Chapter 20
Theo O'Keefe
The entire drive, I’m tempted to turn off and go home. Jamal drives slowly, checking his rearview mirror for me every few seconds, which is why I don’t. I’m not sure if he offered for me to come over to be polite or if he really wants me here.
At least I know he won’t punch me for the kiss. I almost threw up in my mouth when he said we could be friends. Damn, that was cold. But I’ll try. I’ve spent my entire life pretending I’m not attracted to guys. I’ve become an expert, and I can handle this.
My interest in him can only end in disaster. It’s better this way.
Jamal gets out at a light and jogs back to me. “I’ll park, then jump in your car to help you find a spot. It’ll be easier that way.”
I don’t have time to protest because he’s running as the light changes. He finds an empty spot on a street of attached two-story brownstones and rattles my passenger door because I forgot to unlock it.
“Sorry about that,” I say as he slides in, bringing a blast of frigid air and his warm body heat.
“All good.” He smiles and scans the street for parking. “We’ll have to circle the block.” Jamal sits on the edge of his seat, holding on to the oh-shit bar. He has a thick hoodie on, but I can picture his biceps beneath and the way it would flex when we turn the corner.
“Up here on the right.” I point to an opening in the cars, distracting myself from his proximity.
He shakes his head. “Fire hydrant. Turn left.”
“You know…” I hesitate. “It’s rude to show up unannounced and empty-handed. We should do this another night.” His family must hate me for how I’ve treated him, then forcing myself on him. Not that he would tell.
“Nah, I texted Moms, and she’s happy you’re here. Oh, right there.” He points to a spot, and this time it only takes me two tries to parallel park. I’m sure he’s exaggerating his mom’s response, but it helps.
Jamal bounds up the steps to the walk-up and uses a key to unlock the door.
“I’m home,” he shouts as if we’ve entered a family sitcom.
The first thing I’m hit with is all the smells, not in a bad way but prominent.
There’s food cooking along with warm, rich, inviting scents.
It’s the opposite of the sterile house I live in.
Even when I can’t smell bleach, I get whiffs of cleaning supplies.
His mom rushes down the hall, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, solidifying my assumption he’s living an idyllic TV-style life.
The entry hall is all wood on the floor and walls. I check the ceiling, but it’s regular plaster.
“Theo, welcome.” His mom takes one of my hands into both of hers. “I hope you like spicy. I made jambalaya for J before I knew you were coming.”
“I’m sure it will be fine, Mrs. Thomas,” I assure her, knowing I’ll either bail or stop for pizza on the way home.
“Call me Kenya. Mrs. Thomas is DeAndre’s mother. I’m not ready to be that old,” she teases with a smile. “Speaking of.” She faces the stairwell and yells, “DeAndre, the kids are here.”
She calls him like it’s an everyday occurrence that I show up with Jamal and it’s cool. I’m wound so tight, my muscles might snap if I stretch the wrong way. This was a terrible idea.
“Dinner will be ready in a few. Do you want something to drink?”
“Mom, you don’t have to serve us. I’ll give Theo a tour, and we’ll get our own drinks.
” He hugs her and motions for me to follow him down the hall, the direction his mom had come from.
Across from the stairs is a wide opening to the living room with lots of windows, and I use the doorway to shield my phone from view and send a quick text to Sarah.
Me: 911
Me: Call me with an emergency to get me outta here.
She’ll accuse me of being dramatic, but they are over the top, too good to be true. Like they’re lulling me into a false sense of security to murder me. Maybe Jamal gets more money if I die. No dots appear to indicate she’s typing, and I hurry after him.
Jamal grabs us bottles of water from the fridge, and the simmering pot on the stove smells delicious.
The house is tastefully old. Lots of hardwood and crown molding but modern.
It’s homey, unlike the way my mother decorates.
Jamal’s upstairs bedroom hasn’t changed much according to him, and I can picture him studying here until all hours of the night.
There’s also a guest room that seems unused and lonely.
By the time we get back downstairs, his mom is setting the table.
“Mom, this isn’t a big deal. I told you that,” Jamal hisses.
“Who said it is?” she asks, placing a large bowl on the table.
“Then why aren’t we eating in the kitchen with the regular dishes?” he counters.
Jamal’s reaction gives away more than she does. If he hadn’t said anything, I never would’ve known the difference. My mother has several collections of bone china, and one of her platters costs more than all the Thomas’ dishes, table, and chairs.
“Where should I sit?” I ask to break the tension.
“Anywhere,” Kenya says at the same time Jamal points to the seat next to him and commands, “Here.”
I glance at my phone and see nothing from Sarah, so I pull out the chair next to Jamal. Normally, I’d defer to his mom, but Jamal’s anger is showing, and I want a front-row seat. Since he hides it from most people, it makes me feel special.
DeAndre serves us all ladles of a red seafood stew.
“If you’ve never had jambalaya, take a small bite first. It’s spicy,” Kenya advises.
I smirk and take a big spoonful. The rich flavors hit my tongue, but suddenly a burning sensation spreads through my sinuses, and my nose hair is on fire. “So good,” I say, trying not to cough or let tears run down my cheeks.
“White folk,” Jamal cackles, and when I face him, his twinkling eyes stop my heart.
“We don’t say things like that,” DeAndre admonishes.
“I can make you something else if you prefer.”
I’m glad my eyes are already watering because they’ll never know how deeply that statement hits me. I can’t remember my mother cooking for me.
“No, it’s really good, but I was overconfident with that bite.”
“This is an old family recipe, and Jamal loves it. Do you have family favorite dishes?” she asks.
I chew thoughtfully. At least, I hope that’s what it looks like. “We don’t have any family recipes that I know of. I ate whatever the boarding school and our cook served.”
“I’m sorry.” She pats my arm.
“Why are you sorry? He ate five-star food.” Jamal takes an extra-large bite and doesn’t flinch.
His mom tsks. “If you had the choice of a five-star restaurant or a home-cooked meal, what would you choose?”
“Sorry, ma’am,” he says sheepishly.
“You haven’t learned your lesson yet.” She gives him side-eye.
“Kenya’s unofficial motto is ‘money can’t buy you happiness,’” his dad explains.
“Cheers to that.” I hold up my goblet of water, and they clink with me. “My mom always made sure I had butternut squash at Thanksgiving. She said it would turn me into a pro hockey player.” I laugh. “I hated it at first, but now I love it,” I say, and feel silly for telling them that story.
“Thank you for joining us tonight, Theo. Jamal never brings friends over.” Kenya sounds sincere, and I instinctively sweep the room looking for a hidden camera. This has to be fake, some scripted routine for unsuspecting visitors. No family actually acts like this.
The discussion turns to the hockey season, and I breathe deeply. I can do this.
“There’s a pecan pie in the kitchen with your name on it,” Kenya says to Jamal as she takes my empty bowl.
“Did you—”
“No, I didn’t have time, but it’s from the bakery you like.”
DeAndre stands to take the collection of dishes from his wife. “Everyone want a dessert plate?”
“I’ll get the my-mom-spoils-me-rotten-pie.” Jamal pushes his chair back and goes into the kitchen with his dad while my brain warns my mouth of a thousand rude things not to say while I’m alone with his mom.
I’ve blamed and hated her for more than half of my life, and I can’t look at her because I’m afraid. Afraid she’ll see through my act and discover all my secrets.
“Theo.” She touches my arm again and takes a deep breath.
“Here’s a fact about Black women: we’ll tell you it’s none of our business and stick our noses right in your business.
I feared for Jamal’s safety, but I rationalized that you’re white and wouldn’t be mistreated.
But I’ve worried about you over the years. ”
I pull my arm out from under her hand. A few weeks ago, I would’ve called her a liar, believing John worshipped his son. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Facts, Mama. Theo is capable of trashing anyone who crosses him.” Jamal sets small plates down.
I give him a grateful smile.
His dad cuts the pie, and I take a piece to be polite.
“This is so good.” Jamal throws his head back to savor the taste.
It makes me smile, and I’m riveted by his satisfied expression and how smooth his throat is. Then I notice the scar under his chin.
“What happened there? Skate?” I ask. My words cause an instant freeze in motion and temperature. Whatever happened wasn’t a hockey accident. Or any accident. It resembles a burn mark. One hidden most of the time but never to be forgotten. I’ve seen him scratch it before.
“It happened during the time I hated you for stealing my life and my father from me.” Jamal changes the subject by dropping a truth bomb.
“I would’ve gladly switched with you. My entire life, I’ve heard about all your accomplishments and how I fell short.” We stare at each other, neither of us backing down. It’s not his fault that his father lied to me any more than it’s my fault his father deserted him.
I’ll allow him the subject change for now, but he doesn’t get to glamorize my life as cushy.
“Boys.” Kenya clears her throat.
“Even?” he asks with a forced smile, and I accept his offer to trade one insult for the other and move on.
“Is there a bathroom I can use?” I stand and consider leaving.
“Under the stairs in the entryway.” DeAndre points.
I close myself in the tiny room and check my phone. No Sarah. She abandoned me in my time of need.
“Son, wait,” DeAndre calls.
There’s a knock on the door, but I stay quiet. I brace my arms on the sink, studying the mirror as it reflects my self-loathing. But I’m not ready to face him. We had such skewed views of each other’s lives; one wrong word could shatter the truce we have.
“Before he comes back, know we support you. Your mom tells you to trust your intuition, and we trust it too. I’m not certain if this has anything to do with your texts the other night, but we want you to be happy.”
The walls close in, becoming claustrophobic. A parent trusting their child and wanting them to be happy is fairy-tale TV land.
“It’s not like that, Dad.” Jamal sounds regretful.
“In any case, be careful…” I don’t hear the rest of what he says because I need an exit strategy. I can’t hide in here forever, and as soon as I open the door, they’ll see me.
It’s clear I don’t belong here. I’m not so self-centered as to think the conversation is about me, but it doesn’t matter. Jamal should be careful of me because I’ll screw up whatever kindness he’s shown me.
I flush the toilet, put my earbuds in, and fake wash my hands. When I open the door, I hope my face has the same surprised expression as theirs.
“Oh, hey.” I pull out an earbud, and the music is loud enough for them to hear.
“I knocked,” Jamal accuses.
“Didn’t hear it.” I shrug and slide along the wall. “Do you need the bathroom?”
My phone rings, and I motion that I’m going to take it. “Sarah, what’s up?”
She screeches into the phone, and I hold it away from my ear.
“Calm down. I can’t understand you.” I walk to the front door, making my escape. “Okay, hang on a minute, but don’t go anywhere.” I put the phone on mute. “I’m sorry, gotta go. Please tell your mom thanks for dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Later.” Jamal gives me an up-nod as his dad waves.
After exiting the house, I jog around the corner and lean on my car.
“What took you so long?” I grumble at Sarah.
“Sorry, I didn’t drop my life. You good now? I’m on break and can’t talk.”
“Break from what?” I ask, but the phone clicks and she’s gone.
I crack my neck and climb into my car, thinking I’ve made a clean exit. But then my phone buzzes with a text.
Jamal: Sarah was your 911 call?! *angry face emoji*
He knows.
If I ignore him, it’s unclear if I’ll be punishing him or myself.
I drive away without answering.