Coach Williams fumbles with his cellphone and grabs my limp wrist, tugging it up to look at my dress.
The possibility of coming face to face with him crossed my mind back at Ace’s, but I didn’t think it’d happen so soon. He sounds and looks a lot different up close. His bald head is shinier and his brown skin is deeper. There are moles around his eyes that I can’t see when I watch him on TV.
He whistles, glancing at the clutch Ace carried for me while I struggled through his condo in the heels Cree shoved on my feet. Eventually she decided it was best I put on a pair of Jordans that she pulled from her suitcase before she left for the airport.
“Well, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes, chocolate drop.”
“Thanks.” I shrink into Ace’s side as he lets go of my hand.
He’s talking to me like we know each other, but that’s how it always was growing up. Mama’s friends she ain’t seen since she was pregnant with me, fussing over how much I grew up when they only ever seen me on her Facebook page, but there’s a flicker in Coach Williams’ eyes. It’s like hehadseen me as a baby and the nicknames he keeps dropping are names he’s called me before.
He leans forward to look at Ace as Gus eases away from the curb and into the congested Friday night traffic. “I thought we talked about this, but it’s only seven-thirty and it seems like you already got your mind made up about how tonight will go.”
I gulp like he’s talking to me and try to catch Gus’ eyes in the rearview mirror like I did on the way to Ace’s, but he’s staring ahead like their words are background noise.
Ace swipes a finger across his nose and stares out the window.
I can’t focus on what Coach Williams said because I’m too busy trying to remember the last time I heard Ace’s voice. Somehow, it vanished on the way downstairs. I think I heard it last on the elevator ride down to Gus’ idling truck.
“Perfect,”he said, kneading my stomach as the elevator glided to the first floor.“Live it up tonight, kid.”
I don’t see how I can when his daddy’s grilling him while the air in the truck stifles his voice. He even left his easygoing smile with Cree.
“Yeah… a’ight,” he says.
There it is—his voice with all of Los Angeles embedded in the words.
“You gon' ‘yeah, a’ight’ yourself into an early grave one of these days.” Coach Williams looks back at his phone. “Addiction is selfish. I ain’t raise a selfish man.”
Ace drops his head against the headrest and stares at the back of Gus’ head.
He swipes his hand across his sagging eyes this time, and the open cuff links on his arm scrape against his cheek.
“Angie would hate this for you. Obsessing over news reports and expensive tequila didn’t fix anything back then and it won’t now.”
Ace flings his head up with wild, red eyes. “Nigga, fu—”
“Your cuff links,” I blurt, gripping his hot wrist. “I forgot to fix ‘em before we left.”
Hot, messy, bubbling family drama floats throughout the truck, but Gus just keeps driving.
I yank Ace’s arm into my stomach and fumble over the cuff links like Cree did in his kitchen. My heart drums against my chest. It’s so quiet I think Gus can hear it beating because he turns up the radio to make sure the soft jazz drowns it out.
My eyes flutter up and slam into Ace’s face as I finger the cufflink. I feel Coach Williams’ hard stare and all the things I can imagine a daddy would say to a son that almost uttered those nasty words out loud. He keeps quiet though.
“Like this, right?” I mutter, pushing the small end of the link through the first hole in his shirt.
He nods, pulling his bottom lip under his teeth.
I try to be as gentle as Cree, even though something so tedious doesn’t need gentleness. I pull his arm closer into my stomach, praying he feels the butterflies stroking my insides. It wouldn’t shock me if he did because he’s seen so much of me—much more than any boy ever had. The way he keeps staring at my fingers fumble over Dior cufflinks makes me want to show him the rest of me he didn’t see because Cree was right. I had to take care of him tonight because Coach Williams can’t see how fast he’s crashing into Earth alone.
The jazz lowers to a soft hum.
“We’re ‘bout two minutes away from de Hilton Americas, Phat,” Gus says, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror with a smile. “Yuh nearly done?”
* * *
Rich people play make believea lot.
