Lot

by Bryan Washington

  I squeeze his cheeks, and then his elbows, and then his cheeks again.

  A few hours earlier, I woke up to him staring at me. We’d fucked a third time. It couldn’t have been later than four. Rain fell just above us, tapping out an ugly melody, and it occurred to me, finally, that I was the last one in this house.

  Everyone else was gone. I was the only one left. And when I was gone, that’d be it—that would be the end of our story.

  Nic, said Miguel.

  What, I said.

  Nicolás, said Miguel.

  That’s my fucking name, I said.

  Shit, I said, go to sleep, and I started to roll over, but then Miguel reached across me, squeezing my shoulder.

  He pressed his chest against mine, until our noses brushed.

  Again? I said.

  No, said Miguel.

  What if you stayed, he said.

  He reached for my arms on the mattress. Laced his fingers in mine. I could smell me on his breath—or not me. Us.

  You stink, I said.

  Shut up, said Miguel. Listen.

  You could leave, he said. I know that. And I know you know.

  Pero you don’t have to, said Miguel.

  We could try, said Miguel.

  I want you to think about it, said Miguel. I want you to think about what could happen.

  Because I think it could, he said.

  And he opened his mouth to say something else and it didn’t come out.

  Eventually, he fell asleep. But I didn’t. I thought about it.

  His keys are in the jeans on the floor. I grab my sweats and some sandals. It’s still dark when I pull his car out of the neighborhood, and not much brighter when I’m on 59.

  I make it out of the Ward. The city’s silhouette dims. Its shotguns start thinning, until they’re all taquerias and pawnshops and strip clubs. Once I hit Baytown, I’m driving beside the furniture dives, and the pawnshops and junkyards and factories lining the feeder. This is the furthest I’ve been from the city, my city, in years, but it doesn’t feel like anything’s changed, and honestly, why would it. You bring yourself wherever you go. You are the one thing you can never run out on.

  There’s hardly any traffic. The red in the sky turns blue. After like an hour, I’m already in Galveston.

  There’s a parking lot lining the edge of the beach, this shitty little pile of gravel. The coast is filled with stragglers, the early morning set. But they don’t even look my way. They’re figuring out their own shit. I tuck Miguel’s keys into the dash. I kick the sandals onto the passenger seat.

  I’m like halfway into the water before I finally feel the chill, like one of those whitegirls in the movies. It’s the furthest I can get from where I need to be.

  Or maybe, just maybe, far enough away from him to actually think, and the sand’s like mud on my toes, sweaty with plastic and bottles and grit, but I dig into it anyways. Until it starts to burn.

  I pray for my dead in that water.

  And I pray for Javi in that water.

  And I pray for Jan in that water.

  And I pray for Ma in that water.

  And I pray for my father in that water.

  I start to pray for the boy in my bed but really that nigga should be praying for me. Or maybe his family. We’ve all got our priorities. And I keep on like that, standing on the shore, muttering and sinking and bobbing, and I hear the water behind me, like this low roar, and then a thumping, like something’s getting a little closer. Or I’m getting a little closer. Close to enough to trust him and just give it a go.

  And, honestly, I wonder how anyone ever gets away from all that. I used to think that you could.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Mom and Dad.

  Bryce.

  Alison and Patrick.

  Adam and Rachel and Sanda and Isaac.

  Kimberly and Sarah and Analicia and Adrienne and Carlos and Tyson and Joseph.

  Adina and Nicole and Silvia and Rebecca and Rachel and Dan and Jason.

  Amelia.

  Barb and Randy.

  Joanna.

  Mat.

  Katie.

  Becky.

  The Riverhead crew.

  Laura.

  Danielle.

  David—antes, ahora y después también.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Bryan Washington has written for The New Yorker, The New York Times, the New York Times Magazine, BuzzFeed, Vulture, The Paris Review, Tin House, One Story, Bon Appétit, MUNCHIES, American Short Fiction, GQ, FADER, The Awl, and Catapult. He lives in Houston.

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