Out of Nowhere(41)

Ugh, I’m furious with him but I want him to stay. I’m a total monster right now, but I want, somehow, for him to choose to spend time with me anyway.

“Yeah? Got to go find someone to hang out with who’s a saint like Javier, huh?” Shit. I did not mean to say that. I can’t meet Rafe’s eyes. He stands slowly, like he’s making an effort to stay calm.

“No. But I can’t be around you when you’re intoxicated.”

“Pssh, I am not intoxicated.”

“It’s not negotiable,” he says with this superior tone that makes me feel like a worm.

“Jesus Christ, man, can you take it down a notch? It’s just a few beers. It’s not like I’m a fucking junkie or something.”

Rafe straightens to his full height and looks me right in the eye.

“Yeah,” he says. “Well. I am.”





Chapter 6





“UH,” I say, anger swallowed up by surprise. “What?”

Rafe sighs and runs both hands through his hair, making it fall around his face in messy waves. “Shit. This isn’t the way I wanted to tell you.”

He starts looking around the kitchen like a door might magically open in the wall. Finally, he sighs again and stands up straight, as if he’s forcing himself to be still.

“Look, okay. I had a drug problem.” Rafe’s voice is quiet. A little shaky. “I was… into some bad shit and I…. It’s still a struggle for me sometimes, and one thing that helps me keep it under control is not being around people who are intoxicated.”

I have no idea what to say to that. It’s not hard to picture Rafe being into some bad shit. I’ve noticed the way people look at him, like he’s a threat. When he walks at night, he’s told me, women will cross the street so they don’t pass him, and I know it bothers him even though he understands it. No, it’s the idea of Rafe being helpless, out of control, that doesn’t fit with the way I think of him.

He glances at me uncertainly, and I’m suddenly aware that I haven’t said anything.

“Um. Okay.” I want to be reassuring, but I’m pretty sure I just sound confused. I try again. “But you stopped?”

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?”