Long Shot (Hoops 1)

That night we first met, we couldn’t have known what lay ahead. If she had only kissed me—if I had only pressed for more. If the night I won the championship, I’d managed to convince her that even though we’d just met, even though she had a boyfriend, even though it didn’t make sense – we should take a chance. If I had looked closer and ha

dn’t missed the signs. Life isn’t a road that forks or a line of numbered sliding doors. There is no alternate universe filled with only right choices. There’s just this one—just this life, and we go where our choices take us and grow wiser from our mistakes.

Standing on the porch waiting for the paramedics, I glance up at the blackened stretch of Louisiana sky. Life is a constellation of decisions, connected by coincidences and deliberations, painting pictures in the heavens. During the day, when things are brightest, we don’t see the stars, but they are there. It’s only in the contrast of night, when things are darkest, that the stars shine.

Iris is my constellation. She took the darkness as her cue to shine. It only made her brighter, stronger, and tonight, her hard-won glimmer lights up the sky.

OVERTIME

“I have been bent and broken,

but - I hope –

into a better shape.”

— Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

Epilogue – Iris

“Shitbag!”

I’m literally pulling my hair and grinding my teeth.

“Motherfucker, are you kidding me with this?”

I pace the floor and clench my fists at my side.

“Just …” I punch the air. “Ugggghhh.”

My Lakers are playing. And as usual, I’m at war with the refs.

“Grrrrr.” Another bad call.

I’m trying to keep my voice down. August is in his guest room reading to Sarai. We have these little “sleepovers” at his place from time to time, my concession since I haven’t decided to move into his condo yet. I’m especially keen for these semi-regular events at times like this when he’s coming off a long road trip and we haven’t seen him.

The Lakers score.

Yes!

Even though I’ve been a Lakers fan since I was a kid, and even though August knows that, I still feel a little disloyal. My Lakers did beat the Waves two days ago. I drove up to LA for the game and sat in the stands. I was torn, but I managed to sit on my hands whenever we—we, being the Lakers—scored. As competitive as August is, he gave me a “don’t talk to me” look after they lost the game.

I wore his Waves jersey proudly, number thirty-three.

But my panties were purple and gold.

The doorbell rings when the game goes to a commercial, and I turn off the TV in case August finishes before I get back to the bedroom.

I stare dumbly at the pizza delivery guy standing at the door.

“Pizza for DuPree?” the pimple-faced teenager asks.

“Um, I didn’t order pizza.” Would have been good, though.

He peers up at the number over the door and back to the delicious-smelling box of pizza, and then squints at a little slip of paper.

“Pineapple and pepperoni pizza and root beer?” he asks. “That’s not you?”

August.