Q tornadoes around. “You were always what? There for me? Is that what you were about to say to me?”

“Oh, so unless I was there for you the way you wanted me to be, then dead everything I did? None of what I did matters, I guess.”

Q throws his hand up. “You still don’t get it. The only way you’re actually there for someone is to be there the way they need, not on your terms.”

I tap my chest. “Oh, I don’t get it? Me? So, what, I guess you’re the expert on showing up for your friends?”

He’s practically spitting now. “Compared to you? Hell yeah.”

“When did you ever ask me what I needed, Q?”

“Hmm.” Q strokes his chin. “Was I supposed to ask you before or after you decided to completely shut me out? I guess before, right, when I was only ninety-seven percent shut out.”

And somehow, I’m standing now, which only infuriates me more, because damn, this dude is nearly my height sitting. “I shut you out? You mean because I didn’t play computer games or make corny videos after my parents died? I’m sooo sorry my pain hurt your feelings, Q. My bad, bro.”

Q shakes his head. “Wait, hold up, was this the pain of your parents dying or the pain of having your whole head jammed up your ass?”

And now I’m staring him down, fists tighter than chromosomes.

“You wanna hit me, J? I wish you would. Man, I wish.”

And my blood’s all fire now, my palms prickling, fingers tingling, teeth grinding, pulse thumping outta my throat.

This is it.

Time slows, the lake blurs.

I cock my arm.

There are moments so inexplicable we call them fate.

Label them destiny.

Hindsight tells us we were always hurtling here.

Whatever forces yoked Q and me together tonight, they’ve decided how it ends.

The waves lunge at us.

Bile churns in my stomach, any minute and it’ll geyser from my lips.

“I should hit you,” I say to Q. I say to myself.

It’s dumb how fast the Universe flips, how happy’s never a tight grip.

“Do it,” he barks. “What are you waiting for?”

And I don’t know what’s more disrespectful: that he’s shit-talking while sitting or grinning like he just won a twenty-dollar scratch-off.

And this is not the Q I know.

But this isn’t the Jamal I know, either.

And the truth is, I don’t know much of anything, except the one thing that matters: He killed them.

Q killed my parents.

My arm fires. My fist cuts through the air, a spaceship navigating the meteorites of historical bullshit between us.

I close my eyes. Brace for impact.