I cough a little, less from the bit of pizza lodged in my throat, more from the unexpected turn of conversation. Sarai had a few questions about Caleb in the weeks following his death. She barely knew him, but that word “daddy” carries significance. She only knows the man who told her he was her daddy is gone. One day, I’ll have the hard job of the truth, but for now, she’s satisfied. Or I thought she was. I sip some root beer to make way for a reply.
“Oh. Wow.” I glance at him cautiously. “And what’d you say?”
He clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair. “I told her that I love her more than any daddy loves a little girl,” he says slowly, not looking at me for a second before very purposely looking me right in the eyes. “And that I love you more than any daddy loves any other mommy.”
The pizza may not be hot, but his words steam my heart.
“And I said that we’re already a family.” He takes both my hands between his. “And that one day, when the time is right, I’ll be her daddy and I’ll be mommy’s husband.”
I don’t know what to say for a moment, so I leave it to the quiet to absorb his perfect response, and then I speak.
“That was … ahem … a good answer,” I say, studying our joined hands. “I’m not surprised she asked, considering all that’s happened. Well, and now that we’re at your place so much, it inevitably raises more questions.”
“Our place.”
“What?” I look up with a frown.
“You said it’s my place, but it’s our place.”
“Yeah.” I wave a hand. “You know what I mean.”
“But you don’t know what I mean.” He smiles, cupping his palms around my shoulders. “I’m adding your name to the title of the condo, and when we move into a house, your name will be on that, too.”
Surprise immobilizes me, freezes me in place. Only I’m not cold. Warmth suffuses every cell of my body until I’m on fire under his hands.
“You don’t have to do that just to prove a point, August,” I finally manage to say.
“It’s not to prove a point. If there’s one thing I understand, it’s team, and you and me”—he draws a line in the air between us—“we’re a team, doing everything together. And when we do marry, I want to adopt Sarai.” He holds up a staying hand. “I know it’ll take some getting used to, but she’s always felt like mine, and I love her. I want things as legal with her and me as they will be for the two of us.”
This—what I’m feeling, what’s washing over my reservations and fears—this must be what the Mississippi feels at that very moment every thousand years when its course resets: that deltaic switch. That monumental chrysalis. My heart resets in an instant. Or maybe it’s happened in a series of patient, painstaking pivots over weeks, months. Maybe it started the moment August walked away from the greatest opportunity of his life … for me. When he took a chance on us. Maybe it started then, but his words show me right now.
“I know I’ve asked you to marry me many times, but—”
“Three,” I say, almost absently. I’m so involved with examining this new space I just stepped into. “You’ve asked me to marry you three times.”
“Yeah.” He grimace–grins. “Thanks for the reminder. I don’t want to pressure you. You know that. I understand your hesitation. After finding out what you went through with Caleb, of course I get it.”
I watch him, my face serene, but my heart setting a breakneck pace.
“It’s like this,” he says. “My mom tells this story about my dad. How she’d watch him play, and he would hold the ball for the last shot. She’d scream ‘take the shot,’ but he’d watch the clock, holding the ball ’til the last possible second. Then at just the right moment, he’d take the shot. He had perfect timing.”
August cups my face, his eyes intense and tender.
“That’s what I want. I want to read the clock and know when the time is right for us. I don’t want to keep asking you. It’s …”
Hard? Disappointing? Embarrassing?
Who knows which word he’d use? He’s never shown me any of those things when he asked before and I wasn’t ready, but maybe he hid them. Maybe he felt them.
I slide off my stool and step into the V of his powerful thighs, setting my arms against his chest and linking my hands behind his neck.
“August, I love you,” I say, twining my fingers in his hair.
“I know that.” He closes his eyes, surrendering to my hands. “I love you, too. More than anything. More than everything.”
He said he’d play me at the five, at the very center, and he’s lived up to that promise every day that we’ve been together.
“I trust you with my life, with my future.” Emotion scalds my throat, so I pause to steady my voice. “With my daughter.”
He slowly opens his eyes to watch me. “I know that, too.”
“And I want to wake up with you every morning.”
“Youuuuuuu … do?” He settles his hands at my hips, splayed across my bottom, and narrows his eyes on my face, assessing.
“Yeah, but …” I search for the right thing to say—to let him know I’m ready. “I want the pancakes. Okay? I want the pancakes, August.”
“Babe, I’ll make you pancakes. Any time you want.”
“You’re not hearing me. What I’m saying is …the kids! You know, bursting into our room every morning? Your kids, August. I want to have your children. Our children.”
He frowns and blinks at me like I might have been body-snatched and replaced by some amenable stranger.
“That makes me … happy.” He looks more uncertain than happy, though cautiously ecstatic might be accurate, too. “But what do you mean? Are you saying …”
He watches my face with the same focus his father probably watched that game clock counting down. I’ve had reservations and fears based on the past, based on my mistakes, and on bad calls I made. But August is no mistake. He’s not a bad call, and all that he wants, I’m ready to offer. All that he has, I’m ready to receive. One step forward will take me into the future, and I’m ready.
“What I’m saying is this, August.” I tip up on my toes and smile against his ear. “Take the shot.”
Thank you for taking this journey with Iris and August. It is at times a difficult one, but also hopeful. Most of all, it’s uniquely theirs. I know the temptation is to tell ourselves this is fiction, and it doesn’t happen this way in real life. Maybe I believed that, too, until I interviewed woman after woman whose stories sounded so much like this one. As a matter of fact, their stories, in many ways are this one. I didn’t write this book until I’d interviewed survivors, and their experiences, their triumphs, their spirit have insinuated themselves into Iris’s journey. If at times this felt real it’s because so many of the things Iris experienced, I heard from women who survived the same challenges.
My deepest appreciation to the survivors, the social workers and the women’s shelter staff who answered my questions and helped me understand.
If you need help, call the
National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1−800−799−7233.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m grateful to so many, but I MUST start with Paula and Natalie. The two of you became the face and spirit of survival for me. Hearing your stories inspired and empowered me to write this book. Your hearts are on every page, and you were with me every step of Iris’s journey.
You are #ChangeYourCourse!!
My tribe is wide and deep. I’m sure I’m overlooking many, but the ones I can think of right now in my release daze are Dylan (#Bestie), Nana, Emma (#TeamHeavy), Kate, Stephanie (#PaperBag), Adriana (#GripzQueen), Ginger, Corinne, Leigh (cover BOSS!), Mandi, Chele (#MyHeart), Imani (My MEGAPHONE), Brittany, Margie (#DayOne), Melissa, Sara. To my beta boos - Jx PinkLady, Terilyn, Shelley & Christy. Thank you for reading this book before it was its best and helping me to get it there. Melissa, my PA, for putting up with my idiosyncrasies and list of ever-growing demands. Jenn and the Social Butterfly team. I know I’m extra, but you never make me feel weird for 3am PMs or last-minute ideas. Love you for that. Special thanks to Lucy Score and Kathryn Nolan for reading super early and giving me such incredible, insightful, constructive feedback. You really helped me navigate this touchy terrain so well, and I’ll never forget it. Thanks to Lauren for your AH-MAZING editing superpowers, and to Tricia for the eagle eye-ness and all the squeals in the margins. :-)
Thank you to the readers in Kennedy Ryan Books! You guys are my favorite place online, and I stalk YOU!!! Thank you for all the unwavering support and love you give me.
To every person who has messaged me, emailed me, tagged me on an Instagram or Twitter post over the last year shouting about my books, thank you. Sometimes I feel like the things I write are an acquired taste. Every book feels like a new set of risks. You are my people. You “get” me and keep taking these rides with me off the beaten book path.
I love you for that.
Last, but certainly, not least.
To MY baller.
My husband, who shared with me his love for the game. Who answered all my basketball questions patiently and so enthusiastically, I had to shut you up. LOL! Who puts up with my screeching and hair-pulling when Golden State is losing. And my histrionics when my Tar Heels win.
You’re my best friend,
and I’d “play you at the five.”
ENTIRE GRIP PREQUEL - FLOW!
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Flow
Copyright (c) Kennedy Ryan, 2017
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the book.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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FLOW - Chapter 1
If I could undo your kisses
If I could un-feel your touch
If I could unhook this heart from yours
I would.
But I’m trapped in the memory of what we were
Stuck with the reality of what we are
Tempted with the promise of a future
Afraid of possibility
I don’t know how our story ends, but this—this is where it started.
Grip
IT’S JUST ONE of those days.
Monica’s singing in my head. I’m relying on nineties R&B to articulate myself. I’m that hungry. My mouth waters when I think of the huge burrito I was this close to shoveling down my throat before I got the call. My stomach adds a rumble sound effect to the hunger.
I visually pick through the dense LAX crowd, carefully checking each baggage claim carrousel. No sign of her. Or at least what I think she might look like.
Rhyson still hasn’t texted me his sister’s picture. If I know my best friend—and I do—he probably doesn’t have a picture of her on his phone. He wouldn’t want to admit that, knowing how important family is to me, so I bet he’s scrambling to find one. They are the weirdest family I’ve ever met, which is saying something since mine is no Norman Rockwell painting. I’ve never actually met any of the Gray family except Rhys and his Uncle Grady. Rhyson’s parents and sister still live in New York, and he hasn’t seen them in years. Not since he emancipated. We don’t “emancipate” where I come from. Nah. We keep shit simple and just never come home. Worked for my dad. He didn’t even wait ’til I was born to leave. Less messy and fewer legal fees. But we didn’t have a fortune to fight over like the Grays did.
My phone rings, and I answer, still scanning the crowd for a girl fitting Rhyson’s vague description.
“Whassup, Rhys.” I clutch the phone and crane my neck to see over what must be a college basketball team. Not one of them is under six five. Even at six two, I can’t see the forest for the trees with trees this tall.
“Trying to finish this track. Bristol there yet?” That note in Rhyson’s voice tells me this conversation only holds half his attention. He’s in the studio, and when he’s there, good luck getting him to think about anything other than music. I get it. I’m the same way.
“I don’t know if she’s here or not. Did you forget to send the picture?”
“Oh, yeah. The picture.” He clears his throat to make way for whatever excuse he’s about to give me. “I thought I had it on my phone. Maybe I accidentally deleted it or something.”
Or something. I let him get away with that. Rhyson’s excuse for sending me to pick his sister up from the airport is legit. There’s this pop star diva who needs a shit ton of tracks remastered at the last minute before her album drops, but I suspect he’s also nervous about his sister’s visit. Maybe this emergency is a convenie
nt way to avoid dealing with her for a little bit. Or inconvenient, if you were me and missed lunch rushing to get to the airport as standin chauffeur.
“Well, I don’t know what she looks like.” I push my sunglasses onto the top of my head.
“She looks like me,” he says. “I told you we’re twins. Lemme check the Cloud for a picture.”
Did dude just seriously say ‘check the Cloud’?
“Yeah, Rhys, you check the Cloud. Lemme know what you find.”
“Okay,” he says from the other end, and I can tell he’s back into that track. “I called to tell her you were coming, but I keep getting voice mail. I’ll try again and send a pic.”
Once he hangs up, I concentrate on searching methodically through the crowd. She’d be coming from New York, so I’ve narrowed it down to one carrousel. “She looks like me” isn’t much to go on, but I stop at every tall, dark-haired girl, and check for signs of Rhyson’s DNA. Hell, she could be right in front of—
That thought fizzles out when my eyes land on the girl standing right in front of me.
Shit.
Black skinny jeans cling to long, lean legs that start at Monday and stretch all the way through next week. A white T-shirt peeps through the small opening left by the black leather jacket molding her arms and chest.
And the rack.
The leather lovingly cups the just-right handful of her breasts. Narrow waist and nice ass. She’s not as thick as the chicks I usually pull, but my eyes involuntarily scroll back up her slim curves, seeking the face that goes with this body.
Fuck. This woman is profanely gorgeous.
I never understood the big deal with high cheekbones. I mean, they’re cheekbones, not tits. You can’t motorboat cheekbones, but now I get it. Her face makes me get it. The bones are molded into a slanting curve that saves her face from angularity and elevates it to arresting. Her mouth, a wide, full line, twists to one side as she scans the crowd around her with eyes so light a shade of gray they’re almost silver. Dark, copper-streaked hair frames her face and slips past her shoulders.
The alert from my phone interrupts my ogling. It’s a text from Rhyson.
Rhyson: Here ya go. This pic’s old as hell, but she can’t look much different.
When the photo comes over, it confirms in my nearly agnostic mind what my mother has been trying to tell me for years. There must indeed be a God. How did I ever doubt Him? He has sent me, little old me, a tiny miracle to confirm His existence. It isn’t water into wine, but I’ll take it. I toss my eyes up to the sky and whisper a quick thanks to the Big Guy. Because the girl in the family picture, though almost a decade younger and with braces and frizzier hair, is the gorgeous, willowy woman standing in front of me in baggage claims. One hand on her hip and a frown between her dark eyebrows, she leans to peer down the conveyor that now holds only a few bags.
LONG SHOT: (A HOOPS Novel) Page 41
