Reading social cues is an admitted shortcoming. Like right now, Antonio’s pinched brows and gaze that swings from my hair to my face don’t match his fervor from minutes ago.
Talking on the phone provided a safety net I no longer have. There was no thinking about hand placement or whether my smile matched that of a rabid animal. Every public interaction turns awkward, except I’m not the one breaking the no-staring rule this time.
He is.
I cough, and Antonio clears his throat.
Subconscious physiological responses.
He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “So, bestie who moved a week early. What are you doing here?”
“Conducting an experiment. You mind?”
Heat fans my cheeks when Sean puts his hands on his bony hips. He’s eight, with neither the height nor bass in his voice to reprimand anybody. All eyes in the room shift between me and Antonio.
“We’re still waiting,” Sean scolds Antonio, who backs away with his hands raised at the threat dressed in a Minecraft shirt. He retreats to a man shorter than him, who’s rolling his lips.
Did Ms. Amber get Kendrick Lamar to perform?
The tug on my sweater is my final reminder to go back to judging how the built structural foundations would survive in an earthquake.
Sorry, I mouth to Antonio, whose eyes are on me and not the engineering project that’s reactivating screams.
You got it, Doe, he mouths back with a wink.
“If you weren’t in your mid-thirties, I’d tell your father you drove a moving truck by yourself.” Antonio shakes his head. “You always complain about driving at night.”
“I arrived before sunset. What does my age have to do with it?”
His shoulder lifts. “I was raised to respect my elders—ow!” His hand covers the pec I just stuck. It’s the size of my head.
I smirk through my sip of apple juice.
I’ve been under interrogation since we left my activity room in search of food. We’re on the gym bleachers with two water bottles, juice boxes, Twizzlers from the stash I keep in my purse, and a jumbo pretzel split between us. Any butterflies I had during our initial reunion have left the building. We’re back to our regular quips. His pokes to prod my annoyance.
The kids who are still here after hours of play are with the other Steel players, playing Double Dutch. The Kendrick Lamar look-alike slips through the slashing ropes with a casual swagger. Winston Duke—Carbohydrate, or was it Bagel that Antonio called him?—grabs a pair of handles to speed up the rhythm and cusses when his teammate hits a crip walk.
Today’s MLK Day event was a success. News cameras arrived, prompting our state lawmakers and a congressperson to take some pictures and leave faster than they had come. I had fun—minus the glares from the guy next to me, who’s still pissed that I moved without him.
“You didn’t think to call me? I’m hurt.” Antonio pouts with a tight lip and a wobbly chin.
“I got help packing the truck.” I snicker, trying to hold in a laugh. “I don’t expect you to drop everything, fly down to Baltimore, and ride up with me. You’re busy,” I deadpan, and his phone buzzes.
Antonio can sulk all he wants. The Steel’s preseason practice schedule is in full swing. He’s not wasting time on unnecessary travel. Not when he can recover from a hard training session with whatever Lala is sending him three texts in less than a minute.
His phone illuminates with another message he ignores. “I would’ve come if you’d asked.”
There’s no attempt to look away. He studies me with a focus that would make me dizzy and loosen my knees if I didn’t know any better. The arch of his brow, the purse of that thick lower lip, and the inventory of hard muscle is how you wind up in somebody’s bushes ready to serve time.
I never had a friendship this close with a man before, let alone a man I encouraged to play in my body. Sending messages like Lala is safer than sitting on the receiving end of his stare.
L = T-V
The Lagrangian function is a silent recital to calm nerves that are determined to flare and act a fool.
We’re friends.
Platonic and nothing else.
