I’m quiet because I know the right answers, and I can’t make myself say them. My rage needs an outlet, and I don’t know one more deserving than Caleb.
I want my dad.
The thought comes from nowhere and doesn’t even make sense. Who even knows if he’d have the right words to say. Despite having so little time with him, he always comes to mind in trouble or triumph. It strikes me how important a father is, and Caleb, that sorry, degenerate asshole, is Sarai’s.
He can’t have any part of her. He can’t be in her life. He can’t touch her.
“Okay.” I nod at Deck to let him know my head is in the game. “I got it. You talk to the team. I’ll call Iris. I need to get her out of there.”
“Car’s on the way,” Deck says.
“What?” I do a double-take. “What car?”
“Already got a car on the way to her house ready to take her to the airport. Team plane will take her and Sarai wherever you say.”
My shoulders slump with gratitude and a tiny measure of relief. I don’t have my dad, but I do have Deck.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “God, thanks, Deck, but redirect the car. She and Sarai are at my place. She was cooking dinner for us there.”
I pause, dreading the call I need to make.
“She’s been so happy, Deck,” I say. “We’ve been so happy, and now this shit—”
“This shit will pass.” He starts toward the elevator and says over his shoulder, “Call your girl so we can take care of her.”
Take care of her.
I didn’t do that. I let her down. How did I miss this?
Was he beating her when I saw her at the All-Star Game? I know I didn’t see her often then, but from the first night we met, I’ve always felt so connected to her. How could I not have known? Why would she not tell me?
It doesn’t matter. I know now, and she needs me more than ever.
Iris
“Weather delay?”I look at the food in various stages of preparation in August’s kitchen, a veritable Louisiana feast. Etouffe, shrimp, beans and rice, and bread pudding. MiMi would be proud.
“It’s okay,” I tell August, my phone pressed between my shoulder and ear as I measure whiskey sauce for the bread pudding. “The food will keep. It’ll be here tomorrow. Youwillbe home tomorrow, right?” Forget the food. I just miss him.
“You got me all Lou Rawls over here,” I joke, waiting for him to laugh back.
There’s just silence on the other end.
“‘You’re Gonna Miss My Loving’?” I sing a little part of it . . . badly. “Remember?”
“Yeah, I . . . I remember,” August finally says, his voice sounding as if it’s passing through a cheese grater. “Babe, there’s something I need to tell you. We don’t have much time.”
I tilt my head up to hold the phone properly. “Don’t have much time? Why?” I ask. “August, you sound weird. What’s going on?”
“Decker came to me a few minutes ago and told me . . .” He clears his throat. “He told me that Avery received a file at work today.”
“Avery, his girlfriend? The sports anchor?”
“Yeah. It was a file about . . . baby, it was a file about you.”
I drop the measuring cup, and shards of glass litter the floor.
“A file?” My breath is choppy. Blood surges in my veins like the Mississippi primed to overflow. “What kind of file?”
