We were long-haul friends.
We were old before our time.
We were going to apply to the same colleges.
We’d be roommates, in college and after.
We’d backpack across Africa; we’d laugh at ourselves as we pretended to be clueless adventurers—we’re going on holiday, see, he’d say. And I’d say, yes, yes, mate, on safari, if you will.
There were some things we didn’t have to say.
Some things we just knew, the way you know the sun is out there, the way your body knows to breathe without your help.
We knew we’d always be there for each other. And not the way you usually say it, easy come, like you’re picking lint from a sweater.
We would be there.
Beside.
Next to.
Behind.
We were built for this.
This, forever.
But no one told us nothing lasts.
That forever is just something they print on greeting cards.
Not that we would’ve believed them.
No one warned us everything crashes.
And that what didn’t break always burned bright, fast.
No, we learned this alone, and hard.
94
I take a long sip to stall.
We’d snared soda from a cooler.
“Someplace quiet,” Q’d said and I followed him past the bonfire, up the ridge.
This was quiet. The party hushed like a closed door.
And somehow, just by sitting here, we’d made it quieter.
This, one of those what would you say if you ever got the chance moments.
I swallow hard, the ginger ale sizzling down my throat, like it’s alive.
“Sooooo,” I say, stall-extending.
We’re barely five feet apart, but if you measured from Point Jamal to Point Q, there are light-years between us.
Q pulls his knees into his chest but they immediately slide back. I’d forgotten this: how it’s like he has zero body control. Like if you got close enough, you’d see strings flailing his arms and jerking his sneakers.
So random, what we remember, and when.
Third grade someone yelled at him, man, yo’ neck so long, your mama’s a swan. A corny crack that would easily roll off Q’s tail feathers today—but back then it sent him spiraling; dude wore turtlenecks for like forty school days straight.
Seventh grade I convinced Q to choreograph a hip-hop dance for winter formal; everyone’s gonna join in, trust me, I’d promised, as we practiced in my basement. Our lives are about to change, I’d assured him, as we stood in the center of the dance floor, waiting for the DJ to play our track.
It’s hard: sifting the past without dredging it up.
Fighting the urge to say how things used to be.
Because what you’re really asking when you say I miss the old days, when you say the old you would’ve done this, or said that, is: Why did you change?
You’re saying this isn’t the you I want.
“I watched a few of our videos the other day,” I say.
Q’s face scrunches like he has no clue what I’m talking about. I get it, though; he’s not gonna make this easy.
“Jauncy? That thing we spent most of our waking hours creating?”
“Oh,” he says in a way that sounds like so what.
“We were pretty funny.”
Q shrugs. “One of us, anyway.”
I laugh. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, man.”
And I see it. The faintest smile. Then nothing. But it’s enough of a flare to keep me searching for the things we lost.
“See what I did there? Number-one rule in comedy . . .”
“The truer a joke, the funnier it is. Surprised you remember that.”
“I know it didn’t always seem like it, but I was listening.”
He shrugs.
“You still tryna be Kendrick Fallon?” I ask.
Q shoots back. “You still rudderless as hell?”
I could return fire, but instead I absorb the blow, quietly.
The moon dips behind a cloud.
I try again. You want vulnerability, you gotta be vulnerable, right? “So, I’m watching our videos and I suddenly realize, man, I haven’t felt funny in a while.”
“If seventeen years is a while, I guess I agree.”
“Damn, Q lands another haymaker. He keeps this up, Jamal’s not gonna last two rounds,” I say in my best boxing-commentator voice. “Any other jabs you wanna throw?”
Q nods. “Oh, trust, I got hella uppercuts I could throw.”
And I should defuse things, but. “Well, let’s get to ’em then. What you waiting for?”
Q, eyes still tracking the moon, snarls, “Dude, I’ve never thrown an actual punch in my life, but don’t push me.”
A few kids run along the edge of the waves, tossing a Frisbee down the shoreline.
“You didn’t have to throw a punch because I was there to throw them for you. I was always th—”
Q tornadoes around. “You were always what? There for me? Is that what you were about to say to me?”
“Oh, so unless I was there for you the way you wanted me to be, then dead everything I did? None of what I did matters, I guess.”
Q throws his hand up. “You still don’t get it. The only way you’re actually there for someone is to be there the way they need, not on your terms.”
I tap my chest. “Oh, I don’t get it? Me? So, what, I guess you’re the expert on showing up for your friends?”
He’s practically spitting now. “Compared to you? Hell yeah.”
“When did you ever ask me what I needed, Q?”
“Hmm.” Q strokes his chin. “Was I supposed to ask you before or after you decided to completely shut me out? I guess before, right, when I was only ninety-seven percent shut out.”
And somehow, I’m standing now, which only infuriates me more, because damn, this dude is nearly my height sitting. “I shut you out? You mean because I didn’t play computer games or make corny videos after my parents died? I’m sooo sorry my pain hurt your feelings, Q. My bad, bro.”
Q shakes his head. “Wait, hold up, was this the pain of your parents dying or the pain of having your whole head jammed up your ass?”
And now I’m staring him down, fists tighter than chromosomes.
“You wanna hit me, J? I wish you would. Man, I wish.”
And my blood’s all fire now, my palms prickling, fingers tingling, teeth grinding, pulse thumping outta my throat.
This is it.
Time slows, the lake blurs.
I cock my arm.
There are moments so inexplicable we call them fate.
Label them destiny.
Hindsight tells us we were always hurtling here.
Whatever forces yoked Q and me together tonight, they’ve decided how it ends.
The waves lunge at us.
Bile churns in my stomach, any minute and it’ll geyser from my lips.
“I should hit you,” I say to Q. I say to myself.
It’s dumb how fast the Universe flips, how happy’s never a tight grip.
“Do it,” he barks. “What are you waiting for?”
And I don’t know what’s more disrespectful: that he’s shit-talking while sitting or grinning like he just won a twenty-dollar scratch-off.
And this is not the Q I know.