Free Basketball Jones by E. Lynn Harris Page A

some money. I didn’t know her well enough to be writing checks for her rent.
    “Should I report his ass or just look for another place to stay?”
    “You need some money for a deposit if you move,” I said. The bartender came over to us and asked me if I wanted something to drink. I ordered a glass of merlot.
    Jade continued to tell me how tough it was being single and low on money and how something was going to have to give. She looked so vulnerable at that moment that she reminded me a little of my sister, Bella, only grown up. I told her everything was going to be all right, but wasn’t really sure that it would. After all, I hardly knew Jade.
    When the bartender brought back my glass of wine my phone buzzed, telling me I had a text. I looked at it and realized it was from Dray. “Who is that girl with you?” I looked up and noticed the restaurant connected to the bar. Dray was facing me with a frown. There was Judi sitting with her back to me, and I wondered if she knew her husband was texting me. I texted him back and told him Jade was just a friend. He texted back, “Make sure you’re telling the truth. Also cut your little date short. We just finished our salads and I don’t want to chance us coming face to face with you.”
    I texted back a simple “K” and suggested to Jade that we go around the corner for dessert. I was relieved when she quickly agreed.

Eight
    By noon Maurice had left three messages, which had me worried. Normally he wasn’t the type to chase after anyone. You either got in touch with him or he kept a cool distance until you did. This was something about Mo’s personality that I never completely understood. It was as if he kept score, almost waiting for your misstep, which he inevitably would bring up later and throw in your face during the heat of an argument, long after you’d forgotten about the so-called misstep—if you were even aware of it in the first place! I endured the highs and lows of this often labor-intensive friendship simply because after all these years I had an inexplicable fondness for him. Maurice ran hot and cold like a faucet but beneath all the bluster was a basically good guy who suffered from low self-regard. If I had ever had the courage to broach this delicate subject, I’d have told him that his expectations for himself were set so high that no one could live up to them. Instead I listened patiently over and over, while he ranted about one perceived slight or another, the daily injustices that he alone faced, and sooner or later, a quick rundownof my own personal failings as a friend. Fortunately, I understood Maurice well enough to know not to take his jabs too personally—just as important, I knew also how to smooth the situation over before it got out of hand. However, there were times when I asked myself whether our friendship was worth all the extra effort. Weren’t buddies supposed to grant one another the space to screw up now and then? Lord knows I cut him massive slack in that department. I guess we take our friends for who they are, all the messes along with the blessings. Maurice talked a good I-don’t-care game, but I knew better. There was something sensitive and hopelessly romantic about Maurice.
    I remember one miserable rainy evening during the last days of autumn when I got a call from Maurice. From his question “Do you think black gay men will ever learn to treat each other right?” I knew something was wrong. I asked him to repeat his question to make sure I had heard him correctly and he broke down in tears that wouldn’t stop. When I showed up at his apartment a short while later, he was still crying.
    During the Memorial Day Black Gay Pride festivities in Washington, D.C., Maurice had met Cullen J. Hartwell, one of D.C.’s resident pretty boys, at the big closing party. He was tall and broad shouldered, and a dangerously handsome man with hazel eyes. Cullen was the kind of guy who when he walked into a room—any