Page 115 of ClickBack

He kisses me once more before stepping onto the porch. I watch until the SUV pulls away, then go upstairs. The receipt for the silk is still in my drawer, folded around the return policy. I put it in the wastebasket and climb into bed wearing what I bought.

Chapter 20

Jarrett

I make nine from the same spot and miss the tenth long. The ball hits the back rim, comes off hard, and sends me farther than I want to go for the rebound. Across the gym, Graves looks up from his phone.

“Legs done?”

“Counting my shots now?”

“Somebody should. You keep starting over.”

I take the ball back to the wing. Thursday night, an empty gym, and I’m turning a workout I finished an hour ago into something else. My trainer would tell me to leave. Graves has already suggested it twice, once with words and once by standing at the door with the keys.

Cam has called four times. I listened to the first voicemail. San Antonio is still trying to find a way to make the deal work, Philly wants an answer that involves players nobody has agreed to give up, and the other conversations remain conversations. None of it needs me standing at a window waiting for my phone. I came here because at least I can decide where to put my feet.

Then I catch myself thinking about Giselle, and my feet stop mattering.

She had laughed at me last night when I asked about the dress. You’ll see Friday. I liked that she could give me some of Atlanta back without using it to start another argument. I liked leaving her house knowing when I would see her again. The other part of the night has stayed with me, too, her saying she learned to be useful so people would have something better to say about her.

I know what useful gets you. I don’t like that she had to learn it at sixteen.

I take another shot. Behind me, Graves says my name.

“What?”

He gets up and walks onto the court with his phone. I catch the rebound and wait. Usually he tells me whatever it is before he reaches me. This time he stops beside me and turns the screen around.

Giselle and me outside the rink in Atlanta. I’m holding her skates in one hand and her hand in the other. She is laughing up at me. I remember the exact moment, her telling me that nearly hitting a trash can was not an athletic recovery. Somebody got the light from the entrance behind us, the white boots against my shorts, her face clear.

I like the picture before I see the caption.

“Where’s this from?”

“Somebody who was there posted it over the weekend. Small account. A fan page picked it up tonight.”

The page wants to know whether I have a new woman. There is a question mark, which apparently saves people from having to know what they’re talking about. I scroll past jokes about her age, then past a comment that calls her somebody’s auntie.

“Don’t sit in those,” Graves says.

Then I see her name.

That’s Giselle. Cedar Mill, stand up.

I stop scrolling. Graves takes the ball from my other hand and sets it against the base of the bleachers.

“There’s more,” he says.

The next post has a photograph of her wearing a crown. She looks so young that I check the name again, though I know it is her. There is something familiar in how she holds her smile, working to keep it in place while somebody takes a picture. The caption calls her the first Black Laurel queen. Underneath, somebody asks whether she was the one who got pregnant.

Another person answers with Rae’s name.

I look up at Graves. “Who sent you this?”

“Tori. She wanted to know if you were still with me.”

I look back down. The comments have moved on without waiting for me. Giselle’s daughter. Her grandson. Her marriage. People putting a whole life together from whatever somebody else has typed, then calling it proof because they recognize a name.