“You were there for a layover?”
“Nope,” I mutter.
My Uber driver, Christophe, hasn’t shut up since I told him I’d been to his country for just twenty-four hours once.
“What do you mean you were only there for twenty-four hours then?” he asks in a heavy German accent with the stoic mannerisms to go with it.
“It was a pit stop on my way to Paris. I’d never been so my fian—myexdecided we’d have the pilot stop there so I could see Cologne Cathedral and shop in Düsseldorf.”
I let the word “ex” marinate in my mouth for the first time. It tastes bittersweet.
“Holy hell—what a once in a lifetime pit stop.”
I press my face against his back passenger window and stare at the buildings whipping by instead of indulging in the sad memories of another one of AJ’s carefully curated “I’m sorry” trips.
It’s been over eight-hundred days since I’ve been home. Things are the same, but different. Aunt Faye didn’t tell me theybuilt a row of townhouses where the Auto Depot used to be or that Ason Williams’ son was on damn near every billboard that lead from 59 to 610 because he finally brought some notoriety back to the city’s basketball team. He’d gone from swaggering around Lockwood and having a low-key love affair with his girlfriend to gracing the iconic steps at the Met Gala in custom Dior with her under his arm. AJ’s insufferable agent, Blake, loved to brag about how Harvey and Lee Sportsalmosthad The Kid on their roster.
“You from this place?” Christophe asks as he exits off the freeway.
I pull my eyes from the window just as he points his pale, skinny finger to his car’s floor as if Bayou Crest is nothing—as if my neighborhood isn’t the heart and soul of the city.
I roll my eyes back to the window when he passes Uncle Kenny’s gym. “Yeah, I live here.”
“Oh. You don’t look it.”
I widen my eyes as if it’ll help me see Uncle Kenny meandering outside of Worthing Gym, but the doors are rolled down with the padlocks dangling from the bottom. Somebody even stuck a “MELO BARNES FOR DISTRICT D” campaign sign on the chain-link fence that wraps around the building, and Aunt Faye didn’t tell me they let alleged drug dealers run for city council now either.
“You mind if I crack the window?” I ask.
“I can turn the air off?—”
I roll the window down and stick my nose outside, inhaling the sharp wind while my brain and spirit tug at each other for control. The city’s air gushes inside the car as I open my mouth to taste it. It’s that weird time of year that me and Aunt Faye love where summer flirts with fall. Some days are filled with that scorching leftover summer heat while others are draped in a nice cool breeze.
I know I look crazy with my head hanging outside the window, staring at the bright orange sun setting, but I don’t care. I’m sure Christophe understands what it’s like to be away from home for so long. He says he’s been away from Germany for ten years.
“My cousin got robbed there last Christmas while delivering food.” He points to the Oak Garden apartments where my best friend Terrica’s cousin, Meechie, lived before her mama got remarried.
“Oh, yeah?” I turn my head to catch one last glimpse of the dull brick buildings that make up the apartment complex. “Did they ever catch who did it?”
“Nope.”
“That’s a shame,” I mutter back disinterestedly. “Same thing happened to my cousin in River Oaks—except they caught the guy. He kind of looked like you—ice blonde hair, blue eyes. Crazy how things like that can happen anywhere, right?”
His cheeks grow flushed as he hits his brakes at the green light on Bayou Bend. He toots his horn at a lady strutting into the intersection with an empty styrofoam cup and a blonde wig on her head that had seen better days.
I sit forward to get a better look at her familiar face.
Now I’mdefinitelyhome.
“Goddamn it,” Christophe hisses, tossing his hands up.
She stares at us with crusty red eyes, and I reach to open Yesenia’s purse to grab a few dollars to give her like Aunt Faye used to do, but there’s nothing inside the purse except the phone Yesenia gave me, my ID, and my crumpled boarding pass from the airport.
I pull my hand out as he swerves around her and turns at the next light onto my street.
Chantilly Lane leads into one of the oldest parts of Bayou Crest where the same craftsman and expansive ranch-stylehouses have been since Aunt Faye was a little girl. It runs right in front of Lockwood. Aunt Faye always said our side of Bayou Crest was the “working-class side.” It’s where the doctors, business owners, and Lockwood professors have always lived. Well, except for our neighbor, Old Man Hester. He’s just an alcoholic who inherited his mama’s fourplex.
Christophe is the quietest he’s been since I got in his backseat as we pass Terrica’s granny’s house and pull up to our driveway. Our old house still looks the same as it did before I left except the one new thing Aunt Faye did bother telling me about: Uncle Kenny’s old punching bag.
