Hook Shot (Hoops #3)(42)

“It became my favorite, yeah. You ever read it?”

“We weren’t exactly religious. My father was a judge. Elected official, so we went to church whenever he was running for office. I know some Sunday school basics, but beyond that, no.”

“I think a lot of people just want to feel like there’s something else. Something beyond what life seems to be,” she says, running a fingertip around the rim of her glass.

“And you believe there is more than what life seems to be?”

“You know how scientists say we only use like ten percent of our brains?” she asks.

“Scientists don’t say that,” I correct. “It’s a myth, and it’s been debunked.”

“Are you always this much fun?”

My own quick laugh takes me by surprise. “You were about to make a point using your fake news. Don’t let me spoil all your fun with, you know, actual facts.”

“Well, the point I was trying to make before you butted in with all your facts and shit,” she says, rolling her eyes and then grinning, “is I think we only use a portion of this world—that we miss a lot of the things that are right in front of us, and we miss a lot of things we can’t see, but never sit still long enough to recognize.”

“Are you sure you’re only twenty-five? Now it doesn’t even feel right to call you PYT.”

Our chuckles and laughing eyes meet over the table. I block out the other diners, the clang of dishes, and the murmur of conversation. I focus on any breadcrumbs she might drop that could help me understand what shaped her.

“So should I call you Glad?” she asks cheekily.

“What? Hell, no.”

“But I heard people calling you that today at the park.”

“Yeah, but it’s like teammates, media.” I shake my head. “Some sports reporter said I was a warrior in the paint and that evolved to Gladiator, and a lot of people shorten it to Glad.”

“Everyone calls me Lo.”

“I think I’ll call you Button,” I say teasingly. “I mean, considering that’s what lead to our first kiss.”

I can’t know if a blush lurks under her copper-tinted cheeks, but her lashes sweep down and her pretty mouth curls at the corners.

“As in, cute as a button?” she asks. “I’m already height-challenged.”

“In the real world, we call that short.”

“At least I can walk into a restaurant without squatting.”

“You got me there,” I concede, chuckling. “Okay. How about if I only call you Button when it’s just the two of us? It’ll be our thing.”

“Do friends have ‘things’?” The look she levels over the rim of her glass asks a dozen other questions I want to answer.

“I think we’re the kind of friends who do what we want.”

Her brows arch, speculation in the mysterious dark eyes. “Oh, are we?”

This conversation has only deepened my attraction to Lotus, and I have no intention of turning back now.

“We will be,” I affirm, holding her stare.

If we’re two friends who do what we want, I know what I want. And the more I discover about Lotus, the less simple it seems.





12





Kenan





There’s no place like home.

Being here in Philly brings back so many memories, most of them connected to my dad. His markings on the wall for Kenya and me as we shot past our father and mother in height. Him reading his Sunday paper in the bright kitchen of our Society Hill townhouse. His sigh, half weariness, half relief when he’d walk through the front door after a long day in court. I feel his presence and hear his voice in every room.

Simone and I are unloading the groceries we bought from Whole Foods. Since my mother sprained her ankle and stayed home while we shopped, it was good time alone with my daughter. Simone opens the cabinet to the left of the stove to put away salt, pepper, and oregano.

“Spices to the right, Moni,” Mama says, glancing up from her crossword puzzle.

“Sorry, Grandma.” Simone smiles at my mom and moves to the other side. “Daddy, can we go to Geno’s?”

Her eyes brighten with rare excitement and possibly hunger for the famous cheesesteaks.

“Sure. We’ll swing by after we check on Faded with Uncle Lucius. Sound good?”

She nods and presses in to me, batting the longest lashes known to man, or at least known to this man. “And Federal Donuts, too?”

“Cheesesteaks and Federal?” My arteries just wept.

“Where else can I get fried chicken and donuts together?” she asks, like that’s a logical rationale. “We have to hit Federal while we’re here.”

“Kenan, now you know you did Federal for breakfast and Geno’s for lunch growing up,” Mama says, her smile wider than I’ve seen it in a long time. “He might eat all strict and vegan now, Moni, but believe me when I tell you he didn’t always.”

She’s right. Lucius and I ate and screwed our way through the city back in the day. Neither of my favorite ladies need to know about the trail of condoms I left behind.

“Mama, I told you I’m not vegan.” To my mother, you’re either eating cheesesteaks and donuts or you’re vegan. Apparently, there’s no middle ground. “Moni, let’s do cheesesteaks today and Federal tomorrow,” I suggest. “Sound good?”