I huff a laugh. “Lots of songs, actually.”
She inhales sharply, anticipation lighting her gaze. “I’ll burn you some.”
“In the age of handheld devices?” I joke, heat pricking the back of my neck because anything from her is a bad idea. “I’ll be fine, Sloane.”
She rakes me over with her gaze, gnawing on her bottom lip. “You sure?” It’s another genuine question, free of social conventions or politeness or what you should say. She looks at me, and I know she means it:am I sure I’ll be fine?
“Course,” I smirk, pushing back the unruly waves that’ve freed themselves from their pomade hold.
“Hmph,” she hums, those dimples deepening again beforeshe finally lets her gaze fall away from me. She crosses the hall without a goodbye, just puts a finger to those lips in a silent shush before whispering: “You never saw me.”
“Scouts honor,” I tell her, even though I was never a scout, we were always too poor for that, and I was never interested in wearing a vest with patches my mom would have to iron on. Her eyes tip backwards and, somehow, I think she knows that.
It’s always like this with her—separate, apart from everything else, even though I know it isn’t. That isolated connection is an illusion, a trick of my over active imagination. The mind can’t actually distinguish between reality and fiction, is the thing. So I feel the warmth of her attention long after she walks away, feel it in spite of the cool air that brushes past me as I walk out the building, just to take a lap. Get my thoughts together.
The fiction that is Sloane as an option, Sloane as a woman I could pursue without the devil on my shoulder, assaults me within seconds of stepping onto the sidewalk because a fire red Mustang convertible, oversized dice hanging from the mirror, is sloppily parked under the valet tent.
I walk past it, even though it looks so much like the one Luis sold when I was sixteen.
I keep walking, even though it reminds me of driving through the old orange groves with him.
I make it down the block and decide it wasn’t even real, because what are the odds?
I get back to the revolving door and then, when I see that it’s still standing there, I let myself get a glimpse of the license plate.
DELILAH
But of course I knew it was hers. God, I wish it wasn’t hers. I love that it’s hers when I shouldn’t love anything about her at all. I cut back through the front door, pretending not to hearGen cooing on Sloane’s shoulder at the end of the long hallway, shaking the smirks and the dimples and teasing and the look out of my mind, and head to the bar.
“Just a Jack and Coke.” I pluck the crumpled ten dollar bill from my wallet and slide it across the counter, only for a crisp one to lay itself right on top.
“Make it a Manhattan,” my father says, and I sniff, glancing in the opposite direction before looking at him. The gray at his temples would look distinguished if I didn’t know it was more likely stress induced from being a career liar than from genetics. His watch swallows his wrist, and his suit, a crass sort of maroon with black lapels, looks too new and is ugly.
“Didn’t know you were coming to this.” The bartender nudges my drink toward me, but I don’t take it.
“You’ll find, Andrew, that there’s a time to be hands off and a time to get those hands dirty. It’s that way with basketball, right?”
“No, actually. It’s not.” My mouth feels dry, and I almost take the glass and satisfy that urge.
“Well, you wouldn’t know, would you?” He knocks my shoulder, chuckling. “Not really a leader.” He gazes straight ahead, mouth twisting before he sips the drink he ordered for me.
I eye him from the side, nodding to myself before turning to him, standing a little taller. “You come here to insult me, or?”
“No,” he sighs, like he got away from himself for a second. “I came here to give to my favorite cause.”
Back tense, I fist my hand at my side, flexing it like it’ll calm the anxiety beginning to roil just beneath my skin. There’s this look my father gets right before he pulls the rug out from someone. I’ve only seen it a few times, when he’s been with aclient and I’ve arrived at the townhouse early. Right now, he’s giving it to me.
“The Lions?” I ask, stupidly. My molars grind.
My father’s mouth pulls into a tight grimace as he looks straight ahead. “You. But I just saw you making heart eyes at the Fielder girl. And I sure as hell don’t think you have a clue where William is. Do you?” His voice is a low murmur, the words carefully enunciated so that there’s no confusion, but soft enough that only I can hear him. It’s practiced. He’s practiced.
I swallow, cracking my neck. “He’s an adult. He can handle himself.”
“Then why the fuck do I pay you to do it?” He turns sharply, blinking at me furious. “You know, I haven’t had to worry about you. You do what you’re told. Not like Ian—never listened, not a day in his life. Not to me anyway. But when I found you, Andrew, I knew you’d be good. What happened?” Glenn’s eyes sadden, and I wonder, for a split second, if he might actually care. They slide into disgust not even a moment later. “Eye on the ball, son. You’re gonna let some girl distract you? Mess up all your hard work, and for what?” He cranes his head so he can look me right in the eye. “For what?”
My jaw flexes. “I’m not distracted.”
He studies me, some of his anger boiling off after a short inhale. “Good. Tell me about her.” Another drink makes its way across the bar, and this time, he makes sure I take it.
