It was our secret.
Getting lost in that thought, the kid speaks up again, his voice filled with utter devastation. “I-I went to t-the garage last week, and that g-guy Peter told me,” he shakes his head, “never mind. I’m sorry for your loss. I shouldn’t be here.”
The kid moves toward the gate, and on instinct, I palm his shoulder. He flinches, instantly pulling himself from my grip when it dawns on me. A conversation Dom and I had before he left for France. “You Zach?”
He nods, eyes widening a little. “He told you about me?”
“Yeah, he did,” I nod. “And I can tell you right now, you’re exactly where you need to be.” A soul-crushing relief covers his face as I nod toward my car. “Let’s go.”
Sean
“Alfred Sean Roberts, get your ass back in this house right now!” Mom yells at my back as I race out of the driveway, one of my shoes slipping on my pedal as I call over my shoulder. “I’ll be right back, Mama!”
“Now, mister!” Mom hollers after me, and I know she means business.
If I get my Sunday school clothes dirty, I’m going to get an ass-whoopin’。 I pedal faster, my shoes slowing me down as my dad hollers my name from the porch when I turn the corner.
I pretend not to hear him. If I go back now, he might not be there.
I saw him when we passed on the way home from church—sitting on the curb. He’s always on the curb and never plays. Turning onto his street, I see he’s still there, sitting next to his mailbox. He sees me just before I ride up and stands up fast, looking both ways.
My shoes slide a little when I put my feet down to stop. “Hi.”
He stares at me as if I didn’t talk to him.
“You want to ride bikes with me?” I ask.
He just blinks at me. He’s got dark hair and skin. My cousin Bradly said his family are fortuners.
“Where’s your bike?” I ask, and he doesn’t say anything.
“If you get your bike, we can ride.” When he doesn’t talk, I try again. “Bradly said you were a fortuner!” I shout. “Are you weird?!” I tilt my head. “You don’t look weird.”
He squints at me.
“Can you hear me?!” I yell.
“I crashed my bike,” he says, squinting harder like I’m stupid.
I step off my bike and start rolling it toward him. He’s got a T-shirt with a car on it. I like Batman better. “You can ride mine, but only for a bit. I have to change out of my Sunday clothes.”
He jerks his chin and looks back at his house. “I can’t leave the yard.”
I tilt my head. “You can’t ride on your street? I can ride on my street, your street, all over.”
“No,” he shakes his head.
“Why? Where is your mom? I’ll ask her.”
“She’s dead.”
“Oh. Can I ask your dad?”
“He’s dead.”
I kick at a rock. “Then who do you live with?”
“Tatie,” he says, looking at my bike like he wants to ride it.
“What’s a Tatie?”
“Tatie means aunt in French.”
“You’re French? That’s what fortuner means?”
“You talk a lot,” he says, tilting his head.
I laugh at him. “I talk the same as everyone else. You talk funny.”
He squints at me again.
“You can ride mine, but just for a bit,” I hold the handles out to him. When he doesn’t take them, I sigh. He’s hardheaded.
“Okay. Well, I have to go.” I turn and walk slowly, knowing Daddy will meet me at the porch and skin my hide.
“I’ll get on, just for a . . . bit,” he says it like me. I turn back to see him rushing toward me before taking my bike by the handle. He sits on the seat, puts one foot on the pedal, and waits.
“Are you scared because you crashed?”
“I’m not scared,” he says through his teeth.
He’s scared.
“I crashed before, too, cut my hand good and bloody.” I hold it up for him. He doesn’t look mad anymore but still doesn’t push on the pedals. “Just . . . push the pedals really fast and hold the bars straight. You can do it.”
“Dom?” I hear called from inside his house. “Dom!?”
“That you?” I ask. “You Dom?”
He nods and drops his head. “That’s my brother,” he says as he gets off the bike and holds it out to me. “He won’t let me ride with strangers.”
“Okay,” I say. “Well . . . meet me tonight, after bed.”
He jerks his head. “He won’t let me.”
“Don’t tell him.” I smile.
“Oh.” His eyes go wide. “Okay.”
“It will be our secret.”
He nods.
I point to the streetlight. “Meet me over there. I need to get home. I’m going to get an ass-whoopin’ for coming to meet you in my church clothes.”
He throws his head back and laughs.
“You think that’s funny?” I smile. “That I’m going to get an ass-whoopin’ to meet you?”
He nods again and again, smiling, and I smile too.
“Okay, Dom, see you after dark.”
I look back as I push the pedals. “I’m Sean.”
He nods again, still smiling. The front door opens at his house as I turn the corner. “Dom, what are you doing? Get out of the street!”
“You were fearlessly flying down that street by midnight,” I say, ripping at some of the grass near his headstone—chest roaring as it has been since I saw his lifeless body on Cecelia’s bedroom floor nearly three months ago. “Not that you asked, but I did get an ass-whoopin’ just to come and meet the boy who sat on the curb every day.”
A wave of pain crashes into me as my eyes sting. “Best decision I ever made. I won’t ever regret it,” I choke out. Waves of anguish rush through me as I lower my gaze to the definitive dates. The dates that mark the beginning of his life and the end of it. I come here as often as I can to convince myself that this is real.
That he’s gone.
Something inside me refuses to believe it.
Our last words weren’t at all sentimental in nature or anything memorable. More transactional and out of fear.
But he knew. He always knew of my affection for him and vice versa. I used to wonder why people were so worried about last words after someone passes because the relationship is what matters most, but I get it now. I get it. I would give anything to have those seconds back, but I still have no idea what those words would be.
Then and there, I decide there won’t be.
I’ll never stop talking to him.
“Fuck,” I rasp out at the sting of the memory of the day we met. Seeing that kid on the curb, seemingly lost and waiting for anyone or anything to come along. The second time I saw him, I just knew that someone he was waiting for was me. Just as that surety settles over me, the breeze kicks up, and the trees rustle above, the foliage floating slowly toward the ground around me. The hinge of the gate squeaks as I focus on a gold leaf as it lands on top of his headstone.
“You always knew how to help me make sense of things, and you left me here to figure it all out. You did that for me. You always put things into perspective. I can’t,” I swallow, “。 . . I need you because I can’t make sense of this, brother. No matter how hard I try, I can’t understand how you not being here will ever be the way things were supposed to play out.” The ball in my throat chokes me silent momentarily as I grunt against it.