“Only if they could catch me. Demarcus wanted me to fight back, defend myself and all, but I don’t like hitting people. Makes me sick to my stomach. Besides, usually it’s more than just one dude you have to fight. Running is a lot easier.”
He said it so matter-of-factly, like getting jumped was a normal part of everyday life. Maybe it was for him. “That’s terrible, Andre.” I wanted to hug him, send him to counseling or maybe a self-defense class. And then I wanted to find all those bigots who’d hurt him and make them pay for what they’d done to him.
He shrugged. “At least I always knew who my real friends were.”
Andre’s phone dinged. He glanced down at it and laughed out loud.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.” He shook his head.
“Tell me.”
“Demarcus told me not to get you pregnant.”
I laughed. It seemed they shared a similar sense of humor.
While at work that night, I thought about what it was like for Andre growing up in a small town, having to hide who he was, being afraid he was going to get jumped at any moment, and then being found out by his father, beaten, and kicked out of the house.
Alabamawaspretty fucking bad. No wonder he was so desperate to make it work down here. For the first time in his life, he was able to be himself. And even though I said I didn’t judge him for what happened with Fang, I kind of did. ’Cause I’m an asshole.
When I got home that night, Andre was still out. I thought about texting him to see where he was, but I didn’t want him to think I was trying to get all up in his business. So I took a shower and vegged out in front of the television for a couple hours, though it wasn’t as enjoyable without him talking shit or arguing over what we were going to watch. Around three in the morning, I texted him to see when he’d be home, but got no reply. Then I started to worry, like maybe he was stranded somewhere, or he was drunk and needed a ride. Or maybe there was a group of tourists beating him up. It happened from time to time. Fucking rednecks.
Then I really started to freak out. I texted him again. Still nothing. I was thinking about getting in the car and cruising around his usual haunts when the front door opened, and he strolled through.
“Oh, you’re still up?” he said. He seemed surprised to see me.
“I texted you.”
He pulled out his phone and set it on the counter. “It went dead. I forgot to charge it this morning.”
“You should always keep it charged. I mean, what if something happened to you?” My voice was unnaturally high. I hated sounding like a nag, but I couldn’t help it. I was wound up from worrying about him.
“Everyone in Miami has a phone, Martin. I’d be all right.”
“What if you weren’t? This is a big city. Bad things happen.” Why was he being so naive and careless? If anything, he should be even more cautious, given his experience.
“Yo, man, what’s up?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” I ran my hands through my hair and tried to calm myself down. What was wrong with me? He was an adult, more or less, and he knew his way around the city. I had no right to demand that he tell me where he was or when he’d get back and yet, I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “Where were you anyway? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
“Why not?” he asked.
If he’d been with someone else, I didn’t want to know about it. Then all these images flooded me, and I wanted to bleach them right out of my mind.
“Would it bother you if I was with someone else?” he persisted. “Roommate?”
I stared at him. It felt like he was testing me. Part of me was simply concerned for his safety. But another part was possessive as hell. I imagined some Abercrombie-looking model feeling him up, and I wanted to kick his ass, whoever he was.
“Why are you asking me that?” I said.
“What if I was hooking up with a guy? How would you feel about that?”
I stared at my hands, which had formed into fists without me realizing it. “I don’t know. I’d be pissed,” I admitted.
“Why?”
I groaned. This was too much. “It’s late, Andre. I’m glad you’re home safe. I’m going to bed.” I headed for the loft.
