed car crashes in tiny cars, or their willingness to plunge into bodies of water, regardless the size. I rebutted, emphasizing her need to face her fears.
“Oh, absolutely not,” she refuses, much like I expected. “You three have fun.”
“We agreed to spend time together this week, Simone. With work and other interferences, Saturday’s our last full day.”
“I don’t do amusement parks, Cowboy.”
“We also agreed you’d call me by my name. Now you really have to go.”
“Whit—”
“Let’s play for it.” Little one-on-one should lighten the mood.
“What?”
“First to make ten free throws, wins. I’ll even let you stand closer, give you an advantage. And, since I’m a gentleman, you go first. Ball is yours ‘til you miss.”
“And if I don’t miss?
“Win? We call this thing good, I drop you off, we do our goodbyes in the driveway, and you can call me whatever you want.”
“So, we’ll go back to how we were before?”
Hell, no. “If that’s how you want it.”
Thank God for that sweet frown.
“If you win?” she asks, not sounding much happier by the prospect.
“Two things—you stay for supper since I’m losing a whole day, and Saturday, the two of us with Coop and his girl. At the park.”
“How’d this turn into two things?”
“You win, I’ll make sure Beckham stays out of your way for the rest of the year.”
“Game on.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Simone
The scent of fresh cut grass may forever be associated with this bitter taste of regret. Wisdom says there’s no way I’m winning this bet. I can’t even dribble a basketball, let alone use one to score twenty points from a modified free-throw line. Regardless, there’ll be year-round snow storms in Aruba before I’ll back down from a challenge. Little does Whit know, I have no intention of fulfilling either of his requests—win, or lose. I just needed all conversation, including talk of Leann, to stop.
He discards his shirt, tosses it next to his empty water bottle. My mouth goes dry. For the life of me, I can’t remember where I sat the bottle he gave me, probably past lukewarm by now.
I roll the tiny sleeves of my baby doll tee over my shoulders, a visible showing I mean business. Total front? Absolutely. Whit doesn’t know that. Besides, I might surprise myself, have some miraculous transformation into a female LeBron—well, I mean, like, without the facial hair and those tacky headbands, or whatever. I mean, it’s not impossible, right? And really, how hard can this be? Bounce, throw, score.
“Don’t think I’m lettin’ you weasel your way out, Simone. Supper, park,” he says, reading me like a book. “Trustin’ you’re a woman of your word.”
Throwing integrity into the mix? Oh, that’s dirty.
I bite my lip, suppress some very unladylike language on the tip of my tongue. Try a few stretches I’ve seen some of the guys do while they’re on the court.
Real talk: I don’t feel an ounce of difference.
“Your line should be back there by those bushes. You’re taller.”
He glances over his shoulder, eyes the extra two to three feet I’ve added in my favor. Rolls his shoulders, nods. “Fair ‘nough.”
Crap. Should’ve pushed for more.
“Fine. Let’s do this.”
“You know I’m on the team, right?” he asks, visibly skeptical.
“Duh.”
He smirks. “There’s also a few scouts tried recruitin’ me.”
“Worried I’m about to school you?”
I know, I know. Me and the smack t
alk. I do that when I’m really nervous. I can’t help it.
That effort he’s putting into holding back a laugh looks pretty painful. “Say yeah now, save us a whole lotta time, honey bee.”
“Don’t call me honey.”
“I didn’t. I called you Honey Bee,” he corrects. “Now, you plannin’ on shootin’ that ball, or you jus’ gon’ stand there caressin’ the thing all day?”
“Anyone ever tell you patience is a virtue?”
“Yep, same person taught me ‘bout prudence and the best time to use it. Now, go ‘head, get on wit’ the schoolin’.”
I flex my knees.
Dribble?
The ball rolls from beneath my fingertips so quickly, I look behind me to see who knocked it way.
Hmm. Maybe the wind is high.
Whit snags the wayward ball easily, dribbles it like an original Harlem Globetrotter—showoff—then sends it back. The orange missile blazes past my outstretched arms in a blur, forcing me to give chase until it hits the grass, which, thank God, slows its forward momentum.
How obvious would it look if I hurl the thing further into the trees? It was headed there anyway. Might buy me some time to scout an escape option.
Then again, with my luck, that would be the time I’d nail a passing car or take out a defenseless squirrel.
I settle for giving the ball a small, disdainful kick, and of course because I’ve become amazingly adept at making a fool of myself in front of this boy, the darn thing torpedoes its way underneath a bush.
Should’ve counter-challenged with a game of soccer.
No doubt I’m walking evidence of the potential destruction humidity can be on a black girl’s hair. Strands have escaped the ponytail holder, the ends rapidly curling then adhering to my sweaty upper lip. Bangs I so painstakingly flat-ironed this morning, plaster to my forehead.
Whit waits, his back braced against the goal post, the picture of patience. Those ever present sunglasses shade his eyes. Safe to say he’s watching the rapid deterioration of my confidence. Locks of his dark hair have fallen over his forehead—his very unsweaty forehead. Arms crossed over his gloriously bare chest, feet crossed at the ankles, he’s my complete antithesis.
I hate him.
He pushes away from the pole, moves his arms akimbo. The pose begs me to study the deliciously toned muscles from his neck down as he strolls over with the finesse of someone in his element, this assured swagger that accentuates his cut, sun-bronzed abdomen and the contrasting trail of dark hair that continues underneath the low riding waistband of his startling white nylon workout pants. He doesn’t stop until he meets me back on my modified free throw line. So close, the scent of his cologne sends my pulse into the red.
He licks his lips. “Warm enough, Sweetness?”
If ever there was a time I needed those mirrored lens Betsey Johnson’s Aunt Katie gave me last year for my birthday, this is the moment.
Tucking the ball under my arm serves two purposes: One, I don’t rush into my impending doom and two, when my knees give out, I’ll have something to fall on besides concrete.
“When did I become honey bees and sweetness to you?”
Out comes The Grin.
“Last night.” He smooths his hand over his abdomen, slow so I don’t miss a centimeter of the movement as he slides his fingers lower, taking my eyes with them. “I was lyin’ there in bed—”
“Stop!” I yell, beyond mortified. Not by what he did, by the molten heat spreading throughout my veins.
He laughs. “Gonna have fun teasin’ you, I see.”
Teasing. I’m near collapsing into burnt organs and crispy skin, and he’s teasing? “Is that any way to treat someone who’s been so sweet?”
Just when I think the Grin can’t get any more potent, Whit slides the tip of his tongue along the edge of his teeth. “Hopin’ for some other form of gratitude, Honey Bee?”
A chair would be nice. “I’m good.”
“Agreed,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on my mouth. He licks his lips again. I can practically feel him doing the same to mine until he steps back, his movement abrupt, clearing the way for my next attempt.
I skip the dribble this time.
Aim.
Shoot.
Miss.
By like fifty miles.
What in the world was I thinking, taking this bet?
This time, Whit takes off after it. I should feel terrible for wishing he would trip, but I don’t. Especially now, since he jogs back in leisurely strides, spinning the ball on the tip of his finger.
“Ready to concede?” he asks, passing the offensive orange orb of evilness back to me.
“Nope.”
Maybe I need to approach this from another angle. Surely, I’m better at debate than sports.
“Last-minute surprises are rude. Your mom isn’t expecting a guest for dinner.”
“Mama is Southern. Unexpected guests at the dinner table is a compliment. She’ll be tickled to have you.”
“Going to Six Flags together means anyone might see us.”
“Two friends at the same amusement park. Big deal.”
“You know that’s not how it’ll look.”
I shoot again. Miss. Whit rescues it from being swallow by the bushes, bats it back to me, though it really isn’t my turn. By some miracle, I manage to catch the darn thing before it skitters off.
“Was hopin’ you’d chase that again. Ah, well, maybe next time.” He pushes his glasses on top of his head, then closes the distance between us, coming to a stop right before the tips of our shoes touch. “Whole thing’ll look pretty innocent seein’ we ain’t goin’ alone, ‘less you wanna snuggle with me while we wait in lines,” he suggests with a lazy wink.
“Oh, sure, yeah. That sounds good. While we’re at it, we can exercise the whole gamut of PDA. Hold hands, kiss, feel each other up. Give everyone a real show.”
The playful glimmer in Whit’s eyes ebbs into something so insanely sensual I glance down to verify I’m still wearing clothes. His chest expands wide on his inhale, heat rolling off of him in waves. The sudden warmth makes me shiver.
“Trip’s soundin’ better n’ better,” he murmurs low, sliding the ball from my limp grasp. “My turn.”
With no effort, he dribbles the ball, stepping well behind the mark I chose for him. Takes a shot. The ball sails right over my head on its way to the goal. Drops right in, then bounces right back to him. He shoots again.
Scores.
Does it eight more times for the win.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Expect . . .
Whit
“Whatever’s cooking smells delicious, Mama.”
My sweet mother beams with pride as she peels off her apron. “Thank you, darlin’. Found a recipe for a casserole I haven’t made in a while, thought I’d try my hand at it again.”
“If it tastes as good as it smells, I’m glad you found it.”
I reach inside the cabinet to grab another place setting for Simone, checking for chips or cracks. Doubt I’ll find any as long as Mama’s still breathing, but she’d be mortified if we served a guest on anything less than her best china.
Mama whisks over on light feet, snags the plate from my hand, placing it back inside the cabinet. “We won’t need that. Only the four of us tonight. Your daddy called, said he’ll be late. Everything’s about ready. Go pry that phone out of your brother’s hands and encourage Cheyenne to wash hers, I’ll start filling serving dishes.”
Another blessing. The whole way inside, I sent up silent prayers that God would dull Dev’s taste buds this evening. Won’t have to worry about that now. “Actually, that’s for Simone.”
“Oh! Wonderful! Feeding her is the least we can do after what that gracious girl did today, sacrificing all that time, playing dolls with your sister under that hot sun! I should’ve extended the invitation myself.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
. . . the unexpected
Whit
Shame, it wasn’t.
“Whatever for?” Mama repeats.
Her shrill octave lashes my eardrums, nothing like the soothing lilt I’m used to hearing from the disconcerted woman in front of me. Bad acoustics may be coming into play. We are standing pretty close to the sink. God knows my brain is struggling to believe, let alone accept, that harsh, foreign pitch in her tone was manifested from the idea of sharing a meal with Simone, that the very notion of welcoming such an amazing girl at our table is something the woman who birthed me would find remotely distasteful.
For the briefest moment, my mind skitters over the possibility Mama’s next words will take a slight detour, echoing Simone’s sentiment how she’d have preferred a little advance notice. Mull the idea her obvious displeasure results from loyalty for Ashley.
Only, I can see the truth behind those two simple words. My gaze lands on the muscle spasm in Mama’s lower left lid. Crawls up, focuses on the unfamiliar wrinkle indenting the space between her brows. I blink, open my eyes to see her lips pressed into a straight line, marring her usual beauty.
What smelled enticing only moments ago is now a sour stench in my nostrils. The air surrounding us reeks, this putrid scent of something inexcusable. Glad I hadn’t reclaimed that plate, or else more than my heart would be broken right now.
“I mean . . .”
But she doesn’t say.
She don’t have to.
I’m aware there’re people who think all white people in the south are prejudice, waving Confederate flags in their front yards, longing for the old days when it was sickeningly acceptable across the country to use the N word more than a hardcore rapper. It’s not true. We’re not. Not all of us.
I’m not naïve. Racism is alive, festering worse than an infected third degree burn in just about any place under the heavens. Traveling below the Mason-Dixon is hardly a necessity for someone to bear witness of that brand of hatred up close and personal.
The shock is finding out someone could find the poison in our home.