Hook Shot (Hoops #3)(111)
Lotus takes my hand and looks up, holding my stare. “This isn’t about you, Kenan. It can’t be. It has to be about Simone.”
Her eyes cool, harden like volcanic rock when they shift to Bridget. “It’s not about who is wrong or right, because if it was, believe me, Bridget, you’d be wrong.”
“Who do you think you are?” Bridget takes a step closer to Lotus. Before I can insert myself between them, Lotus stands and, even several inches shorter, manages to look Bridget right in the eyes.
“I’m cutting you some slack because they’re shoving tubes down your daughter’s throat,” Lotus says, her tone darkening. “But you have one more time to put your finger in my face and step to me.”
Bridget draws a deep breath, but takes a step back, wisely retreating.
“Look,” Lotus says, her gaze moving between us. “This isn’t about me either. We all have sacrifices to make until Simone is better. I’ll do my part.”
What the hell does that mean? What sacrifices?
I’m about to ask her when the doctor comes down the hall and tells us we can finally see Simone. I follow the doctor, eager to see my daughter and to start the healing she needs. At the last minute, I turn back to the waiting room, intending to ask Lotus to wait for me.
But she’s already gone.
My first sight of Simone almost brings me to my knees. There’s a machine monitoring her vitals, and an IV running into one thin arm. The pallor of her skin, usually glowing golden, is a sickly grey.
Her heart is broken in her eyes.
How the hell did I miss that? That fathomless sorrow in my baby girl’s watery blue eyes—has it been there all along? What if we had been delayed coming from the airport? What if we’d gone to Lotus’s apartment instead of mine? What if I’d gotten stuck in typical New York traffic? A thousand scenarios fly through my mind like bats, the dark wings casting shadows on a day that could have ended with me standing in a morgue instead of in this hospital room.
“I’m sorry,” Simone croaks, tears rolling over her cheeks. “I just . . .” A sob shakes her, and she turns her head into the pillow, her eyes squeezed shut.
“Moni, it’s okay.” My voice comes out strangled, and I take a moment to compose myself. “We’ll sort it out tomorrow.”
“Yeah, rest,” Bridget says, stroking Simone’s hair back from her face. “We’ll talk about everything later.”
“I know I shouldn’t have done it.” Simone hiccups. “I just wanted it all to stop. The fighting, and the tweets, and the posts on Facebook. Some kids from school were tagging me. It all started again.”
Rage simmers under my expressionless face as I listen to how my daughter was tortured by our choices and insensitive people who didn’t stop to think how a careless tweet might push an emotionally fragile girl over the edge.
Bridget’s sob pulls me from my thoughts. She grips the bed railing so tightly her knuckles show white through the skin. I cover her hand. The same helplessness torturing me swims in her teary eyes. For once, we’re on the same page, though it’s a terrible one in our story—stained with our regret, dog-eared by our pain. To the two of us, Simone is everything. It’s the common ground we lost sight of on our battlefield. Neither of us speak, but at our daughter’s side, we broker a silent détente.
The door opens behind us, and Dr. Packer enters. All the times she told us to be careful, told us Simone wasn’t doing well, told us it wasn’t about us, twist through my memory. When I look into the therapist’s eyes, I don’t find judgement or censure. Only kindness and concern, but I don’t need her to condemn me.
I can do that to myself.
42
Lotus
“Kenan’s here,” Yari says from my bedroom door. “You sure about this?”
I stare unseeingly at the interview notes for next week’s gLO Up podcast. I’m not sure I’m ready to do what needs to be done. I may not be strong enough.
“Yeah.” I stand and walk past her. “It’s the right thing to do.”
“Maybe not. Maybe you could—”
“I know what I’m doing, Ri.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to meet Pedro for dinner,” she says. “But if you need me to stay—”
“No, go. I’m good.” I force a smile and head toward the living room. She slips out and I brace myself for the conversation ahead.
As soon as I see him, I want to dash back to my bedroom and hide under the covers. I can’t do this. Who am I kidding? He’s magnificent. It’s not just the regal, raw-boned face, or the brutal beauty of his big body. The compelling sexuality. It’s the way those austere lines soften for me. Only for me. The love that blazes in his eyes. Only for me.
“Hey.” He stands from the couch and brackets my waist with his hands. I duck my head, avoiding his kiss. He stiffens and peers down at me, rubbing his hands over my arms.
“What’s wrong?” He cups my face, tracing my mouth with his thumb.
“Um, Kenan,” I start, then falter. My resolve, so steely and set before he came, wavers, melts with him standing so close. He burns right through it without even trying. He’s just standing here, being him, loving me. How do I turn away the man I love more than anything in this world?