Page 53 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
His face screws up tighter than when he ate the oyster. “Whoa. That’s not what I meant at all.”
I trace the stitching on an old denim jacket. “Sorry. Childish insecurities die hard, I guess.”
“Maybe I should dig up my old sketchbooks to even the scales. My teenage insecurities had their own fan art.” Ro neverbreaks eye contact, but he’s still trying on old hats as he speaks. I’m grateful not to feel like I’m onstage. “But don’t apologize, I like when you let the real stuff slip. Helps me figure you out.”
My brows knit together pleadingly. “Please don’t try. It’s so much more fun to diagnose everyone else.”
“You sure?”
His full attention is on me now, and I’m pinned under the weight of it.
“I can be gentle.”
A tentative nod is all the agreement I can give.
“You’re a maze,” he says, before I can change my mind. “You let me make a little progress in one direction, but throw up a wall before I get too far. So I gotta back up or find a different path, before you cut me off again. It’s why that night at the pizza place was so different. Why I couldn’t stop watching you with the mural that day at the garage. There are these moments you forget to be on guard. You forget to put up the walls. I guess I hoped today could be that too. Not even for me, for real. For you. So, at least for a little while, you could justbe.”
I’m quiet when he finishes, but once again, our shared silence isn’t uncomfortable.
“How do you do that?” I ask, finally.
“Do what?”
“Say a thing so real and honest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No,” I say, certain. “It isn’t.”
“Does it bother you?”
I don’t even have to think about it.
“No,” I say, just as sure. “It doesn’t.”
15
The rest of the afternoonflies by, and before I know it, we’re running late for the show. I spend the whole ride to Harlem watching my phone, willing the traffic to ease up so we can make up some time. And apparently, I’m not subtle about it.
“Is it working?” Ro says, his eyes still straight ahead.
“Is what working?”
“That death stare you’re giving the clock. You figure out how to freeze time yet?”
“I can’t stand you,” I say, smiling big so he knows I’m joking. “I feel bad. I don’t want you to be late because you were trying to entertain me. And yes, for your information, itisworking. Pretty sure I shaved thirty seconds off the clock. So, you are welcome.”
Ro laughs. “Well, I appreciate you looking out, but don’t worry about me. It’s an art show. The walls aren’t going anywhere. We could be an hour late and still be right on time.”
Luckily, we’re not an hour late, but we’re pushing it. You’d never know it though by watching Ro amble across 125thStreet, looking around at everything and nothing at all, like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s seen all day.
“Don’t we need to get in there?” I ask, trying, unsuccessfully, to hurry him along. “What are you doing?”
Ro grabs my hand. He does it to slow me down, but even after we fall into step, he doesn’t immediately release me. My breath slows to match his lazy rhythm. Coming and going as evenly as Ro’s steps.
He continues scanning the street as we walk. No longer holding hands, but still together.
“What?” I ask, unable to deny my curiosity any longer.
