OVERTIME
“I have been bent and broken,
but – I hope –
into a better shape.”
— Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
“Shitbag!”
I’m literally pulling my hair and grinding my teeth.
“Motherfucker, are you kidding me with this?”
I pace the floor and clench my fists at my side.
“Just . . .” I punch the air. “Ugggghhh.”
My Lakers are playing. And as usual, I’m at war with the refs.
“Grrrrr.” Another bad call.
I’m trying to keep my voice down. August is in his guest room reading to Sarai. We have these little “sleepovers” at his place from time to time, my concession since I haven’t decided to move into his condo yet. I’m especially keen for these semi-regular events at times like this when he’s coming off a long road trip and we haven’t seen him.
The Lakers score.
Yes!
Even though I’ve been a Lakers fan since I was a kid, and even though August knows that, I still feel a little disloyal. My Lakers did beat the Waves two days ago. I drove up to LA for the game and sat in the stands. I was torn, but I managed to sit on my hands whenever we—we, being the Lakers—scored. As competitive as August is, he gave me a “don’t talk to me” look after they lost the game.
I wore his Waves jersey proudly, number thirty-three.
But my panties were purple and gold.
The doorbell rings when the game goes to a commercial, and I turn off the TV in case August finishes before I get back to the bedroom.
I stare dumbly at the pizza delivery guy standing at the door.
“Pizza for DuPree?” the pimple-faced teenager asks.
“Um, I didn’t order pizza.” Would have been good, though.
He peers up at the number over the door and back to the delicious-smelling box of pizza, and then squints at a little slip of paper.
“Pineapple and pepperoni pizza and root beer?” he asks. “That’s not you?”
August.
“Oh, yeah. That is me.” I laugh and turn back toward the living room. “Let me grab my purse.”
“Already paid for.” He hands it over, offers a small salute, and leaves.
I lean against the door, holding the pizza in the palm of one hand, clutching the root beer in the other. August knows me so well—he remembers that I like pizza and root beer when the Lakers play.
He knows me well, and we have no more secrets. No more shadows or shame. There are obvious disadvantages to Andrew leaking that file, but I can’t deny the good it did. Yes, the darkest, hardest parts of my life were put on display for everyone to dissect and judge, but now I have nothing to hide.
And no one to hide my secrets from.
Caleb is dead. I’ve held onto my humanity enough not to take joy in it, but I can’t say I mourned him. Never has ‘survival of the fittest’ been truer. There’s no doubt in my mind that if Caleb had lived, I would have died. I almost did. His eyes were cruel until his last breath, and he tried to diminish me until the very end. And with him gone, it’s like my entire existence exhaled.
There wasn’t any question that it was self-defense. If the file released wasn’t damning enough, the head wound, marks on my neck, and bullet in my shoulder testified against Caleb. I answered all the questions the police had, but I really wanted to leave it at that and go on with our lives.
But it’s not that simple.
I’m in a relationship with one of the NBA’s rising stars, one who leads a very public life. Two of the league’s most popular players were ensnared in a “love triangle” that turned violent and tragic. One of them ends up dead, and the woman caught in the middle was holding the smoking gun. It was the juiciest basketball story in decades. In the locker room, after games, in interviews, reporters always found a way to bring up “the scandal.” It was awkward.
August was evasive, impatient, ill-tempered. And I was . . . not sure. Not sure I was ready to talk about the things that almost destroyed me—to talk about my life like it was some telenovela. Like some sensationalized soap opera with a fairytale beginning, a villainous prince, and a grisly end. And the last thing I wanted to be was the poster child for domestic abuse, not with the way our culture finds ways to blame the victims.
But none of that was the ultimate deciding factor in why I finally spoke. I spoke because maybe there’s some girl like me. Young. Vulnerable. Naïve. Flattered by his attention. Maybe she thinks his jealousy means he loves her more or that it’s cute. Does she realize that slowly, surely, she’s being cut off from her friends? Isolated from her family? Being molded into something she’s not? Into what he wants her to be?
The heart speaks in whispers, but sometimes by the time we listen, it’s too late. I learned that the hardest way. And maybe that girl can change her course before it’s too late.
That’s why I spoke.
I sat down with Avery Hughes one-on-one. She was thoughtful and compassionate, but she didn’t let me get away with telling only part of the story. And I didn’t want to tell it in sugar-coated half-measures. Once I decided to speak, I wanted to roar. Not just for all the women who might end up in a toxic relationship, but for those in one right now.
I get it. I know how real the fear is. That leaving doesn’t always mean getting away for good. That it just might cost you your children. That leaving just might cost you your life. I know the system fails us too many times, protecting rights the abuser shouldn’t have and offering us little shelter. I’m not recommending women kill their abusers. I just hate that our system leaves us with so many shitty options—difficult options that many survivors must negotiate even after leaving. Our choices are sometimes catch twenty-twos that catch us around the neck—that choke us and make difficult, dangerous situations more difficult and dangerous. Our laws don’t make common sense and don’t offer any real protection until the perpetrator’s done something to prove he’ll hurt you.
And sometimes by then it’s too late.
The pizza burns my hand through the cardboard box.
“Shoot!”
I shift the box, propping it against my chest and grabbing it by the edge. I drop off the pizza and root beer in the kitchen and wander down the hall. The closer I get to the guest room, the softer I tread. I love watching August and Sarai together. My daughter is one of those kids you think is adorably precocious when you first meet her. After about the fiftieth question and a few of her “sage” ponderings, most search frantically for an escape. Never August. He answers her fiftieth question with the same patient thoroughness that he did her first.
By the time I reach the door, she’s already asleep. My heart contracts at how beautiful she is, how peaceful. I’ve fought hard for that peace—to protect her from the violence that lived under the same roof we did the first year of her life. How many times did Caleb beat me, rape me with her just a wall away? And yet she hasn’t been touched by it. If there is one thing I got right, I hope it was preserving her innocence while he stripped mine away.
August stands and sets the book on her bedside table. He doesn’t otherwise move but stares down at her for long moments before bending to leave a kiss in her hair. My heart contracts again, harder, longer, watching him watching her. He loves her like his own. I know that. I also know he wants us here every night, all the time.
My beautiful prince in sweatpants.
His body has changed since I met him that night in a bar. He was leaner, lankier then. Playing in the NBA he has, by necessity, added more muscle, reduced his body fat to almost zero. The ridges of his abs, the chiseled line of his legs, and the cut of bicep where his shirt sleeve catches and strains prove it. All over, he’s harder and more defined.
So am I. Harder. Defined by all the things I’ve experienced and what it took to survive. I’ve been through a lot since I was a college senior on the verge of graduating. I’m not that bright-eyed girl in a bar whose biggest concern was bad calls by the refs. I’ve had a daughter. I’ve lived through hell. I’ve killed a man.
I will never be the same.
Some things imprint us so deeply, we can never return to what we were before. But would I want to? Sure, I’m more guarded, but I like to think I have more compassion because I’ve known true suffering, and I hurt when I see it in others. I may be more cynical, but I like to think I’m wiser, too.
When I told my story, some said I was a hero. I’m not. I’m just a woman who ended up in a bad relationship with a bad man and had to fight my way out of it. I did what I had to do to protect my daughter and to protect myself. That doesn’t make me special, but it does make me a survivor. It’s happening to women just like me and nothing like me all the time. To our neighbors, to our best friends, to our sisters. It’s happening behind closed doors, or even out in the open, documented in redacted police reports or in a million views on viral videos that we judge and poke at and debate.
Even when I shared my story, everyone had opinions. I should have left sooner. I should have pressed charges. Why didn’t I trust the system to “punish” him? Why didn’t I tell everyone? Was it really self-defense, or was it revenge?
If you’ve never had to fight for your life in your own home, if you’ve never had someone you thought loved you hurt you the most, then you don’t know. But I do. I know how it feels to wake up every day living in a nightmare and sleeping with a monster, and I told the world in my own words and on my own terms.
Maybe for women like me, after what we’ve lived through, what we almost died through, love is harder to come by. But it can come. August is living proof that it can come. Truly. Richly. After all I’ve been through, August is my reward.
When he sees me at the door, he startles a little, then grins and puts a finger to his lips, shushing me. He walks to the hall and closes the bedroom door.
“Don’t shush me,” I whisper-hiss with a smile.
“I don’t want you to wake her up.” He turns me by my shoulder and pops my bottom, making me squeak and jump a little. He urges me ahead of him down the hall. “I have plans for you.”
He walks behind me toward his bedroom, and I’d know his footfalls anywhere.
They say I’d follow you to the ends of the earth. When he pauses, they say I’ll wait until you’re ready. And he has. August has asked me to marry him three times in the last year, and every time I’ve said no. It has nothing to do with not trusting him, and everything to do with not trusting myself. I know that sounds weird and I can’t explain it, but these are the issues I work through in counseling.
“Plans?” I ask teasingly, turning to face him and walking backward. “What kind of plans, Mr. West?”
He gives me a gentle shove into his bedroom, closing and locking the door behind us. I’m immediately pressed into the door, crowded in the most delicious way by his big body. I’m crowded by his affection and pressed by his love. His hands, commanding and gentle, skim my sides and mold to my waist. He lifts my breasts with his thumbs. My breath hangs in my throat while I wait for a stroke across my nipples that never comes. He knows, damn him, grinning, his hands melting away. His fingers meet when he splays them across my back. He’s so much bigger. Someone standing behind him wouldn’t even see me on the other side of his broad shoulders. He’s a wall and a fortress. He’s twice my size, but I feel no fear. Only trust. Only sheltered.
“Road trips suck.” His chin, a sexy scruff of bristles, scrapes the curve of my neck and shoulder when he kisses me there. “I missed you.”
Cradling my head, he sinks his fingers into my hair and lowers his head to hover over my lips. For a few seconds, our breath mingles. We share the very air keeping us alive, and then our tongues touch, tease, and tangle. We torture each other with tiny licks and half-kisses until I need more, need to hold and clutch and grip him. I roam the hardness of his chest, caress his biceps, trace the strong sinew in his forearm, and search for his hands. I thread our fingers together, our palms fused by a connection as electric today as it was the night we met. He coaxes my off-the-shoulder sweatshirt completely off my shoulder, so my naked breast comes into view.
“Hmmmmm.” The hungry monosyllable rumbles in his chest, rattles behind his lips. He frees his hands to scoop under my arms and lift me until my feet leave the floor. The wet, velvety warmth of his mouth surrounding my breast, the tantalizing bite of teeth and suction at my nipple, leaves me boneless. I’m limp and suspended in the air while he drinks from me like a man dying of thirst.
“August.” My hips move reflexively, seeking friction, satisfaction. “Baby, come on.”
“What?” he mumbles around my breast, the vibration of the word tightening my nipples and causing my core to clench.
I lift and curl my legs around his waist, thrusting slowly, deliberately. I burrow my nose through the thick curls to whisper in his ear, “Fuck me.”
His mouth drifts to the other breast, swiping the areola lovingly with his tongue. With his hands sliding down to cup my ass, he walks us to the bed and lays me down gently. He stands there, watching me with the same protective reverence he watched my daughter, only there’s also lust in his eyes. Passion. Hunger.
Not releasing his gaze, I tug the sweatshirt over my head and work my arms free of the sleeves. My nipples peak in the cooler air, and he fixes his eyes there, a hard swallow bobbing his Adam’s apple.
I lift my hips an inch or so, just enough to hook my thumbs in my yoga pants and push them past my knees and over my toes. I toss them across the room and wait for his smile. He traces a finger over my purple and gold boy-short underwear.
“You little traitor,” he says with husky humor.
My reply is a throaty chuckle.
We both stop laughing when he grabs the panties at my hips and jerks them off, throwing them to join my discarded yoga pants in some corner. His face sobers, and there are embers in his eyes. I want to stoke them—to blow on them. To enflame him the way he burns through me, like gasoline in my veins. A blaze in my heart.
Slowly, I bring my knees up and dig my heels into the mattress, opening my legs wide. He bites his lip and presses me open more.
“God, Iris. Yes, baby. Show me.”
He palms my pussy. His huge hand covers it, possesses it. One long finger caresses me in the divide between the lips where I’m swollen and throbbing. The thickness of two fingers invades, presses, and hooks inside me. My back arches off the bed, straining against the pleasure. My hips thrust in time with his fingers fucking me. He’s a conductor, and my body sings for him, my cry of release a note sustained, held.
I close my eyes and bunch my hands at my sides, holding onto this perfect sensation for as long as I can. When I open my eyes, August is staring at me, and the look on his face brings tears to my eyes. To have someone look at me like that and to have someone feel the way he does—it’s the most humbling thing I’ve ever had. Every time he touches me, he restores my faith and reminds me what pure love feels like.
“I love watching you come,” he says, one finger tracing the sensitive skin inside my thigh.
“Why?” I catch his hand and pull him toward me until he’s up on the bed between my legs, and I move to my knees, facing him.
“You’re so vulnerable.” He tugs on a strand of my hair streaming around my arms and shoulders. “I love that you trust me with that, that you’re so unguarded.”
“That’s because when I’m with you, I’m not unguarded.” I kiss the back of his hand, blinking at tears. “You guard me. I know you’ll always protect me.”
“But I didn’t. I missed what was happening, what he was doing.” There’s a sheen of tears over his stormy eyes, gray skies and rain. “You’ve been through so much, Iris. You can protect yourself.”
“But when I’m with you, I know I don’t have to.” I lick my lips and taste my own tears, but now they taste like joy.
He traces a tiny scar on my hip that he probably never noticed before he knew about Caleb. The first time we made love after he found out, he asked about every little scar and nick he’d never thought twice about. But each scar told a story, and he wanted to know them all. He kissed all the places Caleb hurt me, and our lovemaking was my perfect revenge. Every soft, tender thing Caleb tried to deny me, I have with August.
“I wish . . .” August gulps, swallowing the emotion alive on his face. “I wish I could take it all away.”
I cup his chin and catch his eyes in the dim light. “We don’t get to take away the bad things, but it’s okay.” My smile is a work of triumph—a victory cry. “I survived them.”
I reach between us and wrap my hand around him, relishing his grunt and gasp, his groan of pleasure as I stroke him long and hard, up and down. “Can we make love now?”
August spears his fingers into my hair, resting his forehead against mine, his breath laboring more with every pull. “I love you, Iris. So much.
I nod, lick his neck, and suck at his collarbone, one hand steadily pumping him between us, the other reaching up to skim over his nipple with my fingertips. All his air expels in one extended breath. With a growl, he grabs my ass and pulls my legs over his knees. I lock my ankles at the small of his back while he brushes my hand away between us. I sink onto him and moan. With our chests flush, his answering groan vibrates between my breasts. He pistons inside me relentlessly.
“August, harder,” I beg, dizzy with pleasure.
With his lip between his teeth, his dark brows furrowed, he goes harder and deeper. He goes so deep he finds the remnants of my pain and soothes them. He goes so hard his love is an undeniable force that takes me by storm. There is room for nothing else. He takes up all the space, consumes my thoughts, and for a moment, remakes our memories so there’s only ever been him for me and only ever been me for him.
It is sublime.
“We should have eaten this while it was hot,” I say around a bite of not-quite-warm pizza, followed by a sip of tepid root beer.
“I wanted to eat you while you were hot,” August says, his grin cocky.
My laugh bounces off the kitchen walls. “Such a cornball.” I turn toward him on the high stools at the counter until our knees touch.
“And yet here you are.” He laughs, leaning over to brush our noses together in an Eskimo kiss.
“And yet here I am.” I roll my eyes and reach for the slice of untouched pizza on his plate. “You gonna eat that?”
He shakes his head and offers a wry smile. He only grabbed it to make me feel like I wasn’t eating alone. He’s deep in the season and eats like a Spartan solider.
“Thanks for this, by the way.” I pop a pineapple in my mouth. “You remembered.”
He runs a wide palm over my back, his touch warm through my silk robe. “Lakers means pizza and root beer. I told you I remember everything about you.” He lifts my hair and then watches it fall, a small frown pinching at his brows. “So, um, when I was reading to Sarai, she had a question tonight.”
“What’s new?” I laugh and sip my root beer, eyeing him over my bottle.
“Yeah, I know, right?” A tiny smile quirks his full lips, but his eyes are serious before he drops his gaze to the counter. “I was kind of thrown by this one, though.”
“What’d she ask?” I push my pizza away and give him my full attention.
“She asked if I was gonna be her new daddy.” He watches me from under long lashes, gauging my reaction.
I cough a little, less from the bit of pizza lodged in my throat, more from the unexpected turn of conversation. Sarai had a few questions about Caleb in the weeks following his death. She barely knew him, but that word “daddy” carries significance. She only knows the man who told her he was her daddy is gone. One day, I’ll have the hard job of the truth, but for now, she’s satisfied. Or I thought she was. I sip some root beer to make way for a reply.
“Oh. Wow.” I glance at him cautiously. “And what’d you say?”
He clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair. “I told her that I love her more than any daddy loves a little girl,” he says slowly, not looking at me for a second before very purposely looking me right in the eyes. “And that I love you more than any daddy loves any other mommy.”
The pizza may not be hot, but his words steam my heart.
“And I said that we’re already a family.” He takes both my hands between his. “And that one day, when the time is right, I’ll be her daddy and I’ll be mommy’s husband.”
I don’t know what to say for a moment, so I leave it to the quiet to absorb his perfect response, and then I speak.
“That was . . . ahem . . . a good answer,” I say, studying our joined hands. “I’m not surprised she asked, considering all that’s happened. Well, and now that we’re at your place so much, it inevitably raises more questions.”
“Our place.”
“What?” I look up with a frown.
“You said it’s my place, but it’s our place.”
“Yeah.” I wave a hand. “You know what I mean.”
“But you don’t know what I mean.” He smiles, cupping his palms around my shoulders. “I’m adding your name to the title of the condo, and when we move into a house, your name will be on that, too.”
Surprise immobilizes me, freezes me in place. Only I’m not cold. Warmth suffuses every cell of my body until I’m on fire under his hands.
“You don’t have to do that just to prove a point, August,” I finally manage to say.
“It’s not to prove a point. If there’s one thing I understand, it’s team, and you and me”—he draws a line in the air between us—“we’re a team, doing everything together. And when we do marry, I want to adopt Sarai.” He holds up a staying hand. “I know it’ll take some getting used to, but she’s always felt like mine, and I love her. I want things as legal with her and me as they will be for the two of us.”
This—what I’m feeling, what’s washing over my reservations and fears—this must be what the Mississippi feels at that very moment every thousand years when its course resets: that deltaic switch. That monumental chrysalis. My heart resets in an instant. Or maybe it’s happened in a series of patient, painstaking pivots over weeks, months. Maybe it started the moment August walked away from the greatest opportunity of his life . . . for me. When he took a chance on us. Maybe it started then, but his words show me right now.
“I know I’ve asked you to marry me many times, but—”
“Three,” I say, almost absently. I’m so involved with examining this new space I just stepped into. “You’ve asked me to marry you three times.”
“Yeah.” He grimace–grins. “Thanks for the reminder. I don’t want to pressure you. You know that. I understand your hesitation. After finding out what you went through with Caleb, of course I get it.”
I watch him, my face serene, but my heart setting a breakneck pace.
“It’s like this,” he says. “My mom tells this story about my dad. How she’d watch him play, and he would hold the ball for the last shot. She’d scream ‘take the shot,’ but he’d watch the clock, holding the ball ’til the last possible second. Then at just the right moment, he’d take the shot. He had perfect timing.”
August cups my face, his eyes intense and tender.
“That’s what I want. I want to read the clock and know when the time is right for us. I don’t want to keep asking you. It’s . . .”
Hard? Disappointing? Embarrassing?
Who knows which word he’d use? He’s never shown me any of those things when he asked before and I wasn’t ready, but maybe he hid them. Maybe he felt them.
I slide off my stool and step into the V of his powerful thighs, setting my arms against his chest and linking my hands behind his neck.
“August, I love you,” I say, twining my fingers in his hair.
“I know that.” He closes his eyes, surrendering to my hands. “I love you, too. More than anything. More than everything.”
He said he’d play me at the five, at the very center, and he’s lived up to that promise every day that we’ve been together.
“I trust you with my life, with my future.” Emotion scalds my throat, so I pause to steady my voice. “With my daughter.”
He slowly opens his eyes to watch me. “I know that, too.”
“And I want to wake up with you every morning.”
“Youuuuuuu . . . do?” He settles his hands at my hips, splayed across my bottom, and narrows his eyes on my face, assessing.
“Yeah, but . . .” I search for the right thing to say—to let him know I’m ready. “I want the pancakes. Okay? I want the pancakes, August.”
“Babe, I’ll make you pancakes. Any time you want.”
“You’re not hearing me. What I’m saying is . . .the kids! You know, bursting into our room every morning? Your kids, August. I want to have your children. Our children.”
He frowns and blinks at me like I might have been body-snatched and replaced by some amenable stranger.
“That makes me . . . happy.” He looks more uncertain than happy, though cautiously ecstatic might be accurate, too. “But what do you mean? Are you saying . . .”
He watches my face with the same focus his father probably watched that game clock counting down. I’ve had reservations and fears based on the past, based on my mistakes, and on bad calls I made. But August is no mistake. He’s not a bad call, and all that he wants, I’m ready to offer. All that he has, I’m ready to receive. One step forward will take me into the future, and I’m ready.
“What I’m saying is this, August.” I tip up on my toes and smile against his ear. “Take the shot.”
