Chapter 30
30
BLAKE, 1999
18 years old
The first real warm day of March, and I hated it. I hated the way the sun felt too bright, too loud, too in my face . I hated the way the heat clung to my skin, making it impossible to feel numb.
I wanted the cold back. I wanted the excuse.
Hell, I was exhausted. Not the kind of exhausted that sleep could fix. No, this was soul exhaustion. The kind that made my bones feel heavy, my brain feel foggy, and my patience for Jamal’s nonsense dangerously low.
Which is exactly why I was sitting in the back of his parents’ diner, staring at my untouched plate of fries while he rattled off some nonsense about world domination. He had dragged me here under the guise of bro time , which in his language meant “sit down, eat, and let me entertain myself by making you miserable.”
It was late afternoon, the post-lunch, pre-dinner lull, which meant the place was mostly empty aside from a few older men drinking tea in the corner and Jamal’s mother behind the counter, effortlessly keeping an eye on everything.
“And that’s why I think technically , girls like Tiffany could get away with overthrowing a small government,” Jamal finished, popping a fry into his mouth.
I blinked at him. “Jamal, that entire sentence was a felony.”
“You can’t prove that.” He winked.
I sighed, rubbing my temple. “You stress me out.”
My shifts had been hell, my head was killing me, and the last thing I needed was whatever game he was playing.
Jamal’s sister sat across from us, swinging her legs back and forth, eyeing me with the kind of judgment that only a fourteen-year-old with too much emotional intelligence could manage.
“You look tired,” she noted.
“Thanks.”
Jamal hummed thoughtfully. “Is it the weight of your sins?”
I shot him a look.
Amina took a sip of her lemonade, eyes still locked on me. “You should do something about that.”
Jamal snorted. “Yeah, Blake. Do something about that.”
“I was doing something about it,” I shot back. “By avoiding human interaction. Then you made me come here.”
Jamal gaped at me. “ Made you? I graciously invited you to break bread with my family.”
His sister squinted at me, her gaze sharp and assessing as she set down her lemonade. She folded her arms, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity. “Are you drinking enough water, Blake?”
“Amina.”
“Are you eating?”
I gestured to my plate. “Literally, yes.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What about your spirit, Blake?”
Jamal winked. “She’s diagnosing your soul, buddy.”
I rubbed a hand over my face. “Amina, I promise I’m fine.”
“McHayes.” Jamal narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like your tone.”
“Don’t like your face, so we’re even.”
Amina let out a deep sigh, like she knew all about exhaustion. “You need tea , Blake.”
“Tea?” I deadpanned.
“Yes. And a good nap.”
“She’s not wrong, though,” Jamal chimed in.
I stared at them both. “Great. Love this pep talk.”
Before either of them could add to my diagnosis , the door to the diner slammed open, the bell jangling violently.
We all turned our heads just in time to see Tiffany storm in like she was on a personal mission from God.
“Oh, for the love of—” I turned to Jamal. “What did you do?”
But Tiffany was already making a beeline for our booth, sunglasses perched on her head, her pink nails clicking against the table as she placed both hands on it, staring daggers at Jamal.“You!”
Jamal smiled. “Hey, Tiff.”
“You lied to me!”
His eyes widened in mock surprise, and he held up one hand as if making a solemn vow. “I have never lied in my life?—”
“‘ Tiffany ,’” she mimicked in a terrible deep voice. “‘You have to come. It’s a serious emergency. Blake is in danger.’” She scowled. “I broke multiple traffic laws getting here, Jamal.”
“And yet, here you are. Safe. Alive. Beautiful,” he said, his grin widening at her barely contained rage.
Tiffany slammed her hand down, making my water shake. “Why the hell did you really call me?”
Jamal lifted his cup, took a slow sip. “Felt like it.”
Tiffany lunged.
I caught her mid-swing, dragging her down into the booth before she committed a felony. “ Jesus Christ , woman.”
“I hate you,” she hissed at him.
Jamal frowned, shaking his head. “You adore me.”
“I will stab you and?—”
Amina let out a soft sigh, placing a small hand on my elbow. “They need tea, too.”
I nodded solemnly. “Yeah, they do.”
Jamal reached for the sugar packet holder and lobbed one at Tiffany’s forehead. Tiffany snatched the next one before it hit her, crumpled it in her fist, and threw it back.
“Oh, no,” Amina groaned, dramatically sliding under the table to escape whatever storm of sugar packets was about to rain down.
Jamal looked smug. “You’re here, though.”
Tiffany clenched her jaw. “I shouldn’t be.”
“But you are.”
She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at him, eyes blazing. “Because I thought Blake was dying .”
“Not dying,” Jamal said coolly, “just chronically miserable.”
Tiffany glanced at me then, her expression shifting from irritation to something else as she took in my appearance. “Wait. Why do you look like shit?”
I glared.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re paler than usual.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“ What did you eat?”
“Tea!” Amina shouted from under the table. “Get him tea!”
Just when I was about to launch myself out of the booth and disappear into the depths of the nearest alleyway, Jamal’s mom swept in—soft but firm, her apron tied around her waist, her hair covered with a taupe hijab that matched the warmth in her eyes. She wasn’t a tall woman, but she carried the kind of authority that made even Jamal sit up a little straighter.
“Jamal,” she called, her voice firm as she approached, swatting her son lightly on the back of the head. “Enough,” she scolded. “You’re disturbing my customers.”
Jamal made a face. “Mom, we are your customers.”
“Then behave, or I will make you wash dishes.”
Amina immediately reappeared from under the table like she hadn’t just abandoned me to fend for myself. “Mama,” she said. “We were just discussing the great healing properties of tea.”
Tiffany snorted, but she had the sense not to open her mouth.
Jamal’s mom turned to me, her eyes scanning my face, and I already knew what was coming.
“You look tired, habibi.”
I sighed. “I’ve been informed.”
Tiffany huffed. “That’s what I said?—”
Jamal chimed in, “He’s just brooding extra hard tod?—”
His mom held up a hand, silencing both of them instantly. Then she looked at me again, softer this time. “Come help me.”
“What?” I asked, unable to hide my confusion.
“Come help me,” she repeated. “Unless you’re too tired.”
I hesitated, caught between the exhaustion gnawing at me and the warmth in her voice that made it hard to refuse.
She hummed, watching me carefully. “You know,” she said, her voice quiet but thoughtful, “you remind me of my brother.”
I frowned.
“He was the same way,” she said with a sigh, her gaze distant, as if she were lost in a memory. “Always carrying too much. Always holding it all in.”
I didn’t say anything.
Jamal did, of course. “Uncle Rami was a menace.”
“He was,” she agreed, smiling. Then she looked back at me. “But he was also stubborn. And he thought he had to deal with everything alone.”
Jamal waggled his brows at me. “Good luck,” he mouthed.
I shot him a look, then pushed myself up from the booth.
Tiffany leaned back with a dramatic scoff. “Ugh, whatever. You , Jamal the Great , owe me gas money.”
I followed Jamal’s mom into the back, where the scent of cardamom and simmering broth wrapped around me like a heavy blanket. The kitchen was small but warm, filled with quiet movement—pots steaming, knives tapping against wooden cutting boards, the low hum of the radio playing something soft in Arabic.
I hesitated at the doorway, unsure why I was here.
She didn’t look at me as she poured steaming water over some loose tea leaves. “Come, come.”
I sighed and stepped forward.
“Sit,” she said softly, gesturing to the stool near the counter.
I sat.
She stirred the tea, her movements slow, deliberate, the scent of honey and cinnamon rising between us.
For a few minutes, neither of us spoke.
The quiet was unnerving.
Then, softly, she said, “You’ve lost weight.”
I shrugged. “I’ve been busy.”
She made a quiet noise, like she didn’t approve of that answer, but she didn’t push. Instead, she reached into the cabinet, pulled down another cup, and poured a second serving of tea.
She placed it in front of me.
I stared at it.
“Drink,” she said.
I didn’t.
Her sharp gaze flicked up to me, and I swear to God, I felt seen in a way I wasn’t ready for.
“Tell me.”
Tell her what ?
That I hadn’t slept? That my head ached all the time? That my hands sometimes shook for no reason? That I had spent the last four months drowning in a silence so heavy, I was starting to forget what my own voice sounded like?
That I missed Beverly? That I missed me ?
That I missed Beverly so much, I felt physically ill?
That I thought about touching her every time my hands were empty? That I dreamed about her? That I woke up most nights with her name stuck in my throat like a wound that wouldn’t close? That my mother was sick and I was terrified? That I had spent my whole life believing I could survive anything if I just braced for it hard enough, but now I wasn’t so sure?
I clenched my jaw, staring at the tea. “I’m fine,” I lied.
She made a sound that was half a scoff, half a sigh. “That’s what men always say when they are falling apart.” And then—gently, like she was handling something fragile—she placed her hand over mine. I tensed. “Yaa ibni,” she murmured. My son.
My throat closed.
“Some things you can hold inside,” she said, her voice quiet, steady, the kind of voice that could soothe wounds I wasn’t ready to acknowledge. “But some things will poison you if you don’t face them. Maybe you think it’s easier to just bury it all deep and pretend it doesn’t matter. But I’ve seen it, time and time again…the longer you hold onto it, the more it eats at you. It starts poisoning everything. Your relationships, your peace of mind, even the way you see yourself.”
She patted my hand once, then pulled away, moving to the stove. She took the kettle off the heat, pouring a little more tea into my cup, letting the steam curl between us.
And for the first time in months, I wanted to let go.
I wanted to stop being this .
This exhausted, shut-down, miserable version of myself.
But I didn’t know how.