Phat blows out a quiet strawberry. “Annoying. Sometimes I watch it on mute so I can see his face without their corny ass voices. He looks so good in 4K.”
Chelsea snickers. “Granny said he looked sharp in his suit last week.”
“Duh. I picked it out. Cree wanted him to wear a black pinstriped suit. Marcus ain’t never wore black to court.”
“Oh-kay,Miranda Priestly.”
They giggle together and force me to peek from under the blanket.
My baby isn’t a baby anymore. She wears dainty La Perla pajamas to bed and Mom’s silk scarves that she found in my nightstand one day, around her braids. Thanks to Cree, she has personal shoppers at Mom’s favorite places who she gossips with more than she shops from. She’s met The Dream twice, likes to golf with Pops because I don’t, and thinks we have to make love before every game, no matter how much shit Pops crams on my schedule.
She stares up at the TV with a mountain of pillows behind her back as if catching the six o’clock Saturday morning news is normal for a college aged girl.
“Is he gonna let you go to court with him next week since it’s the last day?”
She purses her lips and rolls her eyes while shrugging. “No.”
I smile.
Chelsea wants to know everything that happens in our house—even delicate things like my irrational fear of Phat being in the same building as Cheyenne.
Cheyenne’s name doesn’t taste bitter when I say it anymore. Instead, it feels like a swarm of butterflies fluttering through my throat and out of my mouth because Phat’s granny told me that butterflies symbolized rebirth while dabbing drops of cinnamon smelling oil in the loafers I wear to court every week. Phat picked those out too and I’m not allowed to wear a different pair, no matter how much Cree begs her.
“Did you ask if you could—”
“No, and I’m not, so stop suggesting I do.”
“Dang, okay. What does he think’s gonna happen? You gonna jump her in the courtroom or something? Her prissy mama gon' curse you out for blowing up their spot?”
No. Something worse will happen.
“Have I ever jumped on anybody?”
“No—just Bry, but he doesn’t count. He deserved it.” Chelsea snickers. “Did you see him and Paris on Insta? That’s my line sister and I love her to death, but you know she’s a lil’...touched. I tried to tell her he had a whole roster but she won’t believe it. Ever since the team started winning, he thinks he’s a God or something knowing good and well he be riding that bench.”
Phat’s cheek lifts, and she curls up on her side. “Nah... I ain’t see it.”
“Are you on another husband-fueled social media cleanse?”
“Maybe.”
Chelsea can’t wrap her hyperactive brain around the things I do to maintain Phat’s sanity because the world is obsessed with us, just like Blake Harvey predicted before him and his 911 left town. There’re social media fan pages dedicated to us and some just for her. They post our every move, dissect her outfits, claim me even though they don’t know me, and sometimes they lie. When I decide our house is on a social media cleanse, Chelsea says I’m acting like an “overbearing husband” because Phat won’t tell her she loves when I shut Planet Ace down.
“I told you, you could log into mine to lurk—”
I push my hand from underneath the blanket and grab the phone from Phat’s loose grip.
“Aren’t you supposed to be volunteering with your line sisters at the food bank before you meet us at the clinic?” I ask, pushing the blanket off and smiling at her braces filling up the screen.
“Dang, Phat. You could’ve said something.” Red creeps along her cheeks. “My bad, Ace. I ain’t know you were back already. How was the weather in Cali?”
She scratches at the pink scarf around her head and tries to control her wide eyes. It’s the same expression she had when she caught me with my lips on Phat’s outside CeCe’s hospital room.
“I didn’t have time to feel it. Phat don’t let me.”
“Hmm... I bet.” She smirks.
I didn’t care about the calm breeze blowing through the palm trees or hitting up Roscoe’s before I hopped on Pops’ jet. As soon as court let out, her voice was the first thing I wanted and got while I loosened my tie.
