“I’ll let Carl know you’re not coming,” Drake says.
“Great. You can keep him company. I’ll be over here not smelling like regret and Rémy Martin.”
“Man, please. Like any of us have a choice, since your big ass never leaves the house.”
“Not true,” I say, straight-faced. “I’moutsidethe house right now.”
“Driving your mom to choir practice doesn’t count.”
My brother and I were born in Canada, but we lived in California for most of our teenage years. My dad’s job pulled us south of the border and my mother always felt like it was the right thing to do to follow him.
But once I got old enough to really see how Black men were treated in America, I knew I couldn’t stay. The tension, the weight, the constant undercurrent of fear…it wears you down.
So I came back. Back to the cold, the quiet, the calm. Back to where I could breathe and the only thing pressing on my neck was the scarf my mother knitted me.
After my father passed, I tried to convince my mom to move in with me, but her feisty-ass shut that down quickly. Said she’dshrivel up and die being alone in the woods with me. So she lives closer to the city now, surrounded by a vibrant, nosy, wine-loving crew of friends who somehow keep her calendar fuller than mine.
She’s come alive in the city. Started a whole new chapter, like grief pressedrestarton her social life. And I’m grateful. Grateful the weight and noise of the U.S. didn’t follow her across here. She’s safe. Settled.
Here, the food is cleaner, the meds are free, and the air doesn’t smell like stress. Moving back to Canada was the best thing for her. For all of us.
Even if I do spend most of my time alone or tucked away in my workshop. But in classic Mom fashion, she found a way to flip that into a problem I apparently need saving from. Now she makes me take her to church every Sunday, Bible study on Wednesdays and choir practice on Fridays, claiming it’s to “free my spirit.” I know better. It’s her way of making sure I leave the house and speak to people who aren’t delivery drivers or Drake.
“If I have to put clothes on and actually engage with people, it counts,” I say to Drake. I’m laughing, but I’m serious.
My friends have always given me hell about my lack of interest in going out and chasing women. But the whole thing has just never appealed to me.
What’s the appeal, really? You throw on a nice shirt, maybe cologne if your mother raised you right, and then head out to compete like it’s the dating Olympics for the attention of someone who’s usually more into free drinks and shallow conversation than anything real.
It’s not me. Never has been.
I’m the guy in the corner of the VIP section, sipping whiskey and watching it all play out—men and women alike pretending they’re not insecure, not terrified of dying alone with nobody but their French Bulldog to find the body.
Shit. That got dark fast.
Drake curses. “Shit!” He snaps.
“What’s up?”
“Check the center console of your truck. Is my wallet in there?”
I pop it open and glance inside. “Yep. Right here. How the hell did your dumb-ass leave your wallet in my truck?”
“That last meeting, remember? Old boy’s secretary had me distracted when I was hopping in. I must’ve dropped it.”
I shake my head. Of course. If there’s one thing Drake’s gonna do, it’s flirt his way through any professional setting. The man turns business cards into love notes. All the women he talks to are of age, though.
His name is Thaddeus Drake. He’s more of anethically-sourcedDrake. He’s also light-skinned but we won’t hold that against him since he does so much for the planet.
“Can you bring it by the spot tonight?”
“You did this shit on purpose,” I say flatly.
“What?” he says, feigning innocence so poorly I want to hang up on principle.
“You left your wallet in my truck to force me out the house. Admit it.”
“That, or I run up a tab in your name. Either way, you’re coming out.”
