The air in the room was getting hotter by the minute and the fans on the ceiling could do nothing about that. No typhoon a worthy match of Latin-sounds, general vividness and vibrant salsa-moves. Nothing can break down my high spirits, even though I can see my false moves reflected clear-as-day on the wall covered by mirrors right in front of me. One of the girls is a newbie to the class and came with a full make-up on; I mean, I have no idea what fixator she’s using but she’s still looking like a bomb, while quite a few strands of stray hair stick to my forehead, sticky with sweat. If I was wearing make-up, I’d already be looking like a panda. But a happy one, at least.
Tonight being a rare exception when there are the same number of both sexes (and in-between, I’m not trying to be exclusive)  we’ve got assigned fix partners for the class. “Come on, chica, mueve esas caderas, this no bible class, eh?” Jorge has a thousand-watt grin on his face as he tries to make my hips sway heavier.
”I thought you were supposed to only lead the dance, not me?”I ask him with my brows raised but laugh all the same when he winks at me and mimics the way I move in an over exaggerated, dramatic way which reminds me of Ansel. “Is that how girls dance in Cuba then?”
”The only thing I miss about Cuba is the way they dance, chica! That is, until your otherwordly smile fixed my broken heart.” Jorge lives up to the definition of ‘hot-blooded Latino’, the way they stereotypically live in everyone’s brains. He has this feel good vibe about him, a mixture of hotheadedness and pure ecstasy brought on by life. I never saw him without a smile for the last two months I’ve been frequenting this class and he always had some good words for everyone. He’s also definitely a player.
And a damn good dancer. I’ve loved dancing ever since I could remember, even when my other favorite pastimes were tree climbing and kicking empty cans. Mom always said I basically merengue-d out of her. I think that was just the painkillers talking; not that I ever argued with her, after all, she’s mom, I was the second smallish person to tear her vagina apart. It’s true I always had a hard time just casually sitting tight- The overwhelming urge to move about faltered since kindergarten but part of it is because I’ve found certain outlets to release the accumulating steam, one of it is dancing. I did gymnastics since I was six and then ended up on the cheerleading team in high school. I’ve attended some dancing classes for fun back in Portland, too, but the possibilities were limited and then… Things happened.
New York has been a place for new beginnings for me, including taking up dancing again. I’ve come to the point where I don’t care what kind of dance it is anymore. Break? Hip-hop? Jazz? Irish step-dancing? Bring it on!
Latin dances have a special place in my heart though. My granny was born in the USA but her father was Cuban and then she married my grandpa, who was born-and-raised in Dominica. I don’t really remember him but looking back at the photos he seemed secluded most of the time; mom told me he never really learned to speak English so he just didn’t talk. I cried when she told me that (it might have been the hormones) but it’s still sad, and even though it wasn’t much I still tried to keep him and his heritage alive.
Even if it only meant dancing bachata.
”Do you flirt with everyone?”
Jorge gets a languid smile on his face at that. “Absolutely everyone!” You gotta love a man with confidence and honesty. He twirls me around, the loose legs of my tango pants floating about as I stepped back and forth, my heels barely touching the floor. I’m so caught up in trying to catch up to Jorge’s smooth-ass moves and staring at his chest in concentration I don’t really notice his gaze wandering away towards the door. “Esa criminal, your moves, got the cops on your trail!” he laughs. I look up at him with a confused frown and follow his gaze towards the entrance where I spot Tay and my smile immediately widens to painful scales. I let go of Jorge’s hand to wave at him but we still have about half a minute left of the current track.
Having Tay collect me like I’m in second grade is equally funny, slightly insulting and incredibly cute. Not to mention fun; not many people would call riding the subway the highlight of their days but when you have two people with fucked-up and fully crammed work schedules there’s not much freetime you can work with so subway-fun it is. And sleep. I’m one of those people who would list ‘sleep’ as both a strength and hobby even though it’s one I don’t really share with Dante. Well, he let’s me sleep cuddling him like a teddy bear on those rare occasions he’s not on night shift so that still counts as quality togetherness.
”He your man?” I snap back at Jorge as if I forgot he was there. My body knew what to do on its own though, we’re still dancing. It would’ve been awkward to just stop right there like a fucking love-sick idiot the moment she lays an eye on her crush.
”Uhm… Nah. He’s my roommate.” I mean, he did tell Naz I’m not his girl so I guess there’s nothing wrong with stating that. There’s no point in lying to Jorge since he doesn’t know any of my friends. Of course there was no point in lying to Sophie because she would’ve just accepted the simple ‘I don’t want psychos to keep hitting on me on Facebook’ explanation on why I changed my relationship status and yet I still told her Tay’s my boyfriend. I usually try not to think about that or link it to any other external factors, like how her first question when I told him about Dante was ‘and is he hot?’, or how it made me feel like warmed-up jello.
Jorge twirls me around again with a squint toward the entrance. “Seguro?”
”Yeah, seguro.” Hoping Dante doesn’t try to run away in the remaining seconds of the dance or get blinded by the flashing lights I concentrate on the music and clap along Jorge when it ends. Although the next track starts immediately I raise my finger, asking for a moment and rush to Tay with gleaming eyes to give him a hug even if he’s reluctant. “Buenas noches, Officer! You got off early?” He’s standing right by the rack so I reach inside the pocket of my coat to fish out my phone. “Oh, you called…? Sorry, I couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t reach me so you came in to rescue me? Ahw, how sweet! I thought you’d be late so I agreed to stay for a plus hour or so with the others. We have a guest teacher now and we’re gonna do some bachata…!”
Jorge really doesn’t have anything to do while I’m out so he walk up to his bag to get out a water bottle. It’s not far from us so I motion towards him to join us so I can introduce them to each other. “So, Jorge, this is Dante, and Dante, this is Jorge, he’s my dance partner.”
”No, no, chica, you say that proudly!” He holds out his hand for a handshake.
”Well, I’m sure I can persuade him to rest for a round if you’d like to show me that salsa-hip you’ve been hiding!” I chirp at Dante, knowing folly well he won’t say yes even though a part of me wishes he would. I only roll my eyes at him.
”Tu no bailas, amigo? En serio!” Jorge laughs again but chugs half the bottle with crinkling eyes.
”You’re gonna be good for, like, half an hour?” I turn toward Tay with a serious intention, although I can’t really loose the smile. “You could try beating me at Galaga! I mean, duh, just try away…” And with that I take Jorge’s hand and let him lead me back to the dance floor and take our place between the others who are already deep in the rhythm.

I’m still ringing Mac’s phone as I come through the door, her bubbly voicemail message greeting me for the third time, quickly overpowered by Duele el Corazón, blasting from the hi-fi speakers at full volume – this song is so overdone even I know its title. Given our Bronx location, some people acknowledge my outfit with looks less welcoming than others, but most eyes are fixed on the dance floor, including mine, ‘cause I immediately spot Mac in the midst of the group. She takes a moment to spot me and my smile, genuine, but still a little cocky at the fact that I get to enter her mysterious little world now, for the first time. I’ve picked her up before, staying true to our arrangement, but the class was always over by the time I arrived. I don’t wanna throw off her groove, though, so I lean my back against the wall, right by the door and a black guy who doesn’t seem to appreciate my uniformed presence. I can’t exactly blame him, though.
The song ends soon, and I’m clapping my hands slowly, a wide smile plastered on my face as Mac walks towards me.
“Ay mami,” I greet her with a Cheshire grin. This room is full of guys who’d say this and mean it for real, but she knows I ain’t one of ‘em. When she gets close enough, I get off the wall to let her hug me. “Thought you up and died, girl. Whatchu say? Get off early?” I laugh. I’m NYPD, our paperwork is our Bible, we operate like clockwork, personal reasons have no place in this corporate ladder. Plus, the Sarge in my platoon is a real neat freak, and that spills over into his work ethic, so, yeah, no leavin’ early on his watch. I raise my eyebrows at Mac and state in a tone that’s somehow both scolding and nonchalant, “Nah, you’re the one runnin’ late.”
She explains, but I already know in advance that I’m not gonna be able to turn down her ‘pretty-please’ puppy eyes, and I don’t even want to. I always wanted to see her dance, anyway, and it’s not like anyone at the garage is gonna go looking for the car until the end of third watch. Even if they do, I covered for Peralta last week when he ran his errands on the PD’s gas bill, so I can expect him to do the same for me this week. ‘Dead man if he doesn’t.
I tilt my head to one side, giving Mac the once-over. Her hairline is covered in beads of sweat, and she’s dressed like one of her Instagram pictures where she looks like a member of a spiritual Buddhist cult, but a good-looking one at that. I figure this must be her in her natural environment, around like-minded individuals who like to make small-talk with strangers, laugh and cheer loudly, whatever these dancers do. It doesn’t sound like my idea of a fun time, but I’m not gonna shit on what Mac enjoys. I can handle another thirty minutes, ‘specially with something to look at.
“Guess that means I’m stranded,” I say, pretty much agreeing to stay, and I look around for a better place to station myself ‘til the class is over. While I’m doing so, Mac invites her partner over to introduce us, which I deem completely unnecessary, but here we are.
„Pleasure,” I say as I shake his hand, although there’s no pleasure to be found in my voice. Nothing personal, it’s just that I’m not usually over the moon at the mere thought of making a new acquaintance, ‘specially when I didn’t even intend to enter this room in the first place. Couldn’t care less sounds more like it, but I still try to treat him with due respect, ‘cause if he makes Mac happy, he can’t be all that bad. I don’t know why I feel like this, but it’s almost like he’s getting my work done by dancing with her.
“Nah, I’ll pass,” I say with implied apathy. As well as feeling uninterested, I have to admit that the atmosphere is a little intimidating to me, all these guys with plucked eyebrows having genuine laughs, unrestrained, comfortable in their sexuality. As someone who’s spent half his youth trynna prove how tough I am and forgetting how to have fun in the process, ‘s really not my world. This Jorge guy seems like he’s no exception: I can’t see the back of his head, but you bet he’s sporting a drop fade of sorts, and he regularly has it cleaned up at some hipster barbershop. Enrique-Iglesias-lookin’-ass. “Do your thing, ‘be in the corner if you need me. Get low, girl,” I wish Mac good luck, casually giving her a slap on the butt. Not sure exactly what I’m trynna signal and to whom, but I sometimes do it under the guise of our little play-pretend – everyone takes me for a caveman, anyway, so I can get away with stuff that types like Thyfault wouldn’t. It didn’t really matter, though, ‘cause she takes his hand all the same, and they return to the dance floor, ‘course they do, this is a goddamn salsa class. As someone who’d rather die than dance in public, I can’t really help this situation, but why would I even want to? It’s just salsa. And bachata. I’ve seen enough of the latter at parties, and I’m not a fan of the idea right now, but hey, it’s just dance, and Mac’s havin’ a good time. Without me. But that’s fine as long as she’s okay, right? Right.
I join the bystanders along the walls, most of whom look like they’re just there to catch their breaths before returning to the dance floor, ‘cause everyone here is hyped outta their minds to be dancing. Can’t relate. I cross my arms on my chest in the body language of an outsider, but I do watch the start of the dance routine without judgment and some interest, especially in a certain someone, clad in tribal patterns that whirl lightly around the axis of her hips. As usual, it begins with a lot of hugging and rotating, hands intertwined in the air. This goes on for a while, and then, a flashy backwards bend towards the floor excites the friendly clapping. I join for a round, ‘cause it did look kinda cool, actually.
“They’re good, eh?” asks the guy standing to my right, turning to me while clapping to the rhythm.
“She’s good,” I admit with a proud smile, too busy watching this one pair to realize he meant the whole class in general. She is good, and I’m not surprised, ‘cause I’ve seen her move before, but never like this. Most Latin dances are about the woman, more specifically about her lower areas, so I can’t really help my wandering gaze. In fact, there’s a fleeting moment where I fix my stare on Mac a little too intently, but I quickly rein it in. Hey, I’m still doing better than half the dudes on the dance floor, some of whom honestly seem a little too into it.
Her partner’s constantly talking at her in the meantime, and I wonder what he could be saying. He looks like your typical loud Latino dude who’s not afraid to look gay, probably in part because he gets with everyone regardless of gender, and that ain’t givin’ me peace of mind. He’s got moves, though, not gonna lie – but hey, I could do that if I wanted to, it’s just hugging girls to music. In the first few minutes, in my initial amazement, I manage to ignore his hands on her abdomen as she turns his back to him, but when he puts his hand on the small of her back, a lot lower than it needs to be, my smile begins to fade a little. This is a Latin dance, it’s not like they’re supposed to leave space for Jesus, and I should probably chill, but the class is gradually looking less fun to me. In fact, watching this is starting to get on my nerves.
All this time, I’ve been okay observing from the sidelines, but then the beat drops – if you could even call it that when speaking of salsa music –, meaning Mac and Whatshisname start getting down down on each other. The cheers are getting louder, and she’s really taking my advice of “getting low”, so much so that she’s almost grinding against his knee. Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but I know I ain’t trippin’; it’s like he’s the chair, and she’s trynna sit down. Sounds innocent, but looks far from it.
“They’re hittin’ it off for real, huh?” This guy from before is simply trynna make casual small talk with any stranger standing next to him, just like everyone else in this room, and he doesn’t even realize the impact of what he just said. People cheer and whistle every time a pair gets into it, including Mac and this cabeza de pija, and it almost feels like they’re making fun of me.
Overcome by frustration, I decide this is it, we’re goin’ home. Not only am I leaving, but I’m taking Mac with me, too. I have no rational excuse to become involved other than the fact that I just simply can’t watch this any longer, and that’s enough of a reason for me, since I don’t really have the cool to think this through right now. Most people are too busy dancing, anyway, so I think I can do this without a scene.
I walk up to her and her jerkface of a partner, a hostile mix of determination and dissatisfaction on my face. I look almost as constipated as the Sarge when my partner tells him he’s only written two tickets the entire week. “Mac,” I say her name as if it’s an indisputable fact. She can probably tell from my stern expression and monotone voice that something’s up. “C’mon, we’re goin’ home. Sorry, man, she’s gotta go.” I already have my palm in the middle of her back, ready to direct her away from this guy, which she probably doesn’t appreciate, me acting like I’m in the position to decide for her.
“¿Acere, qué bolá? We’re just gettin’ started!” Jorge spreads his arms out, but he’s still grinning despite his perplexity. He’s one jolly mawfucker, isn’t he? He frowns and laughs at Mac in confusion, and I realize why he doesn’t get any of this. She told him the truth about us, I mean, her, that she’s fair game. No wonder he got all excited.
“I said she’s gotta go,” I reiterate in an even more intense tone, bordering on insulting. At this point, even if Mac wasn’t gonna follow me just ‘cause I said so, she’d do it just to stop me from causing a scene. Like I said, it’s not even her partner I’m really pissed at, but in this moment, you could put a teddy bear in front of me and I’d feel angry at it. Doesn’t matter who it is as long as I have someone to lash out at.
The dude lets it slide, alternating his gaze between me and Mac like he’s totally weirded out, which kinda puts the situation into perspective for everyone involved. If he’d given me a reason to start something, I would’ve gladly taken it, but he didn’t, so now I’m just standing here, the douche of the week, the party pooper, the psycho. I have zero excuses for what I’d just done, and people are starting to turn their heads. Granted, my uniform’s conspicuous in itself, and they don’t need to hear us in order to sense the tension between the two guys staring each other off in the middle of the dance floor.
“Fine,” I submit, but my tone suggests that everything is actually the opposite of fine. Before walking away, I turn to Mac and add in a moment of petty jealousy, “I’ll be in the car, if you’re coming home with me at all.”

“That’s one intimate roommate-relationship you have there,” Jorge comments with an overly joyous smile as we get back to our spot between the other dancers.
“Yeah, he’s just… kiddin’,” is what I respond, trying to sound as casual as I can. My butt is still tingling where Tay slapped it, not because he hit so hard but of the contact itself, his touch. Like how the skin on my waist feels electric and hot when he accidentally brushes against me in bed. He does this thing sometimes, butt-slapping I mean, probably to subtly prove our relationship to the guys. It seems to come more naturally to him than hugs or sweet talking so I don’t mind. But this is the first time he’s done it in public.
Weird.
“No need explaining to me, chica! Nothing bad about amor libre. Dale, show your no-amante what he missing out on, yes?” Although Jorge already has an undeniable, energetic wantonness in his moves he suddenly spices it all up and pulls me into a turn with newfound vehemence.
We’ve practiced bachata before, the moves themselves I mean, but in a lot less sexual way then how it turns out now. I’m not really complaining, being at ease with your currents and sexual flutters is something you’re ought to learn in order to be balanced I think.
Growing up with boys all around, innuendos and stupidly sexist remarks on other girls has become a background noise now, something you casually react to if needed but usually just ignore. That’s why, after I started hangin’ out with girls too, I was startled at how foolish and completely ignorant it was that while boys got to be open about their desires and opinions, to say whatever they felt like (except feelings, because duh, they’re not GAY or anything!), girls are taught to stay humble about it less they be labeled as whores. I mean, what’s even masturbation or reverse cowgirl or porn, right?
It’s stupid but in the end it’s you who has to decide what’s worse, being called names by assholes who you don’t or shouldn’t care about or missing out on experiences because some say that’s not what you’re supposed to be doing. Jorge is a good-looking fun guy and I’m hot and awesome too, our vibes match so there’s nothing to it. Dee can say whatever shit she feels like, enjoying compliments, flirting or occasionally a nice body tangling into yours is not lewd. It’s a good sport which also raises your confidence.
Of course it’s a million times better when it comes from someone whose opinion you deeply care about or whom you fancy. It’s highly unlikely that Tay would ever compliment my physical appearance without dripping sarcasm. He has no reason to, so I guess it’s fine. Despite what I constantly voice I also know fully well he’ll never dance, not with me or with anyone else, that’s simply not how he was raised or more like raised himself.
Had he agreed to my request, I would’ve called the ambulance in that exact moment because there’s no way the Dante Ramos I know and love would ever agree to dance without having suffered a serious head trauma first.
There’s nothing wrong with imagining though. Since it’s dimly lit and fast paced it’s easy to imagine Dante’s face instead of Jorge’s, especially since they’re about the same height and built. The only things bursting my dream-bubble are how I can catch glimpses of the real-Tay, leaning against the wall and the fact that the hands skimming around my waist and back are way too smooth and gentle in touch. Jorge knows perfectly well what he’s doing while Tay just kinda goes for shit because he feels like it or, more often, because I ask him to. His touches and hugs and stuff are usually either awkwardly stiff or rough and calloused like him but he means it.
Maybe – surely – I’m biased but I enjoy is version better and that’s something I only realized after he reappeared in my life. I never thought he’d ever come back, much less watch me dance bachata with someone. No need to deny it, I want to impress him.
Taking a more thorough-out look at him, I note with bubbling excitement that Dante’s watching, he’s watching me and not his phone like he does when bored. When I catch his glance I wrinkle my nose at him. I’m trying so hard to have him notice me as not a childhood friend but a woman it’s ridiculous. I am his childhood friend and we’re just crashing together, he made that very clear multiple times. I can’t blame him. And yet, I do, in a way.
There are certain points of our little Valentine’s Day date I can’t remember and part of me wishes the meeting with Naz would be one of those, too. Our ‘relationship’ is nothing but quotation marks, and I should be over that childish crush already but his words still echo in the back of my mind sometimes. Hurts when it shouldn’t and I really don’t know what to do with that because letting it go is not an option.
So maybe I overplay my part a bit, maybe behind having fun there’s the infantile need to show Dante that I could be someone’s girl if I wanted to. Let’s say it’s 80-20.
Jorge is telling me a story about a street dancing salsa party he attended back in Cuba and how he accidentally won the contest but I’m not really paying attention. My smiling, nodding and humming deceits him though and I snap back from my Tay-centered, ‘notice me, senpai’ thoughts in time to catch up with the change in pace.
This is the part where bachata really breaks away from salsa, all these grinding, lowkey hip-twerking, close body contact moves require a certain amount of trust and familiarity. I mean it probably doesn’t matter when you’re in a club or something, but without being horny, drunk or high it’d be kinda intimidating to do this with a stranger.
Jorge is fine, so I don’t mind following the instructor’s moves with him. The generally off-beat and soulful atmosphere helps, too, with all the cheers and clapping. I feel like I’m doing it right and that plasters a wide smile on my face, not caring about getting too sweaty or messing up.
That's it, until Dante’s face suddenly appears next to me. Although if I want to be honest, I smelled him first. I know it’s the androstenone in him or something alike so biologically speaking it’s completely normal to be smelling his pillow. Yeah.
“What? Why? Did something happen?” More and more horrible images flash before my eyes upon seeing Tay’s grim expression. It doesn’t take long to realize it’s not the apartment on fire that pissed him off. Because he is pissed. I have no idea why yet.
He doesn’t even really let me figure it out before getting all huffy-puffy. The sudden change in his mood surprised me to the point of annoyance. He was fine a minute ago and now he wants me to leave? It doesn’t remain that way for too long, the moment he turns to walk about I’m flooded by guilt for some reason.
“Tay, wait…!” But he doesn’t and before I could blink twice he’s out of the room. I have no idea what just happened but he seemed somewhat hurt and I can’t help but feel like I played him false or something.
“Well, chica, you have quite a territorial roommate. Ese es punto. No offense.”
I couldn’t get offended even if I wanted to because I have no idea what punto means and I’m too busy comprehending what he said before that. Territorial? Did he get upset because of Jorge? Maybe he meant ‘keeping me safe in the Bronx’ as in, like, keeping me away from everyone? It sure sounds stupid but it’s as good of a guess as any. Maybe Reese made him play babysitter on me or he got uncomfortable, dunno.
Some of the others look at me and whisper about between each other, probably thinking it’s a lovers quarrel or something and that, yet again, makes me feel irritated. Dante made me look like an unfaithful girlfriend, something even I frown at so I get the others’ reactions.
“Sorry, gotta go,” I sigh, rushing to get my coat and sports bag, changing my heels to boots quick as I can.
“No te preocupes, chica. Although beautiful girls like you shouldn’t be running after men. The other way around, rather.”
Not having time to argue with such double-standards I only smile up at him, barely wait till my boots are tied and make a dash downstairs, putting my coat on the way down. The lively sounds of the class die behind me, fading into the emptiness of the corridors of the building. It’s an older 6-stories brick-building, mostly owned by the city and used as a community center. Most classes are either over or haven’t begun yet so there’s no one around.
Which, somehow, fuels my spunk. What the hell was that? That’s what I want to ask him, the thing echoing around.
No matter how hard I try, I only catch up to him by the car parked outside. This is the first time he came clad in full uniform and shit, and any other time I’d be all over the place for sitting in the front of a policecar (he might have been right about me having a kink) but he managed to work me up with his tantrum.
I was going to make him know, nice as I can, that he was being unnecessarily rude and if he has a problem he can just tell me without acting like a douchebag. It’s not like I’d ever oppose him on purpose. We’re a team and I fucking care about him.
But then I’m next to Dante and his stupid face and somehow seeing him still grumpy makes me gather all my strength and swing the bag with the intention of hitting him with it, fast.
It doesn’t matter if he blocks the hit or yank it from my hands or if it hits him between wind and water and then falls to the pavement. I don’t really want to hurt him. “What the hell is your problem?!” I swat him on the arm and chest, it probably does nothing. That’s what I did when we were kids, like when he called me a girl and I’d try to throw him a punch but he’d just put his hand on my forehead so I couldn’t reach him.
It’s unlikely to happen now, though. I don’t intend hitting him, take a step back and feel the anger flying away as some dudes leaning against the wallboard-fence of the building site opposite us on the quiet street holler something like, “Fuck the police, mothafucka'!”
My angry grimace disappears, turning into a concerned frown as I collect the bag defeatedly. “Sorry but y’know I pay for this shit, right? It’s not everyday I get to have a free hour…!” And our satisfaction of gaining things for free is a shared trait. “I’m pretty sure they think I’m your cheating girlfriend now or something sooo I think you owe me an explanation in exchange for my reputation.”
Tay’s always had a temper I guess he’s not proud of but he rarely gets all ragey and stuff without a reason I can understand. I mean, like, I have no idea why people walking real slowly in front of him make him angry but I get that it just does.
This one was out of the blue though. “Did one of the guys say something to you? Were you about to hit someone…? Because if you were then I’m proud of you for leaving but it doesn’t quite explain why you were being such a jerk. “

It’s pretty late in the afternoon, and considering the season, that means the sky is already halfway to pitch dark. I exit through the door that’s got posters plastered all over it, advertising a variety of events and workshops and whatnot held at the community center. It’s like the makeshift version of a real governmental building, with an amateurism characteristic of The Bronx. It doesn’t even look any different from the other buildings on this block, 6-story brick boxes with steel window bars and fire escapes, copy-pasted along the pavement. I’ve left the patrol car right across the entrance, ‘cause I could probably use someone’s kitchen as a parking spot, and they couldn’t do a thing. Why? Well, the Ford’s got two blue lines and the motto “Courtesy, professionalism, respect” painted on it, that’s why.
I hurry down the entrance stairs with a cranky frown on my face.
“Yo…” is all I overhear from the thugs standing by the bodega across the street, one nudging another in the arm with a smirk. I don’t have many fans ‘round here, and at the moment, I couldn’t care less. I’m already one leg deep in the car when I look up to see Mac storm out the door, and before I can blink, she’s right in front of me, planting her bag in my side with a thud.
“Ow!” I toss my head back in her direction, but my deliberate articulation shows it’s an expression of my disapproval rather than real pain. I’m looking her in the eye, lips pursed while she interrogates me. I mean, she’s got a point: what the hell is my problem?
I get out from under the car’s roof: if she wants to do this right here, in front of spectators, that’s fine by me. I could make a cutting remark on her reputation and how she took care of that herself in there, only because I know girls don’t handle it well when you question the way they carry themselves sexually. I’ve never been one to slut-shame, ‘cause I’m no saint myself, but she’s makin’ me go against my nature in more ways than one. Actually, scratch that, whatever I’m doing right now is what I regularly do, except I usually get to take it out on some other dude’s face at the end. Truth be told, it’d be painfully hypocritical of me to take a dig at her way of dancing, seeing as I strongly approved of it up until a certain point at which someone other than myself got involved. It’s probably for the best that I’m so worked up, words barely come out, ‘cause I’m on the verge of sayin’ things I’d regret later.
„A free hour of what?” I retort, leaning closer to her as my arm gestures towards the building. “’Fuck was that? You do this every week? No, wait, lemme rephrase that. You twerk on girls, too, or just guys?”
“Sheeee-yat…,” one of the dudes by the fence rotates his head, while another whistles in a falling tone. I also catch somethin’ like, “yo, dez juz kroo’, meh’”, which translates to “yo, that’s just cruel, man” in the pseudo-English language we speak around here.
“Maybe you should get in,” I say to this, nodding to Mac with an expression like I got a stick up my ass. I’m about to take my own advice, but before I do so, I turn to the onlookers, one hand already opening the door. “Nothin’ better to do, faggots?” I ask in a loose tone, like we’re good friends, ‘cause everyone’s one mutual acquaintance away from that in the Bronx, ‘specially cops and cons. Givin’ ‘em a hard time is the least you can do as a Bronx cop when you can see someone’s clearly up to no good, but they give you no reason to bust ‘em. Actually, I can smell the hash on these thoroughbreds from across the street, but I ain’t in the mood right now for a useless weed bust that ain’t worth the hassle. They look harmless now, but you bet they’re carryin’, and I don’t mean carry a purse.
“Yo, bad boujee talkin’na us, nigga’,” one of ‘em nudges his friend next to him (again), giving a high-pitched laugh.
“Dime piece right dere, man, como se lla-maaa?” the other sings in a suggestive tune of voice and a thick accent, but a third one is already talkin’ over him, sayin’, “Gitcho azz in dat car, chico, o’ you gon’ git da hoe-check, no Vazeleen.” He juts out his chin towards me with a flick of the head and a grin. Fortunately to him, he meant me and not Mac, otherwise I woulda showed him no-Vaseline. I shoot the middle finger at ‘em before getting in, prompting a few laid-back stoner laughs, which, weirdly enough, almost puts me in a better mood. I don’t think Mac – or anyone outside my fucked-up circle of acquaintances, for that matter – would understand why. It’s the same thing as my dark sense of humor, takes some edge off the interactions I have with fine specimens like these. I’m lettin’ ‘em laugh now, ‘cause I know they won’t be laughing for long, and I’m sure they think the exact same thing about me, smoke rising from their crooked smiles. One of these days, we’ll see who laughs last, and I don’t think we’ll need to wait so long, ‘cause the mills of God sure do turn fast ‘round these parts.
I plonk down behind the wheel and move stuff like our keylogged NYPD laptop outta the way so Mac can ride shotgun. Right, Mac, I almost forgot I was supposed to be angry at her. And I am, but she makes my job real difficult by not even trynna pick a fight with me, ‘cause I don’t know how to handle that. How does one resolve a situation without a fight? My ex would already be shouting my head off in Spanish, and I hers. Then again, I got no idea why I’m comparing Mac to Mia, but there’s a shitton of things that I don’t know, so there’s that. Anyway, there’s barely any leg space in the backseat, and it’s separated from the front section by an unbreakable plastic window – that right there is where the prison experience begins for anyone that enters –, so I’m obviously not gonna make her sit there, no matter how pissed I am. I might be a dickwad, but not this much of a dickwad, at least not when it comes to Mac. (I’d gladly do it to anyone else, though.)
In no way does this mean I forgot about that dance class, however. In fact, I’m determined to continue sulking all throughout the 30-minute ride on our way home, but as soon as she opens her mouth, the plan fails.
“The only jerk here is your bootleg Arenado,” I huff under my breath. My anger is completely misplaced, but it feels good to let a portion of it out on someone who can’t clap back right now. In a fleeting moment of complete brain death, I add, “But hey, you’re your own woman. You could be doin’ him for all I care.” ‘Cause saying the exact opposite of what I think has always worked as a cover, right? Jesus, I’m one colossal fucktard. I can’t backtrack now, so instead, I pull outta the row of cars parked by the pavement, my face stern as ever.
“’I can protect myself.’ ‘I’ve been taking self-defense classes,’” I quote her in a comically high pitch, muttering under my breath as I yank the stick shift. It sounds more like Mickey Mouse than Mac, but it’s the best impression I can do before returning to my regular rumbling. “See our homies over here, Princess?” With one hand on the wheel, my other hand knocks twice on the window as we pass by the thugs, and I can see from the corner of my eye that they’re cheering us on, but my expression’s all bitter. “Fuckin’ prison lingo’s all they speak. They’ll be in and outta there ‘til a deal goes wrong and they bite the dust, but they’ll have taken dozens down with ‘em by then, one way or another.” One way being the way they took down Darryl, the other the way they took down my brother. I sound like I’m her dad or something, but I’m servin’ truth here. This is how I see this place, or the world in general, for that matter. It’s all just one big pile of shit, with a palace or two built on top of it by the lucky few. “All I want is for you to open your big brown eyes, and just look around already. ‘That too much to ask? There’s a shitload of dance classes down in Queens, but nah, you gotta choose this ‘hood of all places. And for what? So you can hashtag-blessed, hashtag-this, hashtag-that? C’mon.” Nah, it’s that guy, she likes him, I know she does. She coulda just told me, I get it, I ain’t mad. Or am I? “Y’know what? This was a mistake. Let’s just find you a Queens class.” I say it with stoic conviction, the same way I thought I could just escort her right outta that class without repercussions. I can’t even tell which one’s worse: if she morosely goes along with it out of obligation to me, or if she stays in this class and I’ll have to endure that ungodly sight, or at least the thought of it, each week – ‘cause there ain’t no way I’m settin’ foot in there again.
I've always been a natural at getting under people's skin, and you bet I know her well enough to get under hers. It’s real tempting right now, but I know she doesn’t deserve it. It’s enough for me to see her trynna mask the hurt and disappointment whenever my sarcasm doesn’t land – whenever she expects one thing from my tiny little pea brain, and gets something else entirely. Sarcasm might be my love language, but it ain’t hers, and she's so bad at hiding it even I’m able to decode the message behind her knit brows and slight pout. The latter makes me wanna kick myself in the eye, but even if I somehow managed to perform that stunt, I still couldn't come up with a better answer than the one I gave her in the first place. I might know exactly what to say to get on someone's nerves, but other than that, smooth words don't come easy to me.
And then there are guys like Whatshisname. Some people, you look at, and you're already drawn to 'em. Then they open their mouth, and from that point on, they’ve got this hold on you. Mac’s the same way, so I guess I’d have to be an idiot to think she’d settle for less, settle for me. I'm not as stupid as I seem, though: I can spot at first glance what this guy has that I don’t. The dude utters one sentence, and you feel like you're in a feel-good Cuban music video, shot in Miami Beach or some shit, margaritas with tiny umbrellas, all that. I'm not like him, his vibe ain't something I could copy, or compete with, and I can't talk shit, either, 'cause that’d paint me as the villain.  
And I am, to some degree. I ruined Mac's one free hour, and I don't feel nearly as bad as I should. It's true, she might not be mine to share, but she sure as hell ain’t his, either. Who's this guy to her? Some fuckboy in passing, that's who. He's no one. Me, I've known her all my life, been to hell and back with her by my side, and then some douche-canoe two-steps in, thinking that’s all it takes? Hell nah. He can keep his hands off my macaroni to himself, or better yet, he can fuck right off.
Mac doesn’t seem to grasp the gravity of the situation, even though I painted a pretty apocalyptic picture of the Bronx, which, for the record, ain’t even a lie. I do agree with whatever I said, even if I’m just using it as a front right now. The more she sticks to this particular studio, though, the more convinced I am that there’s somethin’ goin’ on with that guy. “Look, I see what you mean,” I begin with the “assertive conflict resolution” starter that they taught us at the PD. It’s supposed to help you convey understanding of the other party’s viewpoint, even though I’ve got none of that, and that probably shows in the tension of my voice. A small portion of my Cardi-B-esque accent is starting to show, as it usually does when I get angry. “But why the phuck are you so hell-bent on this one class? You guys up to some top-secret shit in there, or what, ‘cause I’m all ears then, girl. Don’t lemme miss out on the fun.”
Of course, the whole “bad hood” thing is nothing but a facade. I couldn’t say why, but I feel offended, almost as if she actually betrayed me or somethin’. Sounds crazy, but there you go, I said it. I’ve never witnessed her show interest in a guy before, so I couldn’t really have known it’d have this effect on my blood pressure, but the incident left me pretty much dazed and confused. Mac and I never specified exactly what kinda thing we got going on, and I never really felt the need to, either. Even if I did, I couldn’t exactly put a label on our relationship, however millennial that sounds. Only thing that matters is we have a shitton of fun together whenever we have the time to, and we keep it real with each other (well, for the most part, ‘cause there are things she’s better off not knowing). Just like the old days, or so I thought, but it looks like anyone else putting their hands on her is outta my margin of tolerance, which is kinda new. They might just be momentary lapses of judgement, but I do have occasions where I wish I could. Put my hands on her, I mean. Weirdly enough, that’d also be outta my margin of tolerance, in a way, ‘cause it does feel a little unfaithful both to the bro-code I set up with her brother, and to the lifelong friendship I’ve built with her, not to mention my, y’know, problems. All this time, I’ve been trynna accept this as a natural thing that occurs in opposite-sex friendships, partly because I’m too afraid of losing her again, so I’d rather not venture to uncharted territory and scare her right off after eight years. Nah, we’re fine like this – as long as she keeps her distance from guys like that salsa douche. If you can’t even bear the sight of one resolution, and the other one is way too risky, then I guess you need a compromise. I know it sounds impossible in the long run, but I’ve never been one to plan ahead, and it’s worked pretty well until... Well, until now.

I can’t really recall a time when I was actually mad at Dante, like, real seeing-red mad no matter how hard he tried or how our generally conflicting outtakes on things would justify it. I guess I just don’t really get mad, period, not over nothing things; learned how they poison not only the moment you live them but leave permanent marks on your soul. Are people talking on their phones on the subway real loudly annoying? Yes. Is that worth getting all fussed up about and start channeling your anger? No. What good does getting angry ever do?
There are situations you just can’t help it though but looking back, even those look ridiculous. No, I’m pretty sure the last time I was angry at Dante was a week or so after he left eight years ago, when the reality downed on me in all its scary loneliness and I realized not only has he left for good but also doesn’t intend on keeping in touch with me.
That was a different kind of anger, one born out of perplexity, hurt and heartbreak. When I arch my eyebrow at him after his comment with the chirps of his cheerleading team in the background it’s probably not even anger but frustration. Among others. Because I also feel like huffing, crying, laughing and trying to throw him a punch. It’s not even his comment, I guess he doesn’t care about anyone’s sexuality let alone mine, but the fact he’s trying to postpone the actual answer with childish comebacks. You would think guys outgrow that phase after they start working and stuff. They don’t.
“Since when do you care what I do with girls?” I only pass the dopeheads a side-glance; ignoring them is the best option. I can’t even figure out what they’re sayin’ because I’m too preoccupied trying to put two and two together. So it really was me and the dance peeving him; I mean, I could twerk if I wanted to, hell, I could win black girl championships or some shit and he couldn’t do anything about it but twerking definitely wasn’t what I was doing so he’s just being a douche to me for some reason. But why?
Preferably, a woman would shout ‘fuck you and your car’ in his face and stomp away with a hairflip. Instead, I roll my eyes with a huff and get into that stupid cruiser. A small part of me is curious whether he really took the car today because I’ve asked him countless times and if he wanted to impress me or if he was just not feeling like getting pushed about and drooled at the subway today. If he did then that makes his change of mind even crazier. And, despite what he likes to voice, he’s not crazy.
“Yeah, I could be,” I agree with him without missing a beat but my cautiously raised eyebrow and questioning gaze should tick something in his head. What’s all this going toward? I can’t recall a time he was even mildly interested in my love-life; I mean, I did talk about our exes and one-night-stands and stuff (all right, I did), but he never seemed to get worked up over them. As he has no reason to.
I have no idea where on Earth would he get the idea of Jorge and me, as if there’s anything between us and why he would care. He knows Latin dances for sure, no one unfamiliar with them could get so creative with insulting them as he does so he definitely wasn’t surprised by any of that, and it’s not like he’s the epitome of virtue, either.
It definitely starts to feel like we won’t be able to handle this nicely though, no matter how hard I try. When Tay sets his mind on something, he does it relentlessly; that in itself is very impressive and useful, but it also means he can stick to his foul mood like a jaw-locked pit bull.
And they say women are irrationally thin-skinned and hysteric.
“Does making fun of me make you feel better?” I sigh, zipping out the sportsbag I’ve retrieved and searching for a hair tie. Despite it’s spring already the air is cold even in the car and my drying sweat starts to get all chilly and itchy. My gaze follows his hand and spare another glimpse at the homies.
The main difference between Tay and me is I don’t feel the overwhelming need to get involved with others. He hates getting to know people as far as I know but he also just can’t let comments fly by him, he must strike back. These guys, in all their fance-supporting, Cops-positive attire were already here when I got there but I just let their comments flew over my head. “Maybe we’re floating in different astral planes or something but I’m pretty sure you were the one who got involved with them.”
Not that it means anything. There are a lot of aspects Dante is different from anyone else I’ve ever met, he sticks out like a sore thumb from the average crowd of my friends, but if there’s one thing he has in common with people like Watt or Dee it’s how he thinks I’m floating around on a cotton candy cloud in my imaginary world and have no grab on how things go.
At least he does now. I don’t think he’s ever been this condescending with me about it though. I mean, he got a punch or two for me, stood up for me and tried to beat anyone who he thought hurt me but that was more like an ‘us against the world’ thing, he would’ve done it for Reese, to. This overbearing ‘I’mma tell ya ‘bout the real bad world out there, my sweet summer child’ thing is a completely new aspect and I know for sure he wouldn’t be like this if I were actually a guy. It’s depressing how the only time he notices I’m a girl also triggers his male chauvinist side. I didn’t even know he had one.
My first guess is I should just let him rant on. Perhaps this isn’t the ride home I was hoping to have with him but I mean there’s a bend in every relationship now and then, romantic or platonic. No reason to get worked up on. Still, a part of me which is getting bigger and bigger notions that this is a tad bit more than him usually ranting, starting with the fact I have no idea why he’s mad at me or Jorge or salsa.
Wait, what another class…?
“Yeah, yeah, that sounds great,” I nod with mundane enthusiasm as if we just discussed what we’re gonna have for dinner. That should give him a clue but I bet it doesn’t. “Right before we do that though, we should venture to a bookstore or something, a library so I can get you a history book and point you out when the Nineteenth Amendment was signed and men stopped having exclusive rights to tell women what to do!” Although I tried to keep my chill, the last part came out louder than the ones before. Maybe it’s only yelling that gets messages to that thick head of his. “I survived the past couple years without your help just fine and the same can’t really be said ‘bout you, so I’m pretty sure you have no place telling me what to do and what not to do. You can give me advices if you want and I’ll be grateful for your input but it’s my decision in the end. You can’t command me around. And stop talking to me like I’m your… Dunno, ten-year-old sister who thinks you can pay electricity bills with Monopoly money!”
Starting to feel like he wants me to get mad at him for some twisted reason only making sense in a guy’s mind I turn my head away from him, watch the streets we’re passing by. At first I’m surprised how almost all the people are looking at us, that’s something not even the President himself could achieve in New York, but then I remember we’re sitting in a police car and this is the Bronx. That’s the initial reaction when someone sees a police car; even mine, I get all sweaty and stuff. I mean, when it doesn’t turn me on for some odd reason.
But it’s neither now because Tay insists on huffing. “Really? You do, Papi?” I shoot him an unimpressed glance because I’m pretty sure that’s just a meaningless example phrase he’s quoting word-to-word from some anger management training he had to attend or something alike. His following sentence proves my theory and I can’t help but chuckle at that. “You know, I’m not tryna’ snatch your job here but I’m quite sure that, besides equal rights, we also have this thing called ‘presumption of innocence’ which doesn’t let you make accusations without proving evidence and then expect the other to defend themselves. God bless America, right?”
Watt may’ve had a point when he said I’ve been spending too much time with Dante because sarcasm is his way of speaking to anyone about anything, not mine. It feels strange, like a bitterness on my tongue. I wiggle about the seat a bit. “I would consider your opinion rather highly if I were still just looking for a place. But I’m not, I’m already there, you know? I know those guys, I like them, they like me, it’s close to work, uni, and it’s also cheap which is a big factor. So why should I leave it? ‘Couse you said so? I could go and do ballet on skid row if I wanted to! But all right, let’s say I ditch the class I can and love to attend and go to Queens. Then what? You’re gonna come in a month or so and state that you don’t like how there’s no fire extinguisher and make me ditch that, too? What’s the farthest this can go, Dante? Jersey?” Born-and-raised New Yorker or not, you’ve gotta throw some shade on those Jersey Shore asshats. “Because this isn’t about the stupid class or where it’s at and you know it. You were fine when you came in and said it’s no problem, and then…”
Then I have no idea what happened. Other than the fact he was smiling one moment and then getting all grouchy the next. But then again, Jorge didn’t seem as surprised as I was, it’s almost like he was expecting it. Then there were his comments…
And suddenly a memory gets pulled into the front of my mind, more like shot at me with the speed of a bullet. It’s a time not long before he left, and I was already fully aware of the nature of my affections toward him and managed to fool myself into thinking he might not be as opposed to the idea of us together-together like before. We were supposed to go and play basketball after school (after his detention) but when he just didn’t show up Reese told me he last saw Dante with some girl I can’t even name anymore. I’ve seen him with girls before, sometimes in situations I really didn’t want to see and I knew it was how things were supposed to be but that didn’t make that painful stabbing pain go away. It hurt, it cracked me and also made me feel like he betrayed me and our thing. When I caught him playing basketball with Reese the next day, I tried to play sulky with him, but he didn’t notice so I got him to pass me the ball and since they were both thinking I was about to do a 3-pointer I managed to hit him right in the face. Then I turned on my heels and left them.
That was about as random and unprovoked (in their current situation) as the one right now. It doesn’t make any sense but no other reason does, either. I turn toward him with an unsure frown. “Are you jealous, Dante…?” It would be a perfect explanation for his actions, but it also raises so many questions I don’t even know where to start.
Not that Tay would let me get started at all. I really don’t know how I would ever get a chance with him if I can’t even get him to be straight with me about his feelings. Maybe he’s not jealous but then he’s something else he just won’t share with me. “This isn’t about the class,” I state again with much more determination now. “This is about you wanting me to do something and me not getting it. One way or another, it’s about you and me and whatever it is, it’s just you and me now, why can’t you just be smooth about it?”
Whatever ‘it’ is. Maybe I should be surprised that I get this warm, excited feeling in my chest because there’s the slightest of possibilities Tay may be jealous. That would mean that things have gone behind friendship on his part, too, right? Not that sitting in a car and having a fight would be the best place to have a conversation as such.
It’s also not an apartment with four or so other people.
Biting my lower lip in, I look out the window, trying to map out where we are. “I wanna see your apartment. Now.” Crossing my arms, trying to look intimidating, I turn back toward him. “You’re everywhere in my life, you’ve seen where I learn, where I work, where I spend my freetime, you’ve been in the restaurant, you’re in my bed and apparently you’re also trying to tell me whose bed I can be in so the least you can do is take me to your place.”

We stop at a red light, and I keep my eyes on the road in a sorta silent defiance until that word completely catches me off guard. Of course, as the kind of person who can never let anything slide, I’d react immediately if I wasn’t so distracted by what just left her mouth. If you really wanna shut me up, it’s enough to call me a name with vague undertones, and my imagination will take care of the rest, it seems. It’s supposed to be an innocent word that she meant in an innocent sense, but her rising inflection at the end of the question almost gives it a suggestive flavor in my twisted imagination. She’s got no idea what kinda mental imagery just flashed before my eyes, otherwise she wouldn’t have that oblivious expression on her face as I turn my head to look her up and down, in a knee-jerk sorta way that I have no control over. Her face is bare, just like her picture on my phone, and she’s all sweaty, but she’s still, y’know. Her thighs look #thicc as fucc pretty good when she’s sittin’ is all I’m sayin’.
She didn’t mean it that way, though, and the functional portion of my brain already knew that – too bad the dysfunctional portion takes up about 2/3 of my grey matter, and immediately comes to the forefront in situations like this. I turn back towards the traffic light, elbow resting on the door panel, thumb tapping on the wheel. I missed out on a part of what she’s said, but her words begin to reemerge from the background at just the right time: “presumption of innocence”, she says. I bite my bottom lip, the edge of my hand half-covering my mouth, but my shoulders start shaking all the same. Even counting all the various kinds of frustration she’s caused me today in the span of twenty minutes, if this evening ain’t comedy gold, I don’t know what is.
“No joda’. You call me ‘papi’, and then expect me to presume your innocence?” My stifled laugh turns into full-on cackling. “That ain’t it, girl. Oh, man. You’re really somethin’ else, y’know that?” I’ve never met a girl in my life who called me that name with clothes on, prolly because all of ‘em knew better. Well, apparently not Mac, but that’s exactly what I love about her, how she does stuff that no one else does. I almost feel like forgiving her now, the keyword being “almost”. “Hey, could you say that again for me, but with more passion?” I tease some more, gesturing around my throat like a stereotypical Hollywood director. “No joke, you better not say that to me, though. Or anyone else, yeah, ‘specially not anyone else. Some sick fucks creepin’ out there.” Y’know, sick fucks like me.
The light switches to green, and I drive onto the avenue to the ticking of the turn signal, my amusement gradually fading as she carries on. Mac’s prolly got no idea what’s going on with me today, and that ain’t all that surprising, seeing as I’m acting like I’m on my period or some shit, rage-quitting one second and then laughing the other. It’s unusual for me, ‘cause I might be prone to rampages, but my emotions don’t usually come and go like the wind. Granted, I rarely feel any particular way about most things, but when I do, I feel hard, and sometimes for days at a time. I’m like the opposite o’ my brother in this respect, ‘cause he changes like the weather, except there’s no forecast for what he’s gonna do next. He used to get mad when I didn’t understand why he was actin’ all over the place, and then he always got that desperate look in his eyes, like he didn’t know, either. Like he felt all alone, even though I was there for him, and I tried to tell him that, but nah, he was like a broken record, repeating the same shit over and over again. Even after we went our separate ways, I’d wake up in the morning and see missed calls with mystifying messages he left me in the dead of night, but he wouldn’t pick up by the time I got to calling him back. I still lie awake at night, terrified of missing another call from him again, but he doesn’t call anymore. Some say the kid’s too far gone, I say he’s my little brother, and nothin’ can change that.
Well, acting all butthurt might not be my style, but laughing when it’s completely inappropriate, that’s classic me. I haven’t changed all that much since Junior year – everything’s always been just a game to me, especially in high school, before all that shit went down, the running away, the Corps, the Bronx. It used to take a serious beating from my stepfather just for me to stop fucking’around for two seconds and admit that my life’s a mess, a sad, bloody, hopeless mess. The first thing I’ve ever taken seriously was leavin’ home, and that decision was even more difficult to commit to with Mac in the picture, but my mother left me no choice. Leo sometimes makes me question if it was the right thing to do; other times, Mac makes makes me wish I’d never done it; but mostly, I wish I’d left sooner, before all the damage was done. I guess that was when I finally learned to take responsibility for my actions and to have some fuckin’ respect, but neither teenage parenthood nor the military were enough to beat any sense into me. The open, larger-than-life defiance of my teens hasn’t disappeared, it just turned it into this silent contempt for the human condition, something I more or less keep to myself. This came about around the time I left the Corps, and I haven’t felt the same since, although I do seem to act more like myself around Mac. Not that that’s a good thing, but I guess it’s an improvement over spending my days in a heavy, grey haze, then ruminating all night on shit that’s well in the past, or even shit that never happened.
So, yeah. She’s important to me, a lot more important than she realizes, and I have changed in some ways. “There were other girls, but nothing serious” is what I told her before, but I’m dead serious about her, whatever this thing is between us.
“Oh, yeah, it’s a bargain alright,” I nod to her mentioning the class’s price as an advantage, ‘cause all her other arguments are too valid for me to attack. I’m willing to risk sounding like her Republican father if it means I can get her outta that class, away from that pendejo. “How come it’s so affordable when you got the most spectacular view of the River Houses? Fuck, it’s too good to be true, man.” What I’m being sarcastic about at the moment is one of the biggest low-income public housing projects that adorn the Bronx skyline, and you can see its buildings clear as day when you look out the windows of that studio. Of course, for ten times the price, you could go to Chelsea instead, and watch some Wall Street wolf getting his dick sucked in the floor-to-ceiling window of his apartment that he rents for six grand per minute. I mean, I’d rather look at the projects, but that’s beside the point.
“What’s it about, then? Fo’ real, don’t keep me in suspense, I’m dyin’ to know.“ I give a light, scornful snort. She sits there in silence for a few seconds, and I glance at her sideways to see what’s up, hoping she hasn’t put on the signature pout. She hasn’t, but she gives me a whole different reason to wish I could take back what I just said, suddenly asking me if I’m jealous. My furrowed-eyebrows grimace shows confusion and disagreement, but a “What? Fuck no!” is all I can muster in the spur of the moment. It didn’t convince her at all, ‘cause she goes on, hundred-percent confident in her words this time around. I done fucked up, shoulda let the whole thing slide, but I just can’t.
“Watchu mean, smooth? I even said I saw what you meant, ‘though I got zero idea. I told you what I think in the smoothest way possible. What else do you want me to do, say it in Spanish, like your friend? Porque me vuelves loco, en mal sentido,” I nod and raise my eyebrows so she can tell what I think even if she doesn’t understand. ‘Sides, it’s already telling when I bump up the Spanish around people who don’t exactly speak it, ‘cause it usually means I’m really up the wall. I sometimes do it unwittingly, too, ‘cause ever since Garcia’s started tutoring Mac, she’s been making my brain switch back and forth between languages by throwing in so many words. Still, the only time I mumble out full sentences like this is when I don’t want the gringos to hear what I think of ‘em. Other than that – unlike a certain salsa douche –, I always stick to English around those who might not understand me, not exactly out of consideration for others, but because I hate repeating myself. I think I might also have a subconscious desire to prove that I can speak English just fine, which is a complex I brought with me from home, from the early-2000’s, white-majority town of Portland, Maine. It’s like Mac said: I could pass for almost any ethnicity except for White, but most people assume Latino or Pacific Islander, the two groups that ICE deport the first change they get. I used to think it could never happen to me – then I met Cohen’s fat, lisping nephew, and I told him it’s nice he thinks he’ll grow up to be president, but it prolly won’t happen. Turns out I was wrong, ‘cause he actually got elected in 2016. Anything’s possible, kids.
Out of nowhere, she voices the request she’s already said many times: that she wants to see my place. My place where I can’t safely return, where there’s really nothing to see other than empty shelves and an electronic door lock that came with the apartment. I exhale through my nose, one thumb tapping on the wheel again while Mac goes on. I mean, she’s certainly got a point, so I can’t really contest her demand, and I’m in just the right headspace to comply out of spite, ‘cause I bet she thinks I’ll decline again. ‘Sides, I know if I take her there, she’ll realize why I put this off for so long, and I’ll be in the right, in a sad way. “Okay,” is all I say at first, my tone light, but an audible tension accompanies it. “Why the fuck not? I got nothin’ to hide. Literally nothin’,” I add, a bitter grin in the corner of my mouth as I give a mirthless laugh. She’ll see what I mean soon enough.
I take a sudden turn as we reach the end of the block and start heading North. A jaywalker quickens his steps as I honk the horn at him longer than needed, staying true to the New York tradition. Not only does he cross in a hurry, but he also glances behind his shoulder twice as he speed-walks down the street, afraid I’m about to follow him and give him a ticket, maybe search his delivery bag, see what goods he’s packin’ in there. I wish I could, ‘cause I’d love an excuse to let out my frustration on someone else right now, but I got other things to do, apartment tours to give, y’know, just the usual.
I decide to give Mac the silent treatment, ‘cause my expression speaks for itself, indicating that I’m being grumpy at the moment. She tends to treat me like a baby when I do this instead of taking me seriously, though, so I doubt it’s working. Still, I’m clearly not a fan of pulling up in a cop car in the North Bronx, let alone in gang territory. It’s getting dark as we make our way downtown, but most locals have just gotten off work, so there are a lot of people strolling down the streets, and I hear a lot of shouting, even with rolled-up windows. There are bags of abandoned trash sitting by every fire hydrant, some closed-down stores with graffiti on their shutters, some Puerto Rican flags, some crappy dollar stores, nothing out of the ordinary for the Bronx. As we get deeper into the ‘hood, though, the streetscape starts to change. An abundance of liquor stores, delis, closed-down depots, people spitting all over the place, walking carelessly into oncoming traffic.
We leave the avenue by turning around a corner that’s got a Mexican restaurant planted on it, then pass by a basketball court surrounded by tall fences. In the background, there are a bunch of guys trynna snatch the ball under a netless hoop, but closer to us are four kids gripping the fence, shouting at us with wide grins. They look like they’re about seventh grade, so I know for a fact that they’re tellin’ me they’ll fuck my momma in the ass or somethin’ along those lines as they’re grabbin’ at their crotches. Still better than the kids in Hunts Point, ‘cause when they do this, you just know they’re packin’ a Glock in there, or at least an XD. Yeah, this is nowhere near, and I mean not even in the same league as the worst ‘hoods in the Bronx, and I’m used to it, so I guess it’s fine. “Warm welcome, as always,” I comment.
Our building actually has a parking garage with an infinite waiting list which I gave up on a long time ago, around the same time I gave up on getting my own car, so I park the Ford outside. We’re on a pretty wide and empty backstreet where the border between the road and the pavement is almost ambiguous, but there’s more green area than average, I’ll give it that. I lean forward to look out Mac’s window and double-check if there are any shady randos by the entrance, but it looks clear, so I look at her instead. “This is it. You happy? Now, I don’t think the Dominicans were kiddin’, in fact I’m pretty sure they still want my head, so leave this car on your own responsibility,” I say, but I’m already regretting being an asshole and possibly putting Mac in danger just to prove a point.
I halt for a second, my hand clutching the wheel as I consider my options, ‘cause for me, it takes real effort to backtrack on something I already said. I prolly wouldn’t care so much if it wasn’t about Mac, but unfortunately, it is. It’s highly unlikely that the Dominicans would come back now of all times, but there’s always a faint possibility that they will, and I’d never forgive myself if that happened. This is exactly what I mean when I say it was a mistake for her to get mixed up with me again, ‘cause I was bound to drag her into this shitstorm I call a life. She’s not like Mia, she’s not like Jada, she’s not like the women in my platoon, she’s just a normal girl, a civilian. I bury my face in one hand with a sigh. “Nah, this is stupid. I shouldn’t’ve brought you here. It’s fucked. How’bout you take a look at it from outside, call it a day?”
Now that we’ve come all this way, one look from the outside won’t cut it for her, I should’ve known that before my stupid ass drove us so far. I get the keys out of the ignition, curling my lips, lookin’ askance. “You really seem to want trouble, always did. Careful whatchu wish for, girl, ‘cause you just might get it.” I used to want trouble, too, now I wish I could quit. Seeing as I was supposed to visit a friendly salsa class and not gang territory, I’d taken every deadly item off my belt and put the Glock in a pocket holster for concealment – no way I’m walkin’ round the Bronx in a uniform but without a gun –, meaning I gotta click the duty holster back on now, since the other one is a bitch to draw from. Plus, I want it to be in plain sight for everyone to see, in case Golden Dentures and his crew show up again to test us. ‘Sides, I’m pretty much taking responsibility for Mac here, so an additional safety measure can’t hurt. I might not give a shit if I live to see tomorrow, but I already promised her she’s never gonna die, and that’s a fact. “Aight, MTV, tour’s on,” I look up at her when I’m done, shooting a wry smile in her direction even as I’m opening the door. Aside from this, I don’t need to say anything else, ‘cause I think what I just did – putting my gun back where it’s the easiest to access – pretty much spoke for itself. It seems she can’t get in on my life without a taste of the action, too. Again, en mal sentido.
From the “video surveillance” and “For emergencies only – call 911” warning signs put out on the entrance, Mac can already tell this ain’t the Grand Hyatt she lives in. “Back when I moved in, it used to be lower-middle-class-ish,” I explain as the elevator doors close on us. “But then gangs happened, and those who could, took French leave. I was gonna bail, too, but I thought, why bother? It’s not like I’m ever home, and where would I go, Bushwick? Actually, that don’t sound all that bad, and I saw a place, but fuck it, I’m a hopeless Bronxite by now.” I mean, at least the residents here don’t piss and spit all over the elevator like they do on NYCHA grounds, places where we’re dispatched on the daily. Those guys need separate signs telling tenants not to assault each other or deal drugs in the laundry room, but our experience is that they ain’t listening.
On the fourth floor, we go down a narrow corridor with black doors and golden number plates. I’m going in front, since there’s not enough space for us to walk side by side. Noise emanating from a TV, muffled shouting coming from every direction including the floors below and above, that’s what it sounds like. “Home, sweet home,” I glance back at Mac over my shoulder, smiling. “Sounds the same in my bed when I’m not on the night shift, but I’m used to it, sleep like a log.” Except when I don’t.
Once we step inside my unit, 4F, a metal gear clicks the electronic lock back into place as soon as I close the door behind us. “Welcome to my crib,” I say as I switch the lights on. The place ain’t that well-lit during the day, either, its windows facing the next building down the block that looks exactly like this one. I stop in the middle of the apartment, palm pointing to each segment I’m about to name. “Kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, living room. Make yourself at home. Sorry for the mess, didn’t know there’d be guests comin’ when the Dominicans ripped me a new asshole.”
I know I told her I’d give her a tour, but there’s not much else to say about this empty ass place, and I’m fuckin’ starving. My kitchen’s even more pathetic in width than the corridors, but it’s actually got a pretty nice granite-looking countertop that I never use – honestly, it’s the highlight of my home. I open the fridge to the sound of imaginary crickets chirping, only to find nothing but some eggs, strawberry jelly, peanut butter, and packaged bread. It just goes to show how little use I make of this area, except for the DIY pull-up bar I installed overhead like the textbook psycho I am. When Mac finishes exploring, I’ll be here by the counter, munching on peanut butter and jelly sandwich I whipped up in the meantime (this bread prolly wouldn’t expire ‘til 2030). When she comes back, I get the plate off the counter and raise it towards her, offering the other sandwich. She doesn’t have to know I made it for her to begin with, ‘cause I always instinctively offer to share everything, more out of routine than conscious consideration. I’m still being grumpy at her, though, but she’s just had a dance class, and she’s prolly hungry.
“’You find where I keep the bodies?” I ask with a straight face before cracking a smile at her, mouth full. I actually meant the room I use as storage and a place to keep the rest of my psycho stuff away from the public eye, like a punching bag and, y’know, a ‘Nam gas mask, ‘cause every home needs one of those. I actually have a bunch of space that I don’t make use of, since my apartment was advertised as “a spacious home for the price of a shoebox in Manhattan”, but that one room’s packin’ at least ten items per square feet. It’s nice to be able to shove everything in there, ‘cause too much stuff makes me anxious. “So… Does this mean I can tell you whose bed you can be in from now on? ‘Cause my partner Cohen’s been trynna lose his virginity, and I’m startin’ to feel sorry for him, so…” I’m already done with my sandwich, so I rub my palms together to dust ‘em off, then cross my arms on my chest.
“For real, though. Why’d you wanna see my place so much? To make sure I got one?” I ask with narrowed eyes, again paranoid that Mac’s takin’ me for some Xanax junkie or somethin’. I raise my eyebrows and shrug, gesturing around. “Well, I do. Ain’t as pretty as Thyfault’s place, but it’s mine.” I emphasize the last two words with a barely visible nod while I lock eyes with her, almost as if deep down in my subconscious, I was talkin’ ‘bout somethin’ else entirely. If that’s true, then my subconscious is apparently mistaken. “Aight. You said to get smooth about it, so I will. You were right, it’s not about the class, it’s about you. ‘Cause I think you’re fuckin’ around. There, I said it. You make me watch you dance, and then you… do… whatever that was with that fuckin’ guy, and you make me watch that, too. You call me names and act surprised. Nah, girl, you don’t do all that on accident, I don’t buy it. So what’s your deal, you gonna tell me or what?”

He agreed to my suggestion way too easily, I knew that. I mean, I’ve been asking for it countless of times, at least twenty, and we’ve only reunited two months ago – which makes me look kinda too sold on that but I can’t help it. I know he doesn’t really understand my need for it but it doesn’t matter as long as he goes along. I wasn’t expecting him to actually agree, now of all times, but one look at him and I roll my eyes. He’s got that determined, sulking expression on like we just had a fight and he thinks he has an unchallengeable argument up his sleeve and he’s ‘bout to win. We really didn’t fight, not really, but it reminds me of a silly bicker we had when we were young, like, real young; it was the summer before Dante’s dad died, so we probably had a roadtrip somewhere and we were riding the same car. When I was about to get out, he suddenly tried to push the door close and on my leg, saying I asked him to. Up to this day we haven’t cleared up what the hell happened because my ‘why on Earth would I ask you to do that?!’ was constantly retorted by ‘why would I close the door on you if you didn’t ask me?’ so I guess we’ll just never learn the truth.
This is about as dumb as that door-fiasco was but I’m not about to start buggin’ him about it. In the end, I got what I wanted and sometimes you just have to let guys throw tantrums. And him silently pouting is somewhat funny. He’s been forced to act like a grown-up since he was a kid, taking care of himself and Leo as well, and in some aspects I’d say he did a really good job but he’s still a big baby sometimes. He’s kinda like a Latino Stewie Griffith minus the plans for world domination.  
He probably also thinks I’ve never seen hoods like this or that I feel a strange amusement watching them. Neither is true, although people’s life paths often fascinate me. Judging by the look of it and by what I see everyday in the news, most of these people come from families similar to Dante’s; makes me wonder if he secretly chose this place (outside financial reasons) because he feels like he can fit in here. Not gonna lie, he would look completely out of place in a nice little suburb somewhere and people would probably call the police on him at least once a week, thinking he’s a burglar or serial killer in the making, especially with the hoodie-mania of his.
“Bushwick’s a nice place,” I shrug, stepping closer to him. I hate elevators. I wouldn’t call it a phobia yet but I really get that unease whenever I step into one, particularly when it’s an old, unkept one like this. It’s not like Dante could do anything if the cables were to say ‘adios’ but at least I could hold his hand before we crash into the foundation of the pit and flatten into pancakes. “I think you could fit in there. And the murals are rad.”
I mean, obviously I could see us fitting in there but I shouldn’t be talking ‘bout *us* at all since there’s no us, not in the ‘would move in with and stick to ya like a lego’ kind of way. It’s still only dawning on me now but it’s obvious he can’t stay with me forever; but even if he somehow managed to solve the problems he has right now I don’t think he should live here anymore, either. If people are treated like shit, they will be shit, and that’s how it goes around here, an endless, evil circle of everyone fucking with the other so they can be king of ashes like Petyr fuckin’ Baelish. Dante can call me starry eyes as much as he wants but I have strong faith in him and what he could achieve if he had the motive. If he were to live somewhere else, like Brooklyn, he could be patrolling there and even though there are lots of gangs there, too, around the Northern-Western side, it’s nowhere near the Bronx.
It’s still not up to me though.
“I feel honored,” I blink up at him with a fake smile, batting my eyelashes. Part of me was expecting him to cheat me somehow, like pretend that that the door’s jammed, dunno why. So, despite he seems even less amused than when Ines and I make a competition about giving Watt fashion tips in the living room, I am actually excited even though I have a vague idea in my head about how Dante used to live before I forced him to move in.
He doesn’t disappoint about the Spartan way his apartment is furnished. It looks like nobody’s living here, just waiting for the perfect tenant to… end his suffering, most likely. “You a fan of Marie Kondo, huh?” I ask loud enough for him to hear it in the kitchen since I’m already walking into his bedroom. Or more like a bedroom that happens to be in the apartment he pays for. “Want me to tidy my room up like this, too?”
I could never do that. It’s not the will missing, because I’d like to do just about anything for him to feel at ease. No, I just have too much stuff and I couldn’t throw out any of them, not even with the help of Marie. Call me sentimental all you want, but they are meaningful and I’d just end up bawling on the floor with my things all around me. Probably some boxes also, which I’d intend on using as garbage but end up keeping them, too.
I can’t decide whether Dante simply doesn’t have such problems or if he doesn’t generally buy and get stuff but I’d bet on the latter. Even now, he just has a few changes of clothes and that’s about it. Me? I go on a weekend-long trip and have a nervous breakdown over which three crystals to bring with me. Things others would deem useless, others even including Dante, are what really make me feel at home somewhere. Hanging pictures (even motivational ones), getting plants or appointing my ‘money corner’ makes *me* feel at ease.
For some reason I feel like Tay would get that. Not the Feng Shui part, but a need for sentimentalism and probably even the unintentional call of owning something. Placing your things somewhere inevitably marks your territory and just like Embassies, you can’t really be hurt in your homeland. Brushing my fingers along the edges of numerous furniture, I imagine Tay going through his daily routine here. I can practically see him, getting straight to business because judging by the last two months, he doesn’t fuck around, lay in bed, rummage through the closet, make up a dance routine, write a Broadway drama and play twelve rounds of Candy Crush before getting anything done, like I do.
A sudden sadness weighs my heart even though I know he doesn’t cling onto people like me, maybe he’d prefer to be alone. That’s what he always says, that he’d be fine alone and I can’t argue with him, force my outlook on Tay. I wouldn’t say he’s always been a loner but he definitely selected who he shared things with so it’s not a big surprise. Just like how the bed is neatly made, clearly meaning no one’s been sleeping in it quite a while but I figure the pillow’s on the floor for a reason. I’m dying to ask him about it but feel like it’s not a good idea yet.
I return to him about five minutes later and with a pleased grin. “Yup. Pushed them back to the wardrobe, sealed air-tight. They’ll never find them. I found these though,” I hold up the things in my hand to show him although he should recognize them, seeing as they’re his. A t-shirt and a shirt to be more specific which I’ve found thrown to the bed. He probably yanked them out their place when he packed his stuff after we met again. “I’ve seen these awesome DIY things like dresses out of shirts but I always repent buying a new one only to tear it up. So if you don’t need them…”
Whatever his answer is, I place them on the counter and then sit up there myself so I can look at him. He doesn’t seem angry anymore so that’s a start. “Aw! I don’t think you’ve ever made me sandwiches,” I smile up at Dante before taking his offered plate and happily munch on it. I haven’t realized I’m hungry before but then again, I’m always hungry. Eating is also a shared hobby of ours.
If it wasn’t for the peanut butter stuck on my palate, I’d tell Tay to fuck it, in a kind way, for his comment about Cohen. “You never know, he may be my type,” is all I add with a bit of delay, words slurred together, my mouth full of the sandwich. I must be a sight, walking (sitting) embodiment of elegance and femininity with breadcrumbs falling to my lap. If my hair wouldn’t be tied up into a messy and huge bun, there would be morsels stuck in it, too.
Instinctively I reach out to brush away stray crumbs from the collar of his uniform, pretend like I wasn’t about to add something like, ‘hoped you’d like to keep me in yours’. That’d be pathetic, even for me. “No. Told you already; I simply wanted to see… where you’d be if you insisted against crashing at our place for a while. What choices you make when it comes to where you live. I mean, judging by the look of it, you chose not to choose but that’s a decision also. “ I know he doesn’t care about vibes and energies and such things, he always looks bored out of his mind when I mention them, so I don’t feel like adding that part to the explanation. A part of me – dunno how small – also had to make absolutely sure he’s not hiding a secret family or something. I mean, he’d have every right to, but still. His lack of everything in here just confirms he hasn’t had a girlfriend here for a while and that shouldn’t make me feel better but it does. That’s how we are, girls, we just leave stuff everywhere, no matter if we stay for weeks or just a quick round, the least you’ll find is a hairband.
I always loose mine, but they can’t dissolve into nothing so they must be somewhere, right? Subconsciously reminding myself, I take out the band in my hair. It’s somewhat cold in here and hey, if there’s one positive thing about having lots of hair is you don’t need scarves and stuff. My hair works like a charm.
And then he starts talking, the way I should’ve (it was the main reason I wanted to come here right now, anyway) and almost makes me choke on the freaking sandwich. “Wait, what?” I almost laugh in his face in pure disbelief. How did this situation turn to be of my doing? I put about half the remaining sandwich back to the plate, I can’t eat as fast as he does, and munch on the rest with a frown. “I didn’t make you watch any of that. You were simply there, so don’t make it sound like I brought you to an anonym voyeurist club and tied you to a chair. That’s weird,” I point out the least interesting part of his accusations to win time. I don’t want to evade answering him but I also don’t know how to word my feelings without sounding like a pathetic twelve-year-old with her first crush. On the contrary, Tay also makes me feel like I’m some man-eating succubus, making plans and sewing plots with his wording.
I’m really not about to write it on his account. Even if he still hasn’t answered what he got so worked up about earlier; I have a strong guess, anyway. Gluing my gaze on the ceiling, I start,” Since you were already there, however, I guess I overplayed my part a little bit. It’s kind of about what you said to Naz…” Sounds stupid, and it is, I’m shaking my head. “I know it’s been a month and you were right, I’m not your girl, not really, it’s just… You could’ve left him in the faith that I am. It’s not like I’ll go back there so it would’ve been easier to let it slide.”
I know for a fact that guys hate it when you read something on them which happened weeks ago but hey, he was the one who wanted an answer. Sometimes I do wish I could be a guy, if not for anything else then so I can just kinda forget and forgive things. They don’t tend to dwell on stupid little things, one small sentence the other one blurted out like women do. And most likely they’re right.
By sitting on the counter I’m almost at Dante’s eyelevel now which makes it all the harder to avoid his gaze. It just feels really awkward. “It felt like you needed to specify it because I’m just one of your dudes and, y’know, no homo. And I like the way you are, not treating me any different, but at the same time I’d also want you to think of me as a girl. Like, an actual girl, you know, the specimen of the opposite gender with a most likely functional recreational system and all. Dunno. Maybe it’s just because I haven’t been treated like that for a long time. Or because of what we have now.”
Even if I have zero idea what is it we have now. Sometimes he makes me think that maybe he’s feeling the same way I do, I see a kind of softness in his eyes but then he does something which makes it plain obvious we’re still just childhood friends. Maybe Ines was right, maybe you can’t really overcome the history you have with someone and he still sees me as a guy. I mean, for the most part we’ve known each other, that’s what I wanted to be seen as so him complying is not something I should allege to him.
“You know, I’ve never been without an SO or at least a date… longer than, I’d say, a month before,” I add with a sigh. I have no idea if that’s what he wants to hear but I’ve already started so there’s no turning back. “I think it has a term, relationship addiction or something. Whenever I broke up with someone I just felt kinda lost, like, I didn’t know what to do with my free-time and also like I had no one to turn to. ‘Couse back in the days, I always had you. I knew that if I called, you’d be there for me, no matter what.”
And vice-versa. Of course I also had Reese, but that was different; he’s my brother, he has no choice. Maybe Dante didn’t really get to choose, either, but I mean, he’s still here with me, isn’t he? And no one forced him to pick me up every day after work or classes, he volunteered and even if I think he’s being overprotective it actually feels nice. It’s his way of showing his love I guess; this and sarcasm.
“Maybe you’re right and I am a princess, needing someone to save me from distress but yeah, that’s what I was trying to find, I know that now. I tried to have with someone what we’ve had but as you can see, never succeeded.” A humorless laugh escapes me as I look back at him, trynna see if he’s had enough yet. “It’s all about what you can take in this city, isn’t it? Everyone’s just kinda trying to tear the others down, it’s a real gem when you find someone who actually cares and you’re not just one of the thousands of acquittances. Hey, laugh all you want, but outside the fact I’m constantly on the verge of a breakdown because I worry about you, the last two months have been the happies of my life for a long time. So long story short; you specifying to Naz that I’m not your girl just kinda made me realize that we can’t stay like this forever. You know what I mean?”
He probably doesn’t. I don’t really know, either; only I actually do and it makes everything all the worse. I don’t think I’ve ever told him stuff like this unless I was drunk or high; I do tend to become even more talkative when drunk and also kinda gloomy after a joint, rambling about our place in the universe and the shortness of life, such things. I mean, I talk about these when completely sober, too, but not with Dante. I didn’t think he’d care for more than a mock.
“I guess I was trying to make you jealous, like, subconsciously. It wasn’t planned but I was happy you were there, thought it might tick something?” I look at him like I expect him to answer me. Obviously, he can’t, so I just rub my face, hiding behind my hands and hair. “Damn, I dunno, Women are irrational. You’re the very best friend I’ve ever had, I shouldn’t be trying so hard to… Get your attention.”
I shake my head. Nah, it all just sounds stupid. It’s also weird from me, I mean, I have no problem getting dressed in front of him but the moment I should talk about my feelings, something that’s always come naturally to me – I don’t think anyone should be shameful about getting it all out there so we can all play with clean sheets – I get this lump in my throat. Doesn’t take much brain to know it’s all because of Tay; I wouldn’t feel this, for the lack of a better word, scared with anyone else. Hell, I’d probably confess Ansel I’ve fancied him in the beginning a lot more casually because I wouldn’t feel like I’m messing up everything and it’s not all due the fact he’s gay so he could never return the feelings.
Tay is different, he’s different from everyone else I know. he has a different way of thinking, of dealing with things, a different outlook on life, on people, and even though I’d go to hell and back for Ansel and Sera and the others, he’s the only one I’d literally die for. But then he’d be sad and I don’t want him to be sad so no, dying is not a good option. Would fight for him though, even if it means I have to go against what he says he wants. The only thing I couldn’t do anything about is if he said he doesn’t want me around anymore and I have no idea what depths of despair would *that* toss me into.
“I just… I don’t even…” No, there’s no good, tactful way of saying this, I have to realize. With a final sigh and a helpless spread of my arms, I say in a defeated voice, “What are we, Tay? Where we at? ‘Cause I get all worked up about Naz and then you get all worked up about Jorge…. I’m no expert but none of my other friendships are quite like this.”

Y’know what they say, old habits die hard. By now, it’s practically a Ramos family tradition to discuss any matter of significance in the kitchen. I made it so a few years ago, ‘cause Leo would lock himself in the bathroom sometimes where I couldn’t talk to him, so I had to start giving him rules to follow. “Meet me in the kitchen” became our new “meet me outside”. The latter used to be our password for trynna leave the house without any bruise marks when Vera went full-on berserk. In my old home, I used to avoid the kitchen like the plague, ‘cause it’s where the spoons, aluminum foil, all the good stuff was kept, the place where mom and Vera made the magic happen. It’s where I found them in one of the earliest childhood memories I can recall.
When I got older, I used to collect the used syringes to dispose of them without attracting attention, and to get mom new ones so she wouldn’t re-use too many times, but they’d be going through needles so fast I couldn’t always keep up. So, I had to clean that shit by hand next to the sink when I got home from school, and I got it done like clock-work, it was part of my fuckin’ routine. Take off the detachable parts, rinse ‘em off, put ‘em back, fill it up with bleach, shake for two minutes, rinse again. The guilt still eats away at me sometimes, like my actions only enabled her to continue, but a part of me knows she woulda continued no matter what I’d done, ‘cause I know I have tried everything – and yet, that invasive little insect of a thought is always tapping away at the back of my mind, suggesting, “But what if you could’ve done more?” Well, I guess there’s no way to know. One of the few things my sixteen-year-old self did know, though, was that if the cops took mom away or she contracted some blood-borne medical bills, Leo and I would be left all alone with Vera or separated by the foster care system, given our age gap. I still needed mom ‘cause I couldn’t let that happen, ‘cause I couldn’t lose the only one I had left.
Except Leo wasn’t the only one, and even with all of the above having been said, I still feel guilty for bailing on Mac. She’s always been someone who got me and never gave me shit for leaving, but I can see now that I was wrong when I thought she could just forget about me like some bad dream. I don’t know why, but I figured she’d simply stop caring after a while if I never reminded her of my existence again, since that’s what people do in my experience: time goes on, and they stop caring. But Mac didn’t, she never did. She’s been by my side since day one, always putting up with my bullshit, supporting me through everything. I guess I just believed she wouldn’t care ‘cause I wanted to believe, and I also liked to think I was doing her a service by removing myself from her life. It made me feel better about abandoning her, and to a degree, I still think she was better off without all the infamous Ramos drama.
She’s really made it work in life without me being there to constantly weigh her down, and what about myself? To this day, I teeter on the fringes of society where I feel like I belong, trynna work my fucked-up life experience to my advantage. I can’t leave it in the past, no matter how hard I try, so I figure this must be the next best thing, right? It really is an odd comfort zone to have, but it gives me peace of mind to be familiar with the so-called culture around me, to understand the way the gears grind in the system I play a role in. It hasn’t always been this way, seeing as I got an online nerd degree thinking I could put on a suit and a tie, but I can’t even fit in with my own roommates, so how could I ever hope to fit in a cubicle? Nah, I came back right where I started, where I feel safe and comfortable, where I can always have a gun in my hand.
I’ve known kids like me, so I know I’m not just some psycho freak, or a statistical outlier, or a ball of brooding angst. Nah, at this point in my life, I know exactly who I am and what life’s got in store for me, I know where to find my people. Thyfault, Garcia, Hewitt, Sharpay, whoever the fuck Mac hangs around nowadays, it ain’t easy with ‘em, no matter how hard I try to understand their vegan brunches and the meltdowns they get when they see a plastic straw. Don’t get me wrong, I got no problem with those kids, and since it’s important to Mac, I try to fit in sometimes, bringin’ ‘em takeout and joinin’ in on the drinking, trynna speak more the way they speak (except when it’s shit I can’t even keep up with, like “throwing shade, sis, serve the tea, mhm, yass queen”, I mean, what the fuck). I even have a morsel of fun here and there, but that’s not changin’ the fact that they ain’t my tribe. My tribe’s gone like the once-great Comanche Nation, all of ‘em swallowed up in one way or another by the same system I keep clinging to.
And here’s the thing: Mac herself ain’t my tribe. We come from similar places, but we did go our separate ways at one point, and it gives me comfort that she’s far away from this low-life shitshow I’m guest-starring in as Cop #3, delivering punchlines with the same thugs that may or may not take me down in the next scene to the sound effect of a laughing audience. I wanted to keep her away from that, but here we are in my gang-infested apartment building with a gun on my belt, something her friends would prolly scoff at if she told ‘em. Nah, this ain’t about them, though, this is me, I’m the one putting Mac in these situations, and I should be ashamed. This is why you gotta stick to your tribe, and I did give that a try or two back in the day, but it turns out I don’t click all that well with girls who self-identify as “bad bitches” and lick guns, ‘cause that might be kinda hot in that batshit crazy and low-key creepy way, but only until they point the barrel at you. Y’know, lesson learned, no more bad girls for me, ‘cause men can be big and angry, but women can be a whole new level of insane, and that’s much scarier. When you’re holding her at night, you think you’re there to protect her, but really, women are far from helpless, and they’re well-equipped to fuck with your head when they want to. If you think the pain of my stepfather’s fists ever came anywhere close to the way my mother’s cold gaze hurt me, think again.
What I’m trynna say is, I got some weird misconceptions about relationships, and I think Mac and I have that in common. I accuse her of manipulation, or whatever that was, while she’s got a history of orbiting around guys who are no good for her. I understand this to some extent, since my mother used to be the same, never once bringing home a boyfriend with a clean prior record. In addition, I guess I can also thank her preference for huge man-giants, ‘cause my dad’s genes prolly helped me stay alive while her next ogre boyfriend was kickin’ my ass. Thanks, mom. Anyway, hearing Mac deny my conspiracy theories of her trynna con me, I realize how stupid it was of me to even suggest that, as it’d be nothing like her to consciously attempt such a thing. She’s neither conniving nor controlling, and I can’t say the same thing about my behavior this last hour, when I did all I could to tell her what she can and can’t do. It’s especially unusual coming from me, someone who normally cannot be bothered to care what other people are doing. She’s right again, but instead of admitting that, I avert my gaze and stare into a corner, arms still crossed over my chest. I didn’t say it, but she can probably tell I accepted her argument, in my own way.
I don’t usually remember random encounters that happened over a month ago, but reuniting with Naz and him giving us a condom we did not ask for was more than an ordinary event. Still, I can’t believe she’s bringing up something that happened so long ago, in passing. “He gave us a condom,” I remind her with my voice raised, one hand spread out in disbelief. “What was I supposed to do, take it? Man, gimme a break. I bet you woulda been triggered all the same if I hadn’t corrected him, ‘cause it woulda been disrespectful to your… independent womanhood to… Fuck, I don’t know. It was Valentine’s Day, I was trynna be classy or whatever.” I reach to the nape of my neck in an automatic fashion, ‘cause that really sounded pathetic, me of all people trynna act gallant and whatnot. Seeing the pattern from the women around me, including my mother, I never could figure out how girls wanna be treated, but with all this feminism spreadin’ around nowadays, I’m baffled beyond belief. They get offended when you call them yours, sayin’ they’re their own person, and then they say you should’ve called them yours, ‘cause, y’know, fuck logic. This ain’t usually a problem for me, ‘cause I don’t bother trynna be a gentleman, but Mac’s Valentine’s Day was different. I made an effort for once – and I failed, it seems.
She’s really gone off the deep end now, so I try to listen as best I can. I wish I could say what’s on my mind and correct everything she’s wrong about, but I can’t just whip out the confessions like that, especially because I’m only realizing some of ‘em in real time. Only now that she’s mentioned it do I register the fact that I do see her in a different light, for instance, and I have no idea what would happen if I told her. Biting my tongue, I scan her face, subconsciously mirroring her sullen expression, ‘cause I can feel her frustration, and I wish I knew what to say to help it.
“You still have me,” I blurt out, half her point probably flying right over my head, ‘cause it’s more of a gut response than a thought-out one. I didn’t intend to turn it into an argument, I just wanted to let her know that I’m not past tense. It takes a little more thinking after that to understand what she means by relationship addiction, ‘cause I don’t usually reflect on my love life, but I guess you do get that feeling of emptiness when someone leaves, like there’s a hole you need to fill. My mother filled it with black tar, I filled it with twelve-hour shifts, and my brother, I think, filled it with hate. It’s a similar story with girls: I was usually the one who craved the time apart, and prolly felt a little relieved when it ended at first, but I gradually started missin’ ‘em. First, the edible food, then the ears who’d listen, then my bed started feeling cold, and the next thing I know, I’m peeling the plastic wrap off my Wednesday dinner in front of the TV, and I’d even tolerate a Big Brother episode and ten “the IRS is filing a lawsuit against you” robocalls per day if it meant I could have her back. I say I like the alone time, but my mind can be a dark place to be in sometimes, and when it’s not, it’s an empty desert, except for maybe a tumbleweed rollin’ around.
Her mirthless laugh kinda reminds me of myself, and I shift in my posture a bit, eyes downcast. I don’t want her laughing like that, but she’s right about New York City, she’s right about everything. She straight-up tells me what I’ve been trynna put into words ever since we reunited, that the past two months or so have been the happiest I’ve felt in a long time. …
“Yeah, I get it,” I reply, lifting my head again in silence, ‘cause I feel like she’s not finished. My eyes widen a bit when she admits to trying to make me jealous and trying to get my attention, as this doesn’t exactly fit the platonic blueprint we’ve been following. I guess this is the tipping point for me, where I finally make up my mind about “what we are”, as she put it. I mean, I’ve known for a long time, but it’s difficult to escape the denial phase, especially when you know it would not only be wrong on several levels to stir up the dust, but it could also ruin you for life.
“Okay,” I nod slowly, untangling my arms and finding support on the edge of the counter behind me. I pout, blowing out some air. “Phew. Uh, okay, my turn. Confessions incomin’. I’ma regret this later, but I guess I got nothin’ to lose. I mean, actually, I fuckin’ do, I got everything to lose,” I knit my eyebrows with a faint chuckle, my gaze set on Mac. “I guess that’s why I’ve been such a pussy, ‘cause I just got you back, and I don’t wanna… Uh…” I’m trynna work out how to word things on the go, so she’ll prolly have some mental gymnastics to do if she wants to decipher what I mean. Words never came easy for me, ‘specially when I’m trynna look within myself, ‘cause my brain has erected a Trump-esque wall to separate me from the inner workings of my mind. I rub my palm on the back of my neck again, then raise it with a shrug. “I don’t know. I just don’t wanna lose you again,” I confess, and from the corner of my eye, I glance at her sideways, trynna evaluate her reaction. “When Leo and I decided to fuck off, it’s not like I was all amped to be leavin’ you, I hope you realize that. ‘Matter of fact, I almost turned back several times. I mean, shit, you made it real hard, girl,” I nod my head with a snort. “I guess I hoped you’d forget about me, get on with your life. Two months ago, I was fine knowin’ you were doin’ good without me. I was content just knowin’ that.” I add with an emphasis, looking her in the eyes this time around, but it’s as if I was staring off into the distance with my disoriented frown. It’s kind of a moment of revelation to me, to admit that I’ve gotten attached to the point of no return, to a point where I could no longer live without her the way I managed this past eight years. Getting attached is one of my greatest fears, and I have no choice but to face it. I’m no longer avoiding eye contact or touching my neck or chuckling nervously, I’m just speaking the truth, straight to her face, unblinking, which is almost unheard of from me.
“But being content is not good enough anymore, ‘cause with you, I’m more than that. And I know you’re too good for me, and I could try pushin’ you away, tellin’ you I don’t care, but who am I without you, y’know? In this city, who am I? With you, I’m a person, and you make me wanna be a better one at that.” I pause to give her a little time, scanning her face with that earnest look I tend to get whenever shit gets real. “Look, I was gonna hold back, but if you want me to, I’ll fuckin’ say it. I think about you all the time. You calm me down. No way I could do another eight years without you, fuck, maybe a day’d be too much. All I want after a long shift of just… pure and utter shit, is to see you.” For the first time in years, I don’t simply go through my day on autopilot. Waking up in the morning is not just an automatic part of my routine, ‘cause there’s something to look forward to at the end of the day: to see her again.
“So, yeah. This is what I’m puttin’ on the line by tellin’ you this. But you’re right, we can’t stay this way forever. At least I can’t.” I shake my head with a shrug. Yeah, I was lyin’ to myself when I thought we could stay like this, ‘cause even if we both swore celibacy, I wouldn’t have been content with that alone. “’Cause I see you playin’ with your hair, or gettin’ on your toes to reach the cupboard, or whatever,“ and I could go on and on about all that shit she absent-mindedly does without any idea how cute it is, but that’s beside the point. “And then, you’re right there in bed with me, and you think I won’t care ‘cause you’re wearing my baggy shirt and you got bedhead and no make-up on, but that’s exactly the worst.” I shoot her a particular look to try and get my point across without having to say it. “And yet, I can’t do shit. Just like when some fuckboy comes up to you, I can’t do shit. So, yeah, ‘course I got fuckin’ jealous. I’m jealous, every second o’ the day, ‘cause you’re there, and I can’t have you.”
Well, I told her I’d say it, and I did. This is the moment of truth, the moment I either turn out to be one lucky asshole and get what I’ve been too much of a pussy to get all this time, or the moment my worst fear finally materializes. I’ve always been a do or die type of person, but Mac’s too much of a high stake, even for me. She’s the only person left in my life that matters, the last of the OG’s, she’s literally the light of my life. Holding her gaze, I exhale deeply through my nose and step away from the counter. It only takes one step to walk up to her, but I still do it in slow-mo, ‘cause I don’t wanna scare her away. I could take it even slower by simply keeping my distance and not doing this at all, but fuck that, I’ve been waiting too long, and we’re already too deep in this shit, anyway. I stop right in front of her and brush the curls away from one side of her face, tucking ‘em behind her ear while regarding her thoughtfully. Whenever she looks at me, I tend to get a little lost in her big doe eyes, the light reflected in their dark brown mirrors, but she’s never figured out this was the real reason I called her Starry Eyes. When they’re wide open and looking up like this, they might give the illusion of clueless innocence, but I know for a fact she’s smarter than me, and I got nothing to teach her other than fucked-up shit, as I always have. At this point, I’m pretty sure she’s into it, though, otherwise she woulda kicked me in the nuts already, so I guess it’s goin’ well. I’m sure Reese would understand, too, and even if he doesn’t, well, it’s not like he could do anything about me from 300 miles away. Sorry, not sorry, man.
My hands cup her face gently as I speak up again, my voice low considering the lack of distance between us. “You are my girl, that’s where we at. Always been my girl. You think I was gonna let a fuckboy have his way?” A faint smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Nah, we’re a package deal, he can’t have you without my foot up his ass.” Actually, he can’t have her, period, ‘cause she’s mine, but I think she gets it. Even if she doesn’t, she will in a moment, as I’m determined to get my message across.
Still, I feel like I’m talkin’ way too much instead of just goin’ ahead, but after all these years, how could I just go for it without giving our friendship a proper minute of silence? ‘Sides, the mere thought of getting with Jasmine Mackenzie is almost unreal. My childhood best friend, my other childhood best friend’s little sister – it sounds a little dirty when you put it that way, but I feel like it woulda been more wrong to hold back even longer. “You’re too pretty for me,” I add in one last display of pure disbelief, brushing my thumb across her cheek.
And with that, I go in for the kiss. I think one time I saw one of those Facebook motivational pictures that compare falling in love to falling asleep, slowly at first, and then all at once. That’s pretty much what I’m goin’ for here, ‘cause I wanna make sure she’s fine with this, but as soon as I find out, I don’t think I can hold back anymore, not after all this time. It’s not like either one of us can be blamed, ‘cause this tension in the air ain’t all that new – not for me, at least. It’s been buildin’ up with every averted look and every accidental brush of the skin, only getting stronger the more we tried to fight it. There’s a reason I always held back my laughter and tried to contain myself whenever Mac and I hit it off a little too well, even back in high school, ‘cause this unspoken attraction had a sorta intimidating hold over me.
I guess it’s just laws of physics at play, y’know, opposites attract and whatnot. She’s a positive charge, while I’m a negative one; might explain why we’ve always been so drawn to each other, or why I feel the sting of static as I run my hands down her thighs, tugging at her knee to get her closer. I can’t help the magnetic pull she has on me, so much so that when our lips part only for a gasp of air, I go back in twice as hard, ‘cause who needs oxygen when you’re this close to the girl you’ve been waitin’ on for a decade? In this moment, I can’t seem to recall what kept me from getting what I want this entire time, but I’m not exactly thinkin’ straight right now.
After the rocky events of the past hour, all I really want is to indulge in the notion that Jasmine Mackenzie finally belongs to me and no one else, and I intend to give no leeway to any more doubt about that ever again. What I do intend to do, as she can probably tell from the urgency of my actions, is to show her how I’m feelin’, ‘cause I sure as hell couldn’t put it into words. I wanna let her know that she doesn’t need anybody else, and neither do I need anybody other than her. I wanna make it so that even if she regrets this later – which she will –, she’ll still remember that I’m the original one, that no one else cuts it, that it only feels right when it’s with me. That’s right, no fuckboys, no nobodies will ever know her like I do, and I want her to keep that in mind, ‘cause like I said, I’m aware of the fact that she’s way too good for me. I might be one self-centered fuck, but at the same time, I’m convinced that only I could treat her the way she’s supposed to be treated. She’ll never find anyone who’s truly deserving of her, anyway, and I’ve known her all her life, so if anyone’s cut out for this, it’s me.
You’d think getting so close would finally bring some satisfaction, but it’s exactly the opposite, ‘cause I’m only hopin’ for more. I feel a rush of thrill every time we touch, and we touch quite a lot, ‘least I do. I trace the concave of her waist, my hands nearly spanning its entire circumference. My touch then wanders south, where a heart-shaped curve signals the beginning of some of the most interesting parts, but instead, my palms arrive at either side of her hips, where I catch hold of her and pull her even closer. So close that at this point, there’s no return, and I don’t look for the exit, either, ‘cause this has hit a switch inside – the sole, pencil-thin borderline that held me back all these years. I slide my hand down her outer thighs again in an attempt to get her to wrap her legs around me, so I can take lift her and take her away. Y’know, show her whose girl she is.

I like talking as a general rule; maybe it’s for keeping the conversation alive, or making my point across or to simply fill awkward silences but I have no problems with words. I’ve had in-depth conversations with guys before, too, sometimes of really, really personal matters; for instance, Ansel is the next person to Dante who knows almost everything about me, how I feel, what I think, how I see things.
With Dante, it’s different. I talk a lot to him, with him, but never about things like this. I ask him questions, inquire about his opinions but our feelings is a tough topic. I guess I’ve always been kinda afraid that I would mess up somehow, make him know how I really feel about him and scare him away. I could endure a lot of things, including him getting on with some other girl, but not loosing him.
This is the moment of truth though. I tried to draw up everything plainly but still leaving room for him. I mean, I would pretty much love to strangle Tay with my idolizing and worship but that seems risky. This whole situation is; as I watch him push himself away from the counter with that sigh as if he was about to do something really not to his liking and possibly even far-fetched, my heart starts beating erratically.
“I could  never forget about you,” I chime in with a slight frown. Even if he’d say that’s it, this is the end and he’d like to leave all this behind again, I know for a fact I could never, ever forget about him. It’s clear Tay’s always been underestimating the importance and hold he’s had on me. Guess he just naturally does that to everyone, and my heart breaks, not knowing what I could do to make him forget about that nonsense.
I listen to his words with my head slightly tilted. Have I lived without him fine? Yes. Could I do that again? Possibly. Most humans are tough when it comes to surviving, I could go on; the quality of it, well, that’s another matter. As it’s been said countless times, there’s a huge difference between surviving and living, and we all deserve more, better than just survival.  That goes for Tay, too; especially him.
I thought if it’ll ever come to him talking about his feelings I would be there 100%, ready to hug him and comfort him and do anything to make him feel good but right now I can’t even come to words, let alone move. I’m too good for him…? It’s like I’ve been struck by lightning, suddenly everything is different and clear, but I can’t do anything, only focus on Tay, on the dark freckles splattered around his nose and cheeks, and possibly learn English again ‘cause his words reach make sense in my mind alarmingly slowly.
Still trying to comprehend the fact he links his self-worth to my presence I almost miss the part where he says he thinks about me all the time. I want to tell him me, too, but then he shakes up my word with yet another thing. I’m stuck in this diabolic back-and-forth between a strange tingle spreading across my chest and an evil little voice telling me I’m putting my hopes up. He could still get to the conclusion he’s better off without me.
Can we stay like the way we were forever? No, we really can’t. I have to agree with him; I can’t stay like this, either. Hearing him say this I almost think it was me; but no, it’s Tay’s voice and a smaller part of me is getting my emotional suicide ready. But no, he doesn’t mean he wants to leave, does he? Me playing with my hair really doesn’t sound like something chasing-away worthy.
And as it seems, he has no idea he already has me. That it would’ve only took one word from him all this time, even back before he left; hell, I probably would’ve came to New York with him if he asked me to. Not that I can blame him, I never told him, either, and there’s no rule that a man has to take the first step.
The gears in my brain are turning real slow right now, twirling his words over and over again, trying to decipher their meaning even though I know their meaning perfectly well, it’s just… All too perfect to be true and I feel like my sixth grader self again when I first discovered I feel more than pure friendship toward Dante and I suddenly saw him in a different light.
My heartbeat fastens, fuckin’ tachycardia, I can’t really help but take breaths trough my mouth otherwise I risk fainting right here and now. The significance of this situation is too much, his closeness is too much even though I’ve literally snorted into his ear before and yet it’s simply not enough.
No way I’m allowing myself to faint right now, hell nah, I’ve been waiting for this for years, you’re not betraying me, body!
His fingers brushing against my cheek sends spurges of energy all across, it’s almost like the Adderall just kicked in, my eyes suddenly wide open and intensively focused on his. Instinctively, I reach out and place my hands on him, one on his shoulder, the other on his side, as if I could possibly keep him near if he suddenly changed his mind. I can see that he has no hesitation now though and that sends a shiver of pleasure down my spine.
I’m really trying my best to take the control over my body back; but I can’t help the tearing up when he starts speaking again. Not crying though; nope, not letting that happen. Crying out of happiness is surely one of the most miraculous things in people. I don’t even realize when my face changed from the baffled expression to a cheek-stretching smile. “Nah, you’re my guy. And I’ll always be your girl.”
If anyone would ever ask me whether Tay is a major part of my life even though he’s only been here for two months, I’d gladly tell them, ‘yup, the best part of it’. And they probably wouldn’t understand. I don’t think anyone would ever really understand what we have and it makes this all the more special. It’s a sort of ‘us against the world’ thing.
I lean into his touch and all I want now is for him to hold me forever because the requital in his eyes is overwhelming. I want to tell him something really cheeky yet romantic which would happen in a rom-com and which I’ve always imagined I’d say, something like ‘shut up and kiss me already’, but I can’t really form words and by the time I could, he’s ahead of my demand. The moment our lips meet my hands start living their own life, sliding up his torso, one arm curling around his neck, the other hand smoothening on his cheek, the hint of stubbles rubbing against my palm.
Kissing back with everything I have I’m trying to prove him that he’s not the only one who needs me, I can’t be without him either, and I don’t even want to. His touch sparks tiny flares, adrenaline buzzing in my veins, and I’d very much like to touch his skin, feel the warmth of it and the pulsing underneath but his uniform narrows my possibilities.
It doesn’t really matter where we are anymore, I’m only aware of Tay’s presence, feel his hot breath on my skin and his musky scent flooding my senses. My blood rushes with dizzying speed but my mind only starts to really understand how I’m kissing Dante Ramos and it only gives me a new wave of want. Realizing that he’s the only one I want to kiss until, like, end-times and to actually be able to do so is some kind of a miracle. If I wasn’t so preoccupied with other things I’d have a hard time deciding whether to laugh or cry because I’m happy that we’re finally here and also somewhat scared that it might end. He doesn’t even have to signalize what he wants me to do, I’m sliding to the edge of the counter more than willingly, wrapping my legs around his waist to be as close as possible.
Waking up in the morning feels so far away now, years ago, another dimension. He was there then, too, but it’s never gonna be the same now and I couldn’t be happier for that.

* * *

Sometimes when you wait for something for a long, long time, when you want it real bad, you just start having expectations, having dreams of it, usually highly unrealistic ones. Well, maybe it’s a women’s thing; I really can’t picture a man just kinda casually going over a hundred different possible screenplays of what may happen, but even if they did, it wouldn’t all be like a sappy Nora Roberts book which I usually end up visualizing. You think you can’t have the real thing, maybe you’ll never have it, so at least make it a fantasy, right? And that’s where it usually goes south, because the thing is, no matter how many options you consider, people are the most miraculous things in the universe, no shame in saying that, and you just can’t pinpoint their exact reactions. To some it may be frustrating but I’m usually in awe of human nature, good or bad. Still, imagining every outcome with a glass of hopeful pink love in front of you usually ends in you putting the bars too high.
Luckily enough, this wasn’t the case now and I’ve been thinking about my first time with Tay, so the expectations should be up pretty high. Actually, I’ve kinda imagined I’d have my first time with him but that ship has sailed, went on at least twenty cruises, hit an iceberg, killed a few people and… Yeah, so, point is that’s an opportunity of the past and at the moment I really can’t think straight. Not that I mind that; not the part where my brain is turned into a really happy but dysfunctional puddle and not the fact that things didn’t work out the way I imagined as a kid. I mean, maybe I didn’t get to be with teen-Tay, but I have the now-Tay and it’s better on every level. Naturally I include the “looks hotter in uniform” factor but it’s more about the fact that it’s what we have now. There’s no use dwelling on things from the past, running all those ‘what if’s in your head. That only takes time from experiencing today to its fullest.
And today is the day I want to savor the most in my life. Screw PhD, marriage or whatever; this is as happy as I can be.
As I trace the inked patterns on Dante’s chest, my head resting on his shoulder, that’s the only thing floating around my head, happiness, probably because that’s the thing I’d most like to shout from the rooftops if I ever got to a situation where I should be shouting anything all over NYC. My breathing pattern just became stable enough so I don’t have to snort around like an asthmatic corgi, and suddenly exhaustion dawns on me, unexpected and fast like exam period. Not only is my brain an unusable puddle, but my whole being, soul, mind and body is like a warm, fuzzy shell full of sweet, sweet Jell-O. Except I’m only filled with organs and I probably smell kinda bad because I’ve been piling up exhausted-to-sweat this evening but I don’t care, nobody cares about body odor or funny noises or the neighbor on the other side of the wall shouting what probably were serious curses in Spanish at you when finally after all those years those expectations you have met the reality and get kicked in the face with a spinning kick.
Maybe it’s the haze still covering me speaking, but whatever. Sex is a language of love just as much as sweet talking, and it doesn’t really matter which one you speak, what you use, words or touches, as long as you do. I’ve told Tay before countless times that I loved him, and even though our status back then, officially, was purely platonic, lookin’ back at it maybe he did know I meant otherwise, too. Even if he didn’t, I don’t feel like I have to word it out aloud now.
Best things, usually, come without complicated schemes or straining or even words. They simply happen, in the purest way, get dropped in your lap when you least expect it. I mean, barely two hours ago I was one of the girls at a salsa class, thinkin’ whether we should get a Chinese or Indian take-out and now I’m a woman in love and loved back by someone who has been the most determinative person in my life and who’ll continue to be the one.
Obviously, it’s me, it’s us. Part of me is still kinda thinkin’ about whether we should get Chinese or Indian and I think Tay would share the sentiment.
“Wow… We’re definitely killin’ this,” I conclude as my breath evens out. I was basically speaking to his chest but then I look up at him, my lips curving instantly to a wide smile as we lock gazes. I would be content with just this, just watching him happily and pleased. I’ve looked into his eyes more times than I could ever count possibly and although they never ceased to amaze me, their deep color similar to mine, it’s somehow different. Every inch of him amazes me now, like he’s a whole new person yet wrapped in the trusty knowledge he’s still the Dante Ramos I’ve known and loved (at different levels) all my life.
Honoring the longest relationship anyone our age could possibly muster, I raise my hand. “Gimme five!”
It’s not like I’ve never tried to have this kind of relationship before, in fact, what I told Tay before was really true, I’ve been searching for this thing we have and failed, because you can’t force people to be untrue to themselves just because that’d make you feel better. Different things work for different people and I’m an easily accustoming one but to this I don’t have to adopt at all.
Not only is giving Tay a high-five and then laughing at it natural, something we’ve done for twenty years, so is leaping higher to peck a kiss or two (or three) on his lips even though we’ve only just started the tradition of that. My fingertips outline his jaw and cheeks before getting tangled in the dark curls. “Does this mean I can mess with your hair from now on?”
His answer is possibly negative but nothing, and I literally mean nothing can throw me off my bliss-train right here. Not the fact that I can’t fall asleep here and now because he’ll have to take back the car eventually, not the neighbor banging on the wall, not the possibility of Dominican thugs banging on the door or the slight chance that Reese may take this as an act of betrayal from both our parts. Not that he has any legal ground for that; he’s already made three babies with my high school best friend so if anything, we’re way behind.
With a sigh and a kiss on the jaw, I add, “You’re amazing.” Because he might not need be told that I love him, but he definitely has to hear this. If he thinks I’m too pretty for him he’s just being plane stupid, but I guess telling him that wouldn’t really help my case.
I really shouldn’t fall asleep though, which is a possible outcome if I stay cocooned in our body warmth and Tay’s embrace so I eventually gather my strength and push myself into a sitting position, stretch out my back with hands in the air (I’m pretty sure I heard something pop) then slouch over my pulled-up legs. Turning toward the window, I see the tiny drops of water sitting on it. “Oh, it’s been raining! I love rain. Don’t you think it just makes everything… neater? Like it washes away all the dust and smoke and whatnot, and it’s like a clear, new picture every day.”
Yup. I’m definitely love-smitten. I’ll probably see an empty Starbucks cup drifted into a pile of shit by the wind and say it’s lovely because it’s part of New York and we’re in New York. Anywhere we are must be amazing.
Turning my gaze away from the window and back to Tay, my gleaming smile soften a little bit. He’s still the same Tay, I’m still the same Mac and I’m pretty sure that outside of finally releasing the steam that’s been building for years silently and then like a power plant during the past months, our relationship will stay the same, too. And somehow, this is the best of it all: he’ll always stay my best friend, only he’s also my guy now, one I never intend to let go again. If he decides he’s finally had enough of people’s bullshit and wants to move to a remote forest in Alaska? Count me in.
I would be okay just watching him all day, even if it’d be a little unchallenging. But I guess it’d also be creepy.
“I don’t think I’ve ever told you that but… You know I’m not mad that you left, right?” I ask suddenly, my hand placed on his upper arm, my thumbs stroking circles on his skin. “It’s not even that I’m not mad, I’m actually proud of you. Really, really proud. That was a brave thing you do. You might think that you didn’t have any other choice, but you did; and, like, all of them would’ve ended horribly, most likely. Still, most people, including myself, would’ve never been able to do what you’ve done. You’ve always been tougher than all of us, Dante. Despite all the odds which were definitely not in your favor, you’re still here!” I give his shoulder a little push, beaming at him like an idiot. I have no idea why I’m giving him this pep talk right now when there’s a hell of a lots of things I want to ask him desperately. Guess I thought this is confession day; if we’re going on with this relationship then we’re ought to do this nice and tidy.
Except for that one thing.
I am going to tell him that; but not now. It’s not time yet and it would kill the mood for sure. I’m kinda hopin’ for a round two here or at least in the seeable future.
“I know that things maybe don’t always work out the way you want them to be, and that you think all my talks about cosmic reasons are B.S., “ I roll my eyes half-heartedly, “but… I’m still completely sure that people get brought back together for something grand. What I’m trying to say is I’ll be here for you, no matter what. Even if in a few months you decide you’ve had enough college drama for life and just… come back here. Or move to a remote island. If it’s a loosely populated island, we don’t even have to wear clothes. Although from what I’ve heard, you can do that in Europe, too,” I muse with a mischievous grin, wrinkling my nose at him. “Cause we’re a team, right?”

You remember lava lamps? I know they’ve been out of style since maybe 2005, and even then, no one over the age of twelve would’ve deemed them acceptable decoration for their room. And yet, Mac and Reese still kept one on their nightstand at the ages of fifteen and seventeen. When I secretly snuck in to crash at their place, I’d stare at that lamp for two hours before falling asleep, watching the blobs of wax rise to the top, accumulating and eventually fusing into one big bubble. With its orange-to-red gradient, it looked as though the glass had actually been filled with burning magma, and if I’d knocked it over, it’d burn a hole in the ground, prompting Ms Mackenzie to never let me see her daughter again. And yet, no matter how bad my nose or my ribs were hurting, I always found comfort in the sluggish rate at which the light pink blobs split up and merged again.
It almost looked alive, like some alien organism, cells going through a cycle the same way my teachers tried to explain in Biology class. Instead of listening, I’d usually let Mac give me a crash course before finals week, ‘cause Biology being an elective, some Sophomores attended the same class as some Juniors. Not that I cared for finals, but it gave Mac peace of mind to think I had at least some idea of meiosis before sitting in on a test. She always thought I was the one helping her with Math, when in reality, if she hadn’t asked me to figure out some problems for her, I woulda never opened my textbooks, even though each one of ‘em cost me an internal fuckin’ organ. Basically, I can thank her for helping me make it to the end of Senior year.
How come that lamp made feel so calm, though? I mean, lately, my color vision’s been fading, but red still reminds me of my father’s uniform, the breaking news headlines, the sirens, the blood trickling down my face. It might just be me, but red makes me wanna smash lamps, and yet, there’s just something captivating about that scarlet luminescence. Some would be surprised to hear this, but lust and anger often coincide, which might explain why my Tinder hookups sometimes feel like I’m a dog dry-humping someone’s Levi’s. I mean, there are girls who are into that shit, even stuff I’d refuse to do, and sometimes I wanna ask ‘em if they used to have their very own Vera, but at the end of the day, neither one of us really give a shit. This is New York, nobody’s got time for that, so they’re in, then they’re out, and hopefully, we never see each other again. Hopefully, we’ll never have to talk about our Veras to anyone.
Anyway, despite Mac’s help, I still ain’t a science prodigy. I guess what we’ve done, biologically and technically, is supposed to be the same as one of those no-bullshit booty calls. After all, it’s just skin – hot, sultry skin on top of even more skin, as much of it in close and tight contact as physically possible. I could go on and say that the way I slid my hand on top of hers for our fingers to intertwine was nothing but mere, hard-boiled biology, but I’d be lying. I absorbed the nearly feverish heat emanating from her body, I breathed the same air that she let out with a sigh, and I’m pretty sure we became one right there at the end, combining into a single unit that can never be divided again. That’s right, it’s clear as day that we’re more than just Biology; we’re History, we’re Chemistry, we’re a Greek epic, a goddamn Renaissance painting, fuck if I know what we are. There are no words invented for it, or at least I can’t find ‘em, me being the stupid fuck that I am. It’s like Sam Cooke once sang about how he didn’t know much about Geography or Trigonometry, but he did know that he loved someone. Yeah, that’s probably it: I love her, I love Jasmine Mackenzie. I may not be able to sing it in a song or show it with my salsa skills – and I wish it was punishable by 8 years in prison for certain men to raise the bar that high –, but I’d take a bullet for her.
There’s a sort of triumph in the spontaneous way we synchronized, and I don’t mean some sorta self-serving conquest or whatever. This energy has been consuming me from the inside out for so long, and to finally let her know that, and to know she feels the same, is almost a cathartic feeling. Okay, it might be somewhat self-serving in the sense that I kinda get a kick out of the thought of being the only one who gets to touch her like that – however, a big part of that satisfaction is knowing that she wouldn’t want anyone else’s touch, either. I mean, c’mon, we really are killin’ this.
“Damn straight we are. And that’s ‘cause you’re fuckin’ hot.” I give Mac her high-five with a relaxed smile. I’m not just talking smooth, either; this is the first thing that comes to mind when I look at her, face dimly lit by the evening lights and a bedside lampshade. I suddenly get the motivation to finally retouch the brick wall in the background, ‘cause the white paint’s been comin’ off in flakes. It almost looks intentional, though, and gives the Pinterest-Mom white brick more of an industrial vibe, so I might just keep it. Goddamn, I’m over here soundin’ like I got a taste, while my cheap ventilator and radiator prove the contrary, not to mention my leather couch the color of vintage KFC hot wings.
If this was only some casual hookup, I’d prolly be dozing off by now, as I am pretty tired, but we still got shit to do, and I also wanna savor this moment for a while. I mean, I’m pretty sure we just wrote fuckin’ history here, this is a moment that we’ll both remember for the rest of our lives, so she’d prolly smack me in the face if I were to fall asleep right now.
Not that the Puerto Rican witch next door would let me, anyway. She’s really got sand in her vagina or somethin’, her muffled rambling echoing off the walls. If I were someone else, I’d let her ruin my evening, but we’ve already been ignoring her for a while, and I can never be the bigger person for too long. When she tells us to come mierda y muere, I turn to the wall and burst out, bellowing, “¡Me vale verga lo que dices, cállate o te llamaré a la Migra!” She goes silent for a few moments, probably surprised at the sudden reply, then calls me a racist gringo-fucker, and with that, the argument is over. I’ve got experience with this aspect of human nature, the inclination people have for continuing to let their frustration out on you as long as you let ‘em, which is one of the reasons I never let anything go. Some people, ‘specially white folks, never seem to be able to grasp this concept, ‘cause they come from a place where nobody wants trouble, they just wanna avoid confrontation at all costs. And then there’s me, comin’ from a place where everybody’s always lookin’ for an excuse to give each other a hard time.
I’m still knitting my eyebrows in frustration when I turn back and look at Mac, and that’s the only reminder I need to cast my eyes down, feeling a little guilty for fuckin’ up again. I literally just said that I wanted to respect this moment in our lives that we’re sharing, and here I am, havin’ a shouting match with the neighbor. I also told Mac she made me wanna become a better person, which is true – I want to, but I don’t know how to do it, since I can’t even picture not reacting to blood-boiling shit like someone goin’ off on you for minutes. Normally, I wouldn’t have even questioned my behavior, ‘cause it’s just normal in my circle to react this way, but since I started hangin’ out with Mac’s crew, I’ve realized it’s kinda fucked up. My intense expression relaxes as I look at her, though, and I’m just hopin’ I didn’t scare or upset her. “I’m sorry,” is all I can come up with at the moment. I sigh, shutting my eyes and touching my forehead to hers. “I’m sorry. Man, I hate this place. Let’s just move to Alaska, yeah? Or the Caribbean, just you and me. Somewhere we can be as loud as we want.” I grin at that, snorting with a single set of silent laughter.
She runs her fingers through my hair and references my tendency to get touchy about that, to which I squint at her, trying real hard not to crack a smile. “Y’know the rules. Got any idea how much effort goes into gettin’ it to look like this?” Exactly zero, none, nada. I can quote Beyoncé more accurately than Hewitt, ‘cause it describes me better: I woke up like this. “Just kiddin’, you can do whatever to me, girl. You could slap me in the face, and I’d thank you. Actually, I think you did that one time, with a rock-hard basketball.” I pause to shoot her a knowing look, so she knows whats’s comin’. I don’t give her too much time, though, suddenly prodding her in the side, since I know that’s her most ticklish spot. Yeah, I’ve always been exactly that kinda annoying fuck, emerging straight from Hell only to tickle people with a devilish grin. A part of her probably hates me now, but she’s got an adorable laugh, and she’s lucky she does, ‘cause it makes me wanna hold her again, y’know, instead of torturing her. “And you were prolly right, I was an asshole back then. Still am. But it’s always the assholes that get lucky, it seems.” Judging by the look I give her, it’s evident that I mean her, that she still seems too good to be true. It probably takes a while for her to collect herself again, and I’m just kinda observing how her shoulders rise with every breath she takes, how her silhouette forms a curve at her hips when she’s lying on her side like this. She’s perfect, and she thinks I’m amazing. It’s almost unreal.
“Nah, you’re amazing. See whatchu done? Got me soundin’ like one of those limpdicks on TV that be like, 'You hang up first, no, you hang up!' Makes you wanna kick ‘em in the eye, right?” The hint of a smirk appears in one corner of my mouth as I pause for a bit. “Now I just feel sorry for ‘em, poor fucks don’t even know their girl’s got nothin’ on mine.”
The sheets start rustling as she gets moving, and I get my hands off her so she can go, although I ain’t a fan of the idea of getting on with our day. I count the sparsely populated freckles on her back as she’s stretching. “Yeah, rain’s fuckin’ awesome,” enter me, the guy who hates most things and definitely hates rain. Of course, I’m not trynna lie to her, it’s just that I really fuckin’ love rain at the moment. She shoots me a sidelong glance over her shoulder, her dark brown gaze almost penetrating, and I couldn’t look away even if I wanted. “Yeah, I just said that ‘cause you said it,” I admit with a slack shrug.
At first, the mention of my escapade dampens my spirits a bit, since I’ve been embarrassed about my disappearance ever since we reunited. Sometimes, I have a hard time explaining why I did something, and if I can’t even understand myself, then I sure as hell can’t put things in a way that other people would understand. I don’t speak my mind out loud, but somehow, she seems to understand anyway, and her words bring a smile to my face even if I don’t exactly agree with ‘em. The guilt – along with the nightmares – seems like it’s here to stay, and it sure as hell ain’t something I can simply wish away, but hearing this from her makes it easier to bear. “I swear, you’re an angel on Earth,” I say, a little touched, actually. I quickly get a teasing look on my face, though, ‘cause I just thought of a way to ruin the moment, as usual. “Even if the noises you’ve been makin’ beg to differ.” I leave some time before I lean in closer to emphasize my next point, still mildly amused, hand brushing her cheek. “Just kidding, you sound mad cute.”
And with that, I finally peel the covers off and roll around to start getting dressed. I already have my pants back on my ass when she casually lets me know she’ll always be here for me, and I pause mid-air. Still leaning forward, I turn my head to the side to listen to her more closely, and I have a faint, tranquil smile on my face again. I’d trust Mac with my life, but I have to admit, old wounds from the past still get me acting kinda awkward, so it helps a little to have my back turned to her and not make direct eye contact. Her message gets through to me all the same, and given my poor communication skills, I don’t think she knows how much I really appreciate it. Like I said: she’s an angel, my angel. I get up only to plant one knee in the mattress, one hand supporting me and the other reaching out towards her. Then, I touch her chin to tilt her head upwards, so I can kiss her again. Our roommates should probably be bracing themselves, ‘cause I feel like our PDA’s really about to escalate from this day on. I don’t think I’ll ever get bored of kissing her.
“’Course we’re a team, baby girl.” I say with my eyes downcast, our lips almost touching, then lean far enough to be able to make eye contact. “And you know what, your horoscope might just be right. This ain’t dumb luck, it’s too good to be dumb luck.” I shake my head, infatuation etched on my face. “I mean, I never woulda thought I’d ever owe Mark Zuckerberg a thank-you, of all people. Either this is his doing, or Jesus finally noticed my tattoos. Y’know, maybe it takes a while to get through his system, like the USPS.” I hold her gaze in silence for a few seconds. I guess I’ll just be staring at her 24/7 for the next few days, maybe I should go on leave so I can do it full-time.
Given that I’m almost on all fours and back among the sheets now, I’m really not looking forward to leaving the bed or getting on with the rest of my day. I’d stay here with her for the remainder of the night if I could, but with a patrol car to drive back, we really can’t afford to do that. What we can do instead, though, is procrastinate. So, instead of getting up, I decide to tackle her in a way that she rolls to her back, and I’m on top again, Lion King style. Now that I think about it, maybe there’s some sorta childhood trauma behind that weird Animal Planet experience I had a few weeks ago, when I got a glimpse of a documentary about lions. All I’m sayin’ is, Simba and Nala had some major eye-fucking goin’ on in that one scene, and you can’t deny it, it’s burned in the collective memory of a whole generation.
“That wasn’t even funny, why you laughin’?” I ask, even though I’m laughing myself as I’m looking down at her beautiful smile. Guess you don’t need a reason when you got a girl like this in your life. “You don’t laugh at my jokes, but you laugh at this? C’mon,” I say, but my face shows no hint of having taken offense. I’m just trynna keep her laughing.
“We gotta head back soon, so… Wanna go again?” I actually think this could work, probably because I really want it to, but I’m not even halfway there when I stop kissing her neck and end up burying my face in her hair. “Fuck, I would, but I’m starving. Another ten minutes like this, and I’ll be seein’ double. I mean, actually, that wouldn’t be all that bad.” Leaning backwards, I eye her up and down to specify what I meant. I do mean it, but I still can’t keep a straight face as I finally climb off of her. “Damn, I’m smooth. Admit it, girl, that was movie material. Gosling who? Channing who?”
I snatch my cracked Huawei from the nighstand, waving it in the air as if it was something to be particularly proud of. “And my place got room service. I mean, Watson who?” I raise one brow at her, then turn back to the screen, scrolling through my contacts. “Whatchu feel like getting? I think Chipotle still delivers here,” unlike most proper restaurants. “There’s a Turkish place, Thai, the Chinese guys… Although I heard they’ve been cookin’ more meth than noodles lately. If you’re in the mood for Indian, we could also stand outside the Pakistanis’ door and inhale the curry. They’re the reason why I keep a gas mask, that shit brings tears to your eyes.” One time, I mistook the green chili on that naan for oregano or some shit, ‘cause I was like, “nah, nobody puts this much chili on their food”. Well, I was way off, so off I almost choked to death.
I leave the final choice to Mac and return back to her once I’m done conducting a potentially confusing, multilingual phone call with some grumpy guy. The Pakistanis are usually polite, but the Chinese don’t fuck around, and you don’t wanna piss off the very people making your food. No, instead, I passive aggressively tip an outrageous 10% when they get here. “Aight, they said they’de be here in thirty minutes, so expect dinner by next Friday,” I turn to look behind my back. “My TV’s got no Netflix installed, but we can still NCAA and chill. What do you even watch that’s not on Netflix, anyway, General Hospital?” I grin. “Is the hospital dating scene really that intense in your experience?”

The way Tay’s eyes get flooded by guilt makes me get flooded by guilt and that makes even less sense since he shouldn’t be feeling that in the first place. The way we react to certain situations is without doubt different, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. All right, I was the one giving him shit about getting into that dick-measuring contest with those low-life guys but there are countless times I respect and at the same time kinda envy his readiness to get out there. Knowing for a fact I tend to avoid conflict, hoping it’ll just go away and also knowing it doesn’t always go away, I should probably learn from him.
Well, maybe not the ‘banging on the wall’ part, but still. “Don’t sweat it, I was only listening to your Spanish,” I say, shrugging, but I mean, I’m not about to refuse being close, and this whole intentional snuggling thing from his part is unbelievably, heartwarmingly cute. Never thought he’d be like this. “Both of these options sound real tempting.” They do, and the loudness-part likewise. Damn me if I’d refuse any place he wants to go as long as we’re together. I’ve always been a dreamer but somehow I feel like I can actually do anything now, like I’ve been given embodied proof in the fine-hot wrapping of Dante that everything is a realistic possibility from Canada to freakin’ Argentina if that’s what he wants.
No, Canada would be more likely and I’d be the happiest traitor of an American by the code of Barney Stinson because the mere thought that Tay would be mine and mine alone gives me happy bliss-chills. I should probably feel cautious that I’d be ready and happy to just sort of give up everything I have and move to a fucking jungle with someone if I had to but that’s the farthest thing on my mind right now. It’s just all really comfy and palmy and thrilling.
Skimming my fingers through his hair and all this feels genuine, something I don’t think I’ve ever felt with someone I’ve just had sex with for the first time. Guess it’s official now, you should only have it off with your best friend. “Lemme guess: the same amount as to your pores looking good?” Yeah, I definitely haven’t forgotten how I complimented him on that and even though it sounds like a weird-ass thing to say now, it’s still true. Seems like I’m not the only one who remembers stuff though. “Gosh, thought you’d forget, get a concussion or something,” I’d start to giggle but then I see his intention. “No-no, I know that look. Dante, don’t you dare…! You dipstick!”
That’s the thing about getting tickled, you just kinda jump one moment to the other between loving and hating it, because it feels good but then again, you don’t have control over it. I’ve never got why guys tend to like tickling as a weapon because frankly, I really can’t see many girls do the same but it’s just one of those idiotic things they do to annoy you. Since it’s been done before a lot, Dante knows exactly where to strike, meaning he has another way to leave me breathless now.
He stops just as I start to tear up and my face starts to hurt so as I lay back I get hit by a wave of trembling laughter a couple of times, like when you really get into a titter and even if you’ve went pass the source of it you still randomly giggle up minutes later. Despite this aftershake I’m well aware of his lingering gaze. I never thought I’d ever get him to look at me like that, with actual love and maybe a kind of captivation. It just keeps sending shivers down my spine, even as I finally make up my mind about getting up.
The air feels awfully cold suddenly, goosebumps all over my skin. I didn’t notice how accustomed I got to Dante’s warmth but I’m sure as hell won’t be getting anywhere near used to him giving me such compliments without any sarcastic undertones. Although I wasn’t expecting him to turn my words around, I whip my head toward him and look at him like, I guess, in that Taylor Swift song; I was seven and you were nine and I looked at you like the stars that shined or something like that.
Of course I’m melting, he’s called me an angel and I’ll never not be melting at that even if he manages to throw off the vibe somehow. “Up yours!” I slap toward him but nonetheless, the grin is there to stay and I place a quick kiss on his palm before he rolls away. “Well, ‘cute’ is not exactly what we’re going for here.”  
It’s nothing that can’t be forgiven though, especially now that I have something other than the rain to look at whilst talking. I mean, Ansel was right, and Tay has a dime of a behind. Although I really hope that I’ve gotten a better look at that than him, and it was just his imagination talking. Worth an impressed grimace anyway.
He has my attention even before he moves towards me and even though I guess I can expect his touch and kisses without reason now, I still watch Tay with fascination, my heart pounding hard in my chest. Lovesick puppy dog. “Ahw, that’s cute. Never took you one for pet names,” I trill at him, goofy smile permanently planted on my face. My inner 12-year-old started to giggle like an idiot. I don’t think that self of mine would be able to look him in the eye for too long, which I’m doing now. With others it’d be uncomfortable. “Well, they are pretty awesome tattoos,” is what I can blurt out because my attention is kinda divided between listening to and staring at him.
It really is miraculous that I’ve managed to find him on Facebook, especially since I’ve tried before countless times. I wasn’t even sure he had a Facebook in the first place, and I mean, since he had no profile pictures, it could’ve been another Dante Ramos for all I know. Bet there’s at least another two in this city. So yeah, I have to agree with Tay, this has to be more than sheer luck and I must’ve done something really good in my life for the Universe to reward me. Cause Dante is a reward, no matter how he keeps saying stuff like I’d be better off without him or that I’m too good for him or whatever, he can fuck that, he has no idea.
I was about to get up but I can’t help myself, and the moment I lean in for a kiss I know I’m lost, stroking his neck, thumb caressing along his jawline. It’s not like we’d have to go our separate ways afterwards; Dante was supposed to take me home and then he’d drive back but I guess we could just get that stupid car back and then grab a taxi together. Still, I’ve never felt so unwilling to leave the bed.
Intoxicated by the kiss I don’t see what he’s about to do at all, only realizing what happened once I’m on my back, blinking up at him. A nickering laugh bursts out of me before my brain could catch up. I can’t believe he just Lion King-ed me. It’s fun and it’s cute but with all the respect and high regards I can hold Tay in, I’ve never dreamed he’d be like this. Maybe that’s why I feel like it’s familiar and new all-over at the same time; I can’t recall the last time I’ve seen Dante so carefree and generally happy. The closest he got was maybe our one-of-a-kind Valentine’s Day date, but even then, he had a few of those moments and I could see it on him. I don’t know what causes them and it’s also hard to explain what they are at all, but  it’s like a faint overtone, one tiny voice melting into a crowd of other voices and you can’t really distinguish it unless you pay a shitload of attention or it wants to be heard. Even when smiling and joking he had this barely noticeable shadow lurking behind him.
Not now, and I dare hope it really just isn’t there now, and not my happiness overshadowing it. Part of me feels like crying at that, no idea why, but he might get the wrong idea about that so I just laugh instead. “I-I do laugh at yo-your jokes, you asshat,” I squeak at him, messing his hair up further. “The funny ones.” Nope, actually, I just giggle at whatever he says because it’s him saying it but that’s really not the point now. I’m half laying on my hair and it’s pulling my scalp, I also got tangled in the sheets and it’s starting to twist the skin on my thigh but it doesn’t really matter since he has a charming smile, that cheeky bastard.
My laughter melts into a delighted hum feeling his lips on my skin again, hugging him close and playing with his hair, but it’s evidently not for long.  “Oh my god yes, me too. I’ve had food on my mind since before we got here,” I say groaning like I haven’t eaten in weeks. Throwing my hands up not in the air but on the mattress, I have to narrow my eyes at him, after all, he’s half dressed up while I’m still butt naked. I don’t mind his eyeing at all but I still grab a pillow and swing it at him for good measure. “You’re more of a Steve McQueen type, I’d say. Or Humphrey Bogart. “ Yeah, I definitely watched too many old-school movies when I was at our old Gran, my dad’s ridiculously religious mom’s house, and I’m pretty sure she made Dante and Reese watch them, too, when she came over to watch us and they were small enough not dare protest. She said they were a lot better for youngsters like those cartoons full of “randy mischief”, prompting kids to “violent shenanigans”. Maybe these movies planted my leaning towards these raw, cynical and laconic styled persons like Dante.
Sitting up again, I move to kneel behind Dante, my chin resting on his shoulder. I let his comment about Watt slide; part of me wants to ask what he really thinks about me living with Watt, especially now, but I’m too afraid and also too hungry. “I’m not helping if I say I’d have whatever, right? Dunno. I’ve had Chinese and Indian on my mind before, so whichever you feel like.”
Planting a kiss on his neck, I peel myself off of Dante and leave him to do the phone call while I go around the room to gather my clothes. I don’t put them on though, the chilly sweat started to dry on my skin, it just gives this dirty-sticky feeling I’d rather get rid of first. I’m folding my shirt on my arms and hugging it to my chest when Tay turns towards me again. “March madness?” Reese used to religiously watch every single game from all three basketball divisions before his injury; after all, he planned he’d be playing there one day and I was almost as excited as him that one day I might see my big bro on screen. Afterwards, we started avoiding it like plague, afraid we might tear up his scars, dig up the bones of his killed dreams and such. Of course, Tay doesn’t know that; and that’s yet another thing I’m keeping for myself now, because despite what he thinks, I’m far from being an angel, and I’m selfish enough to want to keep this moment for ourselves. “I was more of an ER fan. You know, George Clooney and all that…” I raise my shoulders then let them fall before mimicking that shiteating grin Tay has on most of the time. “Definitely. It’s all very romantic, you know, so intimate, when you’re standing next to a ninety-years-old guy bed, staring into each other’s eyes, your shoulders touch as you push a catheter up his urethra… Don’t even get me started on colonoscopy.”
Like I’ve stated before: there’s no such thing as being picky or getting shameful when you’re in healthcare.
“I’m gonna take a shower, yeah? I’d gladly invite you for real this time, but I’ve spent a month on ER last summer and you don’t believe the shit you see there. I mean, have you ever had a constipation so bad you’ve decided that you should grab a toilet bowl brush and stuck it up? Well, this one guy did,” I wave around in disbelief but then I remember the scene when he got transported in on that collapsible bed and I burst out laughing again. “He had this bushy tail feather dangling from his butt and he kept screaming ‘it’s stuck, it’s stuck’… All right, it’s not supposed to be funny but it was. Then there was this other guy, having sex with his girlfriend in the shower all right, then he slipped and fell onto a bottle of Reddi whipped cream. Well, that’s what they told us, anyway, that he slipped and that’s when it got anywhere near his anus but I mean, c’mon, everyone knew that wasn’t true… Thinkin’ about it, I guess like half of ER is guys with stuff inside them where they’re not supposed to be,” I conclude with a suddenly serious frown. I’ve reached enlightment.  “And at least another quarter is sex-related injuries. There was this couple, a girl with a ruptured forehead and a guy with a bleeding dick. Turned out, he was making her pancakes and I guess that must’ve really impressed her, so she decided to give him a blowjob; he flipped the pancake, but it landed on her forehead, she freaked out and bit his dick, and his instinctive reaction was to hit her with the pan. I think they’ve married since, actually.”
I could probably muse about such stories all day and would gladly do so because even if at the moment they’re as serious as they get and we’re all about treating the injuries, when you look back at it, they’re hilarious as fuck. But I’m still just standing around near the door with my clothes in my hands. “Moral of the stories: be careful where you give and get blowjobs because you might end up as someone’s joke they make to their bae to laugh their asses off after sex.”
And with that being said, I’m really off to the bathroom now. Although I usually adore showers and baths alike, spending at least twenty minutes and thus adding my own portion of poison to Mother Earth’s cup of tea, I’m really doing my best now, done and out in about ten minutes, and that includes getting dressed and forcing my hair into a huge, messy bun.
I find him in front of the TV and I throw myself next to him, my upper legs in his lap, a satisfied sigh escaping my lips. “I smell like you now,” I remark, pinching my shirt between my fingers and sniffing underneath. It’s not that closely linked, well maybe it is to that territorialism thing, but I’ve decided I’ll find another salsa class. Jorge’s nice and it was fun and all but it’d be simply wrong now. I’ll find one with less rubbing and stuff; maybe at a nursing home or something.
I fix my gaze on the screen, trying to decipher what’s going on. “I don’t think I’ve watched a single game since I moved here. And I didn’t play, either. I mean, I’ve played football and softball and baseball and even hockey that one time but not basketball. Weird. Hey, would you want to shoot some hoops sometimes? There’s a court in that area behind the apartment, maybe we could get the others, too. Although we’d have to buy a ball first, unless you’re hiding a perfectly good one in your closet.”
Who knows, there may be one among the other shit in there. It kinda reminds me of Monica’s always closed closet in FRIENDS. The Room of Mysteries.
“You know, when I hit you in the face with the basketball? Yeah, it was because the day before, you promised you’d play ball with me and instead, you went out to screw around with that girl, Samantha… Amanda… Brianna, dunno but that’s why you got it, just so you know, for future reference, if I ever have to get to know you dumped me from Reese, you get a ball in your face. That’s how it goes,” I state with faked enthusiasm. After all, it was just a really shitty way of leading up this topic I couldn’t get rid of once in the shower, alone with my thoughts. With a sigh I take a few moments to sort of zone out, face towards the tv and my hands mindlessly toying around with his hair. “I have no idea how to tell him. I know we should, but I really can’t imagine it just sort of coming up in any of our conversations. I mean, he doesn’t even know you’re living with me. How ‘bout we just let him find out in due time? Like, he’ll probably take the hint if he opens our wedding invitations, right? … No, kidding. We should be fine for now and it might seem like I’m rushing ahead but the twins are coming down here at the beginning of summer for college tour, mid-June most likely and they’ll stay at the apartment, so we’ll just have to figure out something by then. Unless you plan on living in the wardrobe for a couple of days.”
Actually, that could probably work. Considering some Manhattan rooms, that’s a big ass place; but I’ve always sucked at lying to family. Other people I’m good, I mean, there are just situations you have to, but never to my siblings.
“And we should tell the twins, anyway, since I was going to go to Dominica in August, visit granddad’s family. Reese and Marie went there for their honeymoon, they said it was awesome, and it was supposed to be their vacation again but… Well, you know.” I gesticulate around my belly to make a point. “I love Dougie, but he’s an asshole sometimes and would probably leave me the first time he sees a hot Dominican chic he thinks he can woo, and mom’s really not big on letting him go, anyway. What I’m rambling about is, would you like to come with me instead?” I look up at him with a hopeful smile. “If I have to go with an asshole, I’d rather take my asshole. And you’ve heard my Spanish. Would you trust me not to accidentally sell myself at the market instead of buying a banana?”

“Yeah, George Clooney,” I say after her in an elevated, dreamy tone of voice, teasing her right back. I might get a little possessive from time to time, but I’m not gonna get jealous of an old man whose balls probably look like dried figs by now. Then again, I guess Mac doesn’t care that much for balls: only a few days ago, we turned our heads at the same time to stare at a girl who pranced past us. Just like our nudist childhood photos, it’s one of the many things about our relationship that’s just a tad bit unusual, but I wouldn’t have it any other way, really. Besides, it’s kinda hot that she’s into girls, but only in theory, when you really think about it. My ego would never recover from finding out that I’m easily replaceable by some dyke who plays the piano.
…Nah, that can’t be. Or can it?
Mac’s description of driving a tube up someone’s ass makes me laugh a little too hard, seeing as this is an actual reality that she needs to face every day, but c’mon, it’s at least a little funny, especially when you use an old person as an example. Somehow, everything’s ten times funnier when it involves old people. For instance, my tío’s not exactly the comedian type, but at the age of 77, he’s probably the funniest person I know. Children falling over is the only thing that makes me laugh harder than the deadpan punchlines he delivers in all seriousness. Last month when I brought him Sunday dinner and visited to keep him company on Día de la Memoria, he looked up at me from his workstation and simply said, “You should get a job, son.” Then, we just kinda kept on eating in silence for a while until I decided not to remind him I’ve already been at the NYPD for four years. Instead, I figured it’d be easier to just tell him, “Okay.” I mean, now that I think about it, it’s kinda sad, but we laugh about sad shit all the time, right?
“Wait. You tellin’ me you’re not just a stripper? You’re the real thing?” I ask, imitating the frown of a white dad who’s still trynna figure out why trans lesbians are biological males who are actually into women. I’m referencing all the times Mac’s treated me as a cast member of Magic Mike for wearing a uniform, even though I also wear an undershirt below the dark shirt for extra modesty. In fact, I’m pulling it over my head right now, ready to rock the Little Italy look. Cohen says it makes me look like I beat my girlfriend on a regular basis; I say his nipples are poking my eyes out half the time he’s around. It gets cold and sweaty as fuck out here when you’re a cop in New York, the wettest city in the world, as the cast of Hamilton has sung at the White House. Or was it “greatest city”?
Mac announces heading for the shower, and I open my mouth to ask if I can come, but she kinda changes my mind with the ER story she gets started on. She’s standing by the door, so I walk up to her as she’s talking, lookin’ like a proper Backstreet Boy in my white tee and loose uniform for pants. I lean my arm against the doorway above my head, sloping forward a little, meaning she’s probably gonna have to moonwalk some if she wants to keep a conversational distance – hence the douchey little smile in the corners of my mouth. Wanting to be all up in her gorgeous face constantly from now on is just one part of it; trynna be annoying, as usual, is another. The only reason I don’t kiss her again is that she’s in the middle of a story, and it’d be major assholery to interrupt. Plus, I love the absolute insanity of her hospital stories.
Granted, I dislike my job sometimes – the incompetence, the Blue Lives Matter hashtags, the paperwork, the barely operational vending machines in the hall –, but based on Mac’s account, hospital life sounds like the deepest circle of Hell to me. I think the only reason she can stand it is that she actually likes people. She cares about ‘em. In a city where passers-by would walk step over your unconscious body if they saw you lying on the concrete (not only that, but you’d get your pockets picked, too – speaking from experience), she’s still got it in her to save people from their stupidity. And their toilet brushes.
“Oh, it’s definitely supposed to be funny,” I negate her claim that a guy with something up his ass “isn’t supposed to be funny.” Fuck, it’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day, which is probably why we’re both laughing. I could marvel at the idiocy that this stunt must have required, but I’m NYPD – trust me, I know all about idiocy. “Sounds like a shitshow over there. Literally. We get our hands on some ratchet weirdos every day, but I rarely gotta peep up any holes. We leave that to the C.O.’s; sick fucks get off on that, anyway.” Y’know, when those trolls tell you to stretch, they don’t mean it the way you and I would understand. They mean, grab your ass and pull until you’ve turned inside out and it’s plain to see you ain’t hiding anything down your guts. They’re always the largest mawfuckers you’ll see on your way to Rikers, too, ‘cause they’re meant to start you off on the right foot, lest you get any ideas. Many a white boy would get his panties in a twist if he heard me say this, but in a way, prison’s like the military. I said white boys because – that’s right – they’re the ones who choose that shit voluntarily, dying for Trump and his walls. They ain’t the ones whose brothers are being killed on the streets, so they gotta go outta their way and join the military to experience violence and loss. Not gonna lie, I did get used to the idea of the Corps over time, but that don’t mean I learned to love it the way some vets do, ‘specially knowing what it did to my family.
After Mac’s finished and my laughter has subsided, I look up at her again, my amusement devolving into a sort of amazement. “Mija,” I inhale, “Mad respect. If some dude came up to me with a toilet brush up his ass, you bet I’d tell him to fuck off. Natural selection at work, people,” I purse my lips as I slap the doorframe before we both get going, “as it should be.” Compassion is one of the attributes listed in my job description, and I like to think I’m okay in that department when it comes to the people who need it. When it comes to people who put objects up their ass, though, laughter’s all they can get outta me. I get it, you wanna spice things up the wife, but that only makes it funnier somehow.
Mac turns on her heel to head for the bathroom, and I let out a sort of quiet, residual laughter, still amused at what she told me just now. I take a turn to the opposite direction, but before we part, I casually slap her on the butt as a temporary goodbye, grinning and saying, “Good luck, don’t get anythin’ stuck up there.” Weirdly enough, it feels pretty much the same as the occasional slaps I used to give her before all of this happened, and her being butt-naked somehow makes it even less sexual. I guess now that we let off the steam, we can go back to being the same us as back in the day, the us that’s comfortable talking about gross shit – literally shit. That’s right, we’re exactly the same, except I’ll probably be staring at her even more from now on, seeing as there’s nothing holding me back anymore.
I haven’t thought much about it until now, but y’know how it is being left alone with your own thoughts: it makes you think. Or at least it’s supposed to, but for now, I’ll spare myself the mental effort, ‘cause Sweet Sixteen’s on, and how’s Tennessee gonna kick Purdue’s ass if I’m not there in front of the screen, tellin’ em in hindsight what they shoulda done to score?
I plomp down on the only couch in the dimly-lit living room, the one the color of old KFC that makes a stupid noise when you sit on it. Besides the sounds of neighboring chatter and the steady white noise produced by Mac’s shower, the room has a profound emptiness to it. The creaking of the leather is especially hard on the ears, as it evokes memories of Friday evenings, just like this one, well spent: sitting down in silence, lights off ‘cause I know the TV screen will gleam just bright enough for me to find where to put my microwaved noodles. I mean my mouth, or maybe my ass if I get too bored in the process of missing the company of my estranged brother or probably some girl I drove away for life. That’s what this apartment means, and I was fine with that for a long time, but I do feel better hearing there’s water running on the other side of the bathroom door. In fact, I think I’m fuckin’ happy.
I don’t even consider turning the lights on, though, at least not until Mac’s back. I like the dark; at this point, it’s what my night-shifter of a brain associates with wakefulness. The windows are a pale blue that’s barely lighter than the walls, although brighter than most nights, with some moonlight shining through. Still, it’s dark enough in here for the police lights to cast an electric blue shadow on the walls as one of our cars passes by outside, wailing. It’s like when shots are being fired somewhere: you learn to pay it no mind, staying away from the windows while you go about your day. I turn the TV on and switch to CBS, shedding a different type of blue light on my face.
“Here’s Cline again, does he got another one in him?” a deep, dramatic voice asks rhetorically. The crowd’s cheers grow louder as a player snatches the ball, and it looks like I joined in right in the middle of things. With an admittedly smooth form, the Purdue team member scores a three-pointer, which I was absolutely not ready for, having just switched the TV on a moment ago. “Oh, you know he does, hahaa! Ryan Cline, 24 points! It’s a new career high for him!” the commentator shouts enthusiastically as the camera zooms in on the player, with people in the crowd losing their minds.
“Oh, c’mon,” I mutter to myself, leaning forward, already glued to the screen. There’s only thirteen minutes left, and the scores are almost even. I’m not that invested in either one of these teams, but Purdue hasn’t won a single Sweet Sixteen since, what, 2009? I may or may not also subconsciously associate their name with the supervillain OxyContin empire, Purdue Pharma, and I’ve been waiting for RICO to take those suckers down for years. (Still waiting.) If that wasn’t enough, Tennesse’s a fan favorite, flaunting two real MVP’s, Williams and Schofield. The latter doesn’t disappoint, it only takes a few seconds for him to snatch the ball after Purdue’s score. He gets another three-pointer in before you know it, and the spectators in yellow rise to their feet as one, cheering. It sounds like the black studio host is a fan as well, exclaiming in a hearty southern accent, “Schofield! Yes, sir! Shot-makin’ masterclass in Louisville!”
“Yess,” I whisper under my breath with a low-key shake of the fist.
By the time Mac’s done, she can still find me on the couch. I only look up for a moment to acknowledge her presence (and probably the fact that she’s turned the lights on) before I redirect most of my attention to the game. “C’mon, shit’s goin’ down over here, girl, and you’re missin’ out! Looks like a tie, though, so you’ll get an extra five minutes of OT,” I deliver the recap she’s obviously been expecting. When she collapses on the couch next to me, I throw one arm around her, and rest my other palm on her thigh.
“And I smell like you,” I reply, given the fact that my gross ass still hasn’t taken a shower. It’s March Madness, though, so I have an excuse.
Mac, on the other hand, has no excuse for not having played, or even watched a single game of basketball for like, four years. It sounds a little off, since we used to be all about the slam back in the day, thanks to Reese’s obsession. “For real? Watchu been doin’ all this time? You used to be a cheerleader.” She suggests we do some catchin’ up, and I oblige, for old times’ sake, and for the ego boost it gives me to easily ice most people with my six feet and two inches. Never could out-score Reese, though. “Yeah, we can sort out the closet. There’s gotta be a ball somewhere, although I haven’t touched it since… Well, you seen that court with the kids a few blocks down? We used to play there with my brother until…” I pause, trynna decide which version of the story to sell. The one where I abandoned my brother, or the one where he abandoned me? “Until it got too dangerous, gangs and all.”
I go silent for a moment, but I soon let out a silent chuckle at the memory of what it was like playing basketball with Leo. He absolutely despised losing, and when he got old enough to tell if I was letting him win, he started fuckin’ cheating. He’d always take more than two steps without dribbling the ball, and he’d deny it when you accused him of traveling. “Remember what a traveler he was? Yeah, he never grew outta that.”
I let her explain the basketball incident, despite having already figured it out back in the bedroom. “You mean Jenna?” I ask, laughing at the fact she just listed all the most Caucasian names she could conjure up in her memory. I figure Jenna’s whiteness must have served as the icing on the cake for her when it came to my betrayal. “Yeah, I know. Not that hard to figure you out, y’know. Your face always gives you away.” Anyone could tell by the way I look at her that this is just another thing I love about her, don’t matter if it’s practically an imperfection. I adore everything about her, including the fact that she got so jealous she decided to hit me in the face with a basketball. “And every time you step outta line, it’s death by tickling. How’s that sound?” I slowly reach with one hand towards the bottom hem of her shirt, but I let her stop me.
To her mention of Reese, I set the nape of my neck on the couch with a sigh. I know I should feel bad about our thing with Mac, but I really don’t, and I don’t know if that makes me a shitty friend or what. Knowing Reese and how we’re not high schoolers anymore, I doubt he’d get mad, in fact, I think he’d be happy for us. I’m not confident enough in this estimate to actually come out to him, though, and that does make me feel a little shitty. It’s bad enough already that we don’t even talk anymore, seeing as the Mackenzie kids and the Ramos boys used to be inseparable. We practically grew up together, and in many ways, he used to be somethin’ of a brother to me, while Leo was always more like a son I had to raise. In a way, I guess I let ‘em both down back in ‘11. “Let’s just, uh… Wait? You know, ‘til things settle down. I’ma handle shit, and then, we’ll tell him. In due time, yeah, sounds good,” I string the words together as I think about ‘em. All in all, I deem this a successful session of problem-solving, ‘cause postponing stuff is a legitimate and effective way to proceed in any matter. “Yeah, don’t worry ‘bout the twins, that’s a cakewalk compared to Reese. And your sister.” My eyes widen in a minute expression of what I hereby title the “we’re fucked” face. “I wouldn’t wanna be you when she finds out. But don’t start without me, I wanna be there to see her face.” I give Mac a dirty look from the corner of my eye. I haven’t talked to Deirdre Mackenzie for almost a decade, but the… familial love I have for her has not faltered one bit over the years.
She goes on to straight-up ask me – guess what – if she can take me on vacation. When I first hear what she just said, I lean forward a bit so I can take a better look at her face, eyebrows knit in slight confusion. “You shittin’ me? Fuck yeah!” I nod at her with a frown and a grin. “Wait, hold on, lemme get this straight… So, you’re sayin’, you wanna ditch your brother and take your boyfriend instead to see your grandparents – your boyfriend that your brother doesn’t even know about, and he’s the one payin’ the trip.” I’m full-on beaming by the end of that sentence, ‘cause I’m always proud of her for all the wrong reasons. Giving a light laugh, I lean back in the couch and put one arm around her again. “Damn, girl, ice cold.” I probably made her feel guilty as fuck by putting it that way, but in reality, I completely understand: it’s all kind of a difficult situation. I press my fingers into her thigh in an attempt at a comforting gesture, then reach towards her face to turn her head in my direction. “Hey, that sounds awesome. Thank you. Don’t worry ‘bout the others, we’ll make it up to ‘em somehow. But only after we’ve had our time by the beach.” I smile before leaning over to kiss her. I did say I thought Reese would be happy for us, but not about this secretive approach we decided to take. To tell you the truth, I’m pretty sure his head would explode if he heard that last bit, rightly so. This ambivalent feeling of love and guilt is exactly why we put this off for so long, but I don’t feel as conflicted as I thought I would. Now that we’ve done it, I can tell it was the right thing to do, and I did mean the part where I said I was gonna make it right to everyone, especially Reese.
Mac will probably be having a hard time trynna keep my hands off her over the weeks to come, but this time, she’s saved by the whistle coming from the basketball game I almost forgot about. It says a lot about a girl when she manages to take your mind off of an NCAA program, but she took my mind off everything so hard that there’s only a few minutes left, and by the time we tune back in, the referee has called Tennessee for a foul. They’re replaying it in slow motion so it’s plain to see to everyone – a Tennessee defender bounces right off a Purdue attacker mid-air, but I decide to ignore the photographic evidence, gesturing towards the screen in dissatisfaction.
“What?” I ask with an incredulous articulation. “Three free throws? C’mon, he barely brushed him!” I look back at Mac, expecting her to express a similar degree of annoyance. She probably doesn’t, though, so I sit back with a sigh. “Man… Reese woulda showed these amateurs how it’s done. Mawfucker could float. Y’know, maybe we could return the favor by lettin’ him crash here sometime. I mean, after the gangs are flushed outta here and he’s reached the stage of acceptance, all that. ‘Be awesome to see him again. We could play some ball, see if he’s still got it in him.” My tone gives it away that I feel like reuniting with Reese is a question of a distant future when we’ve got heaps of fuckin’ obstacles standing between us. It’s interesting how I always seem to have heaps of fuckin’ obstacles standing in my way, no matter which direction I’m trynna go.
One of those obstacles, of course, is the brother who makes me feel like I’m locked in place for good. He’s like a three-ton boulder that can’t be moved, no matter how hard I try, he is relentless. It only comes as an afterthought, a second wave of anxiety, but I suddenly start worrying about Mac’s trip, about being an entire flight away from Leo. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to him and I, again, wasn’t there to help him out. I know he wants nothing to do with me, but I won’t take no for an answer, not from my own brother. Even if he chokes me to death with his bare hands, I will still come back to haunt him and monitor his tweets ‘til the day he dies – which can’t be too long, considering his low street cred. I’ve been waiting non-stop for his call for the past four years, and I thought I was ready for anything, but you can’t really be ready for something like this. A call from a number you’ve never seen in your life, a call that will probably make you change your ringtone so it doesn’t remind you of this moment whenever someone hits you up.
The Huawei on the coffee table buzzes on silent mode, and I can see from this distance that it’s an unknown number. I figure it must be one of those stupid robocalls – what stranger would be looking for me on a Friday evening? –, but it’s been at it for a minute now. My lips part with a reluctant smack as I free my arms from behind Mac’s back, even though it’s the last thing I feel like doing. Leaning forward and fetching my cell, I unlock the screen and call out in an indifferent tone, “Yeah?”
“Hello,” a robotic voice replies. I’d probably hang up if I didn’t catch what she’s about to say next. “This is a pre-paid collect call from: Leonardo Diego Ramos…”
It dawns on me instantly: of course I recognize the message I’ve been dreading for years. “No,” I whisper, my face falling. I look up at Mac with wide eyes and without even thinking twice about it, I blurt out, “It’s Leo.”
“…from the Bronx Criminal Court. This call is subject to recording and monitoring. To accept charges, press: one…” The automated voice states, and I comply before she can continue. I don’t think I’ve ever pressed one faster in my life, really. “Thank you for using our services. You may start the conversation now.”
“Hello? Leo, you okay?” I ask in a haste, leaning forward.
At the other end of the line, a tired, scratchy voice speaks up. “Yo, I’m… Uh…”
“What the fuck, man?” I burst out before he can find his words. “What’d you now? Fuck… This is it. This is it, you’re at three strikes, Leo, you’re done for!”
“¡Cállate un rato! I’m trynna explain, yeah? Cut me some slack, my ass been here for 4 hours already. So just listen to me, I’ma explain how it went down if you just shut up for one second. So, here’s the thing… I was at a 7-Eleven, right?”
“I don’t care, what are the fuckin’ charges? Will you spit it out already?”
“I don’t know, they didn’t say! Hey, I’m trynna explain here, just lemme finish! So, I’m at a 7-Eleven, mindin’ my own business, just dropped in for a fuckin’ bagel, aight? I get my stupid bagel, I step out the door – boom. Cops are pullin’ over like I’m bin Laden or some shit. Had some Oxy on me, but man, I wasn’t gonna sell ‘em or anythin’.”
“Right. You were gonna pop ‘em yourself. 7-Eleven my ass,” I say, the couch making a crunching sound as I rise to my feet so I can walk around, and so Mac can’t hear every word that leaves Leo’s mouth. I sigh, the initial panic fading into a sort of crippling fatigue. One of my recurring nightmares just came true, and yet, I’m not all that surprised. I’ve been living in denial, but really, it was only a matter of time. “Why you in the pin, little brother? Tell me. What’d you do?”
“I’m sayin’ I didn’t do nothin’, man! I think I got greenlighted. ’S the only explanation.”
“Okay,” I suspend my disbelief regarding the first part, “but for what? And by whom?”
“Man, fuck if I know…”
“Then think.” I nod, stopping in my tracks.
“I don’t know… I got jumped at E-167 a few days back, but it was pitch dark, I couldn’t see ‘em.”
“Bullshit. You were trippin’ balls, that’s why. You’re still baked, I can tell. You wouldn’t even talk to me sober.”
“Whatever, yea, I mighta sipped some tea, I mean, shit. Who doesn’t?” He chuckles, ‘cause again: he’s high as a kite, and I can’t even tell if he meant weed or lean just now. He’ll come down soon either way, and it’ll dawn on him that this ain’t juvie anymore. He’s a minor, but he’ll be tried as an adult, an adult with several priors on his rap sheet.
“Just think! Who could be out for your ass? Trini?”
“It was like, Gados types, Adidas and shit, I don’t know. Could be Trini, yeah, we got beef. I don’t know… Fhhuck, that was some lean.”
“Nah, E-167, that’s Gados turf, you should know that, Escobar. Some Gado’s got his sights on your ass. But why’d you call me instead of one o’ your homies, then?”
“I mean, you a cop, isn’t this whatchu do? Get a word in here and there?”
“Nah. I arrest pendejos like you, that’s what I fuckin’ do.”
“Oh, don’t act like yo’ shit don’t stink, Po-Po. You some corrupt-ass putos. Same as us, ‘cept with a badge.”
“I see. So you got no bail, do you?”
“Fuck you, I got bank, I don’t need nobody. I just…”
“Don’t bullshit me, I know you called ‘cause your little homies won’t bail you out. You don’t even have ‘compas’ in there, do you? No one to bust you out.”
“Fuck you!” He bursts out so loud I’m actually taken aback, and I think Mac probably heard it, too. I might just be imagining this, but I think his voice is trembling, like he’s on the verge of bawling. I wish I was there for him, not just right now in central booking, but, y’know, in general. I also wish I had just given Mac the phone and let her talk to Leo instead of me, ‘cause the two of us ain’t going anywhere, as usual. “Why you be out here actin’ all surprised, anyway? Deje de ser un pendejo, puta madre. You in this shit just as much as I am, the way I see it. I know the call’s recorded, but fuck’s sake, this ain’t Watergate.”
I pause, knitting my eyebrows in confusion.
“What’d you say?”
“Vete para ‘l carajo, is what I said. Want me to translate, you pocho?”
The automated voice interrupts by warning us, “You have three minutes remaining.” We really need to pick up the pace.
“Whatchu mean I’m in this? Leo, I know you’re high, but you gotta try and focus. I need you to explain to me what you mean. Fast.”
“Aight,” he sighs, “listen. Remember the gang types I told you ‘bout? They talked some shit, fucked-up shit. About you. They said I could only say this and no more over the phone, so I’ma say it. It’s an address. You listenin’?”
“I’m listening,” I blink at the walls, frowning. “Wait. Mac, can you, like, take this down?”
“Whoh-hoa,” Leo chuckles. His voice now has a sort of unsettling conceit to it. “Am I really that high or did you just say what I think you said?”
“We got no time for this, Leo.”
He laughs again, and I grow even more frustrated as he continues wasting time. “So you still hit it afterall, huh? Hey, Mac!”
“She can’t hear you,” I lie. “Just spit it out, the address.”
“Right, the address… Fuck, what was it? Uh… East… Thirty…”
“Yeah?”
“Wooh, I got it! 33 East, 68th Street. Manhattan. I know ‘cause they beat my ass ‘til I could say it after ‘em.”
“'Mano, I’m…” I frown, pity taking over my voice. “I’m sorry, I…”
“It fuckin’ hurt,” he replies in a nonchalant tone, and I’m so overcome by guilt I don’t even know what to say.
Instead, I sigh and finally make up my mind: I’m going to get him outta there, even though I doubt it’ll help him in the long run. I can’t just give up on him at let ‘em deliver his ass to Rikers when he’s got a hit out on him. I could start wondering now what that address could mean, but our call is soon gonna be over, so I need to map out the plan before he’s left alone again in the holding cell, too high to even remember he hates me.
“Okay,” I affirm after a short pause, and with that, I already have a few to-dos in mind. Leo was right: a cop’s the best contact to call when you need to outsmart the law, ‘specially if your amateur little group of street rats has no designated attorney. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. First, you delete those fucking tweets, all of ‘em. You do that for now, and then you wait for me. We’ll get you our own attorney, someone with melanin, but until then, you keep your mouth shut. Anyone talks to you, you invoke the Fifth. Understand?”
“You got it, bro,” he replies, audibly satisfied. I hate to admit it, but there are traces of mistrust surfacing at the back of my mind. I push ‘em away, though, and keep talking.
“Chino, I want you to take this seriously. Once you step foot in there, you’ll be all kinds a’ fucked in the ass, and I won’t be there to bust you out, so you better get to work. I’ll be on my way soon, be there in half an hour. I’ll get you outta there. Got it?”
“Sure thing, you got it, I swear. I’ma behave.”
“You have sixty minutes remaining,” the automated assistant affirms. She’s got a calculated politeness in her voice that makes me feel uneasy.
“Hey, Tay?” My brother speaks up one last time, as if prompted by the warning.
“Yeah? What is it, Chino?”
“You see that?”
“See what?” I ask with considerable resignation in my voice, ‘cause it just breaks my heart to hear how utterly high he is.
He gives a sudden laugh. “’S like I said. You’re no better than me.” I wrinkle my brows, trynna work out what he means once again. I can hear a kind of gratification in his voice that makes me feel like there’s something wrong with him. Like he’s not really my brother, not the one I know. It makes me even more worried for him, but most of all, I feel sorry, for everything that happened between us. Breaking the silence, he continues, “Looks like we are brothers, after all. Me and my hermano, we a team again! ‘S like a dream come true!” He laughs louder this time, and I listen, eyes downcast. “Say hi to Mac for me, Tay, will you?”
I know he doesn’t mean any of that, but I let him get it out on me, whatever he’s got inside of him. In the end, I finally bring myself to say goodbye in a low voice, “Alright. Take care, little brother. I’m comin’ for you.”
I still hesitate some before finally hanging up, but I don’t even pause for a moment after that. I’m already gathering my stuff from all over the room, keys dangling in my hands when I finally look back at Mac. “I gotta go,” I blurt out, hurried. “He can’t go to prison. There’s guys in there who got nothin’ to lose, who are never gettin’ out.”
I’ve already got my shirt in my hands when I finally pause, turning towards her, and it suddenly dawns on me that I can’t leave her alone here of all places, and I definitely can’t let her find her way home alone. It’s already too dark and late in the evening for a girl to be walking home alone in the Bronx. I let out a frustrated sigh and a couple of gestures that show how all over the place I really am. “Fuck. Okay, c’mon, get your stuff. I’ll explain in the car.”

He did smell like me, the faint flowery scent of my perfume mixing with the musk of his skin, and for some reason, it makes me wish he’d have joined me in the shower despite my stories. I’m feeling like a bloodhound sometimes, when someone walks past me, they smell nice and I immediately turn after them and start sniffing the air. It happens even more with guys; I mean, some are just plain gross, all dirt and sweat and other bodily odors but some of them smell real nice without scented deodorants or aftershaves. Tay’s scent is one I’d recognize from a million, it’s just so familiar and pleasant, he basically smells like home. It’s all supposed to be Chemistry, I know, but despite having had quite a run in the field at the university, I refuse to accept that the only reason his proximity sends a buzz through my veins is that our MHC genes click. We don’t need our immune system to tell us we could make awesome babies. Look at us; we’re hot.
Still, you can’t fight science, those motherfuckers are usually right, and I so need the TV to deflect my thoughts. Having sex on this couch would be more laughing than anything; it makes funny noises in itself, and we have a food-order to attend to. Seemingly, it can’t arrive soon enough, my stomach is grumbling already.
“Yeah, well, have you ever tried playing basketball in mid-thigh skirts?” I shoot him a glance, pressing my face to his shoulder. Actually, that’d be a sight to behold, and I can’t help but giggle at that. I mean, he has nice calves. If a bit hairy.
Reese isn’t the only reason why I refused to play though. It was all so associated with us growing up and I wanted to leave most of that in the past, so I just kept postponing it until I was ready to face the ugly truth of reality but by then, there was simply nobody around. I mean, who was I supposed to do sports with? Watt? Ansel? No offense, gays are great at many things, but playing sports isn’t one of them. Ines would’ve been a fit, probably, except she has no time and her determination sometimes scares me.
Luckily, I have Tay now, in every possible sense of the word, and I dare say he won’t go easy on me just because we’re a thing now. No, his need to beat everyone at competitive games surpluses everything. Besides, he may have about six inches and sixty pounds on me, but I’ve grown up around them, it was always the guys playing, him, Reese, sometimes even Reese’s half brother from his father’s side, all bigger and taller than me so I had to be resourceful. Which meant cheating, of course. Not the sort that’s straight ahead forbidden but, you know. Stuff you’d frown at, talkin’ bout fair play.
Somehow Leo doing the same still puts a proud smile on my face even if it’s all past tense. Tay doesn’t talk much about the present Leo, and I don’t hassle him about it even though I’m curious. Bad shit happens sometimes, and even though it’s nothing you’ve done, you can still feel guilty as hell about it and Dante gets this look every time his little brother is mentioned. I can’t blame him; Leo is the last family member he has, not counting their oblivious grandfather.
“Yeah, sure, Jenna, whatever,” I sigh with a swat of my hand. “She’s got fat by the way. And her eyebrows fell out.” Naturally, this is born out of pity jealousy and I usually wouldn’t even care about past things like this so much but at the time, they seemed, you know. Like they could be serious. Like, the fifteen year old me was convinced they had this sort of Jack and Rose kinda situation, and I thought they were gonna get together and remain happy forever, the kind of fairytale you imagine when you’re living in the lowborn suburbs of freakin’ Portland, Maine. She was prettier than me; she was whiter than me, and in a town where 9 out of 10 people were white and where I’ve always been too black to be white but too white to be black, accepting that skin color difference was hard. New York is different, I am different now, but seems like that whole thing left a small but still existent scar on my baby soul.
That’s probably why I suddenly trash talk her like a ten year old Mean Girl. I feel guilty about it almost immediately though, and Tay’s reassuring words make me sigh again. “She has a tattooed eyebrow. It actually looks neat. And she’s only fat because she has hypothyrosis, I can’t make fun of her for a disease... She got that after birth; twin boys. They’re really pretty,” I confess, more so I can relieve my guilt than out of consideration for Tay’s probable lack of information about people from his past. There are lots of things he doesn’t know about, nothing out of usual, but still.
A fleeting rush of angst hits me; I haven’t told him about his mother, either. I mean, I’m positive he knows, her fate was inevitable, but it’s different to know something at the bottom of your heart and to get clear evidence. I’m not avoiding the subject because I’m afraid he’d get any emotional rush out of it; it’s always been a difficult relationship, him and his mom. There simply wasn’t an appropriate moment.
Same thing applies to Reese’s situation. We talk a few times a week over videochat, half an hour or something. I usually call him when I’m drinking my coffee or making dinner. The frequency also means that there are no big reveals, just telling each other everyday stuff, almost as if we still lived together, only now our kitchens are hundreds of miles away from each other. “Maybe you should start talking with him,” I suggest with a shrug, curling a lock of his hair around my indexfinger. He should also get a haircut, it’s starting to get too long, but I’mma leave him be and not start nagging straight away. Yet. “He’s been asking about you. Y’know… Lowkey, but still. He follows my Instagram.”
And Tay knows my habit of posting lots of everyday stuff there, including pics of people I spend the day with, and, obviously, he’s taking up a huge percentage by himself. Sure, I’m careful enough not to post pictures which would imply he’s living with me, yet it’s plain to see we spend a lot of time together. I do it partly to keep Trent away; from another part, I’m simply proud and happy to be with him.
Reese would be cool. Probably. All right, not at first maybe, but he’s literally the last person on this Earth to kill someone’s buzz, no matter what. He may have a problem with how we didn’t tell him Tay’s situation right away, our play-pretend, rooming together and now this, but he’ll come around for sure.
Dougie and Tito are another story tough. The latter is almost a younger replica of Reese, very chill and understanding but Dougie, well… Tay hasn’t met him in quite a while. Outside of Dee, he’s the only family member I don’t really talk to, I mean, not on a weekly basis, but maybe once a month or so. We’re not mad at each other or anything, he’s simply grown now, you know, however un-fucking-believable it sounds to me. He’s his own person now, doing his… things.
“Can’t believe they’re graduating this year… June 16th. I’ll only spend the night there, then I’m back.” I shoot Dante a questioning glance from the corner of my eye. “I’m sure mom would be thrilled to have you there, too. It’s gonna be a madhouse, she has relatives coming from all around the world, it’d seem, even my dad’s cousin and his family from Scotland. Her last babies, you know.”
My offer is genuine; the twins used to look up at him almost as much as they did to Reese, and it’d be nice to have him there, personally. Everybody else seems to just love mom’s partner whom I refuse to call her boyfriend, since he’s like 55 or something. I mean, sure, he’s a nice guy, mom deserves happiness and he’s treating her like she should be treated, and even though they’ve been together for three years now and he’s been living there for over a year, I just can’t get past it. It’s weird. He’s perfect for mom, and yet when he accidentally sat where dad’s place was at the table, I almost threw a proper tantrum.
I feel like it’d be easier if I had Tay there, someone who probably also won’t get on with him. Seems mean, but there it is. But I’m not gonna force him to come back to Portland with me if he doesn’t want to, not even for a single day. I’m starting to feel like I’m strangling him with propositions and plans already, even though we’ve only been together-together, for, like, an hour.
It’s desperate, really, and I know he likes his alone time, yet I can’t help but want him around 0-24, 24/7, for all the 365 days of the year. It’s been like that before, too; I love working, helping people, I even adore chatting with old people who smell and have dementia so I have to repeat myself again and again, but every day’s just been undeniably better  when he sometimes appears in the waiting room of the ER. Even the OD’d or broken-faced patient-slash-offender couldn’t ruin the picture.
So when he suddenly leans forward I’m about to force-accept his obvious negative answer; it’d be fine, really. Only it doesn’t come and I have to bit in my lower lip not to grin like an idiot. Spending ten days in Dominica with him sounds like a dream come true. Almost as good as the Caribbean. His heartened answer is a relief.
For about two seconds.
“I mean… I’m not ditching him, per say, as much choosing you over him…” A crease sits between my brows as I get a sudden pang of guilt. Or am I ditching him? I mean, he wasn’t that hyped about the trip, I think he has a girlfriend at home, so I thought it’d be easy to just, like, bribe him... When Tay basically laughs at me, I swat his chest. “It’s not! … Is it? Don’t make me second guess myself!” My expression goes from confused to surprised to anxious in seconds. Finally, I lean back on the sofa with a miserable sigh.
I guess I am really ditching Dougie. On the other hand, Tay called himself my boyfriend and that sent something overwhelming to burst in my chest. Dougie can use some ditching, I decide. And we can use some casual making out by the beach. I’d gladly say beach sex but sand tends to do funky things to genitals, and that’s one of the things I learned the hard way, not from a textbook. Making out is fine though; more than fine. I mean, I’ve been in this relationship for far longer than today, and we have years of making out to make up for.
My hand that’s been playing with his hair slides to his face, thumb ghosting over a barely seeable, small scar on his cheekbone. Luckily, I’ve never seen him so badly beaten since our first meeting, but he did get a gashed lip or eyebrow sometimes. I asked him once about it and he said it was work; I partly believed that, partly didn’t. People can be crazy, for instance, I got slapped in the ER by a patient’s very upset family member so hard it bruised three weeks ago, but, well… We’re talking about Tay. And you don’t get swelled knuckles from other people hitting you.
Maybe I’d have tried asking about it again if it wasn’t for the whistle and his passionate but kinda adorable sally against the referee. I sit up again from the slouched position I’ve sink into with a laugh. “Since when are you a Tennessee-fan…?” I’ve spent countless hours just watching games with them, but I mostly did is so I could just be around them, not for the sake of the game. What I never could understand how they could watch games which didn’t even feature their respective favorite teams. Sometimes I’d ask Reese who was he rooting for and he said without the slightest of interest: no one. My mind just couldn’t comprehend that answer.
Talking about Reese and his basketball mania floods me with this wrong chilliness. I should tell him, I really should. And I will. In due time, just like we will tell Reese. “You mean if he doesn’t decide to kill either of us?” I ask jokingly. “Yeah, he’d be down for that. The kids loved the zoos. Maybe we could offer to babysit them so him and Marie can get some alone-time. Meaning sleep. Not making another one. I mean, I love kids, but having three small ones at the same time sounds crazy tiring!”
Someone should probably tell them how to use contraceptives. Someone who hasn’t made the same mistake once and whose word has actual weight.
Not caring that much about the game, my gaze wanders over Tay and notice he has that look again, with that slight frown and pout. Sure as hell not about the game; guess he’s lost in his thoughts again and I don’t wanna distract him by talking so I just snuggle closer and place my head on his shoulder again, hand sliding over his arm thrown over my frame. Damn, I’m about to fall asleep again!
The sudden buzz of his phone on the table almost makes me jump. I glance at it though I try really hard not to be nosy but I can see the caller ID is unidentified. Guess Dante’s not expecting a call, either, since he’s not moving to get it. “Someone really wants you,” I murmur, stroking his arm languidly. “Maybe it’s the food?”
My stomach rumbles again, as if cheering. I, for one, want that Chinese almost as bad as I want Tay, so I let go of him. My attention strolls back to the game so when Dante suddenly bursts out next to me, I almost jump. “What…?” Leo, what does he mean it’s Leo? Why is it so surprising? They’re brothers. On the other hand, on this same note, it makes sense; guess he’d have Leo’s cellnumber, right?
I take it back, it makes no sense at all.
Reaching toward the remote, I mute the game just in time to block out the loud cheering and celebrating of the viewers. Someone sacked at the last moment, but I really don’t care which team. Dante looks mad angry. I don’t think I’ve ever really seen him proper angry, not even today with Jorge, he was simply grumpy and a bit piped, perhaps. It’s more than pure anger though, sounds like fright, I guess.
My eyes are fixed on Tay. I’ve heard him talk harsh with others, but not to Leo; somehow this makes me even more worried. I don’t know if it’s heightened senses or if Tay’s phone is a bit loud but I can hear Leo perfectly; I know how I last met him when he was just a little boy and things happened since, including him going through puberty, but even taking that into consideration, it’s impossible to believe that’s Leo at the other end of line. He was such a cute little kid is what keeps going over and over in my mind.
I’m so pegged on his voice that all the other information has to wait to seep in through the cracks. 7-Eleven. Busted. Oxy. Somehow I feel like Dante doesn’t want me here right now, and even though it feels like I’m trespassing some lines, I keep my eyes on him. Guess it’d be weird to pretend like I was impressed by his coffee table.
As his expression changes to something more flat, I can hear my levels of panic raising. Leo’s been arrested. Like, arrested and charged. And Dante and him are wasting their time arguing over stupid shit in Spanglish. What the actual fuck.
“Yeah… Sure?” I wanted it to sound firm and confident because it’d seem like he needs support right now but it came out as more of a question. I try looking for my phone before realizing I left it in my bag which is still in the car. Then I decide I can just note whatever address; but it never comes to that. It’s so useless just sitting there so I get up and walking past him, march into the kitchen. That’s where I left my coat, but I can hear him give his commands anyway.
By the time they are at the end of the conversation, I’m there, leaning against the doorframe with the coat in hand. I’ve also retrieved his dark blue uniform one from the bedroom. If I thought seeing him angry was weird and new, then his current state takes weirdness to levels I can’t explain. But I get it. Even I would be panicking if my nurse-instincts wouldn’t have kicked in and forced a calm upon me. Someone has to stay at least mildly collected and non-emotionally driven.
“Yeah, I know,” I nod firmly, watching as he goes around in a frenzy. If we were in a different situation, the way he looks up at me and has ‘what the fuck do I do with you’ written all over his face, I’d laugh. He looks like the woman from that meme gif, with equations going all over her face. “My stuff is in the car.” I raise an eyebrow at him and hold out my hand with his jacket in it. I don’t know if he was looking for it or not but he gets it, anyway. Not much I can do, anyway. “You didn’t think that this is where our team-ness ends, right…?”
Meaning even if we were home at my home, in Queens, I’d still go with him. No way I’m letting Dante do this alone, or anything of such nature from now on. He literally can’t run from me anymore.
***
“So… This Renegados guy, this… Purple is the same one who got you kicked out of your apartment and beat the shit out of you, right?” I’m still squinting as I try to collect the sudden dump of information. These names he’s been mentioning don’t all sound completely unfamiliar. Gang members are frequent visitors at the ER, usually not by their own choice but because they’re brought in unconscious, bleeding from multiple wounds or OD’d. Sometimes they talk; sometimes they’re so young that they couldn’t even cross the line of the ER if they were visitors. “And you think that this thing with Leo also has something to do with him and his gang?”
Blaming himself for everything, that’s typically Dante. It feels like he loves to have something to hate about himself. “It… could be the other way around, y’know.” I say more as an idea than a statement as I look out the window. It’s completely dark out now, yet the streets seem to be more packed than before. One of my nurse-mates said how darkness brings out the liveliest of Bronx but also the worst.
“How many times has he been busted, again?” I snatch my head back towards him. Doesn’t really matter what he answers, actually; one time is more than enough. I don’t know how different it is to him, siblings tend to watch time pass by differently, but my mind can’t forget the last picture I have of Leo in my mind; small, babyfat still sitting on his face, smiling with crooked milk teeth. “I mean… Sorry. It’s just so… The last time I saw him he was talking about how lobsters choose their partners for life!” I spluttered and bit my lip, tugging at the chapped, dry skin. I do that sometimes, started not long after they left; sometimes, when I had an especially stressed moment, I’d not leave it alone till it bled. These ticks are weird. “When he was, like, six, he told me he’d marry me when he was grown. That was cute. I mean, two minutes later, he told Dee the same thing, so I guess he didn’t have such high standards but still.”
A car honks at us long and loud as we, or more like Tay, doesn’t give a shit about road etiquette and almost runs into it, taking a wild turn. “Tay… If you get into an accident, you won’t get there sooner.” I wasn’t gonna call him out on it because I get his anxiousness, but it was a near-miss.
“Do you even know a good lawyer?” I’m not asking Tay to make him feel bad or to criticize him, rather, trying to help out. There’s not much I can do but I do have a wild range of people on the right side of the law that could maybe help. “Y’know, Ines’s uncle, he’s a detective at the IU and he kind of owes me one. He grew up around these parts, he’s dependable. I could ask him… We should ask him.”
I know that and I’m sure that he knows, too. Still, he’s gonna refuse. I know that, too, before he’d say anything.
And the part that we both know but dared not word is the fact that there’s no way we’re getting Leo out of there. He has more than three strikes at the judge as it is. He’s not 21 yet, has no job or clot-binding properties, surely has drugs in his system right now and has run from cops before. The judge’s gonna call flight risk for sure and set a bail money so high Tay’s whole year of salary won’t be enough, if he gives a bail option at all.
He got busted for drugs; for distributing drugs of all things, which drops him at top of the ‘most hated’ list of judges, high above killers and abusers thanks to the weird world we’re living. It’s always drugs at the top; drugs and illegal torrenting sites.
“Do you think we could get him food?” I turn toward the backseat. Next to my sportbag sits the semi-transparent plastic bag with a logo of a Chinese restaurant on it. The courier was literally just stepping into the building when Tay basically ran him down. I threw whatever money I had crumpled in my pocket; I think I highly overtipped the guy but I was kinda afraid Dante was gonna leave me there if I take too long. “Not because he deserves it but this stuff is kinda greasy. It might saturate the level of drug in his system a bit. That is, if they haven’t already done a pee test.”
Luckily, the Bronx Criminal Court wasn’t known about being proactive.
Thanks to his mad of a way of driving, we actually get there by the time he said he would. Like I’ve noted before: when Dante Ramos sets his mind to something, he usually gets it, the problem is, he rarely sets it on the right things. Like, now, I see the determination on his face, but it’s more about kicking the whole building down if he has to, rather than actually accomplishing anything. That’s why I basically jump out of the car before he parked it, so I can stand in his way before he rushes up the steps.
“All right, dude, stop right there!” I place one of my hands on his chest, the other held up to get his attention. “What’s your plan exactly? Get to know what are the charges, right? Fine. And after that? You wanna talk to Leo? All right. And what are you gonna do? Punch him in the face? Punch everybody else in the face?”
I’m sure as hell he wishes he’d never met me right now, but I can take that. No matter how intense his gaze gets, I keep looking him straight in the eye and talk to him collected and sympathetically like I did to that upset family member I’ve mentioned, hoping he’s not gonna slap me. “Look, you’re upset, you have every right to be, but the thing you can do to help Leo the most right now is to calm the fuck down, at least on the outside. You might be NYPD but this is another system and you’re not Leo’s legal guardian. You’re not entitled to information unless they’ve set out a bail which they might have not yet. So you have to be nice with them to get shit done, all right? Or at least decent. Can you do chill and decent?”

Well, fuck. It happened. It finally happened. But why am I even surprised? I always knew my brother was a tragedy waiting to happen, and frankly, it’s a miracle he’s lasted this long. You might be wondering how he dodged every bullet and bypassed every siren coming his way up until now, but actually, evading the law in the hood ain’t all that difficult. The real question is how you evade each other. It’s just like I’ve tried to explain to Leo countless times: they aren’t killin’ us, we are killin’ us. Many times, your drug deals, your trespassing, your robberies just get lost in the overwhelming storm of shit that is the South Bronx, and the cops don’t come for you, not until you pull a stunt three years down the line that gets you on the radar by coincidence. I mean, folks around here sure as hell won’t call 911 on you, not even when they see you muggin’ an old lady. They don’t want us around, nobody wants us around, ‘cause they don’t trust us. This is the hood; you can go up to someone in broad daylight wearing a hoodie, shoot ‘em, run away, and we’re all like, “Yeah, shit happens, fam.” All we get is some blurry-ass CCTV footage, and then we tweet it out and hope for the best, hope somebody knows your face or name. That’s it, that’s how you kill someone downtown, it’s as easy of a stroll as buying groceries. Nah, cops ain’t the ones running the hood, it’s gangs, and in gangland, anything can happen at any moment. It’s pure chaos. Street cred is nothing but theory, a Manhattan myth, ‘cause the street don’t give a shit who you are. You could be Kim Kardashian, or the president himself, or the second coming of Jesus, and any kid could go up to you and put a bullet in your head out of petty jealousy. The same way he will take your iPhone simply because he doesn’t have it, he can take your life, and all it takes is one bullet. If you think anyone cares about anything down here, think again. How my brother has not yet been the target of some rival gang – or his own crew, ‘cause that’s a thing that happens, by the way –, is beyond me.
As you can see, Leo’s arrest could‘ve easily been a coincidence, a statistically likely outcome, but it’s not. It’s my fault. My brother might be a compulsive liar, but all of this ain’t something he’d come up with, and I know I’m the last one on his list of people he’d call for help, a last resort for when all else fails. For once in my life, everything seems to click like a children’s puzzle, and it has to be about my fucking brother’s fucking arrest. It all just makes perfect sense: Sra Montes, Golden Dentures, this drug bust that came from nowhere (outside a 7-Eleven, of all places, I mean, fuck me). I guess I couldn’t have known they’d find him, but like I said, they ain’t as stupid as they seem. I’d like to think it might not have had anything to do with me at all, but whatever Leo meant by me being “in this shit just as much as he is”, this is no coincidence. I mean, if I had the time to succumb to the crippling guilt caused by my brother’s words, I would; but right now, I’m too busy trynna recall that breathing exercise from anger management. I guess I’ll have to check my calendar first and book an appointment with myself if I wanna find a convenient time to hate myself.
Could’ve been an anonymous tip, or maybe a not so anonymous one. I bet Leo’s always had a sort of network that covered for him when he got in trouble, but not this time. This time, something’s different; his support system won’t intervene, they don’t dare intervene. There’s something going on behind the scenes that only the insiders know about. Some people take gangs for nothing but a bunch of kids playing around, maybe a few low-IQ delinquents who are in over their heads, and they ain’t wrong. Still, these Dominicans have been taking on proportions that are starting to really fuck with our gang squad’s heads. What the NYPD’s slowly realizing is that just because these guys don’t flaunt mafia bosses portrayed by DeNiro, doesn’t mean their whole deal’s got no structure to it. It’s all a big vortex of chaos that swallows the neighborhood whole, but where there’s people (desperate ones at that), there’s predictability. The logic might not be clear and linear for the PD’s gang squads to figure out like 1st grade Math, but it exists. It’s not an equation, it’s an algorithm; and it works like clockwork, believe me. If the mafia was a huge dragon we’ve finally slain, then gangs are the same dragon, except the mawfucker’s got a thousand heads, and you’ll never cut all of ‘em off, not with the resources and manpower that we have. Not with the priorities that our government has.
To sum up, it all comes down to me in the end. It’s all my fault for fucking with ‘Gados and putting their sights on my brother, maybe even… Nah, they can’t know where I live now, I’ve left no traces, they can’t find us. Or can they?
“I’m an idiot,” I mutter to myself. “I shouldn’t’ve underestimated them. Fuck!” I look around, clearly frustrated and all over the place – after all, this is my worst nightmare coming true as we speak, and I look dangerously determined to stop it from happening. Especially since, y’know, it’s all my fucking fault. Mac comes to the rescue by handing me my jacket, and not only does she express wanting to come along, it looks like she wants to try and help me manage this. I pause only for a moment to acknowledge the blessing that she is, but we don’t have time for pats on the back, so I look her dead in the eye with a firm nod. “Let’s go.”
On my way out, though, I still rage-slap the fridge. “I’ll fuck ‘em up. They’re fucking dead,” I say, and even I’m not sure who I mean exactly. I guess I’ll just have to fuck everyone up, if that’s what it takes to get Leo out. It’s just like the old times, except we’re both grown adults now, but I could say the same thing about Mac, too. I guess life really is just a carousel where the wind keeps blowing the same old shit in your fucking face.

***

“Yeah, and I’m thinkin’ they got somethin’ cooked up. These sickos must think they hit the jackpot with the cop whose brother’s a gang member or some shit. They were never supposed to find Leo, though, I never thought… I mean, fuck me, when did these guys become Sherlock Holmes, y’feel?” I snort in a mixture of confusion and frustration.
“We’re not sure if that’s what his fuckin’ ‘street name’ is, it might just be a reference to whatever he sells.” I shake my head, lips pursed in dissatisfaction at how bad I am at presenting the tiny piece of intel the PD does have on these pieces of shit. “I haven’t met him personally, but I’ve seen him around Sra Montes’ daughter. He was her pimp, still is, probably. Other than that, I got nothin’ on him. The other ‘Gado told me he knew who I was, though, so guess what, mawfuckers are one step ahead of me,” I convey the irony in a wry tone. “My stupid ass thought they were just talkin’ shit. Boy, was I wrong.”
I lift one hand off the wheel, gesturing Italian style at a woman in her car who’s joining the intersection at a snail’s pace. At first I thought I could push past her, but then she squeezed herself in the queue anyway, and instead of proceeding, decided to stop and honk at me like we got time for that shit. “Move along, bitch! Yeah, you! You wanna fuckin’…” Instead of finishing the sentence, I end up smashing the wheel as well, honking back at her so long it sounds like my horn is broken. It’s a hood mom with dyed box braids, so I’m actually lucky she didn’t roll the window down and start holding us up by telling me off. Surprisingly, not everyone around here is afraid of the blue lights – some of ‘em simply just hate us.
“You know what? Fuck this.”
I switch one of the many buttons on the interface to “4”, which is what we use when responding to code-three calls, a.k.a. emergencies. It turns on every light and the wailing of the siren. I wanna get to my brother before they take him to the holding cell behind the courtroom, ‘cause once he’s there, we ain’t getting to him. It’s a red light, meaning people are struggling to pull to the side of the road, but like I said, I wanna get to Bronx central booking today. I start advancing, which becomes much easier once the lights turn green, and we pass like Moses through the Red Sea. Once the runway’s clear, I really floor the gas, speeding down the Avenue to the roaring sound of the engine.
“I don’t know, hell, I don’t even wanna know at this point,” I reply to Mac’s question about Leo’s past arrests, raising the volume of my voice. “We haven’t spoken in years, not on purpose. He hates me.” I keep my eyes on the road, clenching my jaw. I don’t wanna see Mac’s expression, and I don’t want her to see mine, so my eyebrows barely move closer as she brings up how Leo used to be. “Yeah, he ain’t like that no more,” I mutter. I could tell her all about him and the things that he does, but there’s no need. She’ll see for herself soon enough.
“Fuck off,” I tell a car we almost crash into while taking a turn off the avenue. Mac’s ever-collected tone never ceases to amaze me, especially in juxtaposition to my own temper. “Oh, I’ll show you accident,” I reply, referring to my surreal intentions of, I don’t know, maybe burning down the court and fishing Leo outta there on a helicopter, I don’t fucking know.
Mac suggests hooking me up with Garcia’s uncle of all people, like I’m gonna go public with my own brother’s arrest. Nah, I’d rather drag my balls through a mile of broken glass than let her goodie-two-shoes friends know I’m related to a reoffending felon. ‘Sides, I won’t have ‘em doing even more charity for me when I’m already crashing at their place like some fuckin’ hobo, even though nobody other than Mac wants me there.
With my eyes on the mirror, I struggle to answer Mac properly. I’ve never been good at focusing at several things simultaneously. “Noted. Pass me his business card, I’ll call him, maybe cry a little too, hope he gives a friendly discount, yeah?” I shake my head in negation. “Nah, no need for that. Con calma, jaina, I got this handled. Leo’s fine. He’ll be fine.” I first reassure her and then myself, ‘cause I need it more.  I don’t even know why I’m telling her to calm down when it’s perfectly clear that I’m the one here who needs to pop a Xan or two.
“Say what? You got the food?” I glance at the rearview mirror and realize Mac’s handled the delivery guy I stormed past earlier. It’s typical of her, being too nice to leave a fellow slave of capitalism hanging, even when the situation’s dire as shit. Sometimes, I wish I could reach the same degree of Postman Patness as our good friend Thyfault back home, someone who would’ve been a more appropriate fit for her according to her other gay best friend. I mean, Hewitt’s right, in a way. If I were Banderas, I probably would’ve handled this better, I probably would’ve kept my cool and smiled nicely as I handed the guy a tip of 25%, ‘cause guess what, my baby brother wouldn’t have been in the process of getting his ass shipped to Rikers in the first place. I would’ve been perfect just like my perfect hair, and Mac wouldn’t have had to handle the delivery herself, or, y’know, get in a salsa class argument, or be on her way to the Bronx Criminal Court in a speeding cop car.
“Nah, he’s too deep in shit right now,” I answer. “They already took his cell, and his bitch ass prolly sportin’ a onesie by now. No way they’ll let us hand him food.” I know I wouldn’t, if I’d been the cop who took him in. This far into the NYPD experience, I would’ve already shoved the arrestee into the wall at least twice and commanded him to get naked, as if I was so eager to smell the underwear I always need to pack in a paper bag, so that those smartasses higher than me in the semi-corporate ladder can have something to gawk at. When you think about it, the NYPD experience don’t sound as good when it’s happening to your own loved ones, now, does it? I could start being nicer, I guess, but then I wouldn’t be me. I’m an asshole, it’s what I’ve always done, and I ain’t stopping now. Most of ‘em deserve it, anyway, and the ones who don’t, well… Yeah.
Point being, Leo’s already been questioned, his pictures and prints taken, everything’s neat ‘n’ tidy for court, and they won’t contaminate that with Chinese takeout. What he feels, whether he’s hungry, tired, or on his fucking period, it doesn’t matter. He’s a felon in custody now, there’s probably a piece of dog turd somewhere, right as we speak, that is being treated in a more humane way than him. And that’s exactly why I’m coming for him. Because he’s my little brother, no matter what he does.

***

Getting out, I shove the car door in so hard the PD would sue me for damages if they’d seen me doing that. Going around the Ford proves a little more difficult than I thought it would, considering how all 5 feet and 5 inches of Mac are standing in my way like the Tijuana border fence. She places her hand on my chest as a signal to stop, and if it was anyone other than her standing in front of me, I probably would have trampled over them and proceeded to the entrance of the building, unphased. She’s probably the only one who could stop me in my tracks like this, but I still look down at her pointedly, my chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Obviously, the flaring of my nostrils isn’t directed at her, but her trynna hold me up doesn’t help my mood. She starts asking me questions I haven’t yet taken the time to think about, given the circumstances and my… disposition. Sometimes, I wish she didn’t know me so well.
“I’ll do it if that’s what it takes,” I answer vehemently, even though this isn’t exactly what she was getting at. Trynna get me to think critically with open questions can backfire sometimes, ‘cause I’ll come up with my own solutions, and once I’ve got my mind set on one thing, I’m gettin’ it done. Except when a five-foot-five brunette dandelion stands in my way.
“I’m calm, I cou—I’m fucking calm!” I nod a few times with an emphasis and some hurried stuttering that immediately prove me wrong. I can’t believe Mac’s wasting our time with pep talks right now. I snort and then force a tiny, unconvincing smile on my face while gesturing. “I’m– Okay. See? I’m calm, I’m fine. Never better. Can I pass now?”
She spends some additional time holding me up, so unfortunately, all I can do is listen. I open my mouth several times during her monologue to try and raise an argument, but I can’t, ‘cause she’s right, as always. I still won’t admit it, though.
“Oh, I’m the Olympic champion of chill and decent.” I raise my eyebrows with a prolonged nod, but my snarky tone is probably less than reassuring.

***

“You got my brother in here.” I state abruptly after two loud knocks on the windowpane, leaning on the wooden counter in front of me. There’s a middle-aged, slightly overweight officer sitting in the tiny glass office booth that’s opposite the entrance of Central Booking. He’s in the middle of scribbling something down by hand, glancing up at me from behind his reading glasses. He’s got the distinctive features of one of those dogs with sad, downturned eyes, a pouty mouth and huge, flappy ears. This is my old precinct and he used to sit here in that same exact spot every time I took someone in, so I know him personally: the good old Wilver Davis, and we just call him Willie instead of the standard “Davis”. He is the tragedy that happens when you place a sloth in a bureaucratic position. Only reason he’s here is that he’s been at the PD since Reagan, and he’s no longer fit for a field job, but refuses to retire. He still ain’t that old, but we’re all babies compared to him.
He reaches over to slide the window open so he can hear me better. “Cruz? Fuck you doin’ here?” he squints at me. I know he knows who I am, but it’s a running joke that he can’t tell latinos apart. He starts laughing, but I ain’t got the time.
“Ha-ha, right, yeah, funny… Now hey, just listen, listen, Willie. I’m in deep shit here, aight? I…”
He gives a deep, throaty laugh. “Nigga, when are you not?”
“Listen, just shut the fuck up,” I interject with as much chill and decent as I can manage at the moment. “My brother’s here. I know he’s here, ‘cause his name’s in the book,” I tap the book placed on the counter with the names and birth dates of everyone admitted, “and I really gotta see him. Now. Please.”
“You got a brotha’? Nigga, where he been?” His eyebrows rise in a doubtful expression, but I’m too focused on our goal to feel ashamed. Instead, I just feel frustrated by him talking our time away, so I simply give a deep nod, trynna keep my mouth shut for now. Fuck me, he talks with the speed of someone who’s in speech therapy after suffering a stroke. “No surprise you ain’t mention him yet. Birth date?”
“O-1.”
“ID says 2000, can’t help ya.” While I exchange one look with Mac, he reaches out and tries to shut the window closed, but I turn back and grab it by the edge, leaning closer. He blinks slowly, expression still bored and slightly discontent.
“Listen, man, it’s just one–“ I take on a more pleading tone, my index finger and thumb forming a semi-circle to emphasize what a tiny amount of time one year really is. “Just one year. Can’t you make an exception? Y’know, between us? C’mon, I need to see him, he’s… He’s just a kid.”
“’That right, Tay?” His eyes widen as he tucks his chin in, surprised. I used to like the guy, I really did, but right now, the way he says my name (“Tae”) makes me wanna play whack-a-mole with his face. The concerned furrowing of his eyebrows is no remedy to my itching palms, either. I don’t need his sympathy. “’Cuz I ain’t seen no kee’d when the boys bring him in. Came in all cracked out, put up a fight, tried to snatch Brown’s gun. Hell, if we ain’t upgraded to ‘em new holsters, he mighta shot up the place.”
I massage the bridge of my nose with a deep sigh. I just want him to shut up, really, ‘cause I don’t wanna hear all that, don’t care if it’s true. I complain about nightmares constantly, but right now, I just wanna wake up and find out this has been nothing but another bad dream.
“Why’d you guys arrest him, then? What’d he do?”
“Some drug type shit‘s what I heard. Gotta ask Brown and Peralta for details, they’re pro’lly upstairs talkin’ to the D.A. right now.”
“He’s being charged?”
“Aw hell, yeah!” he tucks his chin again, raising his voice. He looks genuinely shocked that I seem so oblivious to what my own brother’s been up to. “Goddamn, Ramos, sum’n ain’t right ‘bout that bo’y, and you ain’t even know? I mean, I’m sorry, but, shit. He got you for a guardian?”
I pause, staring straight at Willie, my lips reduced to a single, paper-thin line, the only thing that separates me from a full-on outburst right now.
“You got nerve,” I try to hold it in, but the indignation seeps out through my teeth in the barely audible tone of someone who’s only one step away from homicide. “Judging from behind this fucking window like you got any idea who we are. Why’n’t you come out, then, huh? You fucking…”
If I’m lucky, Mac pulls me away before finishing that sentence, but even as she does so, I point at Willie’s stoic face, threatening, “Better mind your own fuckin’ business, homie.” I’m putting on the same cholo dialect that Leo speaks in nowadays, ‘cause we both learned it together on the streets, and it kinda stuck, especially in situations where you’re trynna show who’s tough.
We retreat, probably for a strategic discussion or whatever, with everybody in the hall watching us. Most of ‘em are standing or sitting behind bars in dimly lit cells, one guy’s sleeping on a bench built into the wall, waiting for bureaucracy to do its magic. Leo’s not here, but there are two young guys who look just like him, and all I see are lost kids.
I keep on huffing and puffing as Mac probably tries to speak some sense into me, and I don’t admit it out loud, but I know I shouldn’t’ve done that. I’m trying my best to calm down again, but people aren’t making my job too easy.
“See? I was nice,” I whisper my defense, leaning closer to Mac while pointing at my own chest. Everyone else is completely silent in here, so whatever we say still echoes off the walls loud and clear until someone in the corner of the hall starts using an ancient vending machine. “And then he goes and starts talkin’ shit about Leo? About me, how I deal with him? That’s it. There’s a fuckin’ line. What the fuck does he know, anyway?” I glance back at Willie from the corner of my eye, and he doesn’t seem to be giving a shit, turning pages in his stupid little glasses. I mean, he does know me and my temper.
To our left, there’s also a man dressed up as a woman, handcuffed to a metal bar by the brick wall, waiting for someone to take his (her?) fingerprints. I can’t tell if he’s trynna be a woman or if he’s simply a cross-dresser with his red heels and Daisy Dukes, but he freaks me out, the way he’s eyeing us, especially me, with his flaking black makeup.
“Fuck you lookin’ at, weirdo?” I spread my arms, but he keeps looking. I think he enjoys ticking straight guys off.
“I need a fucking smoke,” I state, looking around nervously, even though I don’t intend to follow up on this plan. The only thing I ”need” right now is to see my goddamn brother, even if I gotta punch everyone in the face to get there, just like Mac said. I turn my head back to the booth, my gaze set on Willie. From my little nods and the way I bite my lips, you can tell I’m still mad at him. “I’ll talk to him again,” I declare, leaving the definition of “talk” open to interpretation. “We go way back, but if he don’t care, I don’t care.”

Calm my ass.
That’s the exact message I’m shooting at him with my eyes but I guess he can’t be bothered, and I guess that’s completely normal. If it were my brothers there, I would be freaking out. I mean, I wouldn’t have all this murderous rage thing going on, but from his point of view, that’s completely understandable. That being said, it’s also really, really inconvenient and ineffective.
“You’d be so kicked out of Sochi,” I sigh but step aside anyway. It’s not like I could physically hold him back, anyway; so I let him rush past me. I have to take a few more moments outside, doing a few breath-in, breath-out rounds as I look up at the building. Not gonna lie, it’s big and ugly as hell, and all in all, this whole scenario feels so freaking unreal. No, dump that, this whole night feels like it didn’t’ even happen and it’s still not happening. I mean, how did all these… I dunno, life-changing things just get cramped up in a few hours?
I eventually follow him up the stairs and into the building a few moments late. By the time I get past the guards at the entrance hall, I can see that Tay is already spreading all his calmness around. “Oh yeah, that’s totally gonna help, bang the window away,” I sigh, looking at the scene unfolding. The guy sitting at the desk clearly knows him, and I have no idea whether it’s for the best or worst.
I mean, he probably knows the death-stare Tay has on now, but he still doesn’t seem quite coorperating. Since the hallway has weirdly good acoustics, I (and every other convicts, lawyer, guardian and cop) can hear what they’re saying. And it’s not good.
So the thing is, as much as I used to watch a lot of Cops a lot, I still have no idea what they were talking about but I’d figure Tay is not winning here. But I still have some hope, I mean, Dante can be pretty assuring if he wants to. My mind is really blocked though, I’m a natural-born multitasker but right now, listening and processing what’s happening, trying to acknowledge that Leo is really a little bitch and a busted-arrested lil’ bitch at that, I have to find a new salsa class and also, where do I include officially dating my childhood bestfriend-slash-crush? Should’ve gone before the salsa class, I guess.  I’m also hungry.
…And Tay is gonna get arrested, too, pretty soon as it seems. “Hey, hey! All right, no need for violence,” I jump next to him before he could crush the glass cube into confetti. It’d be physically very unlikely but his intention is there. “Just… C’mon, all right? Talk to me for a sec?” I can’t really pull him away by force, so I’m happy he complies. Even though our current standing makes me everything but happy.
I try to get him off to an empty corner but with all the eyes on us and this damned acoustic it’s no use, really. “Look, Tay, babe, I do get that you’re upset about it… But you’re really not helping right now.” I have no clue who began what and who should be blamed; it’s kind of like kindergarten, only they’re not cute. Dante would make one angry kindergartener though.
“He knows what you want to know… So I would say yelling at him is not gonna serve a purpose here.” I’m making it worse, I know, but I mean, I can’t tell him that he’s wrong to be angry or scared or whatever wild mixture he has goin’ on right now. Leo is being charged, which is fucked up; he feels it’s his fault, even though that’s an exaggeration… objectively speaking. If I’m allowed to be biased, I stand by my earlier statement: Leo is his own person, and Dante could not have prevented whatever’s happening to him now.
Folding my arms, I eye up the ceiling, the yellowed waterleak stains on the gypsum and sigh as Tay gets into a yet another unnecessary, pety argument with a… person. “No, you don’t” I sigh without even listening. Smoking kills. I mean, it helps chemically, but then it kills. “No, you absolutely don’t need to do that!” I look at Dante with as much intensity as I can muster, stepping in front of him again. “What you’re gonna do… Is get coffee, okay?” I ask, stepping up to him, running my hands down his arms with an assuring squeeze. “You can get it from this shit-ass machine or you can walk across the street to that store, I don’ care, but you’re not talking to him, ‘cuz I’ll go talk to him. If you get back and you’re still angry, you can pour my coffee on someone’s head, okay?”
Okay or not okay, he has no choice, because I bump my fist against his chest, “Bitch.” And walk away.
By the time I reach that window, I’m still not sure what I’m gonna say. I mean, he didn’t want to help Tay, and I’m really not in the mood to play some dumb con like, dunno, I’m pregnant, because although that works in a surprising amount of cases where pregnancy has no part to play and relates to literally nothing… I still feel like we’d get a no.
“Can I help you?”
The guy’s question brings me out of my daze. “Oh… Yeah! Hi! Sure! I’m, ah…”
“You with them arsebadger?” He asks, nodding ahead but I’m just assuming he means Tay, and not the gang of transgenders.
“Yeah, I am!” I guess that was way too enthusiastic for the place and time. I clear my throat and lean on the wooden still. “Look, I’m really sorry, but you’ve gotta turn a blind eye on him, I mean… His brother’s about to go under prosecution, and…” I look around his station frantically until I find a picture. “You have kids, right? Well, his brother is kind of like a son to him. Wouldn’t you want to do anything to see your son?”
“My son would never get busted with a pill-o-pillow and then elbow and headbutt cops in the face, yeah?” Allright, I’m starting to get why Tay got angry. I mean, I’m not, but I get his point now. No matter how kinda nice and kinda dull this guy’s face is, he’s poking at the right places. “Look, kiddo, you seem nice, so I’mma give it to ya straight: there’s no way you can help him.” To be honest, I’m not sure if he means Leo or Tay. “He’s not underage anymore, but even if he were, he has enough black points on his list than a Mexican cartel.”
“All right, that’s a bit of a tall story…”
“He was found with a bag full of pills, he’s under all kinda shit now, eh, and he tried to take the gun off one of the guys. He screams crazy, all right? So even if I could, I wouldn’t help getting him out there again.”
“Look, we’re not… We’re not trying to get him set free, all right?” Well, not anymore, it seems. If it was only the drugs, maybe, but violence against officers… That’s another thing. “Dante just wants to talk to him, all right? Just… talk. Make his brother know he’s there, get an all-clear on everything…”
“And he’ll be able to. Once he’s been sent to Rikers.”
I kinda want to pour my coffee on him now; except one of us has to be calm and win that fuckin’  Sochi. “Is there absolutely no way that we could at least talk to someone who could let us talk to him?”
“Like I told Tay already, Peralta and Brown are handling this bucket of shit.”
“And you think they’re gonna let us talk to him?”
He snorts. “No way, kiddo! Didn’t you listen to him? That kid elbowed headbutted them! They hate his guts.”
And yet again I have no idea whether he’s talking about Tay or Leo.
I sigh and retreat to Tay like I just came from Vietnam. “All right, it was useless. I’m useless right now. But please, don’t throw coffee in his face!” I look up at him with pleading eyes. Damn, maybe I should’ve looked at the booth guy like that! Nah, too late. “And please, also tell me that those guys… whatstheirname… Brown and Peralta don’t hate you. Look, if we’re not going anywhere downstairs, maybe you should try talk to them like the big guy suggested. In the very least, you could get some details? Know what you’re standing against?”
Obviously, Tay’s not gonna be happy with just that, oh no. He has decided to talk to Leo, so he’s gonna talk to Leo even if that means he has to get himself arrested and I’d pretty much like to avoid that possibility. This part is where it gets really selfish but I simply don’t feel like losing him to stupidity when we’ve just got what we’ve been waiting for decades. I feel like the worst girlfriend now, in, like, ever (and that would include a world where Emma Roberts beats Evan Peters), but I just can’t see the rightfulness of getting in potentially serious trouble for nothing. If what he’s said about Leo, if what that guy said, is true, then…
No. Leo does not belong in prison. There’s just no way that a person can turn around like that, right? And you, you can’t leave someone to fend for themselves when they need you the most, even if you hate them. And I don’t hate Leo; I’ve missed him, and this may not be the reunion I’ve imagined but it’s something. And New York City may be a cheating son of a bitch but loyalty in Portland, Maine still means something.
So I shake my head, take a deep breath and look up at the stairs with determination. “All right. You do need that smoke. Come on,” I say, grabbing his arm and pulling him out to the front of the building and then to the side, where a sign indicates the smoking area. I guess Tay’s really not happy about that so I’m just gonna go ahead and apologize without looking at him. “Sorry, that hall was really echo-y… And I guess you shouldn’t let a bunch of RuPaul’s Drag Race contestants know your plan about breaking your little brother out of jail. Is it called jail? Or is it, like… lockup?”
Not the most important thing right now.
“Is it really seeing Leo what you want, or do you, like… Plan to do something stupid?” Like literally breaking him out of there is what I mean.