After college, Haven was determined to move into an RV and travel across the US for a couple of years. “I will gawk over prices and try to haggle for you until the lot closes.”
She smiled. “Did you see my good skirt in the dryer?”
A code was requiredto open the gate. A code David failed to share after multiple texts. I eventually called him. It took two times before he finally picked up. And once he did, I was greeted with a lackluster, “Yeah?”
I closed my eyes to avoid rolling them because Haven was in the driver’s seat, and she would turn her car around the second she sniffed unnecessary conflict.
“The gate code, David,” I said flatly.
“Shit.” He muted.
We waited for about a minute. Haven drummed on the steering wheel, leaning forward to read the gaudy residential name.
“Baymount Springs,” she said with a wrinkled nose. “Do you think people who live in places like these actually like these big houses with no personality and golf-cart-plaguedcrosswalks? Or have they just convinced themselves it’s better because it’s behind a gate, which, mind you, is a false sense of security because even I could climb over that?”
I shrugged, swallowing down my response of actually liking neighborhoods like these. It was like the one I grew up in. The large bay windows on most of the houses reminded me of winters spent tracing snowflakes on glass. I’d spent plenty of summers riding around the neighborhood in my parents’ golf cart. They’d trusted me enough to take the thing out as a preteen. My friends and I would drive it to the far corners of the golf course to count the number of misplaced balls and see if we could sneak in a few holes without getting caught.
Haven knew I came from money. Sure, it wasn’t the upper echelon, rubbing elbows with world leaders’ kind of money, but it was still the fine china, trust fund, multiple vacations, we’ll load up your debit card if you want, you can get both pairs of shoes kind of money.
Haven didn’t know I got nostalgic about it. She didn't understand that manicured lawns and animal-shaped bushes made me feel at home. And I never attempted to explain, too embarrassed and guilt-ridden about enjoying what most would consider soulless or too extravagant.
“2543,” David said as soon as he came back on the line.
Haven punched in the number, and the gate creaked open.
“Good?” he asked.
“Yeah, all good. Thank?—”
He hung up. Haven gave me a look, and I shook my head. “Don’t say it.”
“I’m not going to say it,” she promised and, in a lower voice, added, “Yet.”
“We’re here to gather crucial dancing-David evidence, stuff our bags with over-priced snacks, and maybe make a few contacts for the ball. Everything else is irrelevant.”
“Alright, alright.” Haven parked right alongside the sidewalk. There were already a handful of cars on the circular driveway. When we got out, we saw a brown-skinned woman walking her dog and talking on the phone. She smiled at us and gave us a small wave before carrying on.
“Evening,” an old, gray-haired man who was cruising by on a bike greeted with a serene smile.
“Evening,” Haven and I said in awkward unison.
My best friend ran around the car to meet me on the sidewalk and tucked her arm through mine. “Aren’t they supposed to be side-eyeing my dump of a car? Asking if we’re lost? Or are we safe because they smell the new money on you? I’m sure your parents used to bathe you in it.”
“I don’t think that’s it, considering the money baths only happen on my birthday,” I said. “The smell fades after a few months.”
Haven watched our six as I led us up the walk to a surprisingly quiet house. I checked the number on the door twice to be sure we were at the right place. When I knocked, there was a squeal, a crash, and a flutter at the curtain.
“Relax, relax.” A tall, broad-shouldered guy with one of the famous tattoo sleeves opened the door. “It’s not him. It’s…Yara?”
I smiled and wiggled out of Haven’s grip to hug him. “Hart.”
Hart Hwong lifted me off my feet and carried me past the threshold. Last semester, we were the only two minorities in a course called Cultural History through the Lens of Film. I backed him and his demand for more Korean films to be added to the watchlist. And he was my right-hand man whenever I pushed for more queer Black media to be included in our discussions on intersectionality.
“Where have you been?” Hart asked. I ignored the curious gazes of his friends. They slowly began going back to whatthey were doing: taping up a ‘Happy Birthday!’ banner, setting out food, and scattering confetti on the marble floor.
“Where I usually am.” I laughed when he gave me a last squeeze and set me down. “Library and slash or student center. What about you?”
We’d made promises to stay in touch. Sent a few texts about how we missed each other and would try to meet up during the summer. But our lives didn’t quite overlap… or, maybe we just didn’t work too hard to make them overlap. Hart was on the football team with David. He was a guard: large, fearless, and steady. He had a type of calm confidence I admired and envied.
