more than one. It would be ridiculous to think a guy like Rio would go through life celibate, yet the idea of him having multiple fuck buddies makes my heart sink.
I sip my drink casually. “How many lady friends do you have?”
“Three.”
“Three?” I set my glass down harder than I meant to, and it thumps loudly on the table. “That’s just gross.”
He looks surprised, then understanding seems to dawn. “You’re very innocent, December. It’s a beautiful thing—don’t ever lose it.” He slurps the last of his club soda, then sets the glass down and stands up to go.
“Wait, you’re leaving already?” I ask.
“You said just one drink.”
“Yeah but…it’s only been like five minutes.” My words sound desperate to my own ears, and I realize I don’t like the way I’m acting, like a clingy, needy loser. “Ugh, fine. Just go. I’m tired of you anyway.” I turn away from him and pick up my drink. I expect him to leave, but a moment later I hear the scrape of his chair against the floor as he sits back down.
“Don’t feel obligated to stay,” I tell him, still staring at the treeline ahead. “I was captivated by you for like a minute, but I’m over it. I won’t bother you for anything other than workout advice from now on. Thank you for making your feelings brutally clear.”
A few minutes go by in silence, then he says, “You asked me why I volunteered to be a big brother.” I don’t respond, just keep staring out at the pink and purple sky above the treetops.
“I grew up in foster homes,” he says. “I had a foster brother. This guy Darius. He took me under his wing and helped me out when I was completely alone. I was a little older when I was put into the foster care system, and I got shipped from home to home, school to school, family to family. I was angry and messed up, but Darius kept in touch with me and taught me how to box. And it saved my life. No matter what was going on or how pissed off I was, I finally had an outlet, you know? Sometimes it was the only thing that kept me going. So I try to honor him by doing what he did for me for someone else, other kids who need someone to look out for them.”
“Your foster brother must be proud,” I say.
“Unfortunately he passed away a few years ago. He was in a rough neighborhood, visiting a girl. He went out to his car to get something and the police were passing by. They thought he was breaking into the car, and when he saw them and reached for his registration, they thought he was going for a gun and they shot him. Eleven rounds. Didn’t even get suspended. They were back on duty the next day without so much as reprimand.”
I turn to look at him, but he’s staring out at the trees stonefaced. I put my hand on my heart and say, “That’s the worst thing I ever heard. I’m so sorry.”
“The ironic part is, the officers who shot him thought he was a criminal because he was a big black guy. In reality, Darius never touched a drug or a weapon in his life. He was an honor student and a gifted athlete who’d just gotten a scholarship to go to college. He wanted to be a lawyer, and he would have been a great one too. Man, could he talk. He was the kind of guy people just gravitated to, you know?”
I wait for him to continue, but he just stares into space, lost in thought.
I want to know more. How Rio ended up in the foster care system in the first place, and what he was so angry about. But after everything he just told me, I’m afraid to ask because I know the answer is going to be awful.
“Darius’ last name was Justice. Another irony considering the way he died. But that’s why I took it as my boxing handle, so he could live on in a way.” Rio opens his palms and stares down at his empty hands. “It’s not much, but it seemed like the one thing I could do
I sip my drink casually. “How many lady friends do you have?”
“Three.”
“Three?” I set my glass down harder than I meant to, and it thumps loudly on the table. “That’s just gross.”
He looks surprised, then understanding seems to dawn. “You’re very innocent, December. It’s a beautiful thing—don’t ever lose it.” He slurps the last of his club soda, then sets the glass down and stands up to go.
“Wait, you’re leaving already?” I ask.
“You said just one drink.”
“Yeah but…it’s only been like five minutes.” My words sound desperate to my own ears, and I realize I don’t like the way I’m acting, like a clingy, needy loser. “Ugh, fine. Just go. I’m tired of you anyway.” I turn away from him and pick up my drink. I expect him to leave, but a moment later I hear the scrape of his chair against the floor as he sits back down.
“Don’t feel obligated to stay,” I tell him, still staring at the treeline ahead. “I was captivated by you for like a minute, but I’m over it. I won’t bother you for anything other than workout advice from now on. Thank you for making your feelings brutally clear.”
A few minutes go by in silence, then he says, “You asked me why I volunteered to be a big brother.” I don’t respond, just keep staring out at the pink and purple sky above the treetops.
“I grew up in foster homes,” he says. “I had a foster brother. This guy Darius. He took me under his wing and helped me out when I was completely alone. I was a little older when I was put into the foster care system, and I got shipped from home to home, school to school, family to family. I was angry and messed up, but Darius kept in touch with me and taught me how to box. And it saved my life. No matter what was going on or how pissed off I was, I finally had an outlet, you know? Sometimes it was the only thing that kept me going. So I try to honor him by doing what he did for me for someone else, other kids who need someone to look out for them.”
“Your foster brother must be proud,” I say.
“Unfortunately he passed away a few years ago. He was in a rough neighborhood, visiting a girl. He went out to his car to get something and the police were passing by. They thought he was breaking into the car, and when he saw them and reached for his registration, they thought he was going for a gun and they shot him. Eleven rounds. Didn’t even get suspended. They were back on duty the next day without so much as reprimand.”
I turn to look at him, but he’s staring out at the trees stonefaced. I put my hand on my heart and say, “That’s the worst thing I ever heard. I’m so sorry.”
“The ironic part is, the officers who shot him thought he was a criminal because he was a big black guy. In reality, Darius never touched a drug or a weapon in his life. He was an honor student and a gifted athlete who’d just gotten a scholarship to go to college. He wanted to be a lawyer, and he would have been a great one too. Man, could he talk. He was the kind of guy people just gravitated to, you know?”
I wait for him to continue, but he just stares into space, lost in thought.
I want to know more. How Rio ended up in the foster care system in the first place, and what he was so angry about. But after everything he just told me, I’m afraid to ask because I know the answer is going to be awful.
“Darius’ last name was Justice. Another irony considering the way he died. But that’s why I took it as my boxing handle, so he could live on in a way.” Rio opens his palms and stares down at his empty hands. “It’s not much, but it seemed like the one thing I could do
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