—What’s that got to do with anything?
Reshawn didn’t seem to know, either.
—I just can’t, Miles. I can’t.
—Can’t what? Are you okay?
He didn’t answer and walked to my car.
I entered the Hay. We had forty-five minutes before Skellie, and as usual I went to the training room. It was quieter than the locker room, and I could lie on my stomach on one of the large cushioned examining tables with my French textbook propped in front of me and get a head start on homework.
—What’s good, Furling?
Errol was one of those athletes who needs something to be on the verge of escaping his hands at all times in order to remain moored to the earth, whether that was a football he spun on the tip of his index finger or a tennis ball he kept in his backpack so he could fidget with it during class. Now, before he could settle onto the table next to mine and continue talking, he had to search the drawers built into the table’s underside for something to play with. He found a dense little blue rubber ball that players used to work out plantar fasciitis. He sat on the edge of the table and tossed the ball from hand to hand.
—You think Mademoiselle Carter has a boyfriend?
Errol used his normal voice whenever it was just the two of us.
—No idea, I said.
—She is pretty as hell. Thinking I’ll ask her out after finals.
He lost control of the ball and it bounced across my textbook. I caught it before it fell, tossed it back.
—Probably shouldn’t hold my breath about McCoy coming today, huh? he asked, fidgeting with the ball again.
—Probably not.
—I mean, I get it. Reshawn’s a competitor. Doesn’t like someone like me rolling in and threatening his touches. That’s how I used to think. Everybody was a threat. Everybody wanted something that belonged to me. But that kind of thinking got me in all the bullshit down at Auburn. It only ends up burning you. McCoy and me can help each other, you know? Become a dynamic duo. Motherfuckers won’t know where the ball’s going.
He stopped tossing the ball, squeezing it with his right hand.
—Look, he said. I know you’re cool with McCoy. Just tell him I’m here to help him. All right? —All right.
—Cool, he said, hopping off the table and patting me on the back. Good lookin’ out, Furling.
When Thao suggested we get something to eat on Friday, I assumed he meant for dinner, and I spent my free time over the next days creating a dossier on off-campus places we could safely visit, restaurants on the outskirts of Blenheim or neighboring towns where I knew my teammates wouldn’t show up. But then Thao texted saying to meet him for lunch at the Stone Grill, a restaurant in one of the long, low Gothic buildings that flanked the King Chapel, in the dead center of West Campus. I hated the idea, but I was so nervous about displeasing him and blowing my first, maybe only shot at having something like a boyfriend that I didn’t dare suggest a different time or place. It was fine, I told myself. It was just lunch.
I drove to West early on Friday, and despite the unrelenting heat I took a long walk around campus to work out my nerves. A group of Japanese high schoolers strolled on a flagstone sidewalk cutting across the main quad, all the girls wearing long-visored caps, long-sleeved shirts, and cotton pants to protect their skin. Another group of tourists, speaking French, were standing around the base of an oak tree and photographing a squirrel that had climbed halfway up the trunk. I picked up every fourth word they said, enough to glean they were either commending the squirrel for its bravery or saying it was holding a stick. I walked, and walked, dark sweat stains spreading on my short-sleeved collared shirt.
The Stone Grill had two entrances, a main door that faced the quad and a second, less-frequented door in back. I entered the second entrance and saw Thao already waiting for me, his chair facing the front. He wore a white cotton shirt in the same style as mine and was pulling at the armpits, tenting them and trying to cool off. Really, this place couldn’t have been a better choice, empty save for a professor sitting alone in a booth and a waitress leaning languidly against the hostess’s podium. But in that moment the emptiness seemed a guarantee that, the second I sat down, a crowd of my teammates would come rumbling in. I couldn’t do it, and left the way I came.
I could have lied and claimed some emergency prevented me from showing, and yet a big part of what made that night in the gardens so seismic was the honesty Thao had drawn out of me. I wanted to be honest with him about everything, and I forced myself to text and admit I had freaked out, the Stone Grill was just too public—could we meet tonight instead? He texted back with a single word, “Sure,” that I tried not to read too much into.
On my way to Carsonville that evening, I stopped at a little market and bought a yellow rose the woman behind the counter told me would “make her very happy.” Walking to my car, I half-consciously snapped off the thorns—laying my thumb width-wise across a thorn, careful not to prick myself, feeling a click calmer every time I made another clean break.
Thao waited on the front porch’s swing. The night was even hotter than the day had been. He smiled at the rose.
—I think there’s a vase in the kitchen.
Inside, his roommates were playing a board game in the living room. Their
