“Never,” he says, and grins at me through the rearview. “It’s nice to meet you, Grace,” he says.
SEYMOUR
She hasn’t said anything since we introduced ourselves. I think I depressed her with all my talk about Pops and Tommy. If she didn’t one-star me before, she’s surely going to do it now. “Driver is depressing as shit,” she’ll write in the comments.
I’m trying to think of a joke or something to lighten the mood, when my gas gauge beeps. I study the needle. It’s definitely pointing to E(mpty).
Shit.
Was that the first this-is-just-a-warning beep? Or was it the third you-should-pull-over-now beep? I flick the gauge with my finger like that’s going to move the needle back to Full.
“Please tell me you didn’t just run out of gas,” Grace says from the back seat.
“I didn’t just run out of gas,” I say, flicking the gauge again. “We have enough to make it to your party.”
But the car starts to slow down as soon as the words are out of my mouth.
I feel her eyes burning into the back of my neck.
I need to make my way to the right lane so I can pull over. The only thing worse than running out of gas would be running out of gas in the middle of the street. Even though I signal to change lanes, the person behind speeds up and flips me off. People really think they own the piece of the road they’re on.
Finally, I make it all the way over and turn off onto a residential side street. We’re close to the Boerum Hill neighborhood. I don’t know much about this part of Brooklyn except that it’s fancy. Organic this. Artisan that. The sidewalks are tree-lined. The brownstones are huge and expensive looking. Only a few of them have candles flickering in the windows. Very few people are out on the sidewalk. It looks dark out here. Lonely.
I pull into a spot halfway in the red just in time for the car to sputter to a stop. I take my key from the ignition and peek at her in the rearview to get a sense of how mad she is. She’s massaging her temples and taking deep breaths.
I turn around. “I’m an idiot,” I say.
She narrows her eyes at me and gets out of the car without saying anything.
I get out too and catch up to her on the sidewalk. She’s already back in the app, trying to get another Ryde.
“I’m the worst Ryde driver ever,” I say. “You should definitely give me one star. Actually, you should give me zero stars.”
She looks up from her phone. “You can do that?” she asks.
“I was joking.”
“Oh,” she says. “You’re being funny.”
“Ouch,” I say.
She shakes her head and goes back to the app. I doubt she’s going to get lucky enough to find another Ryde at this hour with the blackout still going.
“Listen,” I say, “your party is only a thirty-five-minute walk from here. Let me walk you over there.”
She shakes her head. “I can walk by myself.”
“But it’s dark,” I say.
“My feet still work in the dark,” she says.
“I’m talking about your safety.” I know I sound like an annoying older brother, but I don’t care. “Do you know this neighborhood?”
“No,” she admits, looking around. She folds her arms and taps her foot. “But I don’t know you either, so.”
“Fair enough, so let me fix that,” I say. “You already know something about my pops. His name was Walter. He was an English teacher. Loved philosophy and poetry. My mom’s name is Carol and she’s a history teacher. They met teaching at the same school in Jamaica before they moved here. I have two younger sisters. Serena’s fifteen and Melanie is twelve.” I take a quick pause to catch my breath and then keep going. “Now you know me a little and I’m begging you not to let me leave you out here by yourself when this situation is my fault. My mom would kill me. My sisters would kill me. Please let me walk you so I don’t have to die at the hands of the women in my life.”
She starts laughing. “Okay,” she says. “But only because I don’t want your death on my conscience.”
I’m relieved and not just because she’s letting me walk with her and help keep her safe. I’m relieved because now I get to keep talking with her for a little while longer.
She takes a picture of my license plate, and then one of me, and then one of me posing next to the license plate. “I’m texting this to my friend Lana,” she says. “That way if I turn up dead, they’ll know who did it.”
I laugh as she maps out walking directions. For a few minutes, we walk without talking like both of us are adjusting to being in this new space together. In the distance I can hear fireworks going, like they’ve been doing since summer started. The sound echoes off the buildings, but they’re too far away for me to catch a glimpse of.
We cross Atlantic Avenue onto another residential street. This one is lively, with neighbors mingling on the sidewalks or sitting on their stoops talking. The houses here are narrow three-story brownstones that look a lot like the one I live in. Candles are everywhere, on windowsills and lining porch steps. There are lots of little kids chasing each other up and down the sidewalks with flashlights, pretending to be ghosts. Some people have even brought old-school boom boxes into the street. I hear everything from rap to pop to calypso to dancehall. It feels like a celebration. Like the blackout gave everybody an excuse to relax and be with each other.
Overhead, the moon is almost full. Which is great, because it gives off enough light for me to keep sneaking little glances at her. Man, she’s pretty. Sometimes the moonlight catches on the beads in her dreads so she looks like she’s glittering.
“Do you believe in signs?” she asks me.
“Like from God or the universe?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Maybe this blackout and you running out of gas is a sign.”
“Of what?”
“That I’m stupid to go to this party.”
“How come you don’t want to go?” I ask. “Didn’t you say you’re meeting your boyfriend there?”
“Ex-boyfriend,” she says. “I only said boyfriend so you wouldn’t hit on me.” She side-eyes me. “You wouldn’t believe how many guys think just because a girl is talking to him that must mean she’s into him.”
I have to stop walking so I can laugh properly. “I wasn’t going to hit on you,” I say, even though she’s right. I definitely would’ve hit on her by now if she hadn’t told me she had a boyfriend.
The look she gives me tells me she knows I’m lying.
“All right,” I say. “Tell me about this ex-boyfriend situation.” I make sure to emphasize the ex.
“No way,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m not telling a complete stranger all about my love life.”
“Come on. You’re the one who said this night is a sign. Maybe the sign is that you should tell a complete stranger your problems so that he can solve them,” I counter. “Besides, in thirty minutes, after I drop you off, we’ll never see each other again.”
My stomach does a funny little roll as soon as I say that last part. I don’t like the idea of not seeing her again.
Another side-eye from her, but this time she looks like she’s making a decision. “What do you want to know?”
“The whole thing,” I say.
She tells me they started dating right after she moved to America and went out for almost two years. He befriended her right away, showed her the ropes of their high school, and introduced her to all his friends. He even introduced her to one of her best friends, Lana.
“What reason did he give for the break up?” I ask.
She gives me another skeptical why-am-I-talking-to-a-stranger look.
I give her my best your-secrets-are-safe-with-me look.
“He said things were good between us, but that it was time for us to move on.”
“Jesus, what does that even mean?” This guy sounds like a real prize. And I’m not just saying that because I think she’s smart and funny and beautiful and whatever.
She throws her hands up in the air. “That’s what I said,” she says.
“And what did he say?”
“He said we were going off to college soon and that long distance things don’t work.” She stops walking and looks up at the sky. “But that wasn’t the real reason he broke up with me. When I pressed him, he said he just didn’t love me anymore.” She shakes her head like she’s still trying to make sense of it. “He said I was different now. Like it was a bad thing.”
“Who you are now seems pretty cool to me,” I say, before I think better of it.
She ducks her head and laughs like I’ve embarrassed her.
“You know what’s funny? That’s the same thing Tommy said to me last night. That I was different now. But I’m the same. He’s the one that’s different.”
“Maybe that’s why you’re so mad at him,” she says.
“I’m not following you.”
“Maybe what you’re mad at is that he’s living the life you were supposed to have. You were supposed to go off to college and come back different. You were supposed to come back with expensive tastes and new ideas in your head and thinking you know everything because you took a few classes.”
I stop walking to stare at her. A white kid on a skateboard grinds by.
Is she right? Is that why I’m so angry? “You’re saying I’m jealous of him?” I ask.
“I’m saying maybe you should let go of your old dreams and make new ones.”
GRACE
Lana finally texts me back fifteen minutes after I sent her Seymour’s picture and license.
LANA: Holy hell, THAT guy is your Ryde driver?
LANA: He’s hot AF
LANA: Not as hot as Tristan
LANA: But still hot
LANA: Hurry up and bring him here so I can get a better look at him
LANA: Srsly, can’t you walk any faster?
I laugh down at my phone. As it is, I’m already walking double-time to keep up with Seymour and his long legs.
What a weird way for this night to be turning out. I didn’t expect to be walking the streets of Brooklyn in the dark telling my break up story to a virtual stranger. He hasn’t said very much since I said the thing about him making new dreams. I wonder if I pissed him off.
I check my phone. We’re only twelve blocks away from the party now. Another burst of fireworks goes off. Two little Black girls in matching red jumpers and matching afro poofs stop to look up at the sky. When they don’t see anything, they focus on us instead and make loud kissing sounds at us as they go laughing by.
Seymour and I look at each other and laugh too.
“I have an idea,” he says. “You should practice your speech on me.”
“What speech?” I ask.
“The one you’re going to give to Derrick when you see him.”
“I don’t really have one.”
He stops walking. “Come on. Pretend I’m him.” He hunches over and sucks in his cheeks. “Is he shorter than me? Skinnier? Less good-looking?”
I shake my head, but play along anyway. “Hey, Derrick,” I say.
“Hey, Grace, it’s nice to see you,” he says, but instead of using his regular voice, he uses the deep, dumb-guy voice that all girls use to make fun of their boyfriends.
I laugh. “How am I supposed to do this if you’re not serious?”
“Okay, okay,” he says. “Go on.”
“How’s your summer been going?”
“It’s good. Not as good without you, though.”
“Derrick would never say that,” I say. “He’s more the silent type.” It’s actually one of the things I liked least about him. He never said how he felt.
We come to a crosswalk. Traffic is so jammed we don’t need to wait for the light to cross. We just weave our way through the stopped cars.
“So, what about you?” I ask. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Nope. I’m a single man.”
“Do you want a girlfriend or are you one of those guys who likes to date around?”
“I’m just waiting for the right one to come along,” he says.
I like how sincere he is. “What’s your type?” I ask, curious to know what the “right one” is.
“I don’t really have a type,” he says.
“Everybody has a type.”
“You really want to know?” he asks, slowing down.
“Yes,” I say. I want to know more than I expected to, actually.
He puts his hands in his pockets and takes a long pause like he’s gearing up for something. “Okay, but you can’t call me corny after I tell you,” he says.
Now I’m dying to know. “Promise,” I promise.
“I like girls who are curious.”
“Wait. Curious . . . how?” I ask, needing to clarify just exactly what he’s talking about here.
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” he says, laughing. “Curious about the world, I mean. You know the podcast I was playing back in the car? I love that stuff. I love thinking about those big meaning of life questions. My pops was like that too. We’d sit on our front porch in these rocking chairs my mom bought. He’d drink his Red Stripe and I’d drink my pineapple soda and we’d talk about all sorts of things, just me and him.”
He looks up at the sky. Moonlight makes his face shimmer silvery brown. He gives me a small smile. “Most people think talking about philosophy is dumb, like if you can’t do anything practical with it, then what’s the point of talking about it? But he didn’t think that.”
“He sounds like he was great,” I say, looking up at the sky too.
“He really was,” he says, with a small sigh. “Anyway, I like girls who’ll get all geeky over stuff like that with me. Like when we were talking in the car, I could tell you were really getting into the Ship of Theseus stuff. And you’re smart. You made some good points about how memory is part of identity. And I like what you said about the real reason I’m mad at Tommy and about me making new dreams for myself. You’ve made me laugh a bunch of times too.”
He stops talking and slaps his hand over his mouth, realizing what he’s done. He basically just told me that I am his type.
“Damn,” he says, looking down at his feet. “Swear to God I wasn’t trying to hit on you there. I know you’ve got the Derrick thing going on. And even if you didn’t, I probably shouldn’t—”
“It’s really okay. You don’t have to apologize,” I say, holding my hand up. “Anyway, it was a really nice thing to say.”
His head snaps up. “Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
We smile at each other but then it gets awkward. I take out my phone again and check the directions, mostly so I can give both of us a minute to get it together. It’s a good thing I do because it turns out we were supposed to turn right a block ago.
I’m about to tell him when he points at the gas station across the street. “You mind if we stop by there?” he asks. “Their pump lights are still on. Maybe they have a backup generator and I could buy a canister of gas for the car.”
We cross the street and I wait outside while he goes into the little store to talk to the clerk.
A few feet away from me, a fire hydrant is shooting water high into the sky. Three little Black boys, maybe nine or ten years old, are completely soaked and happily dancing in and out of the water.
Someone, maybe the older sister of one of them, is playing music from her phone and laughing at their antics. We smile at each other.
I watch the kids some more. Their skinny little legs fly everywhere. They’re giggling in that free, wide-open way only little kids can, like the world is made for them, like nothing has ever been this good before.
The blackout makes the city feel like it’s on hold, like someone hit a giant pause button. That’s the way I’ve been feeling lately too, since Derrick broke up with me. Like I’m waiting for my life to start back up.
After a few minutes, Seymour comes out of the store carrying a red
gas canister and five ice cream cones. “The lady inside gave them to me for free,” he says. “Said they’re getting too soft to keep since the freezer isn’t working.” He looks over at the maybe older sister. “Okay if I give these to the kids?” he asks.
“That is so sweet of you!” she says.
The little boys squeal as they take their cones, even happier now than they were before. One of them, the shortest one with enormous ears, sizes Seymour up. He looks at me. “That your boyfriend?” he asks me.
“Oh my God, Owen, that is none of your business,” his maybe big sister says.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, laughing.
“No, Owen,” I say, leaning close to him. “He’s not my boyfriend.” I think about explaining the Ryde situation, but decide against it. It feels like we’re more than driver and passenger now.
“We’re friends,” I say. I can feel Seymour’s eyes on me.
“Okay, then,” Owen says, and dances away to the edge of the water, licking his cone.
“Friends?” Seymour says. “That mean you forgive me for running out of gas?”
“We’re not there yet,” I tease.
He laughs. “Tell me something about you then, get this friendship thing going.”
I tell him that I’m an only child so it’s just me and my parents. My dad is a sous chef at a fancy French place in Tribeca. My mom’s an accountant. Their dream is to eventually open an upscale Jamaican restaurant.
“What do you miss most about Jamaica?” he asks.
When people ask me this question, I usually say something superficial—something they expect me to say—like my family or the beach or the food. And I do miss all of those things, but they’re not what I miss the most.
“I miss feeling like I belong someplace,” I say.
He nods slowly. “Yeah, I understand that,” he says, and I get the feeling he really does.
More fireworks go off, and this time I catch a flash of red sparks from behind a building.
An older white couple holding hands walks toward us. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” says the man.
Seymour nods. “It’s working out great,” he says as they pass by.
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