I shake my head. “If I knew, I’d tell you.”

“And now Q’s out there, God knows where, thinking we all lied to him. Thinking I lied to him. That I betrayed him. That nothing’s real.”

But we did.

You did.

Nothing is real.

“Ms. Barr—”

“IF I DON’T FIND MY SON, JAMAL . . .”

“I promise I’m g—”

But she’s already grabbing her car keys.

She shakes her head at me, tells me this is what I was afraid of. Says I hope you’re satisfied.

But I’m not.

Not by a long shot.

Because no one wins here.

Because nothing about this is remotely satisfying.

Because I can’t remember the last time anything was.

Because there’s nothing more explosive than a heavy secret. And keeping it inside, thinking everything will be hunky-dory, is like swallowing a live grenade, then brushing your teeth.

Quincy

Now here you go again
you say you want your freedom
well, who am i to keep you down?

—“Dreams,” Fleetwood Mac

25

I.

Two hours ago, I thought the walking dead were zombies.

Little did I know I was a card-carrying member.

Except I don’t feel very undead.

I hand the woman my money.

“Good choice,” she says. “Make sure you get them in water right away.”

I nod.

“Need a bag?”

“No,” I tell her. “I’m good.”

And I feel good.

Which seems wild.

I feel normal—you know, betrayal and treachery from everyone I love aside.

Of course, Mom meant well, but she’d kept the most important thing that’s ever happened to me a secret.

And Jamal, was this why suddenly he was Super Friend 2.0, when for the last two years he walked through me like I was invisible?

A lesson I learned from watching my dad in his final hours: when it comes to matters of life or death, people rarely tell the truth.

I pull along the slender curb.

Halfway there I accidentally scare a groundskeeper. “You sure you wanna be here at this hour, brother? Ain’t you afraid of ghosts and shit?”

“Nah, I’m not worried,” I tell him, already walking on. “Ghosts are my people.”

He’s the only blue stone in the section because he always had to be different, even in death.

Mom says the worst thing you can do to someone is forget them.

Maybe that’s why he chose blue.

Make him easier to remember.

I crouch down, prop my flowers against it. Trace my fingers along the curved edge.

“Hey, man. I hope you like daffodils because that was all they had, ha.

Look, it’s been a while since I’ve come through, not gonna lie.

It’s not that you matter less now.

It’s just one of those things where I knew I had to find a way to let go.

Not all the way, because I hope you know that’s impossible.