Hook Shot (Hoops 3)

“No, I’m sorry. I guess I have some lingering trust issues. I judged you today by what’s happened before.”

I reach up and pull one springy curl, watching it snap back into place. “I’m sorry. You deserved to at least know why I was such a dumbass.”

She’s quiet for a few moments, and I wonder if what I’ve told her has either scared her away, or doesn’t sufficiently excuse my asshole behavior earlier.

“There are things you should know, too,” she finally says. “But I’m not ready to share them with you.”

She looks up at me, and her eyes are filled with so much pain, I want to demand she tell me right fucking now who hurt her. I haven’t known her long enough to feel this way—to feel like I should be the one shielding her, but I do. I admit only to myself that I already do.

“What can you tell me?” I ask.

“My mother wasn’t like you. She never put me first.” She meets my eyes, but they don’t give away much. “I guess on some level I never got over it. I told you that I’m not doing sex right now. I don’t have a problem with sex. I love it actually. Very much.”

“That’s good to know.” We share a brief smile before hers disappears.

“It’s not sharing my body with someone that’s hard,” she says ruefully. “It’s trusting anyone with more than that. I’ve never done that. My problem is intimacy, and sex without it started to feel . . . bad. I can’t describe it except to say it felt empty.”

I’m quiet, hoping she’ll continue if I stay out of her way—if I don’t interrupt.

“You say you don’t have childhood trauma.” Her glance slides away to the side. “I do. I have a lot of that shit, and I’m realizing that never dealing with it is starting to haunt me. It’s affecting me in ways I didn’t think it would.”

I know better than to press for specifics when she’s already told me she’s not ready to share, so I ask her the more important question. “So what are you going to do about it?”

She shrugs, and for maybe the first time since I’ve met her, Lotus looks truly helpless. I’m used to the unassailable confidence, the cocksure attitude. I don’t hate seeing her unsure as much as I want her to know she can be unsure with me.

“I know it sounds clichéd,” I tell her. “But talking to someone might help. We’re seeing a therapist because my daughter’s having a hard time accepting the divorce. It’s for her, yes, but also for me.”

My short, cynical laugh echoes in the stairwell. “Bridget and I never made it to counseling, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to screw things up even more for my daughter than I have already.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Lotus protests.

“It doesn’t matter that I didn’t cheat. I’m Simone’s father. I’m responsible for her. It’s not about blame, right, or wrong. It’s about making sure she’s okay. If I’m not healthy, I can’t be the best parent possible to her, so every week, we’re at counseling. And I hate every minute of it, having to hear my ex talk about her stupid choices and pretend she wants to put our daughter first when it’s obvious she doesn’t.”

I shake my head and run a hand down my face. “I’m sorry. This is about you talking to someone, not why I have to.”

“Iris has been telling me the same thing,” she says with a grimace. “Lately I’ve been . . . well, I’ve been thinking maybe she’s right.”

I sense that if I press on this anymore, I could push her away. I’ve said my piece. She has to make that choice for herself. I have a different choice to present to her.

“So full disclosure, I admitted I wanted to see you today, but I didn’t tell you I wanted to extend an invitation.”

“An invitation?” One brow shoots up. “What kind of invitation?”

“I’m judging this dunking contest at Rucker Park Saturday, and I wondered if you’d like to come.”

“Rucker Park? All the way in Harlem?”

“Um . . . you say it like it’s Antarctica.”

“I could pack lighter for Antarctica than Harlem.”

I laugh outright and take her hands again, pulling her closer and leaning down until our noses touch.

“Come on,” I whisper. “We could have lunch after the contest and hang out.”

The air grows viscous between us, and second by second, the humor drains away, leaving whatever magnetic thing that has drawn me to her since the moment I saw her. Her lips part and her breasts rise and fall with shallow breaths. The same desire that rises inside me at the sight of her, at the scent of her, at the promise of tasting her again, I see it in the look she angles up at me. Does she want to kiss me as badly as I want to kiss her?

“Remember what I told you,” I say, so close the words brush our lips together for just a second. “The next time we kiss, you have to make it happen.”