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Trevor returns with a huge puffy jacket for her to slip into. Standing, I zip it all the way up to her chin and put the hood over her head. “You look like a giant marshmallow,” I tell her, and she smiles—the first smile I’ve gotten from her today.
“Connor, six-five, good boy,” Mom says, keeping that smile in place.
“He cares about you a lot, you know?” My heart swells when I remember how he spoke of her today. “He says you make him want to be a better person.”
Mom gets to her feet, nodding. “I don’t want to dis-dis—” She blinks hard, her fist to her temple. I wait, knowing the words are coming. “Disappoint him.”
“You could never,” I tell her sincerely, standing with her just as headlights shine through the living room window, alerting us that Connor’s here. He and Trevor had pre-planned that he parks in the driveway, so Mom has fewer chances of being seen. It’s as heartbreaking as it is necessary. “You ready to go, Mama?”
Mom takes a huge breath and lets it out slowly. “Ready.”
Connor’s waiting on the porch when I open the door, his goofy smile enough to knock anyone off their damn feet. “Hey, Miss D. I’m ready to be schooled.”
Mom settles her hand on the crook of his arm, and he leads her to his truck, her head down, covered by the hood the entire time. And she stays that way the full fifteen minutes it takes for Connor to get to the sports park. He stops just outside the locked gates, and Trevor turns to him. “How did your dumbass not know that this place would be closed?”
Connor flips the visor and catches the keys that fall. “How did your dumbass not think I’d have a key?” He turns to Mom and me sitting in the backseat. “I promised you no one would be around. Did I do good?” He’s still wearing that cheesy grin, as if he’s so proud of himself, and he should be.
Mom says through a smile, “You did good, Connor.”
After opening the gate and closing it after us, Connor drives right onto the basketball courts, his headlights illuminating enough light to see half the court. I help Mom out of the truck while Connor gets a few balls from the bed. Then he comes back, handing me a blanket, thermos and a paper bag. “What’s this?” I ask.
His grin broadens. “Hot chocolate and marshmallows.”
“I hope you brought some for me,” Trevor interrupts.
“Nope,” says Connor, walking toward the free-throw line.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not trying to score points with your dumb ass.”
Mom giggles, following Connor.
“All right, Miss D—”
“Jo.”
“Jo. Posture, right?” He takes a shot, sinks it. “Better?”
Mom has him move a few steps to the right. “Again.”
Connor shoots. Misses. “Dang.”
“You practice too much from the same spot,” Mom tells him.
Connor moves to another spot a few steps away, tries, and misses again. And I don’t know if he’s doing this just to make her feel good, but Mom’s taking it extremely seriously. “Your feet are wrong.”
Connor nods as if listening intently. “Show me.”
Mom kicks his feet with hers.
Connor shakes his head. “No. Show me,” he repeats, holding the ball out between them.
Mom raises both her arms. “One arm, dumbass.”
Connor chuckles. “You only need one arm to shoot, right?”
Mom sighs. “I’m not the one with a weak jump shot,” she retorts.
