We share a grin, and she links her arm through mine, leaning her head on my shoulder while we watch the pre-game shenanigans. Mascots for both teams run the length of the court, using trampolines to slam-dunk balls. A kiss cam gets going, and Lotus and I can’t stop laughing at an elderly couple kissing like teenagers fogging up a backseat window.
And then I see him. I haven’t allowed myself to look for August since the players came on court for the pre-game shoot around. I’m not that close, and you couldn’t squeeze a gnat in this building because there are so many people here. Still, I worry that he’ll spot me.
I could be worrying for nothing. I mean, he must have girls chasing him all the time. Some inconsequential chick he met in a bar is probably utterly forgettable.
Except it didn’t feel inconsequential. Not the things we shared or the look on his face when I walked away. None of it felt inconsequential. And though I know I should forget, I can’t stop remembering.
My mom used to say it took a crow bar to pry me open, but with August, I surprised myself. I didn’t hold back. When was the last time I talked so openly with anyone besides Lo?
Down on the court, he faces a teammate, dribbling two balls, one with each hand, his posture relaxed. He laughs at something the other player says, his lips spread in a flash of humor and charisma. An indolent swagger hangs on him like his basketball shorts, easy and loose, but a barely veiled energy crackles around him. He’s nimble athleticism and latent power on the verge of explosion.
In an instant, he goes from the ease of his teammate’s camaraderie to the trademark precision shooting that’s inspired awe in basketball pundits throughout this tournament. Eyes fastened on the hoop, he knocks down six three-pointers in quick succession. From wrist to bicep, one arm is sheathed in a shooter sleeve, a compression accessory some ballers use to keep their arm warm and increase circulation. A few colorful tattoos paint the other arm, but the most prominent one is on the ball of his shoulder, the number thirty-three. It’s his jersey number, but I remember hearing it was his father’s, too.
He’s not wearing his jersey yet, and when he tosses the ball back and forth between his big hands, palming and raising it over his head in a stretch, his T-shirt lifts, exposing rungs of muscled abs.
My breath catches. My body flattened to his last night, the check above his head. The rock-hard chest and arms. The gentle hands and eyes. The strength and heat of him, the way he smelled—everything about him made me want to press closer. To be as close as I could get. I wanted to kiss him. The source of all this guilt isn’t what I did with August. It’s what I wanted. What I felt.
He looks up into the stands in our direction, and my heart pauses for the space of a beat. I tense, as much from the memory of those eyes fixed on me as from the fear that he’ll see me now.
His coach yells, waving the team over to the bench. I should be relieved he didn’t see me, but some perverse, masochistic part of me wishes he knew I was here.
My eyes seek Caleb on court, and I wait to feel anything as visceral as what I felt last night with August. I’m glad to see Caleb. I’m proud of him. I’m happy for him, but it doesn’t feel like my heart is pinned to a soaring kite. My feet are firmly planted on the ground. My body doesn’t go haywire. When was the last time Caleb left me breathless with little more than a look, a touch? For that matter, when was the last time I wanted to tell him so many things there wasn’t time for it all?
I have a year invested with Caleb, and we’ve been happy. After meeting August West once, I’m questioning it?
“So what are you gonna do?” Lo asks softly, breaking into my thoughts. “About this Caleb situation, I mean. If he wants more and you want . . .what you want?”
I turn my head to study my cousin’s face.
“Why do I have to know right now?” I answer Lo without actually answering. “I’m about to graduate from college. This should be a time when it’s safe to explore, when there’s space to figure out what life is on my own. Can’t we just be dating? I’m not sure what I know for sure yet, and that should be okay.”
The closer we get to the future, the more I feel the weight of Caleb’s expectations, spoken and unspoken. I just hope it’s not so heavy that it crushes us, crushes what we have completely.
“Don’t let him rush you, girl,” Lo says. “Better no man than the wrong man. We saw that firsthand.”
What would our lives have been like if my mom had married one of the creeps who paid our rent? Except for Telly, I was usually glad to see them go. If she’d married one of those men, I know instead of the security she envisioned, it would have been a trap.