Mom looks at me, then at Darius, and says, “We’re lucky to have you.”
He smiles, but there’s something in his eyes, surprise, maybe. Or relief.
We stay at the table for a long time, talking about nothing, about everything. Eventually, Maya starts clearing plates, and Mom puts on the kettle for tea.
When nobody’s looking, I slide my hand under the table and lace my fingers with Darius’s. He doesn’t let go.
For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
———
We drive back to Seattle late, the car heavy with leftovers and the ghost of a hundred stories.
I look at Darius, his hands on the wheel, face lit by the dashboard. I want to say something, something real, but instead I just reach over and squeeze his knee.
He grins, and for the rest of the ride, it’s just us.
I don’t even miss Tacoma anymore.
Not one fucking bit.
———
Darius
Oakland looks the way I remember, except maybe a little shinier, like the city got a fresh coat of lacquer for the express purpose of making me look like a liar in front of my boyfriend.
Ash is the first to notice.
He leans out the window, squinting at the pale, perfect sky, then glances back at me. “You sure we’re in the right place? There’s not even one guy pissing on the sidewalk.”
I shake my head, grinning in spite of myself. “It’s early. They take Sundays off.”
He doesn’t laugh, just grins, too, and I can tell he’s running the same calculus as I am, which version of ourselves are we about to walk into, and do we need to warn anyone before impact.
The house is a two-story craftsman, shingled and smug, set back from the street by a yard that my father paid a guy named José to manicure every other week, even though he could do it himself in two hours.
The porch swing is new, but the windchimes by the door are the same, and they rattle as we climb the steps, Ash trailing behind like he’s waiting for the building inspector to show up and say it’s a trap.
I raise my fist to knock, but before I make contact the door opens and my father is already there, like he’s been watching thedriveway from the den and needed to make sure we got the real welcome.
“Son,” he says, and for a second, I’m eight again, knee bleeding, trying not to cry in front of the neighbors. He hugs me, arms tight and all business, then steps back and zeroes in on Ash.
Roland Webb does not shake hands so much as measure them.
He sizes Ash up, one eyebrow raised, then takes his hand in a grip that could crush a shot glass.
Ash doesn’t flinch. He holds on, and when my father finally lets go, there’s a faint smudge of blue ink on the edge of his palm.
I realize, in that moment, Ash probably forgot to wash his hands after filling out whatever last-minute paperwork the league wanted from him, but my dad just nods, satisfied.
“Roland,” he says.
“Ash,” Ash replies, voice level.
They hold the silence for a second, then my father steps aside and waves us in, already halfway to the kitchen before we’ve even crossed the threshold.
Inside, it’s the same as ever.
