Long Shot

by Kennedy Ryan

  She lights the last in a line of candles on a table against the wall, glancing up to find me paused on the threshold.

  “Come,” she says. Even her voice is different here. Brusque, but not stern. Soft, yet impersonal. Gentle and firm.

  She has work to do.

  Work on me that I’m not sure I’m ready for. Once I climb on that table, I don’t know what will come next. Delaying, I browse the bottles crammed onto shelves lining the wall, a restless tactile exploration with my fingertips. I hesitate over a bottle with an unfamiliar symbol.

  “Don’t touch that one,” MiMi says with her back turned to me.

  How did she . . .?

  I’ve stopped asking questions. There’s an omniscience to my great-grandmother. Some days, when her shoulders droop and her bustling steps slow to a shuffle, I wonder if she’s tired of knowing all the things she’s learned. If maybe soon, she’ll weary of living in a world that no longer holds mystery and set off for a new adventure.

  She’s bent, looking for something under the table. Still nervous, I ease open a drawer, surprised to find a pocket knife. The handle is curved and ornate. It’s delicate, designed for smaller hands. I pick it up, caressing the jeweled button that opens it. I press, and with a snap, it unfurls a sharp, wicked length of blade.

  “Touch a lady’s knife,” MiMi says, some humor sprinkled in her words, “you better be prepared to use it.”

  I glance up, then catch the slight smile on her lips and return it. The simple connection spreads warmth over me as effectively as a physical embrace. MiMi communicates more with fewer words than anyone I’ve ever known. It feels like we learn as much about each other in glances, touches, and smiles as we do with the things we say.

  “I was surprised to find it,” I admit, replacing the knife and closing the drawer.

  “Well, a woman in this world has to keep her wits about her and her weapons at hand.” MiMi measures me from head to toe with a glance. She gestures for me to climb on the table. My nerves stretch so tight I’m sure I’ll tear in half.

  “You must breathe,” MiMi whispers. Her words float above me, shrouded in the candles’ aromatic smoke. Below, my body’s held by a cloud of pillows. I should feel safe, secure, settled, yet I feel exposed. I’m so vulnerable, I close my eyes and cover my heart with my hands.

  “Hands down,” MiMi commands gently.

  Lowering my hands, I lock eyes with my great-grandmother and draw in deep, scented breaths.

  “Breathe out.” Her eyes never leave mine as the breath pushes past my lips, and the longer she looks into my soul, the sadder her gaze becomes, shimmering with tears. “Oh, ma petite.”

  Can she see? See past the fragile façade I’ve erected to cover the ruins? Can she see that last night and all the nights before? How he ravaged me? Does she know that I feel plundered, like a picked-over battlefield littered with dead bodies? That some days I am dead, and that Sarai, taking care of her, is the only thing forcing me through the motions of life? When MiMi looks in my eyes, does she see?

  Her hands pass through the air above, covering me in scented breezes. Her words migrate from Spain, from France and West Africa, all the places that made us and mix in our blood, in our heritage. The syllables fall from her lips, foreign and familiar, as tossed and varied as the gumbo she taught me to prepare.

  “Breathe out the lies,” she says. “That it was your fault. That you failed. That you are what he said you were.”

  When her words sink in, when they drill down to my core, a sob explodes, detonating through my belly and chest, and blasting open a wall of deceit I didn’t know was there. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes, and I’m so damned tired of tasting my tears. The image of Caleb pressing his thumb into my mouth that first night, soaked with my tears, flashes through my mind. The night his wicked trap caught me.

  “Breathe in truth.” Her hands are busy in the air over me, slicing through lies. “You are pure. You are enough. You are strong.” She leans closer, her whisper as sharp and fierce as the knife in her drawer. “He can’t hurt you.”

  My shoulders shake and my head tips back, emotion stretching me wide, arching my back, elongating my neck, and wrenching my mouth open in a wail, a warrior cry. And in a smoky room filled with shadows, those parts of me Caleb scattered, I reconvene. All the pieces he splintered, I mend. And everything he stole from me like a petty thief, those things, every single one of them, I repossess.

  “Yes.” MiMi’s affirmation infuses the air with power. “Strength. Dignity. Courage. All these things belong to you. Take them back. Your soul is yours. Your heart is yours. Your body is yours. Yours to keep and yours to share.”

  Yours to keep and yours to share.

  The words summon a memory I haven’t allowed myself in months. Breathing in and out, I indulge in thoughts of August. His carved profile and soft, full lips. His thundercloud eyes and gentle hands. A body of granite covered in taut, velvet skin. The urgent want smoldering between us. His hunger so palpable, I felt it stroking me everywhere. His tongue delving inside, seeking, giving.

  “Oh, God.” A gasp transports me, and my eyes drop closed until we are alone again, he and I. Back in that closet, the door shut, sealed off from the world. Our mouths meld and our breaths tangle, and I can’t gather enough of him on my tongue, can’t reach enough of his body. I press into him until our bones touch, until our souls kiss, until every part of me, from the inside out, I’ve shared with him.

  And I break.

  I break like a storm on the Mississippi River, a relief from the cloying weight of summer heat. I’m a deluge, drowning my doubts and washing away my fears. I stiffen with a catharsis so spiritual and sensual, so pure and carnal, that for a moment, I’m not of this world. I’m above its cares, outside of its confines, divorced from my body and untethered from the earth.

  “Breathe in,” MiMi says softly. “Breathe out.”

  Her words slowly reel me back, returning me to the small room behind the curtain. They ground me in a fresh sphere with a lightened body and spirit.

  “What was that?” My breath comes in pants and my hands shake. “What did you do?”

  At first I think she’ll only answer with a smile and an otherworldly light in her eyes, but she reaches back to answer my question from before.

  “These,” she says, waving her hand at the bottles on the shelves, “don’t tell me what you need. They don’t tell me what to do. You do that. You, ma petite, you needed the truth. I gave it to you.”

  I’m still not sure what she actually means.

  I sit up carefully, expecting my head to spin, but the room is steady and I’m not weak-limbed.

  “A few moments with the truth don’t chase away the lies forever,” she says, pushing back the sweat-dampened hair clinging to my face. “Lies don’t give up easily. You’ll have to remind yourself and heal yourself over and over, every time they come.”

  “You mean I need to talk to a therapist?” I ask. I’ve thought of that and probably will at some point.

  “Yes.” Her smile is that of a younger woman, knowing, teasing. “And sleep naked sometimes. Soon, you’ll want again.”

  We share a husky laugh. Recalling August’s kiss, I wonder if she’s right. I slide off the bed and touch my bare feet to the floor, reaching for her.

  “Thank you, MiMi.” I blink at my tears with my head tucked into her long, silver braid. “I feel so weak sometimes, and you make me feel strong.”

  “Struggle does not make you weak,” she whispers back. “Struggling against those who hold us is what makes us, over time, stronger than they are. Strong enough to fight back. Strong enough to win.”

  That night, with the soft sounds of crickets and swamp creatures drifting through my window, I sleep better than I have in months. I sleep so deeply that by the time I wake up, the sun is higher and brighter than usual. I reach out and find the space beside me empty.

  “Sarai!” I bolt up, my breath caged and flapping in my chest. I fumbl
e through the sheets, stumbling out of bed and into the narrow hall.

  My daughter’s sweet voice drifts back to me from MiMi’s room. My smile comes full and wide. I’m so glad we’ve had this time with my great-grandmother; the experiences I missed as a child, Sarai will be able to treasure.

  “Wake up,” she cajoles in that sing-song voice she uses to stir me on mornings when it’s hard for me to rise. MiMi usually beats the sun up and, at more than ninety years old, is making coffee and cooking eggs and bacon before I’m awake. Last night must have worn her out, too. I lean my shoulder into the doorjamb, running my eyes over MiMi’s small bedroom, stuffed with furniture too big for the space and photos, many black and white, crowding the walls. The room is set to burst, a larger-than-life woman squeezed between the walls.

  Sarai sits beside MiMi, rubbing her little palm over the silver hair loosened on the pillow. Her eyes, the darkest parts of blue and violet, consider me solemnly. My gaze drifts to MiMi, who stares back at me, eyes unblinking and void of life. I rush to the bed, grabbing her hand. It’s cold and stiff. At her wrist, there is no rhythm.

  “Shhhh,” Sarai whispers, one finger to her rosebud mouth. “MiMi’s sleep, Mama.”

  “No, baby.” I shake my head and let the first tear fall. “She’s not asleep.”

  35

  August

  In the grand scheme of life, one year is a drop in the bucket. When you’re looking for someone, wondering if they’ll call or when they’ll come back, a year feels like forever.

  Sylvia said it. Caleb told me that Iris left, but I still keep thinking maybe she’ll call or contact me. Caleb’s been seen with other chicks, living his life, so I assume he told the truth and they really aren’t together anymore. His girlfriend has left, and I’m the one who can’t move on.

  “You should fuck.”

  I glance up from the report I’m studying at lunch with Jared. Our server, who overheard his comment, blushes and stretches her eyes.

  “Um . . . did you need anything else?” she asks, sliding a look between Jared and me.

  “We’re good for now,” I tell her, forcing a smile. “You can bring the check.”

  “Sorry,” Jared says, but he doesn’t look repentant as she walks away. “Her overhearing it doesn’t make it any less true. I’ve never known you to be this . . . grumpy.”

  “I’m not grumpy. You make me sound like an eighty-year-old man.”

  “You have the sex life of an eighty-year-old man.” He sips his wine. “Hell, I’d be grumpy if I didn’t get any ass for a year.”

  “I’m not you.” I flip through the report, hoping to divert his attention back to business. “These second-quarter numbers look good. Elevation’s doing even better than we hoped it would.”

  “Yeah, they look great. Don’t change the subject.”

  “The subject is none of your business. Speaking of business, let’s talk about it.”

  “Okay.” Jared tears a bread stick into little pieces over his plate. “Did you talk to Pippa about signing on?”

  “I did. She’s interested.”

  “In fucking you.”

  I tilt my head and blank my face, exasperated.

  “Are you saying she doesn’t want to?” Jared asks. “She would have already signed if you’d give her what she wants. She practically spelled it out in the sand when she visited the office last week.”

  One advantage of living and setting up our agency in San Diego is an office only a pebble’s throw from the beach. It’s worked for us, wining and dining clients oceanside. Well, I don’t wine and dine. I’m still a silent partner but have recently started persuading high-profile athletes that since I now trust Elevation with my representation, they should, too.

  “What are you now?” I smirk and pour water from the carafe on the table. “My pimp?”

  Jared’s expression loses most of its humor. “If you need me to be.” He sighs. “She may not ever contact you, Gus. You should move on.”

  Does he think I don’t know that? That I want to be in this limbo where I think Iris might come back? I’m not an eighty-year-old man, and there is nothing wrong with my sex drive. I simply have no outlet. The only person I want is gone. The obvious solution is to want someone else, but my heart and my dick don’t see it that way.

  “I do have something we need to discuss.” Jared narrows his eyes, assessing. “I need to put on my agent hat for a minute.”

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Deck called.” The look Jared angles at me holds excitement and speculation. “You won’t believe this, but the Waves are open to a trade.”

  The glass in my hand stops midair halfway to my mouth. I set it down with a thump on the table.

  My contract isn’t up for another two years. I’d resigned myself to spending the first five years of my NBA career on a losing team and just distinguishing myself on the court so I’d get good looks from other teams when it was time to go.

  “You shitting me?” I ask.

  “Nope.” Jared grins like a buccaneer. He’s a hard-ass negotiator and probably relishes the prospect. “They know they could get a few quality players from Houston for you.”

  “Houston?” My mouth drops open. Houston is in the playoffs again this year, as we speak. They might even take it all. “Houston wants me?”

  “Bad.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “They’re focused on the playoffs right now, of course, but some of the front-office execs reached out on the sly. They’re looking ahead.”

  A disturbing thought occurs to me. “So are the Waves open to this because they don’t think I’ll be back a hundred percent?”

  Rehab was long and grueling, and by the time I could get back on court, I’d lost almost all of my second season. Playing those last couple of months was more a test for the upcoming season than anything else, seeing if I still had my strength and explosiveness off the dribble. My distance-shooting hasn’t been affected. Jag had me shooting from anywhere on court seated in a wheelchair from the early days of rehab.

  “No, they aren’t worried that you won’t be back full-steam,” Jared assures. He knows that would bother me—the brass thinking I couldn’t perform anymore. “If anything, it’s the opposite. Everyone saw how good you looked out there at the end of last season. If they want to build, to add some key pieces to the roster, you’re their most valuable asset to get them.”

  “Huh.” I lean back in my seat and consider leaving Deck and Jag. Even Glad and I have become friends.

  Winning has always been the most important thing in my life. I’ll never get used to losing, but I was getting used to those guys. We were just starting to feel like a real team.

  “Did you say ‘huh?’” Jared asks, a frown snapping his brows together. “’Cause I don’t speak grunt. You want me to move forward or not? And if you say ‘not,’ you’re a fool.”

  He’s right. If I’m stuck in this place, mired in too-few memories of Iris and the little time we had together, something in my life should be moving forward. Why not my career?

  “Yeah.” I smile at the rosy-cheeked waitress and accept the bill. “Let’s see where it goes.”

  And if it takes me to Houston, I’m closer to a championship than I thought I would be for years. That should make me happy. And it does. I can’t be ungrateful. A percentage of a percentage of people live the way I do, have the things I have, but something’s still missing. I don’t have to ask what.

  I know what it is. I know who it is.

  I just don’t know where to find her.

  36

  Iris

  Death has a way of uniting or dividing. Families come together and draw comfort from each other or fight about wills and the things that have kept them apart. It can go either way.

  Even with the funeral over and everyone gone home, and MiMi’s small refrigerator stuffed with Tupperware and leftovers, I’m not sure what her death will do to our family. Lo hasn’t seen her mother or spoken to her in years. She avoided
Aunt May even at the funeral and shows no sign of breaking the silence. I can’t blame her. What Aunt May did was unacceptable, even more so to me now that I have a child of my own. I could never choose a man over her, much less accept his word as truth when my daughter accused him of wrong. But that’s what Aunt May did, and I’m afraid Lo will never forgive her.

  And then there’s my mother.

  Her beauty hasn’t faded. She had me so young she’s barely forty. Heads still swivel when she walks past. Her body is a trail of winding curves—breasts and hips and butt and thighs. My father diluted my skin color, but hers is a flawless mixture of darkened honey and caramel, and her hair, slightly coarser than mine, is an unrelieved fall of black to her waist. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

  And she could never get over herself enough to find out if she had anything else to offer.

  “It’s been a long time since I was back home,” she says, glancing around the tiny kitchen before her eyes settle on me. “You should have told me you were here. If I’d known you were so close, I would have—”

  “Told Caleb?” I cut in over whatever lie she was poised to tell. “I know. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

  “I have no idea what you mean.” She touches her throat. From years of observation, I know it’s her tell. She can look you dead in the eyes, a picture of innocence, while she tries to sell you a goldmine on the bayou, but she can’t keep that hand off her throat.

  “What I mean is that I know about the apartment in Buckhead.” I wipe down the counter, cleaning because I can’t think what else to do while navigating this awkward conversation with my mother. “He still paying your way, Mama? Caleb told me he had you well under control.”