“Her forty-first?” He smiles, clawing his fingers through my braids. “She threw her only son a party on a mega-yacht in one of his favorite places. Even if he didn’t think he deserved it.”
“Why would you think you didn’t deserve it?”
“Because I couldn’t control it.” He swallows. “By then, her cancer was so bad that none of my elite combos worked anymore. So, the doctors put a feeding tube in her stomach.”
Cancer.
There’s that word I hate.
I try to force it out of my head, but I forgot Ace can read my mind sometimes.
Maybe he can see how my fist connected to Bryson’s cheek on our porch on the Tuesday Dr. Evanston told us Mama had a tumor in her colon. I still hear the way it rolled out of his mouth when the rest of us weren’t brave enough to mutter it.
“What ya’ll mean Mama got cancer?”he asked, frowning.
“It’s okay.” Ace pushes his lips to my temple. “I hate that word too, but it’s safe between me and you. You know your pilot is the only one that gets how ugly that word is.”
A hot, wet tear trickles down my face.
I reach for it, but his lips beat me. He’s not scary like I am, so he doesn’t hesitate to swipe his tongue through it and press his lips against my face afterward to soothe the skin it burned.
“C’mon...” he mutters. “Let me see what Angie got you this year.”
He laughs and I gurgle out a mix between a laugh and a sob because I never wanted to love on a lady whose presence I didn’t remembersobad. I never wanted to keep a self-proclaimed “flawed, fucked up person”sobad.
I move too slow, so he nudges my hand away and pulls apart the biggest bag.
“Cree always telling me that the best way to fight my candy addiction is to indulge in a lil’ retail therapy. I need to stop listening to her before I have us in that cardboard box for real.” He laughs, pulling out a purse. “I know you committed to the Rockets, but I don’t play for that teamorthe NBA. So I had to get you something else.”
He pulls out a purse.
It’s THE purse from thatEssencemagazine. The one Dough’s girlfriend had slinging from her shoulder, but she has all the swag to carry it and I don’t because I’ve been holding on to Marshall’s tattered dreams since I was twelve.
My mouth turns dry.
“Yet,” I choke out. “You don’t play in the NBA yet.”
He laughs, lifting my arm and sliding the bag’s strap on it. “I forgot you think you Cari Champion. Nobody wants me on their team, kid. Not even the Rockets.”
It feels like the night of the gala again.
“I still want you to carry the backpack, but I saw this and thought about my lil’ lady. Carry it on your next date, that way niggas know if they act up...” He pulls open the leather flap, pulling out a card like the one in my wristlet, but this one has my name stamped at the bottom. “You got your own shit.”
Our fingers glide across my name together until he reaches out and squeezes my chin at the bottom.
“You got one more. Pull it out.”
I stick my hand back in the shopping bag and pull out a folder with Jazmine’s card stapled to the front.
“‘Comfort Care Private Providers,’” I read to myself, dragging my eyes over the glossy folder.
“If you ever need to breathe… or if you ever feel like it’s too much—Jazmine’s ready. She took the best care of Mom when I couldn’t,” he mutters, tugging one of my braids dangling in my face.
“Ason... I—I can’t afford this.”
“Stop it.” He shakes his head. “It’s on me… it’s always on me, baby. Don’t you ever forget that.”
I fold my lips under my teeth, staring at my new shiny unlimited get out of jail free card that didn’t have any conditions attached to it.
