“Or think.” He grabs one of them and waves it in my face. “This how you like your men?” A romance book with a bare-chested white man stares back at me.
I roll my eyes and push it away.
He makes a kissy-kissy noise in my direction. “Get you a white guy like this in Paris? Pierre? Gustave? Pepe? Maybe you’ll get your first kiss.”
“I’ve been kissed before.”11
“Not a real real one. Like a good one.” He pretends to hold someone and kiss them. “You get kissed and complain. So those don’t count.”
“French guys have a reputation. I heard they’re good lovers,” I boast. “Also, I already speak French.”
“When you know Colombianos are the best. You know that.”
“Zoraida says y’all are cheating-ass dogs.”
“Zoraida is a hater. She had a new boyfriend every week last year. Almost ended up with two prom dates.” He throws the book back on the table. “Remember Chris . . .”
“Ugh, here you go.”
“You talked to him for all of five minutes . . . and his pants always looked like he was preparing for a flood.”
“And all the girls you date are super models out here?” I remind him.
“Nah, nobody said that.” He holds up another romance book from the discarded pile and tries to reenact it, holding the bookshelf as if it’s some woman. “Romance books can’t be the best books ever written,” he replies.
“Okay, snob. They’re some of the best selling books ever. Those ladies make money. Gran can’t get enough of them. Prolly reads two a week. What if my book turns out to be a romance novel?”
He scoffs. “What do you know about love, anyways? You never have a boyfriend . . . or girlfriend or whatever. How you gonna write about it?”12
“How do you know?” I snap back.
“’Cause I know everything about you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He laughs. “Okay, Lana. This the game we playing today with fifteen minutes left?”
I turn away from him. “Anyways, I’m busy.” I run my fingers over more spines. “And I have an active imagination. Enough to write a romance novel.”
“You always say that. Never give anybody a shot.”
“Why should I? Since you out here trying to play matchmaker.” I don’t look at him.
“There will be mad dudes at the block party tonight. Everyone trying to holler at you. Last time to shoot their shot before we all leave. Trust me.”
“Whatever,” I say, trying not to look at him.
“You’re afraid of it,” he teases.
“I am not. It’s just so loud.” I turn away from him.
“What do you mean?”
“Like my dads. They’re so loud. Like their love. You know how my house is.” I think about setting my scrapbook journal down but press it to my chest as if the weight of it could slow my heart.
“Your papa and dad are always all over each other.”
“Vomit.” I suck my teeth.
“Or beautiful.”
“Langston hates it too.”
“He’s a rising senior now; of course he does.” Tristán holds up another book. “They have a great love story. Didn’t they meet in a bookstore?”
I brush away the legendary love story of my two dads. Their meet-cute in a bookstore, their whirlwind travels across the world, and the surrogate they hired to happily have my brother and me. Picture-perfect. Nothing can live up to it. Especially not me. That’s once-in-a-lifetime type of love. I’ve visited every bookstore in every single borough of this city, and no one has shown up to convince me. “I just have other things to do.”
“Excuses.”
“Not everyone needs to be up under somebody all the time. I’m not afraid of being alone.” As soon as the words slip out, I regret them. I feel him flinch even in the dark. “That’s not what I meant . . . I . . .”
“It is. You said it.”
My pulse races.
“You think I’m pressed.”
“No, I don’t. You’re twisting my words.”
“It’s okay to want to be with people. To like to get to know other people. Not everyone is all right on their own. You out here judging me for it.”
“You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“Whatever.” He walks away. The moonlight washes over the annoyed clench in his jaw.
My heart backflips. I didn’t mean to make him mad. I didn’t mean to push that button. I didn’t mean to make him feel like something is wrong with him. This was not how I thought it all through in my head. This was not how I envisioned telling my best friend the truth.
“Then, what is it?” he asks.13
The words won’t form. He wanders to the opposite side of the room. Shoulders slumped and fussing with his hair like he does when he’s pissed.
Hurry up, Lana, I tell myself. Pick something. Anything.
Grace texts again. The same question flashes up at me.
Did you do it?
I abandon my plan of using a romance novel . . . but maybe a good love story might be the only way to try to tell him. My brain toggles through all the possibilities like it’s one of those old-fashioned card catalogs probably tucked into one of the backrooms here.
A flashlight cuts through the room. The noise of keys and heavy-soled shoes.
We both freeze.
“Anybody in here?” comes a voice. The security guard.
I hold my breath. Tristán doesn’t say a word.
We wait for the sound of the man’s footsteps to disappear. I look back at the table of discarded books and jump up. I comb through the pile, finding If Beale Street Could Talk by James Baldwin. The book Dad calls one of the great Black love stories. The bittersweet tale of Fonny and Tish, childhood friends who plan to be together, but whose plans are derailed when Fonny is arrested and accused of a crime he did not commit.
My heart squeezes.
“I have it,” I call out to him.
“Good, elefantita, the Ryde will be here in eleven minutes.”
I hold my breath until he turns around and finds me. The tiniest halos of moonlight dance across the tables and floor. It all feels so weird. The city so dark, so vacant. For the first few hours, the whole place felt trapped under a blanket. Everything a little stiller and quieter, like the city has written a new story for itself. The pen pausing to think for once.
We sit just out of view of the door, finding a beam of light.
“You first,” he says, his voice still tight with anger.
“No,” I reply. “You can go.”
“Nope, might as well do what we always do with our bets.”
I sit there, my fingers drumming against the thick book cover, trying to win a gamble that feels bigger than all the other ones combined.
He cradles his backpack and waits. “You had so much to say before but now nothing.”
I take a deep breath and hand him the book. He examines the cover then flips to the back. “Papa made me read this,” I almost whisper.
“Isn’t it a sad story, though? He gets locked up or something. Don’t they have to wait to be together?” Tristán’s eyebrow lifts with confusion.
“Yeah,” I reply. “It’s bittersweet. He’s taken away for a while, but she loves him so much she is right there by his side. Loving him through that.” My voice feels all wobbly. My eyes start to well. I crane out of the light, leaning back into the dark around us so he can’t see. I pick up my scrapbook journal again.
He reads the first paragraph of the book and then hands it to me to read the second. The muscle memory of how we used to be when we were little comes back to me, our brown legs tangled together in my window nook. I pause after one sentence—“I’ve known him all my life, and I hope I’ll always know him”—and look at him.14 I start to tell him, but the words get stuck in my throat.
“It’s beautiful,” he admits. “I remember the story now.” He unzips his bag. “You ready for this masterpiece . . . for th
is brilliance . . . for the best book to ever be?”
“Yes, Tristán,” I reply, pushing down the lump in my throat.
“Close your eyes.”
“Nope. What are you up to?”
“Just do it. C’mon.” He places his big warm palm on my face, forcing my eyes closed. “It’s part of the mood. I’m going to read it to you. Its magnificence must be experienced this way.”
“Okay, Tristán. You act like you got some James Earl Jones/Barry White-type voice.”
He clears his throat. “You’ll eat those words when I’m famous. My podcast will be the most listened to all over the world. Watch.”
“Let you tell it.” I hear the crinkle of the book open.
“I am Sam. Sam I am. That Sam-I-am! That Sam-I-am!”
My eyes snap open. “Are you serious?”
He grins. “I do not like that Sam-I-am! Do you like green eggs and ham?” The big orange and green Dr. Seuss book blocks his face.
I yank it down. “Why are you playing?”
“I’m not. I think this is the perfect book.”
I feel my own scowl. “But why?”
“It was funny. Good color palette. I’ve never forgotten the words to this.” He points a finger in the air. “So that’s a test of a good book. The rhyme sticks with you.”
“Tristán.”
“What?”
“Really?”
He puts a hand on his chest. “Really!”
“Dr. Seuss drew racist cartoons.” I roll my eyes. “Like horrible ones of Black and Asian people. It was bad, bad. He tried to do better, but like . . .”
“Damn, I didn’t know that.” His voice gets tight and serious. “I don’t have time to pick another one.” He flashes his phone, where the Ryde app shows the little car making its way through traffic to come pick us up. “So you got this one.”
“You’re letting me win? We don’t do that.”
“I would never but . . . fine . . . you won.” Tristán holds up If Beale Street Could Talk.
“Oh, really?”
“Bet. Beale Street is definitely better. So what you want? Name your prize. What do I owe you?”
“You’re not being serious.” I sigh deeply.
“I am. C’mon. What do you want?”
I try not to bite my bottom lip as I work up the courage to say what I really want. The heat of his gaze warms my cheeks. I don’t turn to look at him. I fixate on the books above his head.
“You’re about to ask for something ridiculous and come for my pockets.15 I know it. I still have to get paid. The tutoring gig doesn’t pay out until Thursday, and I owe for studio time—”
“I don’t want anything that costs money,” I almost whisper.
“What?” He thumps my arm.
“Ow!” I rub it and scowl at him.
“What you want?” He forces me to look at him.
My whole body quivers. “I have a question.”
“You’re playing.”
“I’m not.”
His eyes narrow. “What is it? That can’t be what you want. You just won . . . whooped me, actually.” One of his locs falls close to his face and I wonder how long they’ll be by the time I get back or if he’ll cut them and be a different person when I return from Paris. “You love winning. You can’t just want a question.”
“That’s what I want.” My heart knocks against my chest.
“You’re acting funny.”
“I’m not.” My pulse races.
“Spit it out then. The Ryde is about to be here. Twig’s still blowing up my phone.”
“Never mind.” Vomit rises in my stomach. This was a bad idea.
His hand finds my bare shoulder.16 “What is it?”
My eyes water. I shake my head and push away the tangle of fear. My feelings start to unravel. “Could you . . .”
His phone pings a thousand times. My eyes cut to all the notifications. He scrunches his nose. “Could I what?”
“Could you ever love me the way you love them?”
Confusion settles on his face. “Who is them?”
I clutch my scrapbook journal tight. “All the girls you’re always talking to.”
“You’re my best friend,” he says.
“I know you like . . . love me. But . . . like . . . ?”
His eyes widen—a mix of surprise and I don’t know . . . “Oh,” is all he can manage.
“Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
“That’s not something you can just forget, Lana.”
“It’s cool . . . it’s fine.” I turn away from him.
He grabs my hand. “Stop—”
His voice gets serious. There’s no leftover laughter.
“I don’t want to play this game anymore.” I’m biting back tears, ready to run out of here.
He pulls me closer. “You don’t get to say something like that and run off.”
“You don’t feel that way about me . . . it’s fine. Just let me go. Forget I said anything. I have to go home to pack anyways. I’ll see you when I get back—”
“Why don’t you kiss me, then?” he asks.
The question is a firework between us.
“What?” I search his eyes, wondering if it’s the truth or if he’s just being nice. I turn to go again.
He pulls me back. “Just wait . . . say what you need to say.”
“I’m scared.” My voice breaks.
“Of what?”
“Everything,” I whisper.
He takes my scrapbook journal from my hands.
“Don’t—” But I don’t fight him as he removes the rubber band and lets it spill open, exposing itself . . . and me. Pages chock full of pictures of us and all the things we’ve done this summer. Movie tickets, menus, photo booth strips, checklists of what we’d planned to do before I left, transcripts of his podcast.17
His mouth opens and closes a bunch of times. Tristán Restrepo, the boy who always has something to say, who has thousands of listeners, who never holds back his feelings, can’t find the words. “This is beautiful, Lana.” He looks up at me, the brown of his eyes glazing over.
I can’t hold his gaze.
“You remember everything.” His palm finds my cheek. “Elefantita.”
My stomach squeezes.
“I’ve always loved how your brain works. Remember when we made snow globes in fifth grade?”
I nod, afraid if I speak, I might vomit. This is not how you tell someone you love them.
A knot twists in my stomach.
He smiles down at our photos. The shape of his mouth is beautiful in the moonlight.
I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. Just spit it out. Get it over with. You can’t go to Paris without telling him. “Could you love me love me? Or like me like that?”
His phone pings, announcing the Ryde’s imminent arrival.
This wasn’t how I planned this out in my head, not how I wanted it to look all documented in my scrapbook journal, not how I talked it all out with Grace. I wanted to look back on this night and remember how brave I’d been, how clear and confident I’d spoken, how I’d been more like him and less like me in articulating my thoughts and feelings.
“You two!” The security guard stands in the doorway, flashlight blinding us. “Get out of here now.”
The security guard walks us to the staff exit. His screams and his threats echo in the darkness, but I can’t hear him over the thudding of my own heart.
We burst out onto the street. The street is dark and terrifying. I reach for Tristán, and he reaches for me.
The memories wash over me.
At seven, holding hands on the train platform with our parents on the way to school.
At nine, side by side walking to the hospital to visit Mami when she was first diagnosed.
At twelve, curling our tongues in the mirror as he taught me how to roll my r’s in Spanish so I wouldn’t fail.
At fifteen, staying up all night as I read him Pride and Prejud
ice so he could write a decent Lit paper.
At seventeen, shoulder to shoulder in front of his mother’s grave, watching her lowered into the ground.
The Ryde driver calls Tristán and he directs him to the corner. “You ready?”
“No.” I bite my bottom lip to keep it from quivering. I fight away the tears bubbling up inside.
This wasn’t the way I wanted to tell him I’ve been in love with him forever. The way I promised Grace I would say it.
His eyes scan my face. “Of all the things you remember, you can’t put two and two together and know how much I love you? How much it’s always been you?”
“What?” A tear escapes my eye. “I never thought—”
Before I can finish, his hands are on my back and his bottom lip brushes against my neck, my ear, then my cheek, before he kisses me. His touch stamps out all the worries. His tongue answers all the questions. His warmth is hotter than the blackout heat wave.
He whispers, “I’ve always loved you, but I never thought you had space to love me back,” and kisses me again.
We pause to take a breath.
I can’t fight away a smile. “Will you remember this?”
“Forever.”18
The Long Walk
Act 4
Tiffany D. Jackson
Washington Square Park, 8:38 p.m.
WE WALK DOWN Fifth Avenue in silence, Kareem slowing enough so it doesn’t feel like I’m running to keep up with him. The streets are packed with people, all seemingly walking in the same direction as if by instinct. It feels both different and the same being with Kareem again. Or this version of Kareem. This new Kareem talks about his feelings with his dad yet still remembers my favorite ice cream combo. I want to tell him about all the films and shows I’ve watched over the last four months. But it’s not like he’s just coming back from a long vacation. We broke up. Don’t know if those convos are allowed anymore. Is it possible for us to be friends again? Is that what I really want?
We make our way through midtown to Union Square, heading deep into the Village, moving closer to downtown. Closer to . . . the bridge.
“How much longer do you think the power’s gonna be out for?” I ask, not bothering to hide the panic in my voice. “Like, it can’t be all night, right?”
Blackout Page 12