Page 83 of Lovely War
When he walks into the bedroom, I pretend to be asleep. He tries to be quiet as he opens and closes drawers and fumbles to find the outlet in the dark so he can plug in his phone charger. The clean scent of his soap envelops me as he crawls into bed with wet hair and wraps a hand around my waist, tucking himself against me as I lie on my side. He presses a kiss to the back of my shoulder and murmurs, “Good night.”
He likes my shoulders, he’s told me that. “And you haven’t even seen me in tank top season,” I responded once, and he laughed.
Maybe he never will.
This will all be over soon. There’s that thought again. And then I can’t help it, I’m overwhelmed by a need to be close to him. I arch back without saying anything and he makes a little groaning noise. He tries to turn my body toward his and I shake my head. “No, like this.” The sex is slow and sleepy, the kind that feels like home. I squeeze his hand when I come and don’t let go until he collapses next to me.
The next day is Sunday, but at this point in the season that means nothing. I spend the day clinging to my computerlike a buoy in the ocean. I have a vision for the hype video. It’s been crystallizing in my mind for days. I get a headache when I’ve been imagining a video in my head for too long and need to bring it to life, like mental constipation. I’m grateful for it today. It’s a relief, to have this thing to shape.
Now that the Final Four is here, all the Philly celebrities are showing up for us. Quinta BrunsonandTina Fey are narrating the video together. They’ll be talking about teamwork and the bond forged by working toward a common goal. I’m using clips of the guys helping each other up after taking charges and talking each other down when they get flustered. Instead of the most impressive shots from our last game, I’m choosing plays that show them working together: a series of crisp passes, a well-executed pick and roll.
Doing this work is the closest I ever get to understanding this game. Why it has such a hold on so many people. It’s the closest I ever get to understanding myself.
I love basketball because it’s about the team as a unit as much as it’s about individual stars. I love it because it’s fast, because the momentum can shift before you realize it’s happening, because it feels like no outcome is impossible. I love basketball because I love drama, and it’s full of it. I fell in love with basketball because I wanted to share something with Dad.
All most of us want, I think, is to share something joyful with other people. Devotees suffer through the lows side by side to savor the hard-earned highs together. Casual supporters tune in for only the most thrilling moments of the biggest games because they don’t want to miss out on what everyone else is watching. No one is a basketball fan alone.
I’m using an amazing song by the Soul Rebels, a New Orleans–based brass band that combines jazz with hip-hop, and I mark a couple spots where I want to add shots of the city after we get there.
I need to leave the office by five to meet Mom and Kat. I hoped Ben would be in the film room, but he’s not. “Hey,” he says when I peek into his office. “What do you want to do for dinner?”
My phone rings. It’s a New York number. “Do you mind if I go back to my place for the night? Kat’s coming for a few hours. I haven’t seen her in so long, and once we get to New Orleans, things will be too hectic.”
“Sounds fun,” he says. “I’ll be here late anyway. Have a good time.”
“We will.” I try to smile but it comes out wrong, my mouth twitching weakly.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Just tired.”
I type out a text message to the New York number—to Lily—in the elevator. In our last conversation, I asked her whether the other person she’s interviewing for the story is an Arizona Tech student. She was quiet for a moment. “Annie, there isn’t just one other survivor. There aremany.”
My first thought was: Could I have prevented all those people from getting hurt by speaking up earlier? I know, logically, I’m not culpable for any of this, but the question still invades my mind. I’ve been logging a lot of phone sessions with my old therapist.
My second thought was: He did this to many people. Different people. There was no one trait that made him chooseme. I couldn’t have stopped him by being less drunk or more emotionally stable, or by responding to one of his texts in a slightly different way. It’s messed up, but in a way it’s a relief.
In the parking lot I find Cassie waiting for me in the second row, like we agreed. I initially thought Kat and Mom would be enough. But I realized I needed Cassie too, for both friendship and legal counsel.
Later, the three of them sit around the table in my apartment while I’m on the couch, a blanket over my lap. An empty pizza box sits in the middle of the table.
“You don’t have to do this,” Cassie says. “You’re in a good place right now. I want it to stay that way.”
“I’m not doing it because I have to,” I say. “I’m doing it because I want to.”
“Are you sure you want your name to be in it?” Kat asks.
I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Cassie says there’s a chance he’ll sue me for defamation, even though I have the text message screenshots. I know I need to go dark on social media. But I need people to know that despite everything, I found my way back to basketball. And if Ardwyn fires me for participating in the story, they need to know that too.
Mom crosses to the couch and rests a hand over mine. Her skin is soft. She’s used the same moisturizer for as long as I can remember, a fragrance-free drugstore brand with a lotiony smell I would know anywhere. A smell that makes me feel safe. “Either way, we’re proud of you and we love you.”
“I keep thinking it means this could be my last week here.” I wrap a piece of the blanket’s fringe around my finger. “Not to be dramatic about it. I know I haven’t been here long. I never even changed my driver’s license.”
“Oh, shit,” Kat says. “That reminds me. You got a jury duty notice in the mail, like, three months ago.”
“That’s great. After New Orleans I’ll head straight for jail.”
“You don’t know how everything’s going to work out,” Kat says, hugging her knees. “And either way, the next week is going to be every basketball dream you’ve ever had come true. Soak in every last bit of it. Make your fucking masterpiece. If this is the end, leave it all out there. Everything you have.”
