“How about you don’t tell me how to feel, and I won’t argue with you. Fair?” His gentle tone cuts me deeper than his anger would.
“None of this is fair.” I give up and go still under him.
“Hundred percent. If you could make it fair, how would you do that?” Jamal lets go of one of my wrists to tangle his fingers in my hair.
My brain does a scratch stop, and answering that question isn’t possible. I shrug, and he smiles down at me.
“In your version of a fair life, do I love you?” His fingers massage my scalp, and I nod, too afraid to say it out loud. “For how long?”
I turn my head and see dust between the nearby chair and wall. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because I think we want the same thing. To be allowed to love each other in public and private. It’s part of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, but we live in a world where that’s threatened.”
I shift to remove the bony part of his ribs from my gut. “But I’m messed up and you’re not,” I huff. The fucker has the audacity to laugh at me.
“Do you know how many hours I’ve spent in therapy? My therapist could buy a mansion or send her kid to an Ivy from my fees alone.” He thunks my forehead.
“I’ve never been. We aren’t allowed to talk about our problems. We, as in the King family, have a perfect life even though I’m not a King.”
“Not after your dad died?” His face morphs into shock. “I’m sorry your family was so selfish.”
“It never occurred to me that I might need it,” I admit. Growing up, therapy was for crazy people.
“It’s never too late.” He tugs my hair with a pensive look. “Last night you asked me if you’re broken. If you were talking about liking breath play, you are not alone. Google it, and you’ll see millions of people like it and do it. But it seems like something more?”
He’s so sincere and concerned, I can’t tell him no one has ever loved me back. The most basic thing—I don’t understand it.
My eyes sting, lacking the words to make him stay.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs.
“Not yet,” I add. The third hockey game of the day ends and rolls right into another one.
“We could argue, or we could make better use of our time, and I can show you how much I love you.”
The front door opens, and we hear Kenya yell, “I’m home.”
“We’re in the parlor, dressed but having a discussion,” Jamal calls back.
“Parlor?” I question as we listen to the sound of her heels coming down the hall.
“It’s what they called this room back in the old days, and we still use the term.” He doesn’t say more because Kenya’s heels have stopped.
“Jamal,” she scolds.
“We’re fine, Mom. Can you give us a few minutes?”
“Fine, huh? Must be some discussion. Theo, dear, just yell if you need me to take him out.” She waits a minute and leaves after we’re both silent.
“Thanks,” Jamal says to me instead of his mom. I must seem confused because he adds, “She would knock me upside the head so hard.”
My mouth falls open. “She’s your mom.”
“You don’t think she’d slap me if I was hurting you? You don’t know Kenya Thomas. She don’t play with people being dumbasses.” He slides off to lie pressed against me.
“But she loves you.” I can’t wrap my head around her sincere offer to help me.
“Yeah, but she’s not raising an asshole, and if I act out, she’ll let me know.” As if he can sense I’m spiraling, he throws his leg over mine.
