“Eternal damnation.”
You laughed. You thought I was joking.
“I’m serious,” I said.
You made the sign of the cross—incorrectly, I might add—and said sullenly, “So, what? Are you going to leave me again?”
You knew. Already, you knew.
“Yes,” I admitted.
Your face crumpled into a scowl, and you looked so much like the little boy I used to know. I loved your expressiveness and your inability to hide your feelings from me even when you tried your hardest. You were at times a brat, but you were my brat.
“I’m going to miss you.” You moaned the words. You sounded so miserable. Like a soul set adrift.
“I’m going to miss you, too.”
“Stay until I fall asleep.”
How could I refuse?
I toldyou I was leaving, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t drop in on you from time to time. Sometimes I’d hover outside your dance studio and watch you through the windows. I told myself it was only to make sure you were keeping up with your training.
Or I’d plant myself on a street corner and wait for you to pass. I’d send a cool breeze your way, and you’d smirk and shake your head before continuing on.
And some nights, I’d watch you in slumber, listening to your even breathing and reminiscing on what it was like to sleep with my lover at my side. I imagined touching your hair or drawing a finger along your smooth skin, feeling the press of your body against mine.
It was a foolish, reckless game I was playing. I was pretending not to haunt you, and you were pretending not to know it.
You’d struck up a friendship with Tyrell. At first, I thought you’d initiated it because of your shared trauma. Tyrell, for better or worse, was out of the gang. Derek had decided he wasn’t worth the trouble. Strong men were a dime a dozen, and Derek had learned a valuable lesson about using someone else’s strength, only to have it turn against him. Instead, Derek got a gun. He kept his distance from you though, which admittedly, I helped with.
Perhaps it was because you spent so much time at the studio that you didn’t have a lot of friends outside of school. After that incident in the alley, you and Tyrell started spending time together, mostly to smoke his cannabis. I tried to guess at your motivation— camaraderie, free drugs, to torment me. Was I jealous? Like mad. I didn’t want anyone—including Tyrell—in your bedroom, your most intimate space. I didn’t like the way he looked at you like you were something he could steal. I was being ridiculous, but I’d always felt a zealous need to protect you.
And then one afternoon, you showed me your true intent.
Tyrell was in the bathroom down the hall. You were sitting at your desk stuffing marijuana into a sliced open cigar—a blunt, the kids called it.
“Now’s your chance, Henri,” you taunted. “I’ve brought him here. I know you could do it if you wanted.” You rolled the cigar deftly between your fingers and smiled like a smug cat. I’d vastly underestimated your cunning.
I said nothing, letting you wonder. I wanted to see what you had planned.
“Fine. Have it your way.” You shrugged and bit your lip, trying to hide your disappointment.
“Who are you talking to?” Tyrell asked, shutting the bedroom door behind him. He was an imposing figure in your small room. I still didn’t trust him not to turn on you. You were the reason he’d been dismissed by Derek, even if it was for the better. He could easily overpower you, and with no one else at home, you were entirely defenseless.
“No one,” you said with a quiet determination in your eyes. You told Tyrell to “get comfortable.” Tyrell sat at the edge of your bed and watched you work. You licked the seam of the cigar in an overtly erotic manner, then flicked a disposable lighter and ran it up and down the length of the blunt.
You approached Tyrell with the strut of a dancer and, much to my vexation, climbed onto his lap.
“Let me shotgun you,” you said in a sultry voice. You lit the blunt while making a production of sucking on its end, then blew the marijuana smoke into Tyrell’s open mouth. My envy ballooned. You were sharing breath with him, an incredibly intimate act. And when Tyrell placed his meaty hands on your hips, I nearly lost control.
“Get off his lap, Orlando,” I ordered, revealing myself to you.
You smiled slowly. Triumphant. I’d delivered exactly the reaction you’d wanted.
“I just want to make you feel good,” you purred. Your slotted whiskey eyes stared at Tyrell, but I knew those words were for me.
“You can make me feel good, Lando,” Tyrell said in a voice like syrup. “Girl, boy… it all looks the same when you’re down on your knees.”
