Rafe winces, his expression half resignation and half shame. “I kicked it in prison.” He says it quickly, like he can throw the words away.
Wait, what? This is like some really bad after-school special where the totally normal soccer coach confesses that he used to be a drug addict and was in a cult and had accidentally killed a whole village with a bomb or something.
“Uh….”
When Rafe walks over to me, he looks incredibly tired all of a sudden. “Look, I’m sure you have questions, but I can’t talk to you about this right now. Honestly, I didn’t want to get into it yet at all. It’s not something I’m proud of, and I’d like to know someone better before I talk about it. But it came up and I….” He shakes his head. “Anyway, I need to take off.”
He hesitates for second with his hand raised like he might touch me—shake my hand or clasp my shoulder—but it never lands. He just turns away and walks into the living room. I’m pretty sure there’s something I should be doing. Some protocol I should be following for how to be a good friend when someone confesses something to you, but I have no idea what it might be. The beer sits heavy in my stomach, the taste like metal in my mouth.
All of a sudden the sending books to prisoners thing makes a whole lot more sense. And I stood there and told him that people in prison were supposed to be being punished. Jesus, I’m an asshole.
And not just for that. But because, honestly, it makes me feel a little bit better to know that Rafe’s fucked things up in his life too.
“SO WHAT’S up Pat’s ass these days?” Xavier asks after we order breakfast.
“Eh, he’s pissed because I’ve been taking Saturdays off.”
“Jeez, it’s about time, man. The benefit of working in the family business is supposed to be that you don’t have to bust your ass working six days a week—or seven, when you take those extra jobs Pat doesn’t know you do.”
“Yeah, I guess.” X doesn’t like Pop. Even as a teenager, he didn’t warm to Pop’s back-slapping, jokey brand of charm. Most likely because Pop often called him Jamal. Jamal was our quarterback, and the only thing he had in common with X looks-wise was that he was also black.
“So, why are you? It’s great and all, but very un-Colin of you.”
“Un-Colin?”
“Well, face it, man, you’re an unrepentant workaholic. I can’t even imagine what could tempt you away from working Sat—wait, is it—did you meet someone?”
Xavier sounds so hopeful that for a second I allow myself to imagine what it’d be like to tell him.
“What? No, man, no. I just wanted a little more free time. You know how it is.”
X narrows his eyes. “You hate free time.”
I roll my eyes. He knows me pretty well.
“I’ve been, um, volunteering. At this youth center. I’ve been teaching the kids about cars, basic repairs, that kind of thing.”
“That’s great, man,” X says, looking genuinely pleased. “But I don’t get it. Why would Pat have a problem with that? It’s not like there aren’t enough hands around the place on Saturdays, right?”
“Oh, well, I didn’t tell him about that. It shouldn’t matter why I want the time, right? I mean, I’m a fucking adult; he doesn’t need to know where I am twenty-four-seven.”
X nods, but his eyes narrow again like he doesn’t quite believe me.
“So, how’s Angela?” I ask before he can say anything else.
He leans back in his chair, his expression so familiar that I’m flooded with warmth for him. It’s the same combination of affection, frustration, and puzzlement that he used to get about girls when we were sixteen.
“She’s all right.” He clears his throat. “She, ah, she wants us to have a baby.”
“Oh shit. Are you into it?”
X smiles a little and cracks his knuckles. “Maybe? I dunno, man. Kids are great; it’s just….” Kids love Xavier. He always picks them up and flips them upside-down and stuff, and they scream with laughter. I can definitely see him as a father. “I don’t know what my problem is. Every time she brings it up, I panic. Not that I don’t want to go for it. More, like, I just can’t picture what shit would be like with a kid, you know?”
I nod. Yeah, I definitely know. But, then, if you’d asked me if I could picture myself volunteering at a queer youth center, I probably would’ve punched you. And picturing myself spending time with someone like Rafe? No way.
“Anyway, she’s pissed because she says I’m desperately clinging to my youth as it recedes and that it’s time to get my head out of my ass.” It’s clear from the way X says this that he’s quoting Angela. She has a particular way of speaking. She never stumbles in her speech or has to pause to search for her words. Everything’s delivered like a line from a play.