He nudges my hand away and scoops his arms around my ass, pulling me closer. When I’m right where he wants with my head on his chest and his lips against my ear, he starts. The words trickle out with a painful strain.
“When I’m a father to my son, I pray that I’ll never give the world more than I give him. I pray that I never leave my wife to teach my son about the ugly ass ways of the world because I’m too busy teaching him he can’t stop shooting a ball until his arms cramp. I pray that I never distort my wife’s idea of what a perfect birthday is for her and I pray that when it’s time to lay her to rest that I’m not selfish enough to keep the rest of the world from mourning her death because I didn’t spend enough time with her when she was alive.”
I sigh against him, trying to imagine him as a father and husband. It’s easy to do, but hard for me to understand the stupid man-shit Coach Williams did to Angie.
“How many did he miss?”
“Enough.” He grips me harder. “Enough for me to believe he doesn’t deserve to feel as shitty as I do today. He should treat this birthday like he did the other ones.”
The tiny gusts of wind brush against my arms and settle between us while I try to think of the right things to say even though Mama says that’s the worst thing to do because people do it to her all the time.
“It’s kinda like ripping off a bandaid,” I blurt, trying to inhale each sniffle he sneaks out. “Right now it’s that little corner piece you keep picking at. It hurts so bad because you feel each hair that it yanks off your skin so you push it little by little. It stings, but you want it off so you keep torturing yourself until finally it’s the end, and it’s hanging off that last piece of hair. So you say ‘fuck it,’ and yank it off but at the end of all that, the cut not even healed because you was too impatient but it’s okay because you giving it air—letting it soak up the sun and heal without hiding. I’ll help you peel that little corner piece off today. No more torturing yourself alone.”
I don’t know what’s supposed to come after I bare my ugly thoughts like Mama said I should. Should we kiss now? Should he tell me thank you?
He chokes out quiet gasps of air.
I think I made it worse.
Tears well up along the inner corners of my eyes until I hear his raspy voice.
“When do we get to the ‘fuck it’ part?”
“I don’t know, but we not in a rush so don’t worry about that right now. We do it little by little, remember?”
He nods, sucking up another breath until his phone vibrates again.
He swipes it from the couch, and I feel where he’s going.
“Don’t!” I catch his arm midair, peeling the phone from his fingers. “Don’t do that.”
Even throughout our tussle, Coach Williams won’t let up—hanging up and calling right back.
“Well, handle it then.” He lets me take it and then pushes his empty glass toward me. “Handle that and come back so I can have you.”
I fumble with the glass and the phone while pushing up from his lap.
I guess this is what comes after I bare my ugly thoughts. None of it is as easy as Mama made it seem.
I don’t answer the phone until I step inside and pull the doors behind me.
“Junior...” Coach Williams croaks out as soon as I answer. “Don’t do nothing stupid today.”
The phone dangles from my hand while I look around Ace’s condo without that blur of anticipation covering my eyes. I see everything that I couldn’t when I first got here. Balloons, a cake box, and a bundle of shopping bags on the island, but what’s next to it is worse.
“I know it’s you that took Angie’s key from the console in my truck. I’m downstairs. Open up right now.” He huffs into the phone. “Junior! Talk to m—”
“Coach Williams?” I mutter, staring at another half-empty liquor bottle next to the shopping bags.
“Babygirl? Tha—that’s you?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“You up there with Junior?”
“I am.” I nod, walking into the kitchen. “I—I’m here.”
We’re both stuttering all over the place while I shove the faucet on and stick Ace’s glass under it.
