Page 50 of Ravaged
Unaware, she leads me out of her foyer into the living room that flows into her dining room and kitchen. The open floor plan providesan unobstructed view of the main floor and up to the loft that she uses for a home office. I love my house and the one I bought Mom. Yet Miriam’s, with her cozy two bedrooms with balconies off of each one, two bathrooms, and a small family room downstairs isher. Quirky and beautiful with its eclectic yet classy decor, her townhome has been my haven before. A place where I can escape the oftentimes sticky trappings and expectations of the fame and celebrity that come with my career.
Miriam has become my safe space.
Her house. Her house has become my safe space.
It’s amazing how I can still cling to denial when moments ago I clung to her.
She guides me to the couch and, after we sit facing each other, waits. And it’s that patient silence that allows me to talk. Miriam doesn’t interrupt, just listens as I tell her about my visit with Mom and the phone call from my father. This is my friend, the woman who slept on the other end of my bed when I was first injured in case I needed something in the middle of the night or just to ... be there. So I wouldn’t be alone. Or afraid. I hadn’t even needed to say anything; she just stayed.
That’s Miriam.
And without conscious thought, that’s why I drove over here to her. For this.
“What’re you going to do?” she quietly asks when I finish talking, and a silence settles between us. “Or have you decided yet?”
I prop my elbows on my thighs and, head bowed, stare at my hands. “I don’t know. Mom—she’s leaving the decision up to me. But she wants me to meet up with him, to at least find closure with him. She believes I need it.”
“And you?” Miriam murmurs. “Do you believe you need it?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “What is fucking closure? To me, when he left and didn’t come back the first time Mom had to take on a second job to make rent, that was the door closing. Or when she pawned my grandfather’s coin collection—the only thing she had left of his—so Icould pay all of my class dues my senior year of high school. That’s a buzzword that doesn’t mean much to me. But Mom ...”
“She feels guilty that you missed out. Even though it wasn’t her fault; she didn’t make your father abandon his family. But she chose him as your father, and she feels responsibility for that. And that because she made that wrong choice, your life was affected. You went without. So she wants to give you this.”
“Yeah,” I rasp. “And if I don’t want it?”
“Then don’t take it. But ...” Her hand slides into my line of vision, and it rests on my thigh. The slight weight of it singes me, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find a scorch mark there. “What’re you afraid of, Jordan?”
The question jerks my attention from the brand of her palm, and I go still, meeting her gaze. The denial loiters on my tongue, but looking into those eyes is akin to being hooked up to a lie detector.
“What if ...” I pause, lick my suddenly dry lips. “What if I sit down and talk to him and he admits why he left? And it’s me. I’m the reason. Or he comes clean about why he tracked me down ten years ago? Because I was drafted, and I finally had something to offer him. I was finally worth something.”
Her fingers curl, the tips digging into the muscle of my thigh. After a few seconds, they slowly straighten, as if she deliberately relaxed them.
“What?” I murmur. “No ‘That’s bullshit’?”
“No, because you don’t need me to tell you that. You know it.”
I shove to my feet, restless. Needing to burn off the frenetic energy crackling through me, I pace across her living room to the dining room, then retrace my steps to the window behind her couch. Pressing a fist to the wall above it, I stare out at the sidewalk separating her unit from the one across the common area, not really seeing it.
Instead, a reel of the last few years of my life runs past my eyes. The games, the press, the parties, the women, the fans ... all of it. And I can’t agree with her. It’s not bullshit.
“I know what I look like,” I say to the window, to the streetlamp that casts shadows over the walkway and her neighbor’s dark porch. “And even if I’d never picked up a ball, I might’ve still been popular or had my share of women because of this.” I flick a hand in front of my face. “But the fact is I did pick up a basketball. I did become one of the highest-rated players in high school and one of the most watched in college. I did enter the NBA. And all that money, celebrity, and connections make you hotter, more wanted, in demand. Not in spite of it, though. Because of it. And not just with strangers. With fathers too.”
A small hand settles on the middle of my back.
“I may not know what it is to have a fat NBA contract or women waiting outside my hotel or how it is to pop bottles in the VIP section—oh, wait. I am well acquainted with that last one, actually.” When I snort, she presses closer and aligns her side to mine, wedging under my arm and giving me no choice but to wrap it around her shoulders. “I do know about challenging parents, though. You’ve met ’em. They weren’t deadbeats by any stretch of the imagination; one can argue my mother was a little too overinvolved, but there were times I’ve wondered ... when I still wonder if maybe I wouldn’t have all of their attention if I didn’t have this IQ. Sometimes I don’t know if I would’ve been unconditionally loved for who I am instead of what I’m capable of.” She sighs. “I get it, Jordan. Or at least some of it. And I don’t have the answers, but one thing my parents have taught me? You can’t take on other people’s shit. We have enough of our own. If we carry theirs, too, we’ll buckle under the weight.”
The shadows creep a little farther along the sidewalk as we stand at the window, lost in our own thoughts but leaning on one another.
“How about coffee? Or water? I have wine, but I’m out of beer,” she says, shifting to the side and tipping her head back.
“Water.” I reach behind me and pull my phone out of my back pocket. “And I’ll order some food for dinner. That is, if you haven’t eaten yet.”
“Nope.” She wheels around and heads for her kitchen. “You know what I like.”
I do. “Sesame chicken. Got it.”
I head to the couch and lower to it, swiping my thumb over the screen. Just as I get ready to pull up the search engine, the corner of a tablet underneath a pillow catches my attention. Frowning, I edge it out from underneath, aware that I’m snooping but unable to stop myself.
