“That’s a long story.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
Skilled at looking at a woman like she’s the most vital thing in the world, I force myself to shake away the feeling. “Maybe another time.”
“How about over the best seafood on the bay and a bottle of wine?”
A date?I slip my hand inside my pocket and squeeze. I could not possibly go on a date with him. “Thank you for the offer, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“The seafood or the wine?”
“Both.”
“Is there someone back in Chicago?”
“No, nothing like that. I’m here on a solo retreat of sorts.”
“And that doesn’t include eating?”
“It does, but alone.”
“Six weeks is a long time to eat alone,” he notes.
“Time by myself is what I need.”
“Why’s that?”
“Part of that long story,” I hedge.
“Looks like I’m striking out here,” he whispers to the dog then gazes back at me. “It’s a standing offer in case you change your mind. Like, Bitsy, you’ll find me pretty harmless.”
My heart gives an excited, nervous thump as I climb up the embankment toward the boardwalk, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. When I’m several yards away, I can’t quite resist glancing over my shoulder to take one last look at him, still standing there with Bitsy. I swear she’s grinning.
He waves, and I squirm inside my jacket. Harmless? Try telling that to my jangled system.
“Whuddup, C?” Dice greets me with a handshake we created back in the day—palm smack, fist bump, and a dash of bro sauce. “Mmm.” He catches the scent wafting from the paper bag and flashes a mega-watt smile. “Fried fish ‘n chips. I could kiss you.”
“No thanks. Those lips have too much mileage.”
“Don’t hate the playa.” He laughs and takes the bag. I shed my coat and boots and then follow him into the kitchen.
I met Dyson Jones in the seventh grade. My mom moved us to Bayside for a fresh start. On the first day of school, when the English teacher asked the class to name a great character in American literature, Dice shouted out, “Eric Brooks! Blade is the baddest vampire hunter of all time!” I knew we’d be friends.
He was this tall, lanky dude then and didn’t take anything seriously—except Marvel comic books. We bonded over our mutual obsession and the Blade films. As Black kids, we found it dope to see someone like us playing a badass hero.
We’d hang out in my room for hours, watching action movies, eating Skittles, trading comics, and debating which superpower was cooler. I thought mimicking the powers of others offered the best fighting advantage, while Dice wanted X-ray vision to see Jessica Clarke’s titties, which had suddenly appeared over the summer.
Dyson did for me what months of grief counseling couldn’t. He made me laugh and feel more than just pain and anger. I discovered that his goofball persona hid the hurts from a father he never knew and a mother who wasn’t cut out to be one. Dice was always at our house and became like a brother to me. When Mom passed, he took it almost as hard as I did.
I wash my hands at the kitchen sink and pull open his fridge. An eye-watering smell hits me in the face. “What the fuck?” I track the stench to a container of basil chicken. Keeping late hours as a bartender and weekend DJ, he exists mainly on take-out. “How long has this been in here?”
“A few days.” He shrugs.
“More like a few weeks.”
“The microwave kills bacteria.”
“You failed science for a reason.” I throw the container away to his protests.
