Hook Shot (Hoops 3)

“That might be true, but when I do, I know it’s the right thing. That it’s worth going off-road for. I told you I knew I was going to law school and one day, hoped to be a judge like my father. The NBA was the biggest re-route of my life, but I don’t regret it.”

Lotus is one of the most unexpected things I’ve encountered. The day she walked into that hospital room, I wasn’t looking for anything with another woman. I was standing up to my neck in the mess Bridget had made of our lives, and was ready to put every woman in the booty-call category indefinitely. It took the space of a heartbeat, a look, and I knew there was something different about Lotus. Off-road? Shit, I was rubbernecking to get another look at her. I was turning the wheel to circle back before I even realized it.

“I think I have what I like to call informed spontaneity,” she says, pulling a knee to her chest.

“Okay. I’ll bite. What the hell is that?”

“I have a great gut for the risks I should take. Like when I met JP. I was attending Spelman and was planning to finish my business degree and maybe one day do something with fashion. It was safer, but when JP asked me to come work for him in New York, I just knew it was right. I jumped.”

She laughs and glances out the window to take in Harlem, history and hip spliced together, the iconic Apollo Theater sandwiched between Red Lobster and Banana Republic.

“Iris thought I was crazy,” she continues, her words losing their levity. “We fought and didn’t speak for a while. Not just because of that, but . . .”

She rubs the band on the ring finger of her left hand.

“Anyway.” She shakes her head like she’s casting off unpleasant memories. “It wasn’t for very long. Nothing comes between us for long, not even each other.”

“You and Iris have always been close?”

“Yeah,” she says. “She’s about a year older and we’re cousins, but have always been more like sisters. I think of Sarai as my niece.”

That reminds me of something odd and awkward I need to ask her. I can’t not ask her about this, but I’ll wait until we’ve parked and are settled in the restaurant.

“Mr. Ross,” the Sylvia’s hostess greets me warmly. “Welcome.”

It used to disconcert me when people I didn’t know already knew me.

“Hi.” I smile, polite and to the point. “Got a table for two?”

“Of course.” She bites her lip and glances up at me almost bashfully. I know this look. The I reaaaaally want to ask for an autograph, but I won’t look.

She seats us in an out-of-the-way booth, for which I’m appreciative. I’m not one of those guys who can’t leave the house without being mobbed, but my height makes people look twice. And on that second look, many of them recognize me. I don’t want a lot of attention on my first date with Lotus.

Is this a date?

Are we still just friends?

Was it ever simple?

I decide not to define it, but to just enjoy it. To enjoy her.

I stick to water and Lotus orders one of Sylvia’s signature Bloody Marys with Ketel One and triple-strength hot sauce. She takes a sip and hisses. “Ahhh. That’s got a kick.”

“What are you getting?” I ask, scanning the menu for anything that fits my regimen. My options are pretty limited.

“I thought about the chicken and waffles, but I think I’ll get shrimp and grits.” She sets the menu down, her smile a little wistful. “Maybe I’m

missing home.”

“You ate that a lot in Louisiana?”

“Yeah. I’ve never tasted it better than MiMi’s. And her étouffée was delicious, too. Really everything she cooked was the best.”

“New Orleans is a fascinating place,” I say, thinking this might be a good segue into the awkward question I need to ask.

“There’s no place like it.” She gives me a sudden grin. “You’d love all the jazz. Have you ever seen the second line?”

“Second line?”