by Kennedy Ryan
Iris rests her elbow on the bar, watching my profile for a moment before speaking. “No. I came back to say I’m sorry, August.” Her voice holds genuine remorse. “I should have told you about Caleb.”
“Yeah.” I turn toward her, hoping she feels at least an aftershock from the irritation rumbling inside me. “You should have.”
I’m being an asshole. I know it, but I can’t seem to stop even when I see the hurt accumulating in her eyes. I’m too drunk. Drunk on disappointment. On frustration. On anger. The half-empty bottle is merely my excuse to show it.
“When you first sat down at the bar last night, I thought maybe you were just a jerk.” Her eyes tease me from under her lashes.
I bark a laugh and take another swig from my bottle. “Thanks for that.”
“You know what I mean,” she says, loosening into a small smile. “Then once we started talking, there didn’t seem to be a good place to say, ‘Hey, I’m Caleb Bradley’s girlfriend.’” She traces a pattern on the bar, dipping her head until a fall of hair conceals much of her face. “After a while, it didn’t seem to matter anymore.”
If I had known she was Caleb’s girl, I wouldn’t have sat down. I would have kept walking out that door and made curfew in plenty of time. But she’s right. Even just a few minutes into our conversation, knowing about Caleb wouldn’t have made me leave. Not once we started. Not once I knew her.
“So . . . it’s serious?” I carefully set down my bottle of champagne. “I mean with him. You said it was serious. Like are you guys talking marriage or what?”
Knowing that she was serious about “some guy” was one thing. Knowing she’s serious about him is quite another. Caleb and I will move in the same circles, play in the same league, attend the same events. I may see her from time to time, wearing his ring and raising his kids. Maybe I’ve just had too much to drink, but my stomach turns.
She shrugs, dropping her eyes to the floor and shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “He wants to marry me, yeah. Someday.”
“And what do you want?” I ask, watching her closely.
“The same things I told you I wanted last night.” A frown crinkles her expression. “I want my career. I want the chance to prove myself.”
“Good.” I pick up my champagne. I need it. “Remember how I said guys
lose themselves in that world? The one Caleb and I enter in a few months?”
I wait for her to nod, to acknowledge that she remembers. “So do girls,” I say softly. “I would hate to see that happen to you, Iris.”
“Thank you.” She pushes her hair behind her ear, her lashes lowered. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I hope she does. A girl with that much spirit shouldn’t be crushed. A girl with that much character shouldn’t be swayed. I’m afraid a man like Caleb could do both.
Regret tinges her smile when she looks at me. I don’t know if it’s regret for not telling me about Caleb last night or if it’s regret for what we’ve lost before it has even begun. Whatever it is, she tucks it away behind her eyes and steps close to me.
“You’re a great player, August.” She tips up on her toes until her lips are at my ear. “But I think you’ll be an even greater man.”
Her words zip like an arrow to the very heart of everything I’ve wrestled with tonight, soothing my uncertainty about how I’ll handle the future. My hand slips to the small of her back, to the silky skin above her skirt. I want to pull her closer so badly, but she steps back until my hand falls away. Clearing her throat, she flashes me one last heart-stopping smile. “Bye, August.”
And with that, she turns and leaves the bar, retracing her steps from my box back to Caleb’s. My fingers seize around the gold-foiled bottle of champagne in unreasonable frustration. I met this girl last night. I shouldn’t feel this intensely so quickly. I shouldn’t feel like Caleb stole something that was never mine. I out-shot him tonight. I out-rebounded him. I flat out outplayed him. I’m the one who raised the trophy over my head. I won.
So why in God’s name do I feel like the loser?
4
Iris
When I FaceTimed with Lotus last night, showing her my outfit options for this interview, we agreed this pencil skirt was perfect. Now it feels too tight, like it’s highlighting all the assets on my body and overshadowing the ones on my resumé. And did this blouse cling to my breasts like this before? Did they grow overnight? I check the pins securing my hair into a knot at my neck. A light dusting of powder and a few touches of color are my only concessions to makeup. Anxiety knots the muscles of my stomach.
“You’ve got this,” I mutter under my breath. My GPA is high. Armed with several semesters’ worth of training and experience, plus letters of recommendation from all my professors, I should feel confident. This is the one, though. The opportunity on my list that I want more than all the rest.
I did my homework. Richter Sports is up and coming, and Jared Foster is one of their hungriest agents. Seeing his name on the interview list only ratcheted my nervousness.
I match the number on my interview guide to the one on the door. Today is a sports market job fair of sorts, and everyone who is anyone in the business is here looking for fresh, cheap talent. That’s me. I’ll work for nearly nothing. Just give me a chance, and I’ll make the most of it.
I knock, tensing while I wait for a response.
“Come in,” a deep voice calls beyond the door.
Inside, a broad-shouldered man, maybe in his early thirties, sits behind the too-clean desk taking up so much of the borrowed space. Something about his shock of blond hair and his ruggedly handsome face tug at my memory, but I can’t place him. I can’t think where we would have met.
“Hey.” His eyes slowly slide over me from top to toes, masculine appreciation quickly replaced with professional indifference. “On-air talent is up the hall, I believe.” He returns his attention to the papers in front of him, offering me a dismissive nod. “Close the door on your way out if you don’t mind.”
Gritting my teeth, I tighten my fingers around the folder holding my resumé. “I’m . . .” I clear my throat and start again. “I’m not here to audition for television. I’m here about the sports marketing internship.”
He lifts his head, assessing me with new eyes, and I hope seeing past the things on which men always seem to place a premium.
“Is that right?” The seat creaks when he tips it back. “My apologies. I’m Jared Foster, resident chauvinist douchebag.”
An involuntary smile quirks my lips at his roundabout apology for the presumption.
“And you are?” he asks, his firm lips yielding to a smile of his own.
“Iris DuPree.”
“Well, Iris DuPree.” He nods to the straight-backed chair across from him. “Let’s get started and see what you got.”
With every minute that passes and each question he poses, my nerves dissolve into the calm that comes with competence—with knowing you are fully capable of meeting the challenge ahead. I haven’t wasted the last four years. When I wasn’t working at the bookstore, I was studying the industry, working for free when need be, to learn the ropes and practice what the sports market experts preached. His demeanor goes from indulgent but skeptical, to shrewd and speculative. And finally, to impressed.
“So, Iris,” he says, meeting my eyes with more respect than when he assumed I was only good for a close-up, “I always end my interviews with this question. What’s a moment in sports that inspired you?”
I don’t even have to think about it. I’ve had to familiarize myself with most sports, but basketball is my first love.
“Ninety-seven NBA Finals,” I answer, relaxing my shoulders and unknotting my fingers. “Utah Jazz and Chicago Bulls.”
“Game five,” we say together, sharing a smile because he knows exactly where I’m going.
“Jordan was sick as a dog,” I say, “but somehow, he dug deep into reserves that most people don’t even have and willed that game
into the win column. It was Herculean.”
“Good one.” Jared nods approvingly. “And what did that say to you?”
“Let nothing hold you back or keep you down.” Conviction rings in my voice because those are lessons I had to learn growing up, a child of the Ninth Ward. A Katrina refugee from a city that had to reincarnate itself more than once. “Even when you think you’re defeated, dig deeper. Go harder. Press, because there is something worth it on the other side.”
“Good lesson.” Jared glances down at my resumé, lifting his eyebrows and nodding. “You’ve been busy. This all looks good.”
“Thank you.” I fight back a premature smile.
“If offered the opportunity,” Jared continues, “you realize it pays next to nothing, will take over your entire life, and requires you to relocate to Chicago.”
The money, or lack of, doesn’t matter. I’ve learned to live with less than most. Hard work has never scared me.
Caleb’s face flashes through my mind, creased with disappointment if I make a decision before we know where he’ll be drafted. And for some reason, August’s face follows soon after. And his words, cautioning me not to lose myself in the world he and Caleb will enter soon. It’s been two weeks since the championship, but I’ve thought of him more than once, and his advice in my head is exactly what I need to hear.
“I’m willing to do what it takes for this chance.” I infuse the words with confidence and meet his eyes without hesitation.
“Good.” He stands and walks around the desk, prompting me to stand, too. “We have a few more of these job fairs to do, and we won’t make selections for the next couple of months, but you definitely impressed me, Iris. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you.” I force myself to breathe evenly, but my heart is sprinting. A job like this is exactly the kind of opportunity I need to launch my career in the business of sports.
Jared grabs my hand for a firm shake. “And, hey. I’m sorry again for starting on the wrong foot. Assuming you were on-air talent—”
“Nothing wrong with on-air talent,” I interject with a forgiving smile. “Some of the smartest people I know sit in front of the camera. I just don’t happen to be one of them.”
He releases my hand and walks over to the door. I’m following him when my stomach roils like an angry ocean. Nausea washes over me, so strong it takes my breath, makes my mouth water and dots perspiration across my skin. My eyes stretch when I feel my breakfast reversing, making its way up my throat. I part my lips, prepared to give a quick goodbye and make a hasty departure, but it’s too late. It’s sudden and inevitable. Everything in my stomach ejects from my mouth in a putrid stream.
And splatters all over Jared Foster.
5
Iris
“I can’t be.”
The words tumble past my numb lips. I stare at the urine-stained stick, predicting that in a few months I’ll be the last thing I want to be at this stage of my life—a mother.
“Yeah, well four positive pregnancy tests say you are,” Lotus replies from the screen turned to face me, her concern evident even over FaceTime. We live in the same city, but we’re on different campuses. With our hectic schedules, we FaceTime like we live in different countries.
“How’d this happen, Bo?”
“What do you mean?” With wobbly knees, I sit on the bed, careful not to disturb the laptop displaying Lo’s face, the only reassuring thing in this unexpected shit storm. “It happened the usual way.”
“I know, but the usual way for people with a shred of common sense involves condoms or shots or pills that keep this from happening.”
“The pills made me sick. The shots made my hair fall out, so Caleb used condoms.”
“Apparently not every time,” Lo mutters, eyebrows sky high.
“Yes, every time, Lo.” I swallow another wave of nausea, this one less to do with my pregnancy and more to do with the tough choices ahead of me. “We were always careful. We didn’t want to jeopardize our future plans.”
“You didn’t want to jeopardize your future plans,” Lotus says, doubt leaking into her voice. “This pregnancy means you might have to depend on Caleb more. It makes it harder for you to be independent and live apart from him. Maybe he was less careful than you thought.”
“No.” I shake my head in adamant denial. “And don’t you think I would have noticed if he skipped the condom? Caleb wouldn’t do that. He didn’t want me living somewhere else and working in another state, but he would never do this on purpose.”
“He wrapped it up?” Lo lifts a skeptical brow. “Every time?”
“Every time,” I say with confidence, because to even entertain what she’s suggesting would make Caleb a stranger to me—a manipulative person willing to sacrifice my future, my dreams for his wishes. And I can’t believe I’d be intimate with someone like that and never know. I can’t have been that wrong about him. It’s just not possible.
“What’re you gonna do about it?” Lo rests her chin in the heel of her hand and watches me steadily.
“I’ll talk to him, of course,” I tell Lo, glancing at my phone on the bed to check the time. “He’s coming over. We’ll talk and decide what to do together. I’ll figure it all out. This pregnancy won’t slow me down.”
The words ring hollow. It will change things. It has to impact my plans, of course, but I know I can make it work. I have to.
I sign off, promising to call Lotus once Caleb and I finish talking. We’ve both always been afraid of ending up like our mothers—depending on a man for everything, taking his scraps. This isn’t that. I know it, and I hope Lotus knows, but she still wants to make sure. And when I face Caleb on my doorstep, so do I.
When I tell him, his laugh booms in my small room. A wide smile crinkles his eyes and creases his lean cheeks.
“This is awesome.” He grabs me by the shoulders and dusts kisses all over my face. “Baby, this is the beginning of our future together.”
Or the end of the one I envisioned for myself, if I’m not careful.
I press my hands to his chest, carving out a small space of breathing room.
“It’s not awesome, Caleb,” I say softly, firmly. “It’s a problem. I’m about to start my career. I’ve been interviewing for positions and feel really good about my prospects. This is a major wrench.”
“Baby, you don’t have to work anymore.” Arrogance stamps his face. “You never really needed to. Even without an NBA contract, I can take care of you. You don’t need to worry about anything. Just move with me, and you and the baby will be taken care of.”
Taken care of.
That’s one thing I promised myself I’d never be. I remember my mother emerging from the bedroom at the back of our small apartment, a robe hastily tied over her nakedness. A near-stranger walked out after her, zipping his pants, tucking in his shirt, counting off bills for her waiting hand.
“But none of the positions I’m in the running for are in the places you’ll probably go,” I say firmly. “There’s one in New York, and I had a great interview today with Richter Sports. I think they may offer me a job with their Chicago office.”
A cloud darkens his expression.
“Chicago!” He levels a glare at me, the blue of his eyes going almost black. “The odds of me being drafted by Chicago are next to zero, Iris. How could you even consider it?”
“I considered it because it’s a great opportunity.” I step away from him altogether, escaping the anger vibrating off his body. “One I should take before I have a family and obligations. This is the time for us to risk and explore, and figure things out.”
“What’s there to figure out?” he demands. “I love you. You love me.”
I just blink at him. We’ve said those words, yes, but this relationship isn’t the filter for all my decisions, just like it can’t be the filter for all of his. Why can’t he see that both things are true? That I can love him, but not be ready for this? Not be ready to hitch my entire future to h
im? That I’m not sure, and that I shouldn’t have to be yet.
“We’re having a baby. We should be together,” he continues, apparently not concerned by my silence. “And you and my child will go with me to the city that drafts me. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”
“What about my dreams?” I watch his face for any sign that he would mourn my ambitions at all. That my hopes mean more to him than getting his way. “I don’t want the last four years of college, all my hard work, to go to waste.” I lick my lips nervously. “Let’s just weigh our options, Caleb. We have options.
“You don’t mean abortion?” Caleb goes still, and his eyes ice over. “Don’t even think about it.”
Would I? The space between theoretical and actual makes you consider things you never thought you would.
“No.” I shrug. “Not really. I don’t know, Caleb. This is just a lot.”
“I know.” He walks me to the bed, sitting down and pulling me onto his lap. “But this only accelerates the plan. You know I want to be with you, want to marry you. I want you with me when I’m drafted, and I want us to have a family. I’ve known this for a long time.”
How? How do you know?
The question rattles in my brain, my uncertainty butting up against his confidence. I care about Caleb. He wouldn’t have been my first, wouldn’t have gotten past the walls I used to protect myself if I didn’t care. But forever? Marriage? Children? Somehow, even as I stare into his dark blue eyes and lean into the gentle stroke of his hand in my hair, I have trouble seeing the rest of my life with him. And I shouldn’t have to see it right now.
“Caleb, I can have this baby even if we aren’t married. Even if we live in different states for a while. People do long-distance relationships all the time.”
“Are you not happy in our relationship?” Hurt creases his expression into a frown. “Am I missing something?”
I leave his lap to pace in front of the bed, fixing my eyes on the thin, cheap carpet. “It’s not that. I . . . we’re young. We have a lot of life ahead. We don’t have to chain ourselves—”