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“Did you have something you wanted to say to Connor, Mama Jo?” Trevor encourages.
Mom nods, taps at her temple. “In here,” she says, and she won’t stop pacing. “Connor, six-five, but is hoping for a growth spurt.”
Connor’s gaze flicks to me, and I mouth, “Sorry.”
He shakes his head, mouths back, “Shut up.”
I glare at him, but he’s too busy watching my mother. “Connor, six-five, but is hoping for a growth spurt,” she says again. Suddenly, she stops, her eyes wide. Her gaze snaps to Connor. “Weak jump shot.”
Trevor busts out a cackle, and I gasp, “Mama!”
Connor’s eyes are wide, but his mouth is wider. And then he smiles, the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on him. Shaking his head, his shoulders bouncing, he asks her, “You think I have a weak jump shot?”
Mom nods. “Weak.”
“Mama,” I admonish.
“No, Ava, it’s fine,” Connor assures. “How is it weak?” he asks her, that smile still in place.
Trevor—he’s lost it. His hands are on his stomach, his eyes watering from laughing so hard.
Mom tells him, “Posture.”
Connor gets to his feet, all six-five, but is hoping for a growth spurt of him. “Posture?”
“Yes, posture.”
“Posture?” Connor repeats.
Mom shakes her head, looks up at him. “Are you deaf? I said it twice.”
Connor busts out a laugh, then looks over at me. “Damn, now I know where you get it from.”
“Jump shot weak,” Mom says. “Posture wrong.”
Connor rolls his shoulders back, his spine straightening. “All right, Miss D. Show me what I’m doing wrong.”
Mom nods. “Okay.”
Connor stands in the middle of my living room, adjusting his limbs to mimic what I assume is his jump shot. Legs apart, ass out, arms raised. “What’s wrong with this?” he asks her.
She walks around him, her pointer finger tapping her chin as she assesses him.
“This is gold,” Trevor says, phone raised in front of him as he takes a picture. And then five more.
I’d be embarrassed… if it wasn’t so endearing. I mean, the boy of my dreams, an All-American who just got in to what might possibly be the best basketball college in the nation is standing in my living room allowing my mother to give him tips on his jump shot. Sigh. It’s kind of adorable.
Mom uses her foot to distance the space between Connor’s feet. “Better,” she says and starts walking circles around him again. She stops at his right arm—his shooting arm—and adjusts his elbow, then lifts her amputated limb. “Ugh,” she huffs. “Sometimes I forget it’s gone.”
Connor smiles down at her.
“Ava!” she shouts.
I stand. “Yes, Mama?”
“Hold his arm.” She taps his bicep. “Right here.”
I stand in front of him, grasp his arm where Mom said, and roll my eyes when he flexes his muscles. He smirks down at me, and dammit, I can’t help my body’s reaction to him—to being this close to him. I remember the way he felt when his entire body was covering mine, skin on skin. The way every muscle shifted when he moved down, down, down, until his shoulders rested beneath my thighs, the way his neck—“Ava,” Connor whispers. “You’re blushing.”
