We walk the rest of the way in a weird, perfect silence.
Every few steps, our hands brush. Once, when the trail gets tight, I catch the back of his hand with mine and leave it there just a millisecond too long.
He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t acknowledge it either.
The sun’s just hitting the water when we find the last bench.
It’s half-eaten by moss and bird shit, but the view is spectacular, so we sit anyway, shoulders jammed together like we’re both too stubborn to take the edge.
From up here, the world looks small, boats crawling, clouds piled up like bruises.
Darius leans forward, forearms on his knees. “You ever miss home?” he asks.
I almost laugh, but the way he says it makes me pause. “Tacoma doesn’t really inspire nostalgia. My family’s cool, but it’s all bagels and yelling. You want to hear about my worst bar mitzvah disaster?”
He grins, the first real smile of the walk. “Hit me.”
So I tell him the story.
The ruined Torah reading, the bit where my voice cracked like a glass dropped in the shower, my grandmother’s horror, the rabbi’s subtle but unmistakable sigh when I lost my place for the third time.
I make it a show, because I know he likes the performance, but when I get to the part about dropping the Kiddush cup and splattering grape juice all over my white shirt, he actually laughs.
It’s deep and unguarded and it nearly stops my heart.
“You’re a mess,” he says, but it sounds like a compliment.
“Yeah,” I say. “But I’m a lovable mess.”
He looks at me sideways, like he wants to say something and isn’t sure if he should. “My mom,” he says, “she made this dish, griot. Pork, fried, soaked in citrus. She said it was the only thing that made her think of home. Every time we ate it, she told me, ‘The world will try to make you bland, but you need to keep your flavor.’”
“That’s actually awesome,” I say, and I mean it.
He nods, but he’s staring at the water again. “I never told her about Nia. Not really. I think she always knew, but I couldn’t get the words out. It’s stupid, right?”
“Not stupid,” I say, and I don’t even try to make it a joke. “It’s hard to say some things. Even to the people who care the most.”
The bench isn’t that big, but we’re sitting so close now our thighs are pressed together, the heat of it shocking through the denim.
My hands are in my lap, his too, but the pinkies are a hair’s breadth apart. I want to reach over, to link them, but I don’t. Not yet. The pact is still too new, the world too raw.
Instead, I just let the wind whip my hair, let the last of the sun burn my face, let the moment hang between us like a dare.
We don’t talk for a long time. The air’s gone sharp with salt, and the only sounds are the water and the distant squawk of gulls.
I don’t know if he’s thinking about me, or his mom, or the team, or all the ways the next few months could go wrong.
But I know he’s here, right now, and that’s more than I’ve ever had.
Finally, he says, “You want to head back?”
“Yeah,” I say, but neither of us moves.
We sit there, side by side, bodies touching, until the sky goes dark and the only light left is the city, miles away, promising nothing but itself.
Neither of us says a word.
But it’s the best conversation I’ve ever had.
