Hook Shot (Hoops #3)(2)
At MiMi’s words, a chill descends in the summer air.
“I’m here to lay a stone on the side of hell. As he begins his journey, I send him on with these words.”
Her eyes open, and she slowly turns her head to look at me, and it’s exactly as she said. I feel the power in my veins. And her words, I feel them on my tongue, and we say them in shocking simultaneity.
“No peace,” we say together.
In the years to come, I would ask myself many times if I really believed we consigned Ron to hell that day. Like so many things I gleaned from MiMi, I have no explanation. I only know that once our words were spoken, that rainbow, the multi-colored promising path from Heaven to Earth, was nowhere to be found.
“Wild women are an unexplainable spark of life. They ooze freedom and seek awareness, they belong to nobody but themselves . . .
she'll allow you into her chaos, but she'll also show you her magic.”
— Nikki Rowe, Once a Girl, Now a Woman
1
Lotus
They say if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. New York City is a beautiful bitch dipped in glitter, giving you the finger while walking the runway in her Louboutins. The best, brightest, and beastliest grind here.
When I moved from Atlanta to New York two years ago, it felt like I was embarking on an improbable adventure to an open frontier. I was like that Pioneer Woman on television, but instead of churning my own butter, I made clothes from scratch. My bare necessities were three garbage bags stuffed with all my belongings, my great-grandmother’s sewing machine, and a knock-off Louis Vuitton Neverfull bag. I fancied myself Carrie Bradshaw. The girls eating lunch with me in Bryant Park right now? They’re my Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha, all rolled into two.
“So I’ve got some news,” Billie says, her eyes darting between me and my roommate, Yari. “Paul’s getting a divorce.”
I give something dark in my grilled chicken salad an investigative poke to make sure it doesn’t move, but otherwise don’t respond. Yari, looking inappropriately unimpressed, slurps the last of her Pellegrino through a straw.
“Uh, bitches . . .” Billie says, disappointment darkening her green eyes. The flush climbing her cheeks is embarrassment, anger, or ninety-five degrees of New York summer. Either way, her temperature is rising.
“Oh, sorry. That’s great,” I finally say, not bothering to inject much enthusiasm or faith into my words.
“Doesn’t he get a divorce like every month?” Yari asks, fake curiosity on her face. “Seems like he decides to get one every time you give him a blow job.”
If anything, Wilhelmina Claybourne, Billie to her friends, of which we are the closest, blushes even redder.
“No, he doesn’t,” Billie replies, suddenly preoccupied with the turkey roll on her Styrofoam plate.
“Were you or were you not balls-to-jaws last night?” Yari’s eyes are serious, but her lips twitch at the corners.
“I don’t see what that has to do with any—”
“Balls to jaws. I rest my case.” Yari bangs her water on the table like a gavel. “I think it’s sad that I understand Paul better than you and his wife do.”
“It’s not a real marriage,” Billie protests weakly.
“That must be why he never gets a real divorce.” I stand and gesture for them to do the same. “Come on. We need to get back to work or we’ll be late for the meeting.”
The green umbrella covering our table sheltered us from some of the unrelenting sunshine, but as soon as we toss our trash and start walking the few blocks to our office, it beats on our heads.
“They don’t even sleep together,” Billie tries again.
“Why would he need to sleep with his wife when he’s fucking you?” I ask, keeping my tone nonchalant. I actually get pissed as hell every time we have this revolving door of a conversation.
“Forget I brought it up.” Billie sighs, walking between us with her eyes trained forward.
“I’m sorry, Bill, but you’re having an affair with another woman’s husband,” Yari says, taking the elastic band from her wrist and pulling her long, dark hair into a messy bun. “This is the circle of trust and truth, and we’re your best friends. If we don’t call you on your ratchet ways, who will?”
Billie looks over at me, waiting for me to weigh in. Like she doesn’t already know where I stand.
“She’s right,” I say. “You’re thinking with your heart and your vagina.”
“Gimme a break. You like sex more than Yari and me combined,” Billie fires back.
I don’t unleash on her because I know we’re riding her hard, and she needs to score a point. “I actually think I’m done with dick for a while,” I say a little too casually.
My words create a tiny cone of stunned silence even as the frenetic urban soundtrack continues playing around us.
“Sorry.” Yari bangs an imaginary hearing aid. “This damn thing doesn’t always pick up bullshit. What’d you say?”
The three of us laugh, but I sober with each step that takes us closer to the design studio where we work in the Garment District.