“No, I didn’t have time, but it’s from the bakery you like.”
DeAndre stands to take the collection of dishes from his wife. “Everyone want a dessert plate?”
“I’ll get the my-mom-spoils-me-rotten-pie.” Jamal pushes his chair back and goes into the kitchen with his dad while my brain warns my mouth of a thousand rude things not to say while I’m alone with his mom.
I’ve blamed and hated her for more than half of my life, and I can’t look at her because I’m afraid. Afraid she’ll see through my act and discover all my secrets.
“Theo.” She touches my arm again and takes a deep breath. “Here’s a fact about Black women: we’ll tell you it’s none of our business and stick our noses right in your business. I feared for Jamal’s safety, but I rationalized that you’re white and wouldn’t be mistreated. But I’ve worried about you over the years.”
I pull my arm out from under her hand. A few weeks ago, I would’ve called her a liar, believing John worshipped his son. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Facts, Mama. Theo is capable of trashing anyone who crosses him.” Jamal sets small plates down.
I give him a grateful smile.
His dad cuts the pie, and I take a piece to be polite.
“This is so good.” Jamal throws his head back to savor the taste.
It makes me smile, and I’m riveted by his satisfied expression and how smooth his throat is. Then I notice thescar under his chin.
“What happened there? Skate?” I ask. My words cause an instant freeze in motion and temperature. Whatever happened wasn’t a hockey accident. Or any accident. It resembles a burn mark. One hidden most of the time but never to be forgotten. I’ve seen him scratch it before.
“It happened during the time I hated you for stealing my life and my father from me.” Jamal changes the subject by dropping a truth bomb.
“I would’ve gladly switched with you. My entire life, I’ve heard about all your accomplishments and how I fell short.” We stare at each other, neither of us backing down. It’s not his fault that his father lied to me any more than it’s my fault his father deserted him.
I’ll allow him the subject change for now, but he doesn’t get to glamorize my life as cushy.
“Boys.” Kenya clears her throat.
“Even?” he asks with a forced smile, and I accept his offer to trade one insult for the other and move on.
“Is there a bathroom I can use?” I stand and consider leaving.
“Under the stairs in the entryway.” DeAndre points.
I close myself in the tiny room and check my phone. No Sarah. She abandoned me in my time of need.
“Son, wait,” DeAndre calls.
There’s a knock on the door, but I stay quiet. I brace my arms on the sink, studying the mirror as it reflects my self-loathing. But I’m not ready to face him. We had such skewed views of each other’s lives; one wrong word could shatter the truce we have.
“Before he comes back, know we support you. Your mom tells you to trust your intuition, and we trust it too. I’m not certain if this has anything to do with your texts the other night, but we want you to be happy.”
The walls close in, becoming claustrophobic. A parent trusting their child and wanting them to be happy is fairy-tale TV land.
“It’s not like that, Dad.” Jamal sounds regretful.
“In any case, be careful…” I don’t hear the rest of what he says because I need an exit strategy. I can’t hide in here forever, and as soon as I open the door, they’ll see me.
It’s clear I don’t belong here. I’m not so self-centered as to think the conversation is about me, but it doesn’t matter. Jamal should be careful of me because I’ll screw up whatever kindness he’s shown me.
I flush the toilet, put my earbuds in, and fake wash my hands. When I open the door, I hope my face has the same surprised expression as theirs.
“Oh, hey.” I pull out an earbud, and the music is loud enough for them to hear.
“I knocked,” Jamal accuses.
