Chapter 6
Miriam
My high-tops are off the ground. Blood rushes to my temples as my body forcefully spins in a circle. I’m dizzy, my glasses smashed to my face by the forearms pinning me in place. They’re larger than I remember. So are the biceps squeezing my organs together.
“Can’t. Breathe,” I croak.
“Shoot, my bad.” Antonio sets my soles on the carpet and searches for internal damage using X-ray vision he doesn’t have.
My mind quiets at another whiff of the tobacco and cedar cologne transferring to my sweater from the long-sleeved navy shirt that’s molded to his torso.
The scent, mixed with fabric softener, would be comforting if a chest lined with every muscle seen on a medical drama weren’t cutting off my air supply.
Did he always smell like laundry?
That would require him to know how to turn on a washer.
“Still can’t breathe,” I wheeze from below Antonio’s clavicles.
“Sorry.” He steps back to give me a chance to reacquaint myself with breathing. “It’s good to see you, Doe.”
“You too.”
I remind my body that he’s always been fine.
Antonio’s caramel hue and square jaw decorated in a trimmed beard are nothing new. I’ve seen them countless times, along with the disarming smile he brandishes freely on video calls. The live version should not have this effect on me.
Subconscious physiological responses are normal behavior. They’re not a sign of lust lurking in dark corners for a friend I almost rode into the new year. The involuntary changes to my breathing are simply jitters at seeing him and all his flesh for the first time since he left Maryland.
I gulp and point to the loose waves that have replaced the man bun that never grew. “I like it.”
He runs a hand over his fresh cut. “It was time for a change. Your natural hair is just like I imagined.”
His praise glides over the twist-out I freed from the rotation of nonflammable wigs I wore during my college years.
Grabbing one to go with my lab coat was more efficient than experimenting with a curl pattern I had no time to learn.
Today’s side part is nothing innovative, but Antonio stares at my coiled bob like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.
“I like it.” The rasp in his voice draws my frown.
Reading social cues is an admitted shortcoming. Like right now, Antonio’s pinched brows and gaze that swings from my hair to my face don’t match his fervor from minutes ago.
Talking on the phone provided a safety net I no longer have. There was no thinking about hand placement or whether my smile matched that of a rabid animal. Every public interaction turns awkward, except I’m not the one breaking the no-staring rule this time.
He is.
I cough, and Antonio clears his throat.
Subconscious physiological responses.
He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “So, bestie who moved a week early. What are you doing here?”
“Conducting an experiment. You mind?”
Heat fans my cheeks when Sean puts his hands on his bony hips. He’s eight, with neither the height nor bass in his voice to reprimand anybody. All eyes in the room shift between me and Antonio.
“We’re still waiting,” Sean scolds Antonio, who backs away with his hands raised at the threat dressed in a Minecraft shirt. He retreats to a man shorter than him, who’s rolling his lips.
Did Ms. Amber get Kendrick Lamar to perform?
The tug on my sweater is my final reminder to go back to judging how the built structural foundations would survive in an earthquake.
Sorry, I mouth to Antonio, whose eyes are on me and not the engineering project that’s reactivating screams.
You got it, Doe, he mouths back with a wink.
“If you weren’t in your mid-thirties, I’d tell your father you drove a moving truck by yourself.” Antonio shakes his head. “You always complain about driving at night.”
“I arrived before sunset. What does my age have to do with it?”
His shoulder lifts. “I was raised to respect my elders—ow!” His hand covers the pec I just stuck. It’s the size of my head.
I smirk through my sip of apple juice.
I’ve been under interrogation since we left my activity room in search of food.
We’re on the gym bleachers with two water bottles, juice boxes, Twizzlers from the stash I keep in my purse, and a jumbo pretzel split between us.
Any butterflies I had during our initial reunion have left the building.
We’re back to our regular quips. His pokes to prod my annoyance.
The kids who are still here after hours of play are with the other Steel players, playing Double Dutch.
The Kendrick Lamar look-alike slips through the slashing ropes with a casual swagger.
Winston Duke—Carbohydrate, or was it Bagel that Antonio called him?
—grabs a pair of handles to speed up the rhythm and cusses when his teammate hits a crip walk.
Today’s MLK Day event was a success. News cameras arrived, prompting our state lawmakers and a congressperson to take some pictures and leave faster than they had come. I had fun—minus the glares from the guy next to me, who’s still pissed that I moved without him.
“You didn’t think to call me? I’m hurt.” Antonio pouts with a tight lip and a wobbly chin.
“I got help packing the truck.” I snicker, trying to hold in a laugh. “I don’t expect you to drop everything, fly down to Baltimore, and ride up with me. You’re busy,” I deadpan, and his phone buzzes.
Antonio can sulk all he wants. The Steel’s preseason practice schedule is in full swing. He’s not wasting time on unnecessary travel. Not when he can recover from a hard training session with whatever Lala is sending him three texts in less than a minute.
His phone illuminates with another message he ignores. “I would’ve come if you’d asked.”
There’s no attempt to look away. He studies me with a focus that would make me dizzy and loosen my knees if I didn’t know any better. The arch of his brow, the purse of that thick lower lip, and the inventory of hard muscle is how you wind up in somebody’s bushes ready to serve time.
I never had a friendship this close with a man before, let alone a man I encouraged to play in my body. Sending messages like Lala is safer than sitting on the receiving end of his stare.
L = T-V
The Lagrangian function is a silent recital to calm nerves that are determined to flare and act a fool.
We’re friends.
Platonic and nothing else.
My “Appreciate it” is too euphoric for a conversation about moving trucks and helping hands.
“Did you and Marcela unpack everything? I know you called her for help.” My sister walks by in a community center tee, jeans, and Chucks. Her camera-ready smile dissolves at Antonio’s shout. “Thanks for the heads-up that she’s here! I thought we were family?”
“Boy, bye!” She rolls her neck, which is anchored by a loose bun, and sets off toward a family. Constituents, no doubt.
I giggle and nudge Antonio’s knee with mine. “Marcela only does manual labor when required. I’m giving myself the week to finish unpacking. My new sofa arrives on Friday, and I want the living room set up before that.”
He nods through a bite of pretzel. “I’ll swing by after Friday’s practice. I’m free after this if you need help today.”
“Sure about that?” I motion to the messages lighting up his phone. Some things never change.
“I mean, I can be free,” he clarifies. “If you need me.”
“I’ll be fine, thanks. You sure someone’s not dying?” I laugh at his groan. It’s not funny if someone really is passing away, but I get the sense that no one is. He might want to check the bushes before he leaves.
“It’s the team chat,” he says, ignoring Lala and her texts that double as smoke signals. “Conditioning got bumped to ten tomorrow. My teammates are throwing another party at Steel House tonight. When did you say your sofa comes?”
“Friday, and you’re not spending the night.”
“Come on, Doe!” Antonio whines. “I need my beauty rest. I’ll bring my own pillow.”
His plea is a mix of pouted lips, a creased forehead, and brown eyes that beg me to save him from the hell he created. His baby face on a body rivaling Alan Ritchson’s is a sight.
“I’ll think about it, but I make no guarantees.” After living in dorms and shared campus apartments, I crave my own space.
“Thank you, bestie!” Thick arms wrap around me, melding my body and now-crooked glasses to his. “Did I mention that I’m happy you’re here?”
“I’m starting to regret coming. Can’t. Breathe. Again,” I mumble through smushed lips.
“Sorry.” Antonio scoots back. How anyone survives his tackles is a medical miracle. His hugs are heavy.
“I am happy you’re here,” he says, his voice soft, his eyes pinned to mine.
The air hangs in silence, weighing our glances with a sensation that needles my chest. Approaching Steel players cut through our trance, and the Darcy-Weisbach equation reroutes my thoughts.
“Can we go? I played, got shit painted on my face, and didn’t cuss out any kids. I need a nap,” Bagel or whoever declares, his body slumped and chest heaving from keeping up with children half his size.
“Yeah,” Antonio chuckles. “We can go, Bread.”
“Say less. I’ll be in the car. Maid Miriam—”
“Who?” I snort.
“The fox in that Robin Hood movie they played today,” Bread says with confidence.
“Maid Marian, dickhead,” the Kendrick look-alike corrects.
“Fuck you too,” Bread tosses at his smirk. “Like I was saying, Maid Miriam, you’re cool people if you can keep Papa Smurf over here from digging in our asses. Feel free to talk to him in any closet, or whatever you two do.”
“You must want to walk home.” Antonio stands and pulls me with him. “You good here, Doe?”
“Doe. Cute,” Bread mocks with heart eyes. He nudges his teammate, who grins.
Antonio’s sigh is that of a tired dad. “It’s not even like that. She’s just a friend. Go to the car.”
The way he hurls the word “friend” shouldn’t sting, but it does. I am “just a friend,” but hearing it like that, like an afterthought, stirs the part of me that takes offense at how easily Antonio brushes me off. The person he claims to be his bestie.
“You sure you don’t need us for anything?” Antonio asks again.
“Go,” I say, grabbing our trash, which he takes. “Thanks for coming today. Marcela and Ms. Amber appreciated it. I’ll see you around.”
His stare lingers. “Friday?”
“Sure.” I nod. “You have the address, so come whenever.”
“Okay.” He eyes me again, frustrating my inability to register what he’s not saying.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says.
“Today, Papa Smurf!” Bread yells from the door on the opposite side of the gym.
I huff a laugh. “You better go. Enjoy the party.”
“I won’t.”
Antonio leaves with his teammates. I pull out my phone and swipe to my notes app. “Make more friends” is now at the top of my to-do list.
Whatever that was, I don’t want to feel it again.