Hook Shot (Hoops 3)

“Well neither of us have dated anyone since you left the house,” Bridget offers.

Anger puckers the smooth surface of my composure.

“No, you did all your dating before our marriage was over,” I say, clipping the words.

As soon as I say it, I want to take it back. Not because it’s not true, but because it’s uncalled for. It’s true, but it’s not why we’re here.

“That’s actually not helpful, Mr. Ross,” Dr. Packer says, the reproach mild, but definitely present in her voice.

“I know. Yeah.” I run my hand over my face. “Sorry.”

“As I was saying,” Bridget says pointedly, “neither of us have dated, and I don’t have any prospects right now. Do you, Kenan?”

My memory immediately transports me to that party a week ago. In an instant, I was addicted to the taste of Lotus, more than my mouth could have imagined. Addicted to her sharp sense of humor and the glow that had nothing to do with make-up. The mystery in her eyes that had nothing to do with games. I wanted her lips again as soon as she pulled away.

“Kenan?” Bridget asks, her tone strident. “Is there someone?”

Lotus has told me in no uncertain terms that we’re not happening. But I also felt her response to me. I’m not giving up on her. “No, I’m not seeing anyone.”

I hate that flare in Bridget’s eyes at my admission, some mixture of satisfaction and misguided hope.

“We’ll have to be very careful when either of you develop romantic attachments,” Dr. Packer says, making a note before looking up at us. “We’ll have to take that slowly and one step at a time as a family.”

She tosses her pen down, sits back in the chair, and links her hands over her waist.

“You may not be married,” she says. “but you’re still a family. You have to be, for her. It’s the most crucial relationship in her life. You’re not man and wife, but you are still mother and father to Simone. You have to figure out how to be that in this new space because she needs it.”

Considering all Dr. Packer has said, it’s probably good that Lotus and I keep it simple, if we become anything at all. If her situation is anywhere near as complex as mine, a relationship is the last thing we need.

I can tell myself that a million times, but I can’t forget how we locked in that kiss—how the world tipped to the side with every tilt of our heads and stroke of our tongues. There’s a recognition, an awareness that has crackled between us from the moment we met. So I’ll be careful with how I pursue Lotus for Simone’s sake, but I can’t convince myself we shouldn’t see where this goes.

5

Lotus

“Join me next week when we explore staying cool in the summer’s hottest fashions,” I say into the mic. “Till then, it’s ya girl Lo. Don’t forget, the world might try to get you down, but you gotta glow up.”

I pull the headphones off and push the mic away from my mouth, releasing a weary breath. I’m often tempted to stop the fashion podcast I started last year, gLO Up, but it’s becoming so popular. I’m gaining new followers every week. I have sponsors now, not only for the podcast, but paid partnerships for Instagram. I’m an “influencer.” Who knew?

My position with JPL has catapulted my efforts. I’m not under the illusion that all of this would have happened so quickly if I didn’t work with one of fashion’s darlings.

My first official position with JPL Maison was “intern.” Unofficially, glorified grunt. That worked while I was getting my associates at FIT. Now, with my degree, I’ve been promoted to Assistant Design Coordinator. Unofficially, whatever JP needs. One day, I’m selecting fabrics for him to consider as he’s designing, the next I’m organizing pattern-makers. I could be sketching, pressing, steaming, draping. Hell, I’m not above getting in there with the seamstresses and sewing buttons, embroidering, and doing whatever needs to be done. I’m learning fashion from the ground up and at every level. It’s the best education I could ask for under the tutelage of a genius.

My eyes drift to the Singer sewing machine in the corner of my bedroom. A gift from MiMi. It blurs through my tears. I don’t know how other people grieve, but processing the loss of my great-grandmother will take a lifetime. I can’t think of her without aching. She left me so much, though. Not the tiny house Iris and I inherited in the bayou where I spent much of my childhood. Not even the sewing machine she used to teach me how to create an almost invisible seam. Not even the black magic I’m not always sure I completely understand or believe. Those aren’t the greatest gifts she left me.

“In the next life, I’ll live as a spirit,” she’d told me solemnly. “And God will require my soul, but my heart—that I’ll leave to you, ma petite.”

The words poured ice down my spine. I couldn’t imagine this world, this life without MiMi’s guidance, and it’s as hard as I thought it would be.

I can’t explain it to Iris or anyone else. They’d have me committed, but I knew the moment MiMi left time and entered eternity. That was how she talked about life. She said most of our existence is before we are born and after we die—that time is a drop in the bucket. The walls of time fall long enough for us to enter this world and then to leave. And after we leave, forever begins.

I know the moment MiMi’s forever began.

I was rushing to class, climbing the subway steps to the street, when I felt a prick in my chest like a scalpel making a tiny incision. And then I felt so full, I had to stop right there, morning commuters rushing past me impatiently on the subway stairs like water dumped into the river of the city. Warmth and peace and pain made themselves at home between the slats of my ribs, nestled in the flesh of my heart.

And as it had so often in ways I couldn’t explain, the sky, my soothsayer, spoke to me.

Look up.