Page 51 of The Cartographer

“He died when I was eleven, and I lost the taste for it. Used to avoid fields on my way home from school because I didn’t want to look at them and think of him. After a while, I missed the excitement, you know? The teams, the competition, the feeling like you belong to something bigger than yourself.”

I smother a snort.You think, military man?

“I tried basketball and football, but they didn’t hold my interest. Or maybe it was too soon. I don’t know. The first time I went to see the Flyers, I was hooked. I was like the only black kid there, and I felt ridiculous because I didn’t know jackshit about the game. At first, I mostly liked the fights. The checking. Then I started paying attention. Learned the game. Addicted ever since.”

Another piece of the Allie puzzle. Another thread that binds me to him.

“Same. I mean, about your dad. Mine got killed in the line of duty when I was seven. Didn’t go to games after that, even though my mom tried. Got us ridiculous tickets because she thought it’d cheer me up. It didn’t. I went because she was trying so hard and I didn’t want to disappoint her, but I threw up my hotdog in the bathroom at Shea. I think she understood after that.”

Allie nods into me, and for the first time, I feel as though someone has actually understood. What it felt like to kneel on the disgusting stadium floor puking up my guts because I couldn’t express my grief any other way. How I still avoid all of it except in the most ridiculous terms because it hurts too much. Let people think I’m an idiot, some flamingly fey thing who cares more about fashion and antiques than ESPN. As long as they leave me alone.

“Your dad was a cop, right?”

“Why do you sound surprised?”

“Cops tend to be kinda law and order. Not like you.”

For some reason, that makes me bristle. I’m very orderly. And I like rules. A lot. On the other hand, only the ones of my own making. The rest of them…meh. That’s probably what he’s talking about.

“I’m not exactly an agent of chaos.”

“No, but you act like you’re above the law. More impressively, you get away with it. Most of the people I know who act like that have gotten shot.”

I probably should’ve gotten shot, given some of the stuff I pulled in Philadelphia, but that’s ancient history now. The man’s a handful and a half, but I thank the universe every damn day it sent Brandy into my life. I’d have been dead in an alley half a lifetime ago.

“What about your dad? What did he do?”

“He was a DJ on the radio. A good one. Kind of a big deal in Philadelphia. Lucky for me too. The judge I got the last time I got hauled in was a big fan of my dad’s. Gave me the choice of joining up or a stint in juvie. Obviously I picked the Army, and my mom gave her consent because she didn’t know what the hell else to do with me.”

Thank god for that because who knows what would’ve happened to him if he’d stayed? His father being a DJ, though? I doubt that got him killed. And because I’m tired of exercising patience and we’re apparently baring our scars, I just ask. “How’d he die?”

“Stupid, really. Probably shouldn’t have happened. He wasn’t feeling well one day and he ignored it, but finally my mom got him to go to the ER. Meningitis. He was throwing up, confused, light-sensitive… If they’d done anything about it, instead of assuming he was high because he was black—” The anger in his voice and in his body is barely restrained, and my insides clench. Meningitis can be tricky, but maybe he didn’t have to die. Some fucking racist hospital staff might have killed him by not doing their goddamn jobs.

“I’m sorry, Hart.”

“Yeah. My mom did the best she could, but she was pretty messed up for a long time after he died. Ended up losing the house, having to move to a shitty neighborhood, and took two full-time jobs to keep me and my sisters fed and clothed. Even then, we were on food stamps for a while. She didn’t have a whole lot of time to look after us. Kendra and my other sisters never got into all that much trouble, but I more than made up for it.

“I think Kendra is so careful with money because she sees our mom as a cautionary tale. She bought this place and then put aside a bunch of her SGLI—you know, death benefits?—for the kids to go to college. Tries not to dip into the rest much. So she bartends to make money and takes part-time classes to get her MSW. It’s not ideal, but it lets her be around more than my mom could be. Doesn’t want my nephew growing up like I did, getting involved with street life.”

The look on his face is part-wistful, part-regret.

“I was looking for a family, you know? People who would be around, who would have my back. It was easy to see that in the gang that ran the blocks around our house. Plus, they always had food and girls and…”

He sneaks me a look, and I keep the neutral but interested expression plastered on my face, though the compassion wants to seep through. That’s when the smile lights up his face, and I can see the cocksure and charismatic adolescent he must’ve been. “The sneakers, man. They always had the best kicks.”

“Which helped you get the girls,” I supply.

The brash grin I get in response makes me want to wrestle him onto his back and have him again. I want that hard-earned arrogance to be mine, for his iron will to bend to mine. “Yeah, it did.”

“Did you like sleeping with women?”

“Sure. Still do. Plus, if I wanted to have sex when I was a teenager—” And who doesn’t? “—girls were pretty much my option. But I…I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. I’ll have sex with women and it’s good, but the people I’ve wanted to be with, not for a night or not just to hang out with, but as a…partner?”

Ridges form on his forehead, and I want to wipe them clean.You can be with whomever you want, in whatever capacity you want. Tell me and I will do my best to make your dreams come true.

“I like men.”

I nod, knowing precisely what he means, though I suspect he gets more pleasure out of having sex with women than I ever have. “I hear you.”

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