That’s over now, I said. We can go back to the way things was.
Daniel, I don’t like you like that no more.
Aubrey said something about wanting to stay friends and I sped away to my first-period class. After, I returned to her locker to move my things out. Aubrey came by as I shoved my books into my bag and pulled out my trainers and my spikes. She said I was being dramatic. I didn’t respond. When I finally stuffed my drawstring and backpack as full as I could, and held a few things in my hands, I began to walk away. Before I made it out of the hallway, Aubrey tugged on my shirt.
Meant what I said, Aubrey said, about you dying in that crash.
When I looked into her eyes, liquid brimmed on the surface. My eyebrows bore down and my jaws clenched. But before I could say anything, Aubrey wrapped an arm around me and leaned her head against my chest. I smelled sand in her hair. When she pulled away, she took the books out of my hands and my drawstring from the crook of my elbow and pulled me back to her locker, where she helped me unload.
For a while, we continued as if everything was normal, but our conversations felt different. Sometimes she made jokes that I didn’t hear because I was off in my thoughts; sometimes I asked questions she never answered. There were little silences where there didn’t use to be, details left out of stories and pauses before responses. We interrupted each other more than before. We were two dancers listening to different songs, stepping on toes and bumping into each other.
Then, a few weeks before prom, as the gossip spread around the school about who was going with whom, Aubrey and Jess started talking about it too. Although both derided it and anyone who thought it important at first, their voices grew animated when imagining after-proms: Empty beer cans, clouds of smoke, an endless night. After a few days, they decided to go, only for the after-parties.
We’re going to get little Daniel drunk for the first time, Jess said.
Can you imagine? Aubrey asked. That settles it. You’re coming.
The next day, I met Aubrey at her locker. She was wearing one of her many Hollister shirts, ripped jeans, and a stack of hairbands on her wrist. As she put her backpack in her locker and rifled around, without looking at me, she asked, What color are we wearing to prom?
You going as my date?
As friends. You’re like my best friend here, Daniel.
You mean aside from Jess.
I can’t take Jess as my date, she said, now can I?
I’m going to stay late at States. See everyone run their last races.
I ain’t ask you about States, Daniel. I’m telling you I want to go to prom with you.
Yeah, well, I wanted to date you, but that don’t mean we dating.
You’re such an asshole, Aubrey said, thumping my chest with a fist hard enough to push me back. You knew I wanted to go to prom with you and you ain’t said nothing.
How I’m supposed to know? You ain’t tell me.
Don’t play me, Daniel, Aubrey said, her eyes beginning to water and her voice getting louder as she hit me again. Don’t play me. You knew I wanted to go.
People were collecting in the hallways as the beginning of first period approached. Some were friends, many were people I didn’t really know, and most of their eyes turned to us.
You heard me and Jess talking about what we was going to do, Aubrey said, and you ain’t say nothing. I’m sick of you being spiteful because I won’t fuck you.
My cheeks burned as I watched Aubrey, aware more people were entering the hallway. I had only ever been the person observing events at school; I had never been the event. I didn’t want them to see this, to see me making Aubrey cry. I didn’t want to make Aubrey cry. I even wanted to go to prom with her, but only because I hoped we would draw close during a slow dance and she would kiss me and change her mind and date me until college. And I knew that was never going to happen. Whatever you chase, Mom always said, will run.
I’m sorry, Aubrey, I said. I ain’t going.
Aubrey slammed her locker shut and rushed off to the bathroom, and I walked away into the stairwell.
From then on, Aubrey and I avoided each other in the hallways. A few weeks later, Desmond and I skipped prom and stayed at States to watch the 4×400, for which our team didn’t qualify. After the event, we went to an after-party in the Hammock Dunes. I checked all the rooms, hoping to see Aubrey, and turned my head every time the door opened, but she never came. We went home around three in the morning. I lay in bed awake long enough to see the sun come through my window.
For the rest of the year, I ate lunch in the cafeteria with my track teammates. I saw Aubrey a few times that summer in passing at the supermarket or the gas station, and we usually shot the shit until I made up an excuse to leave. Then I left for college. After a few months, she texted that she drove past the cross-country team running down Old Kings and thought of me. I said I was surprised to hear from her. She said it had been too long since we spoke and asked if I still hated her. I didn’t hate her. I never hated her. I just had to remove myself from our situation. She said it would’ve been nice to know that I didn’t hate her. I said I fucked up bad. She said she missed me, said I was one of her best friends, said she hated it down here now that I was gone and Jess was in Gainesville at Santa Fe and her parents were getting on her nerves. She wanted to move. I didn’t know things had gotten so hard. I tried to call her but she didn’t pick up. I texted her about a time to talk, and we set one, but she didn’t pick up again, texted she was busy.
We kept texting, but our conversation fizzled out, in part because we couldn’t connect on the phone and in part because we didn’t have much spark in text. That and I was more preoccupied with getting drunk with my friends and trying to sleep with anyone who wanted to sleep with me. After we stopped texting, we never talked again. Then she died and all I could think was, I love her.
Hold up, Egypt says. She won’t date you, so you ask her what she’d do if you died?
Oh, you won’t date me? Jess says. Well, what if I was dead?
Like she wasn’t in the same car, Egypt says.
It ain’t my fault we crashed, I say.
Yeah, but you ain’t have to say nothing like that neither, Egypt says.
You right, I say. Wasn’t none of it right. Shouldn’t have never stopped talking to her. Shouldn’t have never dated Ghost. Shouldn’t have never done any of it.
At this, Desmond laughs shallowly, a sound more performative than anything else. He moves more than he makes noise. My lips fixed tight, I glare at him, but he doesn’t notice.
This nigga so dumb, Desmond says.
I know you ain’t talking about me, I say, but he isn’t listening. He’s facing everyone else.
This nigga want Aubrey, Desmond says, but he start dating someone else. Comes back at her with, Either date me or I’ll die. Then he ghosts her anyway. Desmond turns to face me. Come on, bro. You tripping off being dumb like ten years ago. You was seventeen.
It ain’t just that.
Nigga, I heard what you said, but you ain’t hear what I said. That’s why you still running around here like you still a jit.
I done told you ain’t nobody a jit, I say, leaning forward over the table, shoulders raised. I’m tired of you trying to son me.
Desmond turns to Egypt, who looks away when he says, This nigga fronting like he going to do something. Y’all believe this?
How I’m fronting? I say, anger and liquor raising me to my feet. You think I ain’t fixing to scrap because I don’t live here no more?
Nigga, sit your punk ass down. Ain’t nobody afraid of you. This nigga talking reckless like he about to do something. He better go on back to New York with that shit.
Talk about me like I ain’t here one more time.
This nigga think he tough. This battyboy? Desmond laughs and shakes his head. Twig swivels, keeping an eye on both of us. Egypt shakes her head. Jess gestures at Desmond and me, telling us to let it go, but her sign only reminds me that there’s an audien
ce. I can’t let everyone watch me get punked like nothing has changed since high school. I lean over the table and reach for Desmond. He stands up, so my arms swat at him. Before I make contact, Twig is forcing me into my seat and Egypt is pushing Desmond into his.
I ain’t having no fights in my house, Jess says.
You know better than that, Desmond, Egypt says.
You better sit your ass down, Daniel, Twig says.
If y’all can’t talk like adults, Jess says, you’re going to have to go elsewhere.
I ain’t tried to swing on this nigga once tonight, Desmond says. I’m cool if he cool.
After a moment of staring at Desmond, I say, I’m cool.
I sit back down. For a moment, everyone is watching us, making sure we won’t throw any more punches. When neither of us stirs, they know it was just a flash in the pan, one of many almost-fights that flare up and disappear around here.
Ain’t you never lost nobody? Desmond says.
No one I was ever this close to.
Ain’t you fucked up? I know when you teaching, you must lose your temper on them kids.
’Course I fuck up. I fuck up all the time. But it’s different in the classroom. I lose my temper one day and I apologize the next. Ain’t no next with Aubrey. Can’t say sorry no more.
Desmond turns to Egypt, who shrugs. I don’t know what they’re thinking. Desmond faces me and says, Bro, I thought you wasn’t never coming back. I used to get so mad about it, every time you came up, I’d tell everyone it was on-sight next time I seen you. Then one day Egypt talked some sense into me. Said you was living in the big city. You was busy schooling them kids so they ain’t make the same mistakes we did. You was trying to pay rent like me. And I got proud, bro. And Egypt said I could be proud or mad, not both. So I had to make peace with all the wrong shit we done to each other. I just let it go because I didn’t think you was ever coming back. Even if you did, it couldn’t change nothing.
I get it, I say. I fucked up. My fault.
No, you don’t get it. I’m saying ain’t nobody sitting around waiting for you to say sorry. It’s over man. She gone.
How come I see her everywhere I go then?
She with you, but you can’t do nothing about it no more. What’s in the past is dead. It’s past. Ain’t no second chances.
Desmond drops his cup to the table a little too hard, clanking a high-pitched noise that lingers like a bell. When the noise fades, I hear the frogs droning outside.
You two done? Jess says. We nod. Then Jess fills everyone but Desmond’s glass halfway full of whiskey, which is still far more than I need. When she sits down, she raises her cup in the air and says, Suppose it’s time for a toast.
Twig and Egypt join her. Desmond reaches for the whiskey bottle, but Egypt bats his hand away. He holds up his water glass. They all watch me, glasses raised, waiting for me to join the toast. And I shake my head.
That’s it?
I’m with Des, Jess says. You can’t bring her back. Even if you could, she still ain’t want to date you. So you better quit holding us up and raise your goddamn glass.
Desmond lowers his cup and turns to me. His eyes are dark and unmoving. Through my rapid blinking, his gaze meets mine, and he nods. I nod too. I raise my glass and Desmond follows suit and we all drink to Aubrey. The liquor burns less this time going down. When its warmth has gone, Desmond looks at me and says, Always figured you were lying about some of it.
Didn’t know it was all of it though, Twig says.
Desmond, you ain’t got no room to talk, Egypt says. You was running around telling everyone you smashed when we were in high school.
I ain’t never said that, Desmond says.
Please, Egypt says. J-Boogie told me that the other day.
See this is why I don’t be telling J-Boogie my business no more, Desmond says. Nigga gets a little drunk and he can’t keep his goddamn mouth shut.
Desmond shakes his head, but we all laugh. Our shoulders and heads moving in sync, I begin to feel that we’re on the same page again. The light fixture is a soft yellow, and in its glow they look not like friends with whom I’m having dinner so much as a memory of them, a feeling our laughter taps into and amplifies. Before quiet can fall on the room and we return to our separate sounds and bodies, when our chuckling has settled to a low percussion, Twig, wanting to extend the moment, says, Remember how Egypt swore T-pain was her cousin?
Yeah, but I ain’t never lie about fucking nobody.
Me neither, Jess says.
Ain’t you say you fucked Joakim Noah when he was at UF? I ask.
Correction, Jess says. I lied about fucking one person.
Just a lie, Desmond says. It’s in our blood.
They’re right. There’s no future for me in the past, nor did Aubrey and I want the same future. She never wanted to return here, not like I did when she died, not like I do now. And I don’t think she wanted kids.
I never thought I would want kids either, but after Virgil and I started dating, I thought I might. We talked about it at the Jamaican restaurant where we went for our anniversary. That night, I wore a navy blazer that was a little too long for me and dark jeans. I arrived at the restaurant first. Two older Jamaican women stood behind a counter, switching between stirring pots and filling Styrofoam containers. I asked if there was anywhere to sit. The younger woman looked me up and down.
Where you from? she asked.
Kingston, I said, but my folks are from Clarendon and Saint Thomas.
Been here a while?
I said yes and she sent me upstairs. As I walked up, I heard her comment on me being a Coolie. Did I know this wasn’t a Trinidadian restaurant? I rolled my eyes and sat at a round table covered in a floral-patterned, plastic-wrapped tablecloth. A few minutes later, Virgil came upstairs, apologized for being late, and hugged me. His arm around my back was bony as usual. His black sweater hung from him like a robe.
When the server came, we ordered curry goat and curry chicken. The meat was a brown yellow and came with plantains, cabbage, and rice and peas. The chicken fell off the soft bones, but when I bit in, something was off. The heat was there but the flavor was wrong.
Not perfect, he said, but it’s good, right?
It’s good, I say. But I wish they had scotch bonnets.
They’re hard to find around here. Everywhere’s missing something.
If they got scotch bonnets, I said, they didn’t add enough allspice.
Or coconut milk.
Or gungo peas.
Then we talked about our favorite Jamaican meals and the closest approximations that we found in the States. We suspected that we misremembered those meals or that our parents cooked in idiosyncratic ways that didn’t represent the dish, but the memories still became the standard.
After, Virgil took me back to his place and we kept drinking. Tongue loosened by alcohol, I told Virgil I wanted to have kids one day. Did he? He said no. I opened my mouth to respond, and my father came to mind and my throat caught. It felt swollen and sore. Tears welled up in my eyes. When I tried to speak, they ran down my cheeks. When I finished crying, Virgil got up to make rice and peas, he said, the right way.
Since then, Virgil and I avoided talking about children, but we both knew that conversation put an expiration date on our relationship. It was too hard to watch the end as it approached. It still is. Even tonight, with all these friends whom I know won’t spend time together after I leave, I am trying to ignore that my flight is tomorrow. But as the fatigue settles in, the night’s approaching deadline comes into view.
I’m going to step out for a smoke, Desmond says.
He slides open the screen door and walks to the back porch. Jess and I follow. Two more tables sit out here and beyond them is the screen, its rough mesh meant to keep mosquitoes out. Christmas lights wind around the ceiling.
We exit into the backyard where the dirt is soft, thin, and sandy between my toes. As in most Palm Coast backyards that aren’t covere
d in imported grass and manicured by landscapers once a week, little grows by the house. Farther away, shrubs and reedy grass surround the base of a tall tree whose branches reach toward Jess’s home. Beyond it, a small forest is a layer of shadows.
Jess and Desmond light their smokes.
Can I bum one? I ask.
You smoke now?
I ain’t say all that.
Desmond passes me a Newport and I light it. Its aftertaste is a dried chemical, overpowering whatever food was left between my teeth.
Look at Mr. Goody Two Shoes over here, Jess says. Smoking with the bad kids.
It’s quiet, aside from Twig and Egypt’s muffled voices inside the house, where they’re cleaning up, and Desmond and Jess’s exhales. In the dark, the cigarette’s red glow casts a soft light on Desmond’s face. I drag again and this time the singeing in my throat is too strong and I cough. Then Desmond says, Can’t handle the smoke?
You must be talking about someone else, I say.
I still feel the burn and consider smoking until I can’t talk. Then I run my toes into the soft, cool soil. A wind ambles by.
Since y’all are still here, I say, figure I owe y’all an apology. Dragged y’all into that mess with Brandon over nothing.
You still over here saying sorry? Desmond asks with a raised eyebrow.
Y’all not mad? I ask.
Oh, I’m mad, Jess says with a tone that makes my cheeks burn. But you only here for a little bit, so what I’m supposed to do?
I’ll make it up to you.
Boy, you don’t never learn, Jess says.
Sorry. Habit.
Just like Aubrey, Jess says, making promises you can’t keep because someone’s mad. She did the same damn thing when she moved up north and wasn’t picking up my calls. Every once in a while, she’d text and promise she’d call me back soon. But she never did. So one day I see this picture on Facebook. Her hand. There’s a silver ring and a little tiny diamond. I mean real tiny. Hard-to-see tiny.
Probably cubic zirconium, Desmond says.
Like what you got in your ear? I say.
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